Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  In the room two stories above, Bysset – who had been just about to grab the top end of the rope and give chase – had to let go and spring back as the fire consumed it.

  On the first floor, Alys and Galiene ran to the door and slid down the ladder out of the castle. Alys pulled the ladder down behind her.

  ‘After them!’ Montmorency shouted and the men-at-arms all turned and began descending the stairs as fast as they could without risking tumbling down the steep, spiralling stairwell. The place where the steps had collapsed slowed them further as they negotiated the hole.

  In the castle courtyard, Alys ran round whooping and screaming like a madwoman. She slapped the flanks of the horses that had been left untethered, awaiting their masters’ return. The frightened horses panicked. Some reared on their back legs and kicked other steeds, increasing the chaos. Alys pulled open the courtyard gates and the stampeding horses immediately dashed for freedom.

  Montmorency and Bysset emerged on the first-floor doorway to find the ladder gone, leaving a drop to the ground two and a half times the height of a man. They were just in time to see their horses fleeing the castle.

  Galiene and Alys grabbed the mane of a horse each as they galloped past and pulled themselves up onto their backs. As she rode under the wooden lookout post above the gate, Alys’s big cat jumped down off the palisade and settled itself behind her in the saddle.

  All the men in the tower could do was watch as Galiene, Alys, the cat and the rest of the horses galloped away.

  Bysset swore and impotently kicked at a sack of grain.

  ‘Well I never.’ Johan D’Athy shook his head in genuine amazement. ‘Who would have thought a woman could get the better of a company of men-at-arms?’

  Bysset pulled Montmorency aside. ‘What do we do now?’ he barked.

  ‘Don’t start panicking,’ the Hospitaller growled. ‘You’re worse than the horses. All right she got away. So what? We’ve got what we came for: the castle. I doubt she has anywhere to go now anyway. A witch who is wanted for murder? She will be hunted as an outlaw. In the meantime you are now the master of Corainne Castle.’

  Bysset’s anxious face relaxed. ‘Aye, you’re right. Alys has no family left. She and the girl lived here by themselves. Who will believe the word of a fugitive witch?’

  Montmorency nodded. ‘D’Athy and I have to return to Carrickfergus. By now the earl should have heard some rather bad news from Connaught. You get your men down here and start making sure that the harbour and the beach out there are ready to land Edward Bruce and his army.’

  31

  As Savage finished washing, Henry de Thrapston arrived at the castle bath house. He had brought some clothes for Savage to wear to the feast.

  ‘My wife assumed you would not have brought any clothes suitable for a banquet,’ de Thrapston said, ‘so I’ve brought you some more stylish items to choose from. We can’t have you coming tonight dressed like you’re going hunting.’

  ‘I’m not wearing any of those silly short tunics or pointy shoes,’ Savage said with a grunt, surveying the clothes before him with obvious suspicion.

  Reluctantly he selected the longest green velvet tunic that de Thrapston had brought and grey woollen leggings. All of the shoes were simply too ridiculous for him to wear and he pulled his deerskin boots back on. Once he was dressed, de Thrapston accompanied him to the great hall for the banquet.

  A transformation had occurred since Savage’s visit the day before. As soon as the wooden doors were opened, the hall exhaled a breath of warm air. Charcoal blazed in the wide-chimneyed hearth in the west wall and in a brazier in the centre of the hall. Cressets and waxen torches were placed in the wall brackets, while the walls themselves were hung with glorious tapestries that came from as far afield as Toulouse and Turkestan. Glittering with the brilliance of their embroidery, these seemed to be alive with the scenes of knights and ladies, hunting and jousting depicted on them. Servants had erected trestle tables: a long one across the top of the hall for the most important guests and one down each side for the rest of the feasters. A rich silk canopy wafted above the top table. All three tables were covered with clean, white cloth and silver salt cellars, spoons and overlays sat on top of them.

  Savage was impressed, and said so.

  ‘Really.’ De Thrapston shook his head. ‘A few years away and you forget that Ireland is as civilised as anywhere else. Now,’ he continued in a more serious tone, ‘the earl has asked me to apologise to you, but your arrival was somewhat unannounced and the invitations for this banquet were made some time ago. I’m afraid that there isn’t enough room for you at the top table. To make room for you someone else would have to be moved, which would cause all sorts of offence – you know how petty people can be. I’m sure you understand.’

  Savage understood perfectly. Messenger of the king he may be, but here in Ulster he was still Richard Savage, son of a poor knight from the lough shore and therefore not fit to sit at the top table with the lords and ladies.

  ‘Still, I must introduce you, you know?’ de Thrapston continued, bustling Savage towards the top table.

  Sumptuously clad barons and ladies, the cream of Ulster society, were settled at the tables chattering noisily while scarcely heeded musicians played in the background. Henry de Thrapston led Savage from one end of the top table to the other, introducing him to each of the nobles in turn.

  At the right-hand end of the table, the seats of least importance at the top table – yet more important than the rest of the seats in the hall – sat William de Sandal and his wife Patricia. They came from a powerful, wealthy family with lands in the north-west, right on the dangerous border between the Earldom of Ulster and the lands of the Clan Eoghan. Their castle, Mount Sandal, guarded a great fortified bridge across the Bann River at Coleraine. Most of their wealth came from the tolls they charged to cross the bridge into and out of the earldom.

  Beside the Sandals sat a lean, hungry-faced man in his forties that de Thrapston introduced as Eamonn Albanach, Seneschal of Connaught. He looked desperately tired from his journey and the cup of wine that he cradled in his weary hands looked like it would send him to sleep.

  Next to Albanach was the Seneschal of Ulster, Thomas de Mandeville and his wife Elizabeth. Sitting on the seneschal’s left-hand side was Congal MacArtain. The MacArtain clan ruled the little kingdom of Iveagh, the Earldom of Ulster’s closest neighbour to the south and ally in the ongoing war with their common enemy: the Clan Eoghan of Tyr Eoghan in the west. The MacArtains had fought for the earl in the Scottish wars too. Congal was one of the younger sons of the MacArtain royal family.

  ‘Did you buy that horse?’ Savage asked.

  ‘I did not.’ MacArtain grinned. ‘I’d know better than buy one of de Mandeville’s nags!’

  ‘Don’t you listen to him, Savage. He’s just trying to get me to lower the price.’ The seneschal laughed.

  The earl sat beside the seneschal and he greeted Savage courteously, apologising personally for there being no room for him at the high table. Savage was then introduced to the earl’s wife, Margaret. Savage noted that her eyes bore the same flashing glance as her husband’s, which was not surprising, considering that they shared a great-great-grandfather.

  Next to Margaret sat Edmund le Bottelier, Justiciar of Ireland. ‘We’ll have that talk later tonight, Savage,’ he said. ‘I’ll send word to you after we eat.’

  Savage nodded, noting the justiciar’s brusque tone and the worried expression on his face.

  Beside him sat the Constable of Carrickfergus, Johan D’Athy, still dressed in his ridiculous red and yellow tunic. He gave Savage a rather pompous hallo.

  ‘I’ll be wanting a word with you too, Savage,’ D’Athy said. ‘I intend to get whoever killed Talbot and I hear you know something about it.’

  Beside D’Athy was Syr Hugh Bysset, the Lord of Twescard, the north-eastern county of Ulster, and his wife Emer. Savage noted there was no sign of Hugh’s arrogant young nephew John a
nd silently hoped that it was due to injury from the tournament. Beside Bysset sat Hugo Montmorency, Irish Marshal of the Knights Hospitaller. He was locked in deep conversation with Bysset and barely glanced up to acknowledge Savage’s presence.

  The final places at the top table were occupied by allies from outside the earldom. Muircetach and Thomas Ui Cahan were members of the family that controlled the lands to the north-east of the Earldom of Ulster. These two well-dressed noblemen were accompanied by their wives. Deirdre, who was married to Muircetach was disarmingly pretty while Thomas’ wife Niamh had the oddest mouthful of teeth Savage had ever seen. The Ui Cahans and the Byssets had connections going back years. Brian MacArtain sat next to Niamh Ui Cahan and nearly at the end of the table sat Alain and Beth FitzWarin. The FitzWarins were another of the major families of the Earldom of Ulster, holding lands in Down and the Ards Peninsula.

  All in all, the top table had a representative of the top rank of society, all except one very notable exception.

  ‘I see the archbishop is not here. In fact there don’t seem to be any churchmen here except the local priest,’ Savage pointed out.

  De Thrapston looked downcast and a little embarrassed. ‘The earl and the archbishop have fallen out again. They don’t get on very well I’m afraid.’

  Savage nodded. The Earl of Ulster was well known for having a stormy relationship with the Church. Years before, a particularly stormy dispute between the earl and the bishop over authority and land rights had almost led to a small war.

  ‘Let’s go and take our seats,’ de Thrapston said, leading Savage towards the table on the left-hand side of the hall.

  ‘You’re not sitting at the top table?’ Savage wondered.

  ‘I thought I’d keep you company during dinner,’ de Thrapston explained. ‘We couldn’t have you sitting alone amongst people you don’t know, could we? I also have a reason of my own for wanting to sit down here. We will be sharing our table with one of the finest troubadours in Ireland. I’m sure his conversation will be somewhat more interesting than what they’ll be discussing at the top table.’

  They both took their places on the bench. While the top table had seats, with all the diners sitting behind the table facing into the hall, the other two tables simply had long benches on either side of them for diners to sit on.

  De Thrapston proceeded to introduce Savage to his fellow diners around him at the table. He slapped a hand on Savage’s shoulder.

  ‘Everyone, this is Richard Savage, Emissary of King Edward of England. My wife, Edith, you have already met.’

  ‘Madam,’ Savage said, taking her proffered hand and bowing to kiss it.

  ‘Please call me Edith.’ Edith de Thrapston smiled and blushed to the roots of her hair.

  ‘Syr Roger Blanquet.’ De Thrapston extended his hand towards a brown-haired knight who looked to be in his early thirties sitting on the other side of the table. Blanquet nodded coolly.

  ‘Syr Raymond Jordan.’ A stocky middle-aged man sitting beside Edith de Thrapston announced himself. The Jordan family held lands further along the lough shore from Carrickfergus. Once they had been one of the more important of the Ulster families but now had fallen from the favours of Fortune. Savage saluted him and the timid-looking, mousy woman sitting on the other side of him. She must have been his wife, but Jordan either forgot or did not bother to introduce her.

  ‘Knew your father,’ Raymond Jordan said. ‘Remember you as a wee runt of a boy. Bad-tempered little troublemaker you were. Still, you’ve gone far.’

  ‘And this,’ de Thrapston said with a flourish towards the man sitting on the other side of Savage, ‘is none other than Guilleme “the Rhymer” la Roche, the famous troubadour and poet who has travelled up from Dublin to entertain us tonight after dinner.’

  “The Rhymer” was dressed in a fine, parti-coloured tunic that must have cost a small fortune. His long black hair was combed and straight. His long beard had similarly been combed straight and twisted into two long plaits that hung down to his chest. His face wore a strange little smile and his blue eyes sparkled with a look of what Savage could best describe as mischief.

  There was something arrestingly familiar about the man.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Syr Richard,’ the troubadour said with a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.

  Savage smiled and tipped his hand to his forehead in salute as suddenly he recognised the man. His hair was a different colour, his beard clean and tidied and his rags had been replaced by fine robes and a fantastic hat, but it was definitely the mad preacher, Guilleme le Poer, who had earlier given him the encrypted message from the king.

  ‘I look forward to hearing you sing for us,’ Savage said. ‘I hope it will not have too religious a theme.’

  Suddenly a blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the first courses of dinner. These were several fine soups, lavishly seasoned with spices. Servants swept through the hall, depositing large bowls on the tables for diners to ladle out their own portions into smaller wooden dishes. Savage was starving and eagerly tucked in. He had been very partial to spiced food ever since he had been in Cyprus.

  ‘This must all seem rather shabby to you, compared to the grandeur of the court,’ Edith de Thrapston commented, gesturing to their surroundings.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Savage replied. ‘I never saw the court. I will say that this castle would match the best in England. Certainly the last one I was in, anyway. A little smaller maybe. I believe the King’s Hall in Westminster is the most grand hall in all of Europe, though.’

  ‘Course it is,’ Jordan stated, as if he knew. ‘The king is better than everyone else so he has to have the best surroundings. And with a young French wife to keep happy, he has to keep up with all the latest fashions.’

  ‘From what I hear,’ Blanquet, the knight sitting beside Savage, piped in, ‘the king is not too concerned about keeping his French queen happy. Not as keen as Lord Mortimer is anyway. The king prefers handsome young men to pretty French maids.’

  Raymond Jordan erupted into an ecstasy of bluster. ‘Don’t you start repeating scurrilous rumours here, Blanquet!’ he bellowed. ‘We don’t want to hear half-baked lies and rebellious talk, ruining our dinner, especially when we’re in the presence of the king’s own emissary.’

  Savage said nothing. He had heard a lot of the same rumours before he had ended up in prison.

  ‘There’s not a shred of evidence to support your ridiculous stories,’ said Raymond Jordan’s little wife in what must have been the most timid scolding voice Savage had ever heard.

  ‘The Duke of Lancaster, the Earl of Warwick, the very Archbishop of Canterbury, for God’s sake, all testify to the fact that King Edward fancies boys, rather than girls,’ Blanquet said, spooning soup into his mouth.

  ‘Lies!’ Raymond Jordan looked positively distraught. ‘How, sir, can you say such things about our own Sovereign Lord? And he a married man too! Call yourself a man of honour?’ Raymond turned to Savage. ‘Syr; I must apologise for this man’s churlish and treacherous talk.’

  ‘You ask him, he would know.’ Blanquet gestured to Savage, a mischievous grin playing across his lips. He evidently enjoyed baiting Jordan the way some men enjoyed baiting bears. ‘What about his “favourite”, Piers Gaveston? They were pretty friendly, weren’t they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Savage said. ‘I’ve only worked for the king for a matter of weeks. Before that, I was in prison. I’ve been in a dungeon for most of the last five years.’

  Savage quite enjoyed the stunned silence that interrupted the dinner table conversation for a few moments. Raymond Jordan’s wife actually missed her mouth with her spoon and dribbled soup down the front of her dress.

  ‘Piers Gaveston’s mother was burnt as a witch,’ Blanquet finally said, aiming a sideways glance at Savage. ‘According to Church law, the offspring of a witch is automatically a sodomite. Therefore King Edward’s favourite is a sodomite. Are you arguing with Church law, Jordan?’


  ‘Gaveston was over here a few years back,’ Jordan stated. ‘Came over to help sort out that trouble down in Connaught. Damn fine soldier. Virtually unbeatable at the jousting. Great storyteller. All-round good chap.’

  The next course of dinner arrived. Fish of all types: grilled, boiled, stewed or baked in bread, all served with deliciously subtle sauces. One thing Ulster was not short of was fish. The earldom had rich fisheries on the river Bann as well as smaller fishing centres at Holy Wood, Rossglass and Tara in the Ards Peninsula. With the wine and the heady Irish beer the conversation flowed and everyone began to relax.

  ‘You are not a supporter of the king, then, sir?’ Savage addressed Blanquet as he ladled some fish from a serving dish into his own wooden bowl.

  The Irish knight smiled. ‘I reserve the right to criticise those who claim to govern us,’ Blanquet said. ‘Especially when they meddle in our affairs and involve us in needless wars that have nothing to do with us. The recent adventures in Gascony and the war against Scotland are good examples of what I mean.’

  ‘It’s our duty to support the king in his wars,’ Jordan said.

  ‘Even if the quarrel is nothing to do with us here in Ireland or worse, could do us harm?’ Blanquet asked, his smile now gone. ‘Look at the Scottish War: half the families in Ulster have Scottish ties, either by blood or marriage. We’re torn between loyalties. And do you think Robert Bruce hasn’t noticed our aid to the English? You can bet he’s going to stop it pretty soon, and when his vengeance comes you know who’s going to be first in line, don’t you? Us.’

  ‘What about your duty to God, sir?’ Jordan insisted. ‘The king is divinely appointed by God. His will is the will of God. The Pope excommunicated Robert Bruce. I know whose side I’m on.’

  Blanquet grunted. ‘God has other ways of showing his favour. I have heard it said that King Robert Bruce bears the Grail.’

  ‘Don’t start that nonsense,’ Jordan growled. ‘The Grail is a myth.’