‘Oh, dear me, no!’ said Richard. ‘Dartmoor is a wondrous place. I would ride across her from dawn till dusk if I had no cares to attend to. I would rather be in this manor of mine than in the finest palace in London. I do not care for this place, mind, but Devon has other lodgings.’
‘I am surprised that you find the moor pleasant,’ I said, following him down a short, narrow corridor with walls that breathed cold moisture. ‘In my own experience, most find it terrifying.’
‘And you, Messer Petrus?’ Richard turned before a doorway. His eyes, blue even in the dimness of the corridor, fixed themselves upon mine.
‘I must confess that I feel as you do, my lord,’ I said. I had been asked for the truth, and for once there was no need to be sparing with it. ‘I … I was raised in Cornwall – Zennor is a day’s ride from here, at the mouth of the Fal – but my father bought tin at Plympton, and he would take me up to the workings at Plym Head, and so …’
‘You know the moor, then?’
‘The southern part. We had a wet-nurse from Buckfastleigh and I would visit her when my father went abroad on business. I have roamed most of it, I daresay, from Hex-worthy farm across to Tavistock. I live very far from these hills now, my lord, but I carry them with me wherever I am.’
The earl paused, and regarded me from under his golden eyebrows. Then he turned and opened the door, and I followed him inside. When we were seated on a pair of uncomfortable stools, more suitable for milkmaids – or prisoners, I thought to myself – the earl held out his hand and I passed him the letter from Captain de Montalhac. He read intently and, I noticed, quickly, unusual in my experience for a nobleman. When he looked up, his face was expressionless.
‘Do you know what is written here?’
‘In substance, yes, my lord.’ I took the letters of credit from my satchel. ‘I believe these are relevant.’
Earl Richard studied them carefully.
‘How does one know that things like this are genuine?’ he asked, casually.
‘You may take them to Messer Milot Presson of Saint Nicholas Lane in London and exchange ink for gold that very hour,’ I said. Earl Richard knew full well what letters of credit were. I had found out enough about him during my long hours at Westminster to know that he was a modern man in this as well as other ways. He dealt with banks and credit often. So I added: ‘Messer Milot speaks well of your own financier – Wymer of Berwick, I believe?’
‘Indeed, Messer Petrus.’ He seemed to relax, minutely. At least one part of a tedious game did not need playing further. ‘Well, I am amazed. Your master …’
‘Your pardon, my lord, but I am a partner in the company,’ I put in, politely.
‘Well then. Your colleague does not specify, exactly, whom this largesse is from. Should one know?’
I held his stare, which was polite but had me feeling like a plump snail being eyed by a hungry thrush. What, I was asking myself frenziedly, had the Captain put in that letter? Some cryptic riddle about faith? Dear God, not that! I made a point of adjusting my satchel. What could I say?
‘My lord,’ I found myself saying, ‘you will have been upon the moor when the wind blows up from the south? It brings the taste of the sea, and sultry heat, and sometimes strange birds and butterflies are borne upon it. This comes as those wonders do: from the warm lands of the south, made warmer at this moment by injustice.’
‘From Hughues de Lusignan?’ said the earl in disbelief. ‘Is my father-in-law throwing money to the four winds now?’ I shook my head, about to launch into another desperate bit of wind-imagery, but the earl cut me off. ‘Toulouse. The wily old Count Raymond.’
I steepled my fingers. ‘Not specifically. But Toulouse has gathered a great legion of … of well-wishers to his cause, as you know: your royal brother, for one. But from Aragon to Sicily and Swabia comes support. Toulouse, in turn, supports Lusignan and indeed your own claim to Poitou.’
‘Wait a minute, my good sir. This letter … You have been an admirable messenger and have not spied. As your reward, you may read it now.’ With a look I could not fathom he handed it to me poised between two fingers. I opened it. There was the Captain’s writing, a lot of it. I read carefully. Much was diplomatic jargon and aristocratic nicety, but at last I came to the passage that had made Earl Richard raise his eyebrows. It was not written by the Captain, but was a codicil attached to the original letter and stamped with an impressive seal:
Further, in return for your bringing the strength of England to our aid, on the successful conclusion of said expedition we solemnly vow to relinquish all and every claim, design, transaction, and promise relating to the Lady Sanchia of Provence, daughter of His Lordship Ramon Berenguer, styled Count of Provence, to whom we are at this time betrothed, and furthermore will place no impediment or argument against any match you conclude with the said Lady Sanchia.
There were more rambling promises of loyalty and mutual aid, and the letter ended with the signature of Raymond de Saint-Gilles, Count of Toulouse, Duke of Narbonne, Marquis of Provence.
‘My lord, I must reveal my ignorance. The Lady Sanchia of Provence – she is the sister of your brother the king’s wife, is she not?’
‘She is,’ said Richard, looking almost sheepish. Something had come over him, a flutter of nervous energy which I had not noticed before. ‘The most lovely woman in the wide world.’
The earl drew in his breath. I found myself clutching the letter against my chest. He was staring hard into my eyes, and it took all my will not to look away, though I was so dumb-struck I was sure it must be clearly written on my face. Then he let out a great laugh, slapped his knees and stood up.
‘Good Christ, the face of honesty! I hardly recognised it! Now then. I have been tardy – is that it? Poor old Hughues is champing at the bit, and no doubt my dear mother is digging her spurs into his rump. Never fear, then, my dear Messer Petrus from the Cormaran. I take it this gift—’ and he tapped the letters of credit ‘—is intended to cover certain expenses, such as one might incur in launching an expedition across the Channel? Christ. Well, I have waited as long as I could. If my brother, my mother and her husband, and all the lords of your balmy south wish me to go to war, I shall.’
During supper the earl paid far more attention to Letice than to me, and I was grateful, for it let me sink into a pleasant reverie that had been lapping at me since we had left Ashburton. Why, I had begun to ask myself, should I go back to Venice at all? The Captain and Gilles seemed to have left the company, if I understood the Captain’s letter. Was I really going to sit in Florence or Venice, running a bank, of all things? I had come to know the trade in holy relics as well as any living man, but our new venture held no real interest for me and I had been happy to avoid it as much as I could. What was to stop me, then, from taking my share as a partner and … I could hardly articulate the thought, even inside my own skull. There were plenty of manor houses hereabouts. Cornwood, or Lustleigh, or Ugborough – I could buy myself a handsome estate, some tinning interests, and settle down as some mysterious gentleman from Outremer. By Bartholomew’s hide, I could purchase a knighthood, nay, make myself a baron, and still die a wealthy man. I began to dream of my house: a grange, with a gatehouse and a view down some valley to the south. Fields for my corn and my beef. Sheep, of course. And a green lawn where my children would play.
Children? The dream grew hazy. I frowned, and found myself gazing at Letice, deep in conversation with Earl Richard, all Lady Agnes and none of the woman I had known in our other life together. Where had these ghost-children of mine sprung from, then? There is nothing so vexing as a daydream over which one loses control. I tried to sweep the skipping children from my lawn – replace them with sheep, with yew trees, anything at all – but they would not go, and …
‘Messer Petrus, are you tired after your ride today?’ It was Albin the steward, filling my goblet solicitously. ‘I think you were nodding. My lord has invited you to join his retinue for the expedition to Poitou.’
The gra
nge vanished. Earl Richard was smiling at me, and tapping his fingers lightly upon the table. I understood very clearly what had happened. I, who had been on the watch for snares these many years, had walked into a trap as plain as the side of a barn. Here I was, in a prison-castle, with a bored prince. It had not quite sunk in earlier that Letice and I were the only guests at the earl’s table, but now it did. We had become Richard’s amusements, his trifles. And if I refused his offer, which was of course an enormous compliment, I would cause dangerous offence and even jeopardise the Captain’s plan. Chilly sweat rolled down between my shoulder blades.
‘My lord is far too kind,’ I croaked. ‘I would be honoured to accept, and I pray that I may be of some small use, although I am not skilled at war.’
‘Nonsense!’ said the earl. ‘That is not what I have heard from my intemperate young friends over there.’ He pointed with a lamb-leg to where the three knights lolled, blind drunk in the glow of the fire. ‘Tell me, how did a soldier come to find employment with the worthy Jean de Sol?’
So I trotted out the tale of Petrus Zennorius, how the young merchant’s son from Cornwall had been sent for his studies to Oxford, had joined the household of a Flemish bishop and followed him to Outremer, where he had died, leaving Petrus to fend for himself. He had learned to fight in the meanwhile, for as the late bishop had said, ‘One may serve God with the sword as well as the pen.’ Petrus had met the Captain seven years ago while serving as a mercenary in Athens, and had joined the crew of the Cormaran. An adventuresome tale, more wholesome than my own, but it had served me well. Now, at last, it had landed me in the shit.
‘We will arm you, sir, and you will ride against the French and bring honour to Cornwall,’ the earl told me.
‘On condition that I might represent Dartmoor,’ I conceded, weakly. It was done. I was, more than likely, doomed.
Albin had hit the mark: I was exhausted, in both body and spirit, for being in Devon at last had drained me, and I dearly wished to lay down my head, even in this drafty prison, and sleep until noon. But Earl Richard was not so inclined.
‘You must be aware, sir, that I know Monsieur de Sol tolerably well,’ he said. I agreed that I was. ‘I understand that the Cormaran now interests itself in the world of finance,’ he went on, ‘and that is something I understand: it is the future of the world, alas: directing invisible rivers of silver and gold with the wave of a quill. But de Sol knows me from his original business.’
‘My lord is a collector,’ I said, at last finding my professional feet. And so ensued a long conversation about relics: those he had, those he desired. The whereabouts of this, the veracity of that. Richard was, as the Captain had said, a man of exquisite taste. He also had a mind as keen as any that sat on the Council of Venice or wore a cardinal’s hat, and I found myself enjoying our talk, despite my exhaustion. I began to wonder what item in the company’s inventory might interest him. The shin-bone of Saint Christopher, a bone as long as a child is tall which we had found in Alexandria and bought from a blackamoor from the upper reaches of the Nile, perhaps? Lavish, but too crude. Various fingers and toes? Trifling. King Louis had taken everything from the Pharos Chapel, alas, and those had been relics truly fit for a prince. Ah, but not everything. There had been four things in the chapel that Louis had never known about, for although he possessed an inventory of the treasures and bought from it like a marketer’s list, I had had an older list, and had done some shopping of my own. The Maphorion: the mantle of the Virgin. The Captain and I had been holding that in reserve. Something for a pope, or an emperor. Maybe a little too rich for the earl’s blood. But as I was pondering, the earl let one of his carbuncled rings tap against his goblet.
‘A miraculous image – Our Lord’s image on a winding sheet. One has heard of such a thing. My mother the Queen is very taken with the idea. What do you think, Master Petroc?’
Wearily I trotted out what I had told Louis Capet: that legend and the word of one long-dead Crusader did not mean the holy shroud of Edessa was still in this world, or indeed ever had been. It did not seem to matter to Earl Richard all that much, and we dived back into our idle conversation. There were always Christ’s sandals, I was thinking to myself, and the holy lance – one of two I had found, that is, and with authenticating documents to boot. When the time was right I would float one of these, I decided, and see if Earl Richard was tempted. And perhaps I would recoup the Captain’s bribe into the bargain. It was with these thoughts that I took myself off to bed at last, and though my room was as sparse and cold as I had known it would be, and as comfortable as if I were sleeping out on the moor, I slept deeply, and if I dreamed of a manor house and a sheep-nibbled lawn danced upon by laughing children, I did not quite remember them when I awoke the next day.
Lydford Castle was in an uproar when I came downstairs. It was quite early, but the hangings were being taken down and chests and bags carried out. Letice was drinking milk in the great hall.
‘What is going on, Lady Agnes?’ I asked her.
‘We are leaving,’ she said, wiping a white moustache from her lip. ‘The earl sent riders to London last night, after you went to bed. The king is to march down to join the fleet at Portsmouth and we will meet him there. Earl Richard’s army is mustering. We will be off in an hour. You’d better have some breakfast.’
‘We?’ I queried, cutting myself a slice of cold rabbit pie.
‘Earl Richard has invited me to join his retinue – just like you.’ She gave a quick flounce – pleased with herself, then. ‘The ladies of the court are all going. ’Tis a great honour. And my lord—’
‘You mean Agnes’ lord.’
‘My lord has promised to deal with my worries in the meantime. A spell abroad should do the trick, he says.’
‘My lord?’
‘Good Christ, Patch, but you have a filthy mind,’ she said merrily. ‘I’m not the lass I once was, and the earl is not that sort of man. He’s in love, you know.’
‘Strangely enough, I had guessed,’ I said, supping at some breakfast beer. ‘But, hey ho, it will be delightful to have you along. You can watch me get chopped to pieces by the French.’
‘Oh, you will acquit yourself, my dear. And who knows? Maybe you will be rewarded.’
I doubted that. But I brooded on the future as we rode out of Lydford and down to Plymouth, where the earl received a party of vassals and inspected a company of ships. The next day we set out for Portsmouth, and before long we were retracing our steps across the Exe. We took the southern fork of the Fosse Way to Axminster and then pressed on to Dorchester. In a week we were riding across the downs above Portsmouth, the waters of the Solent like scoured pewter below us. It had been a merry journey, for our party was full of young men going to war for the first time. William, Gervais and Edmund had appointed themselves our escort, and they rarely shut their mouths, but yapped and cawed and brayed from sunup until long past sundown. I had kept a politely amused smile pasted to my face for so long that my muscles had begun to twitch and cramp. For I had not felt like smiling as we rode from Plymouth under the southern slopes of Dartmoor, past the bastions of Ugborough Hill and Brent Hill. I did not want to leave – not just yet, perhaps never. I gazed up each wooded valley that climbed up towards the brown tops and imagined my house there, my life. Instead I was being dragged away by pure inconsequentiality. I had done my job. Why, now, was I going off to war with this band of fools?
Because Earl Richard was anything but a fool. My simple errand was never going to have been simple, I could see now. Richard had a glamour about him, and he used it to ensnare those who might be useful to his various causes. I interested him, and my trade even more, therefore I had been conscripted. I thought more than once of simply leaving in the night, for who would follow me? But Richard might be suspicious. He might guess, rightly of course, that I was the agent of a vast scheme that did not have him at its centre, and withdraw. For Richard was ambitious. He should have been king, there was no doubt about that. He
had friends all over Christendom, as I learned from many evenings at his table. And he commanded a respect outside the kingdom of England that his callow brother could only envy. He would be a powerful friend: that was easy to see, for the earl had proved himself a negotiator and not a fighter, although no one had ever called him a coward. If I made it through whatever nightmare awaited me in Poitou, he might well put some of his influence at my disposal, or so I told myself. And while I was thus engaged in self-appeasement, I also assured my frustrated soul that of course I could return to Devon whenever I wished. The manor in the valley was postponed, nothing more. No, I only had to ride against Louis of France, my best customer; survive, and make my way through another war to discover whether or not my friend and protector had lost his senses. Then I could get back to the moors. Nothing easier, my friend, nothing in the world.
Our party rode through the gates of Portsmouth and it began to rain almost at once, the rain sheeting down, turning the lanes into gurgling little brooks awash with bobbing, spinning filth. It had been dry for a while and so the air became heavy with the smell of wet thatch, an English smell if ever there was one. The knights, gentry and men-at-arms began to drift away in search of lodgings, but Albin the steward let us know that the Lady Agnes and I were to be guests of the court, for brother Henry was already here at the Kings Hall. This was favour indeed. The Captain would chuckle wickedly if he knew, I thought – but then again, maybe he would not. In truth I was no longer sure what he would think of anything, and that thought nagged at me as we followed the Earl of Cornwall into the great hall.
Letice was enveloped within minutes by a pack of court ladies. They had been in Portsmouth for two days and by the looks of things that had been long enough, for they fell upon the poor woman as if they had not seen a new face in years. I soon found out that although the honour of lodging in the Kings Hall was to be mine, I would be sleeping on the floor with the other gentry. But I would be dining that night with Richard at the king’s table, so I found a promising corner to stow my bags and changed into my finest Venetian silks – much wrinkled by travel they were, but I stepped out into the rain with them and then stood by a fire for a bit – a fire that seemed to be lit only for the use of a small pack of deerhounds who lay before it, grey and silent and twined through one another’s long limbs – and soon my clothes were presentable again, though I felt damp and bothered.
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