Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘What? By the name of all that is holy, why?’

  ‘Henry does not wish to antagonise Pope Alexander further. No swordplay and no mêlée. Courcy did well to obtain permission for this only.’

  ‘God’s blood, what is a tourney without swords or mêlée? Where’s the opportunity for ransom?’

  ‘There is none, the knights entering the joust are required to pay a fee. The best man will take the purse.’

  ‘But where’s the fun in that?’ Morville asked.

  Stoteville glanced at him in frustration. If the oaf could not recognise the enmity in the glares of the gallant knights, and realise they all suffered the consequences of his and his cronies’ actions that fateful night, Stoteville would not be the one to enlighten him.

  Chapter 24

  The heralds’ trumpets silenced the crowd of nobles and men-at-arms, and every man turned their attention to the lists.

  ‘Earls, Barons, Knights, Gentlemen. Sir William de Courcy, Lord of Harewood, bids thee welcome at Harewood Castle,’ Courcy’s pursuivant-of-arms announced as the trumpet notes faded, ‘for a celebration of the joust.’

  The knights roared approval and FitzUrse turned to Tracy and said, ‘Though we are not per se jousting.’

  ‘No, indeed, a mere practice,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Although it is good to be away from Cnaresburg, even if only for a day or two,’ Brett said. Morville glanced sharply at him, but his words were drowned out by another blast of trumpeted notes.

  ‘Bid thee welcome to Sir Hamelin Plantagenet, Earl of Surrey. Most esteemed guest of honour, and our first contender!’

  The gathered noblemen and their entourages burst into tremendous applause and cheers, each plying further admiration for the King’s brother, despite the fact that his entire head was enclosed by the steel of his modern helm and he was essentially deafened.

  Although Plantagenet’s opponent was a mere quintain, he rode into the lists in full armour: padded gambeson; mail coat, hood and even legs; spurs attached to his boots, and heavy lance held erect.

  He circled the field, then guided his destrier to the head of the lists. A wooden rail ran down the centre of the field, and a blue shield adorned with the golden fleur-de-lis of Louis VII was mounted on a crossbar attached to a ten-foot pole.

  He flicked his visor closed: an act of affectation as he faced no opponent, but the gathered nobles got the message nonetheless. Plantagenet would do this virtually blind, no man could beat him.

  Plantagenet kicked his horse, who strode straight into a canter, then a gallop. He levelled his lance, balancing it on his thigh, and aimed it at the quintain dead ahead. He leaned back to adjust his aim and struck it squarely. The shield sprung back, allowing the Earl safe passage.

  He pulled his mare up, wheeled around and circled the field, delighting in the applause as the quintain was reset.

  ‘Will he not attempt the ring next?’ Brett asked, confused.

  ‘No,’ Morville replied. ‘Each man will have three tries at the quintain today, three attempts at the ring tomorrow, then the best of them will strike at both the day after.’

  They looked up as Plantagenet took a second turn at the quintain, a glancing blow not as true, but the quintain swung away nonetheless. The applause was just as raucous. The King’s brother could fall and still be heralded, at least in public, as champion.

  His third attempt was as clean as his first and he lifted his visor, stood in his stirrups, and thumped his chest in triumph as he completed his final lap of honour.

  *

  ‘We’re losing the light,’ FitzUrse said. ‘We have not been called yet, it will soon be dark.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the idea,’ Morville said, then looked up as his name was called. ‘Damn them, they give me no warning? Mauclerk! Bring my horse, now!’

  Brett helped him into his mail, he grabbed his helmet – of the older and most common design: conical with only a nose guard to protect his face – and hurried to the entrance to the lists, accompanied by the impatient slow handclap of the waiting nobles.

  Flustered, Morville grabbed the reins from Mauclerk and lifted his foot, ready for his clerk to clamp his hands together and heave him into the saddle.

  *

  Morville took a deep breath to steady himself. He scanned the silent crowd, then tapped his helmet to ensure it was secure on his head. He was unnerved. He knew he had kept everyone waiting, through no fault of his own, but he had never known a cavalcade of knights be so quiet.

  He took another breath, brought his lance to bear, and kicked his spurs into his horse’s flanks. Shutting out the disapproval of his peers, he focused on the quintain, aimed, and hit it square. The wooden shield sprang back and he heaved on the reins to slow.

  Morville glared at his silent audience, determined not to show his unease. One gaze in particular caught his attention. A priest, no doubt Harewood’s parish priest, stood with arms crossed, his eyes full of a hate so malevolent, Morville had only seen the like on a battlefield.

  Shaken, he turned his destrier’s head and trotted back to the head of the lists for his next attempt.

  Once again he pushed his helmet down hard on his head, took a calming breath and kicked. He leaned to his right in a last-minute adjustment of his lance, but was too late, his mind not on the task at hand. The ten-foot lance connected with the edge of the quintain, and the force of the blow was thrown back into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. The quintain stayed in place and his body connected with it at full gallop.

  Winded, he allowed Mauclerk to help him to his feet, pulled off his helmet, then wished he hadn’t as the crowd’s cheers and catcalls penetrated through the ringing in his ears.

  He limped away from the lists, head hanging as Brett chased down his horse and the pursuivant announced FitzUrse.

  *

  Sir Reginald FitzUrse, mounted, sat at the head of the lists and surveyed the crowd of silent barons, knights and assorted lords surrounding the jousting field.

  He reached up to secure his helmet, then changed his mind and snatched it from his head and threw it to the turf. If they would force him to the lists at dusk, he would not hamper himself any further – no matter what Hamlin Plantagenet had done in full daylight.

  Shutting out the mutterings of the gathered nobles, he brought his lance up, couched it against his shoulder and focused on the quintain. He could only just see it. No wonder Morville had missed.

  He kicked his horse into action, adjusted his direction, and aimed. Dead centre.

  He turned his horse into a lap of honour, but heard not a single cheer. His peers were silent.

  He realised the futility of what he was doing, realised he could not win, and finally realised they held his recent deeds in abhorrence, no matter that the act had been instigated by their king.

  He cast his eyes around the crowd in contempt, lingering on those of Hamlin Plantagenet as the man closest to Henry, then turned and cantered out of the lists.

  Morville, Tracy and Brett were at the gates. With one gesture they followed him, back to Cnaresburg.

  Chapter 25

  ‘But how could they treat us so?’ Tracy whined before emptying his goblet.

  ‘Does this mean that the King has forsaken us?’ Brett asked before any answer was given.

  ‘How the damnation do I know?’ FitzUrse said. ‘We’re cut off here, far from Normandy. Has Percy not said anything to you, Hugh?’

  ‘Of course not, I would have told you should he have spoken to me. This turn of events is as much of a surprise to me as you.’

  ‘But what shall we do?’ Tracy said. ‘We are naught without the favour of our king.’

  ‘The Church must be holding sway over him,’ Morville said.

  ‘And you know Henry, he’ll put himself above all others,’ FitzUrse added.

  ‘Indeed,’ Morville said. ‘If he is in such straits with the Pope, he would not hesitate to cast us aside.’

  ‘So, we are on our own,’ Fi
tzUrse said.

  ‘Yes, we are on our own – at least for the time being,’ Morville said. ‘If only you had stayed your hands and merely arrested Becket.’

  ‘Hugh! You saw how hard I tried to talk sense into the man,’ FitzUrse said. ‘I was the only one who tried, if I recall. The rest of you scurried away like rats.’

  ‘Yes, but what else could we have done?’ Tracy said. ‘We did all we could to persuade him.’

  ‘You call slicing off the top of his head persuasion?’ Morville said.

  ‘I was only trying to help!’ Brett said. ‘Put him out of his misery.’

  ‘Yes, but murder, Richard. Murder,’ Tracy said, emptying another goblet and reaching for the flagon of Rhenish.

  ‘He was a traitor,’ Brett said. ‘It was not murder but execution sanctioned by the King.’

  ‘He did not order Becket’s death, Richard,’ Morville said.

  ‘No, but he demanded vengeance,’ Tracy said. ‘He wanted the Archbishop silenced.’

  ‘Well, we’ve done that all right,’ FitzUrse said. ‘We’ve resolved his problem, and now he abandons us. What reward is that for his most loyal knights?’

  ‘No reward,’ said Brett, ‘but vilification and shunning.’

  ‘Have a care, Richard, your talk is nearing sedition,’ Morville said.

  ‘I was just saying.’

  ‘The point is,’ FitzUrse said, ‘what do we do about it?’

  ‘What can we do?’ Tracy asked. ‘Without the King’s favour, we are doomed.’

  ‘William, that’s putting it a bit strongly,’ Brett said. ‘Why don’t we just stay here until Becket is forgotten?’

  ‘That could take a lifetime,’ Tracy said.

  ‘I’m only trying to help,’ Brett said. ‘Would you pass that flagon or have you drunk it all?’

  Tracy slammed his goblet on the scarred wood of the table. ‘And what if I have? Hugh has plenty more in his cellar.’

  ‘Speaking of more,’ Morville said, ‘where the blazes is my steward? We’ve been sitting here a half-hour and have no repast.’ He stood and strode to the door, then roared for Jack. When no server was forthcoming, he roared instead for his wife.

  ‘Helwise, what the devil is going on?’ he said when she arrived.

  Flustered, the long sleeves of her bliaut whipped around her knees. ‘There’s illness in the town, My Lord,’ she said. ‘They believe it punishment from God.’

  ‘Punishment? What the devil for? What have they done?’

  ‘Harboured you,’ Helwise said, staring at her husband, her face expressionless. Morville said nothing, although his mouth worked frantically.

  ‘They have heard word of your reception at Harewood Castle, My Lord. They believe you against the Church and against the King,’ Helwise continued.

  ‘The ungrateful buggers,’ FitzUrse said, and Morville spun round. All the knights had congregated behind him. ‘We ridded the King and his kingdom of a serious threat. The Young King is now safe, thanks to us. And this is how we are repaid?’

  Morville recovered his composure. ‘And what of the garrison?’ His blood ran cold at the thought that his men-at-arms may have also absconded.

  ‘Still present, My Lord,’ Mauclerk said, stepping out of the shadows. ‘The castle is still strong.’

  ‘Blacksmith? Marshal?’

  ‘The marshal is yet here, although minus a couple of grooms. The smith . . . the smith was persuaded to stay.’

  ‘Persuaded? By you?’

  Mauclerk nodded.

  ‘Good man. Keep a close eye on him, and ensure the blades and crossbow quarrels he crafts are of strength and high standard.’

  ‘Of course, My Lord.’

  ‘And go to the sergeant-at-arms, have him put his best cooks in my kitchen. You can bring us wine. My Lords, please, return to the table. We are in need of a plan of action.’

  Chapter 26

  Tracy lunged forward, swinging his sword. FitzUrse blocked his thrust, continued the arc of his parry, then reversed direction, aiming for Tracy’s head. Tracy ducked, then caught FitzUrse’s mailed wrist with his blade.

  FitzUrse stepped to the left to keep his balance, prepared to strike, and this time connected with Tracy’s helmet.

  Both men stepped back to regain their breath, then Tracy again swung low. Blocked by FitzUrse. Right to left, this time high. He grinned at the solid thunk of his sword striking FitzUrse’s helmet, swung his sword back – knowing he was exposed and taking the gamble that FitzUrse would not yet have regained his wits from the ringing in his ears – and swung on a diagonal to catch FitzUrse’s arm.

  ‘That’s five, my turn,’ Morville said. FitzUrse had already initiated his answering blow and did not pull it, but caught Tracy’s thigh.

  Tracy fell, howling in pain and outrage. Not only had FitzUrse’s turn in the practice circle ended, but Tracy was not wearing leg mail. Padded leather did little to soften the blow of a heavy sword strike, even that of a dulled practice blade.

  ‘Reginald, enough!’ Morville shouted.

  FitzUrse took off his helmet and cupped his ear, feigning deafness, then reached out a gauntleted hand and hauled Tracy to his feet. Tracy glared at him but said naught, instead turning to face Morville.

  Five strokes later, he turned to do the same with Brett then took his place in the circle as FitzUrse entered the centre and faced Morville.

  Too soon, FitzUrse turned to Tracy, who had not yet recovered from his gruelling turn in the centre of the practice circle. FitzUrse seemed unaffected by his rounds with Morville and Brett, despite his heavy mail and padded gambeson on a warm spring day.

  Tracy scowled at him, still smarting from the blow to his thigh, and stepped forward, lunging at his opponent, despite the convention that the man in the centre be the aggressor. FitzUrse grinned and countered, then launched a heavy and rapid sequence of thrusts, slices and strikes; once more sending Tracy to the ground.

  ‘My turn,’ Morville announced, stepping forward. FitzUrse spun round, adding momentum to his sword, which Morville only just managed to block. He struck back, but FitzUrse had anticipated his move, fended him off, then spun again to block Tracy’s sword.

  Both knights swung at The Bear, one sword glancing off FitzUrse’s shoulder, barely registering with him. His face a mask of concentration and effort, his total awareness was captured by his sword.

  As the three men turned, Brett stepped in alongside FitzUrse, then all four knights engaged in battle, the only sound the clash of sword against sword, mail and helmets, accompanied by grunts of exertion. Not one of them had strength enough for words.

  Minutes later, all four backed away, resting their sword tips on the ground and leaning on the pommels, panting heavily.

  Morville was the first to regain his composure. ‘Enough for today.’ The others nodded in relieved agreement and, as one, sat, dropping the swords and pulling off helmets. Morville gestured to Mauclerk, who hurried over with a large flagon and four goblets.

  *

  FitzUrse topped up Tracy’s goblet then glanced at the southern curtain wall and tower. ‘It’s coming on well.’

  ‘Yes,’ Morville said. ‘They should have it finished soon, then we’ll be able to withstand any attack.’

  ‘Do you really think it will come to that?’ Brett asked.

  ‘You witnessed our reception at Harewood,’ FitzUrse said. ‘If Henry has turned against us, there will be no shortage of volunteers to rid the kingdom of us.’

  ‘Surely Henry hasn’t turned against us in truth,’ Morville said. ‘We carried out his bidding.’

  ‘Yes, but all it takes is one intemperate proclamation falling on the wrong ears,’ FitzUrse said.

  All four remained quiet, none of them daring to voice the concern that they themselves had acted on an ‘intemperate proclamation’ rather than a carefully considered order.

  ‘Ah, the crossbows,’ Morville said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. The others turned to see thirty men-at-arms a
pproaching. ‘Good, I want to see how true their aim is.’

  ‘We should move,’ said Brett, nodding in the other direction at the bales of straw being set up as targets. ‘We are in the line of fire.’

  Morville and FitzUrse glanced at each other, both wondering how true Brett’s ill-considered words would prove to be.

  Chapter 27

  22nd July 2015

  Helen saved her work and got up to answer the door with an audible curse. ‘Why does someone always have to knock on the door when I’m in the zone and the words are flowing?’

  ‘Oh thank goodness you’re in, Helen,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s so great you work from home.’

  Helen opened her mouth to say, ‘Yes, work being the point,’ but changed her mind as she realised that Sarah was barely holding back tears. ‘Come in, Sarah, what’s wrong?’

  Sarah didn’t answer, but took off her hat and coat, then looked up at Helen and pushed her hair away from her face to reveal a purple bruise on her temple.

  ‘He hit you?’

  Sarah nodded and lost the control she’d been holding on to. Helen hugged her and led her to the sofa in the living room, her heart sinking.

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen, I didn’t mean to break down on you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sarah, I’m your friend, you can always come to me if you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Th-th-thank you.’

  Helen reached to the coffee table for a box of tissues and handed it to Sarah, who took a handful, mopped her face, and blew her nose.

  ‘Feel better?’

  Sarah nodded, but tears started to fall again. ‘I’ll be okay in a minute,’ she said, taking a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll go put the kettle on, you could do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘I could do with a bottle of wine,’ Sarah said, with a shaky laugh.

  ‘I can do that too,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll just be a moment.’

  *

  ‘What happened?’ Helen asked, back on the sofa, both women clutching glasses of Sauvignon.