Ghosts of Yorkshire
Page 31
Hugh de Morville, as overlord of Cnaresburg, basked in the glory and love shown, waving and showering the spectators with quarter-pennies. Thanks to his wife and her family, the de Stotevilles, who had lived here since the days of King William, he was well respected in this town and surrounds, and his wedding day had been one of the best of his life; principally because he had been awarded the custodianship of Cnaresburg Castle by a generous King Henry.
As the nobles walked their mounts away from the merriment, their minds turned to the fynding, wondering how long Morville’s lymers, the best breed of dog for tracking, would take to find trace of the white hart.
Their mirth was cut short by the tolling of the church bell and the men glanced at each other in consternation as the peals added up. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Announcing the death of a man. A local resident? Or had news of Thomas Becket reached Cnaresburg?
Chapter 16
‘How is Pipsqueak now we are away from the hounds?’ Helwise called over to Richard le Falconer.
He raised the wicker cage perched before him on his saddle so his mistress could see the small brown-grey merlin inside. ‘She is well, My Lady. Has been since we hooded her and she could no longer see the lymers.’
‘Poor thing, those dogs scared the feathers off her.’
‘She’s not used to seeing so many at once excited for the hunt, My Lady.’
‘True. Well, let us hope she gets used to them soon.’
‘Aye, My Lady. ’Tis a pity we could not go with the main hunting party, that white hart would be a sight to see and no mistake.’
‘But a shame to see such a fine beast brought down for the table,’ Helwise said. ‘I am gladdened we had need of taking a different path, Pipsqueak needs open ground to hunt.’
Richard le Falconer made no comment and they rode in silence until they reached their usual larking grounds to the west of Haya Park.
*
Falconer reached into the cage, pulled the falcon out and unhooded her. The small bird of prey squeaked as soon as she laid eyes on Helwise – and continued squeaking. Even her small brain knew the appearance of the lady of the castle meant food, and she flew to Helwise’s gloved fist to receive her first treat of a one-day-old-chick’s foot.
Helwise raised her arm, the falcon’s cue to start hunting. Pipsqueak launched, then swooped, flying low to the ground to flush out her first prey: a meadow pipit. Chasing and gaining height on the bird, Pipsqueak then dived at a seemingly impossible speed, and her talons plucked the unfortunate bird out of mid-air and brought it back to Helwise to be rewarded with another chick’s foot.
Having been hand-reared and trained from the egg, Pipsqueak viewed Falconer as her father and Helwise her mother. She had not worked out that she would get more to eat for less effort if she simply feasted on the birds she caught.
*
‘She’s doing well, My Lady – a dozen larks and a couple of pipits in the last hour alone.’
Helwise smiled with pride, then gasped and stared at the treeline. A white hart bounded out from the trees, gracefully making ground at high speed, and dashed across the open moorland before making a sudden direction change and racing for the nearest trees to the north.
‘He’s magnificent,’ she said. ‘So handsome.’
‘My Lady!’
Helwise glanced at Falconer in irritation.
‘They’re on the chase, that means—’
‘The hounds!’ Helwise scoured the sky, searching for her bird and knowing that if she did not secure her and hood her before the merlin falcon saw the dogs, they may well lose her.
Too late. The lymers and greyhounds, hot on the scent of the hart, disrupted the peace as they chased hard, followed by the hunting party of nobles.
‘My Lady!’ Falconer called, and Helwise returned her gaze upwards, to see a confused and panicking Pipsqueak launch a new dive.
She held out her fist, tapping it, while Falconer threw her a chick’s head to tempt the falcon, but Pipsqueak picked up none of the visual cues, focusing instead on the object of her dive. The feather in the cap of Sir Hugh de Morville.
Talons outstretched, Pipsqueak arrowed in on her prey, grabbed what she thought to be a songbird, then struggled to lift the heavy woollen headwear.
She grounded amidst flying hooves and the shouts of an infuriated baron, and hopped in a desperate attempt to release the woollen encumbrance and take off to safety.
‘God’s wounds!’ Morville shrieked. ‘That bloody rat of a bird took my cap!’ He rubbed his head, refusing to acknowledge the pain and shock of the strike from a six-ounce bird diving faster than the speed of a shot crossbow bolt; at least before his fellow knights. Helwise would hear more of it later, in private.
‘Pipsqueak!’ Helwise screamed, and ran over to the mêlée to rescue her youngest and favourite falcon.
‘Get back, woman, do you want to be trampled?’ Morville accented his warning with a flick of his crop. Helwise flinched to save her face from its sting.
Morville moved away from Pipsqueak. ‘Retrieve my cap, Helwise, and train your bird better.’
Helwise rushed to Pipsqueak and untangled her sharp talons from the cap. The falcon hopped on to her fist and she passed the hat back to her husband.
‘She is but a young bird, Hugh. She has not flown with the hounds before, they scare her.’
‘Bah! A hunting bird scared of hounds? You’d do well to wring its neck.’
‘No!’ Helwise stepped back, away from her husband, her free arm held out in defence of Pipsqueak. At Morville’s glower, she added, ‘Begging your pardon, My Lord. I shall continue with her training. She is a good hunter – near two dozen larks for the table already.’
‘Hugh,’ FitzUrse called, ‘we are losing the hart!’
‘Hmpf.’ Morville glared at his wife a moment longer, then pulled his courser’s head around, kicked, and re-joined the chase.
Once the hunting party was out of sight and hearing, Helwise launched Pipsqueak once more.
‘She missed! That’s the first one she hasn’t taken,’ Helwise said as the falcon recovered from her unproductive dive, hugged the ground for a few wingbeats, then soared once more.
‘And again. What’s wrong? Do you think she’s hurt?’ Helwise asked Falconer.
‘No, she would not be hunting if she were hurt. She’s just unsettled.’
‘We’ll call it a day, then. Give her a rest.’
‘Best to let her catch one first, else she’ll learn she does not need to hunt to be fed.’
‘Just this once?’ Helwise implored.
Richard le Falconer shook his head. ‘Sorry, My Lady, these birds are lazy and will not hunt if there is no imperative to eat. Best to wait and give her time, else your husband will wring her neck.’
Helwise nodded, knowing he was right, and examined the sky for a glimpse of Pipsqueak. ‘She’s diving,’ Helwise said, excitement and apprehension inflecting her words; if Pipsqueak did not catch a lark soon, her future looked short.
Both Helwise and Falconer held their breath as Pipsqueak stretched her talons and snatched the skylark out of the air.
‘Yes!’ Helwise shouted, jumped and clapped her hands in exuberance, then turned and hugged Richard le Falconer.
‘My Lady,’ he reproached, stepping back.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Richard. But she’s done it, my little Pipsqueak has done it!’
She turned sideways on to the bird to make herself appear smaller and stretched out her right arm. Pipsqueak dropped the skylark into her waiting hand then circled round to fly on the wind and landed on Helwise’s gloved left fist.
Helwise dropped the dead lark into her hunting bag and rewarded Pipsqueak with a full chick, squeezing the yolk from the head before offering the meal.
Richard le Falconer took the hunting bag from Helwise and stowed it on his horse, then returned with Pipsqueak’s cage. The falcon hopped inside to finish tearing the chick apart and swallowing.
Chapter 17
Morville caught up his fellow nobles just as the chase ended. He saw the hart turn to face them – at bay and ready to defend himself against his pursuers.
He was a magnificent creature, standing taller than a man; his proud head with the dozen points lifted high, nostrils flaring, eyes staring and ears flicking at every bark of the restrained hounds.
The nobles spread out, surrounding the creature, and Morville glanced at Percy. Despite being the host, he indicated with a hand that the elderly Percy should take the kill.
William de Percy acknowledged the honour of the mort with a small nod, then drew his sword and walked his courser forward.
The hart took a couple of steps back, but stopped at a halloo from Tracy behind him.
Percy came on, drew his sword high, then slashed at the animal’s throat, immediately backing up his courser to avoid the fountain of blood.
In silence, the hart fell to its fore-knees, his frightened eyes already dulling, then collapsed to the ground to the cheers of the gathered noblemen.
Morville was the first to congratulate Percy on the kill. ‘It will make a fine course tonight, Hugh,’ Percy said. ‘I hope your cook can do it justice.’
Morville swallowed at the insult – etiquette dictated that the man who made the kill should host the resultant feast; they should be dining at Spofford Castle tonight not Cnaresburg – but he refused to let any sign of it show on his face or in his voice. ‘Adam shall make a fine job of it, My Lord. Will you be gracing us with your company?’
Percy nodded. ‘I shall.’ He wheeled his courser around and cantered in the direction of Spofford Castle, leaving Morville to preside over the unmaking.
Screven stepped forward, unsheathing his knife, and began the job of dissecting the beast, starting with its guts before skinning it.
Once the hart had been unmade and the haunches of bloody meat and the proud head piled on to the small cart that had followed the nobles, Screven began the curée to reward the hounds.
He soaked stale bread in the blood of the hart, then mixed it with the intestines and pushed the resultant porridge into the gaping hole of the hide.
The dogs ran in excited circles, but their base instincts had long ago been beaten out of them and they held back until the sound of Screven’s horn gave them permission to eat.
Morville watched the mêlée with interest – the deer carcass under the roiling mass of hungry dogs having a strange fascination – before he pulled the head of his courser around and led the way back to Cnaresburg Castle. He caught and rode past Helwise with no acknowledgement, and she fell in beside her brother, William de Stoteville.
Stoteville reached over and placed a hand on his sister’s arm. He held no regard for Morville as a man, yet had a great deal of respect for his titles, in particular the barony of Burgh-on-the-Sands.
‘Do not fret, Helwise. He will not be here long. There have been no repercussions to his deed and he will surely re-join King Henry in Normandy before too much time passes.’
Helwise smiled at him. ‘It cannot come soon enough, Brother.’
He gave her arm another squeeze, then withdrew it. They both knew well the realities of marriage. Helwise would have to bear her husband’s presence – whatever his demands – for as long as he chose to remain in Cnaresburg. Then she would be free to enjoy her position as Lady of the Castle until Morville deigned to return once more.
‘William, what’s happening?’ Helwise asked, sitting straighter in her saddle and looking about her at the near empty High Street. ‘Where is everyone? It’s market day.’
William said nothing, but nodded his head towards the marketplace ahead. The townsfolk stood in silence, watching Morville and the others parade towards the imposing towers of the northern gate to Cnaresburg Castle.
One or two people smiled at the Stotevilles as they rode past, but there was none of the usual welcome. Whilst Morville was accepted as overlord, the Stotevilles were loved here, having lived amongst and advocated for these people for generations. Helwise was used to greetings, cheers and even the occasional posy of riverside flowers when she was about Cnaresburg. She looked to William in consternation.
‘It appears that the news has reached Cnaresburg,’ he said, his face grim as rotten fruit was thrown at the mounted noblemen ahead. Morville pulled his horse up and shouted at the assembled crowd.
‘Murderer!’ a young boy shouted. ‘You murdered the Archbishop! May you rot in Hell!’
Morville jumped off his courser and forced his way into the crowd, reappearing with his fingers clasped around the ear of a young boy.
‘Robert Flower!’ Helwise gasped. ‘Oh no.’ Robert was a strange young boy – wiser than his years – whose outspoken ways often got him into trouble, yet Helwise – and most of the town it had to be said – had a soft spot for the young tearaway. Whatever trouble he got into or caused, there had always been good reason – at least in the boy’s mind – whether it was stealing bread to give to a starving family or stealing cloth from Tentergate to present to his mother for a new gown. The people of Cnaresburg held him in a kind of exasperated regard.
Morville struck the lad, hard, and he fell to the dirty cobbles. As Morville made to kick him, the townsfolk rushed forward as one; the crowd becoming a mob.
FitzUrse grabbed his friend, pushed him to his horse and the four galloped to the castle, ignoring the pedestrians who fled from their path.
‘Come on, Helwise,’ William urged, spurring his own courser into a gallop.
Helwise screamed as a stone glanced off her skull, and William wheeled around, putting himself between his sister and the people gathered about the prone body of Robert Flower.
Screven placed himself on his mistress’s other side as they galloped to safety.
Helwise took a last look around before the portcullis clanged down and the drawbridge over the ditch rose, relieved to see a dazed Robert Flower sit up just before he was lost to sight.
William reached up to help his sister dismount. ‘Are you hurt?’
Helwise shook her head, then grimaced at the pain. She put her hands to her skull, then looked at her reddened fingers.
‘Come, I’ll help you to your bedchamber,’ William said. ‘Where is your husband?’ he added, his face colouring with fury. ‘He has not even paused to see if you are safe.’
‘What do you expect?’ Helwise asked. ‘He has concerns only for himself.’
After a short silence, William said, ‘I am sorry, Sister, you must prepare yourself. If Cnaresburg has reacted with this fury, the rest of Christendom must feel the same. I fear your husband will be present here for some time.’
Helwise said nothing.
‘I shall stay here with you as much as I am able,’ William added. ‘I will not leave you alone with these men.’
Helwise nodded, then grimaced again. ‘My thanks, Brother, your company will be most welcome.’
William glanced at the door to the hall at the bottom of the keep, then helped his sister up the narrow stone stairs to the bedchambers. The sound of the night’s anger carried clearly up the steep round stairwell and his heart sank. Difficult times lay ahead.
Chapter 18
At first glance around the great hall, nothing seemed amiss. Fires blazed in the three large fireplaces. The candles of the chandeliers and candelabra flickered with flame, adding to the uplifting spirit of celebration.
Morville and Helwise sat at the centre of the lord’s table with the knights and lords, from Sir Reginald FitzUrse to Nigel de Plumton, arranged to either side in order of status – other than William de Stoteville, who had ensured that he sat beside his sister in defiance of the higher titles of FitzUrse and Tracy. Lesser nobles, such as Pulleine of Fewston and Bilton from Hampsthwaite, sat at the centre of the low tables along with Thomas de Screven and other important local men, the richest merchants, and the parish priest. The rest of the available seats were occupied by the various vassals and men-at-arms of the gathered nobles.
Morville glanced around the gathered throng once more. There was no sign of William de Percy or any of his men. Morville grimaced in annoyance. Not only had Percy insulted him earlier by taking the mort, then issuing no invitation to feast at Spofford Manor – whilst Percy insisted on calling it a castle it was in reality no more than a large manor house, but Percy – one of King Henry’s favourites – had not deigned to join the knights for the feast of venison; an unforgivable insult.
Meat was a rarity – banned by the Church on Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays – and with Lent imminent a feast such as this night’s was something to savour. Yet it was all ruined. Not only by the events of the afternoon and Percy’s absence, but each course was slow in being brought to the table, and the larks, one of which he had just demolished, had been cold long before they had been placed before him and his guests. He threw the small bones on to the table in disgust and shouted for his steward, Jack.
Helwise stared at the half-eaten bird – one of the many caught by herself and the merlin – a feat of which she was proud with such a young bird accompanying a full hunt for the first time. A pity about the incident with her husband . . . She glanced at him as she remembered his near panic when he’d felt those talons at his head. True, the bird could have had his eye out, but it was the highlight of Helwise’s day.
Morville caught her glance and smile, and scowled. She looked away and fell into conversation with her brother, sitting to her left.
‘Is there any news of young Robert?’
He shrugged. ‘The boy is fine, although a little dazed still. And recounting his narrow escape from Becket’s murderers with some zeal.’
‘Enough!’ Morville roared, slamming his fist on the table. ‘Do not mention that boy’s name in this castle! And never, ever, refer to myself or my fellow lords as murderers, or you shall drive me to commit that very crime. Do you understand me?’