Gisborne: Book of Pawns

by Prue Batten

  Cecilia’s face had been ruddy with anger from her confrontation with De Courcey but her colour receded as she bustled around stoking fires and filling a bowl with warmed water.

  ‘Here. Wash your face and I shall order some f…’

  ‘No,’ I took the small cloth she handed me and bent over the bowl. ‘I am not hungry. Hearing De Courcey has made me quite queasy and I will wait until dinner.’

  ‘It is almost that time now,’ She gave me an assessing glance. ‘You know, if you are able, I feel it may throw the Baron completely off balance if you can attend table in the Hall. Pre-empt him if you can. It might give you the position of power you need to be able negotiate your father’s release to our care.’

  I rubbed at my face. Such tiredness.

  ‘My father is dead.’

  I dried my face on a piece of linen, wondering where my mother’s little mirror was. It was about the size of my father’s hand, beaten metal and surrounded by a carved oak frame wrought with ivy leaves. I had loved looking at myself as a child. Such innocent vanity. Then it had reflected unguarded joy but I could imagine with little difficulty what I would see now. Eyes dull and as empty as Gisborne’s had been, hair escaping from Ceci’s braid, shadows looping from eye-sockets to mid cheekbones and a pallor to rival the colour of Ghislaine of Gisborne’s headstone.

  I held my hands out over the bowl, hoping Cecilia would not notice that I checked to see if they trembled. They did not and satisfied, I wiped them dry and met her stare.

  ‘Ysabel,’ she gasped. ‘Do not say such a thing.’

  ‘Since it is true it is best acknowledged.’

  I folded the linen cloth and laid it by the bowl.

  ‘But how do you know this?’

  Cecilia moved forward, her gown swishing in an agitated rush about her feet. A log split in the fire and the broken pieces collapsed with a crack, sparks fizzing.

  I turned to her, no tears filling my eyes, no lump in the throat. Hard. It would serve to survive.

  Survive for what, Ysabel?

  ‘I saw him die. I watched through the spy-hole and I spoke to him, Cecilia. He was feverish and restless and I told him all would be well and he quieted. Then Brother John arrived to give him his rites, unaware that I was so close, and as he blessed my father, he just slipped away.’

  ‘Oh God bless poor Joffrey.’ Cecilia brought her hands to her face and then quickly crossed herself.

  ‘So you see,’ my voice had the crispness of winter about it. ‘If De Courcey uses my father’s life against me, I have a winning move and I shall play it, trust me.’

  Cecilia must have noticed my eyes glittering with intent because she shook her head.

  ‘May I advise that you do not go charging like a knight into battle? I propose you check the lie of the land first.’

  ‘Meanwhile my father lies dead, rotting unburied in the bowels of Moncrieff.’

  Cecilia slumped onto a seat by the fire.

  ‘I mean, Ysabel, don’t play your piece at the beginning. Play it at the end and have him at checkmate. And might I say play it with your father’s benefit in mind. It may be that it’s your own benefit as well.’

  I nodded and she took up the brush and quickly braided and looped my hair at the nape, grabbing a veil and filet and within minutes some semblance of the noblewoman began to take shape. She pinched my cheeks for colour and with an enquiring glance, hammered on the door to ask for the guard.

  As the door swung wide for us to leave, a wave of noise surged from the Hall – men in their cups, in the throes of ribaldry and gaming. Loud braying, shouting, dogs barking. In days gone now, the noise would have been gentler – perhaps the plucked chords of a lute and a chanson in a sweet tenor voice. Modified laughter and my father’s mellow voice reciting poetry for he liked nothing better than to play to an appreciative audience.

  He has no audience now.

  I grabbed the forgiving folds of mother’s robe, not unsurprised to find my palms were sticky but intending in no way to be threatened by the man I was to meet. I already hated him, nothing could be worse. Hate. In the space of less than two months, my life had become overloaded with hate like some foul cessbucket overloaded with excrescence. The difficulty being that no one would empty this one into a stream or moat. It would just lie, the filth becoming worse with age. I almost gagged.

  As we passed into the passage Cecilia whispered to me.

  ‘Ysabel, the book. Where is it? It could not find it amongst your clothes.’

  My eyes grew wide as I thought back. No it was not, nor my mother’s comb and necklet. When I began to run, I had forgotten about the book and bag in my tunic. It would have fallen out as I leaped over twig and root and now I was as penniless as I had been before Gisborne delivered me to Cecilia. There was the faintest hope that with the book I had a means to some form of independence. If I had escaped to Ireland or Wales, it would have funded me. If I were forced to stay here then perhaps it might have funded entry to a religious house.

  But now?

  I looked at Cecilia, my hands turned out, empty of anything and she just shook her head, her lips compressed.

  We pushed to the end of the corridor and entered the Hall and the noise, enough to make me shake my own head, rolled away like an ebb tide. Everyone turned and I felt eyes rake me from top to toe.

  De Courcey sat in my father’s chair, Halsham in my mother’s. The Baron pulled himself upright, tense as he took stock of the daughter of the house. Halsham lounged against one side of Alaïs’ chair, fingers to his cheek as if he expected some pert amusement to head his way. I wanted to smash the look off his face.

  ‘My ladies.’ De Courcey bowed his head in an exaggerated attempt at manners. ‘How … delightful that you should join us. You are feeling more yourself I hope, Lady Ysabel? No longer at Death’s door as Lady Cecilia would have us believe?’

  ‘Time moves us all a little closer to Death’s door, Baron. Some sooner than others.’

  I felt the folds of my gown tugged at the rear and knew Cecilia was warning me. De Courcey’s eyes closed to slits as I continued.

  ‘I am always myself, sir. I have merely been tired. It has been an arduous journey from Cazenay. We seem to have been chased and it was … disturbing.’

  ‘Chased you say. And by whom do you think?’

  De Courcey dared to look around the men in the room and they dared to chuckle.

  Sycophants.

  ‘By unprincipled felons who care little about honesty, I imagine. Perhaps by those who thought to improve their own lives by bartering mine.’

  I heard Ceci sigh and Halsham’s eyebrows rose for the skies.

  De Courcey flushed and his fingers closed hard on the haft of the dagger he had used to cut his meal.

  ‘But, Lady Ysabel, it seems you have survived to tell the tale. You were obviously well protected on your journey. Where is the redoubtable Gisborne?’

  ‘My father’s steward? I shouldn’t have any idea but his cousin might. Is that not right, Sir Robert?’

  At that De Courcey’s glance shifted with speed to Halsham and I had a moment where I wondered if the Baron had not known his second in command was related to Gisborne. Either way, I had little care. I only wanted to tip snakes in amongst the fowl.

  Cecilia slipped her arm around my waist.

  ‘A fine gathering of knights you have here, De Courcey – none of you with the manners to so much as stand when a lady enters the chamber, nor to offer her a seat, nor food. Come, Ysabel. We shall do better in the kitchen.’

  ‘Wait,’ De Courcey’s sharp retort rattled round the Hall. ‘My men and I forget ourselves. We have not had women in our ambit for some time.’

  Someone sniggered to his left but he ignored them, pushing a flagon and the knife out of the way as he levered himself to stand.

  ‘Men, you heard. Where are your manners?’

  He moved to shift one of his men off the chair on his other side and glared at Halsham who jumped up and
pulled my mother’s chair out.

  ‘Lady Ysabel,’ De Courcey said with mock gallantry. ‘Please take Halsham’s seat and Lady Cecilia you must sit on my other side. Men, pass the wine, and Halsham, tell the kitchens to send in some food for our guests.’

  ‘Your guests?’

  My fingers curled around a goblet of wine and I hastily took a sip, then a large swallow. I wasn’t at all afraid, just dry and crackling with anger.

  ‘Baron, this is still my home until my father tells me otherwise. Do you think I wish to assume the role of guest here? What would my mother say? Indeed, what would my father say? In fact where is my father? I am surprised that you have not brought him to my mother’s chamber so that he may see for himself that I am come and that I am unharmed from my hazards.’

  ‘You will see him anon, my lady. He is somewhat indisposed just now.’

  A flush began in my chest and I could imagine it creeping up my neck to gush forth in vituperative from my mouth, but as I looked at De Courcey, hating him afresh, I could see Ceci lean forward and give the most infinitesimal shake of her head.

  If you say, Cecilia, not yet. Except…

  ‘Then if he is unwell, I must see him immediately.’

  I went to stand and the Baron’s hand, a broad rough hand with a dusting of auburn hair and wide fingernails, reached for my own and pulled me down. He squeezed quite hard and our eyes met – two assailants engaged on the battlefield. I was challenging him and he knew it. One could almost hear the clash of blades.

  ‘That is unwise, Lady Ysabel. He is sleeping. It is for the best.’

  ‘You say.’

  ‘I do … ah. Here is the food. Please eat, and we even have music for your pleasure. Halsham, find the performers.’ He turned away from me to Cecilia. ‘They are a travelling troupe, I have no idea of their skill but it may serve on this night to welcome Moncrieff’s daughter back to the fold.’

  De Courcey obviously suffered no economies in feeding his men. I picked my way around a platter of creamed fish … nibbling at the edges like a mouse. The pike had been prepared the way my mother would have instructed – boiled, flaked and placed in an almond meal sauce with a little saffron and ginger. There had obviously been other fish courses as the detritus lay around the table. When the men went on to eat a roasted pig, I picked at baked quince, apple with honey and pear in spices. I ate some cocket, thinking that wheat must be in poor supply else we would have had far better bread.

  Since returning to Moncrieff, my appetite had deserted me as my resolve had hardened. I would not go down to De Courcey without a fight and if I crossed Halsham on the way, it would be even better. As for Gisborne, if he so much as placed a toe over my path, he would lose it and much else besides. I felt strangely euphoric in my thinking. I had nothing to lose and when one has nothing to lose, it makes the odds so much better.

  On the edge of my consciousness, I heard the musicians’ melody. The plucked notes of a lute threaded between the lighter melody from a flute, a deeper, insistent rhythm emerging from the skin of a tabor whilst a rich voice sang the lyrics. But my thoughts tumbled and turned, drowning out any words other than my own as I moved through a dozen likely confrontations with Baron De Courcey. And yet the melody was insistent, recalling a distant past here and a more recent past at Cazenay and it served to induce a sadness which had its own power and for that I was grateful.

  The meal had not long to last and I was glad that we had entered almost at its end. Outside the windows the day had progressed and De Courcey expected his men to make the most of the remaining light. He nodded at Halsham who stood and the rumble of talk, conversation that Cecilia and I appeared to have dampened by our presence, ceased altogether as Halsham ordered the men to follow him to the bailey. There was a shuffling, dogs whining and the rattling of sword sheath against trestle. My mother would never have let a man come armed to her table and I watched these men leave, their eyes daring to meet mine, some curious, some lascivious, all grinning. I doubted there was a mannered one amongst them.

  Cecilia waited until the Hall had emptied of dog and man and then stood herself, preparing to return to our room. She surveyed the mess at the table and I could almost see her nose twitch with disgust as she breathed in the smell of fish bone and stock.

  Clearing his throat, De Courcey rose and bowed a little more deferentially than when we had entered the Hall.

  ‘Lady Cecilia, I would speak with Lady Ysabel alone. You will return with Cedric to the Lady Chamber.’

  This time the nose twitched mightily as she drew in an offended breath.

  ‘I shall not, my lord. It is most improper for my god daughter to be alone with a man she barely knows.’

  ‘And yet I understand she travelled from Tours to Moncrieff with Guy of Gisborne and no chaperone. Lesser people than myself could draw some particularly colourful conclusions.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  Cecilia clenched the edge of the table.

  ‘I dare because I can,’ he replied with insouciance. ‘Now shall you leave or shall I get Cedric to manhandle you?”

  Cecilia’s eyes hardened to the colour of pewter as she prepared to whip the man with her tongue but I broke in.

  ‘Cecilia, I shall be quite safe I am sure. Baron De Courcey knows that I am connected with his liege lord. I doubt he would damage his status by harming me.’ I threw the full force of a cool smile upon the Baron. ‘Am I not right, my lord?’

  He studied me hard but there was no reply, just the beginnings of that flush that presaged a temper I knew lurked beneath the facade. Cecilia left unwillingly, Cedric pushing closely behind. I gave her a confident smile and turned back to my gaoler, for he was that.

  ‘What is it that is so important you must keep me separate from my godmother?’

  For all that he was not as tall as Gisborne, De Courcey was powerfully put together – stocky with knotted muscle lying beneath the linen and fine wool and a strong face that some women might find deeply attractive. His hair skimmed his collar in a wave and was a curious red wine shade. His suntanned skin colour complimented the unique tint and oddly he had a smattering of boyish freckles upon his nose. In any other, it might be assumed an engaging person was housed inside that framework. Instead, it was like looking at a thundery sky – russet and umber clouded with black intent.

  His eyes glinted and he walked back and forth as he began to speak.

  ‘Lady Ysabel, it grieves me to confirm something you obviously already know – that this castle and the whole Moncrieff domain have been ceded to myself by law for gaming debts sustained by your father.’

  Perhaps he hoped to give me the impression he was uncomfortable with this disturbing outcome and he studied me for some sort of reaction. All I could think was how fortunate it was Gisborne had forewarned me because it was easier to appear unconcerned, to show no visible emotion.

  His brows creased fractionally and he poured himself a wine, pausing to quaff a substantial mouthful.

  ‘Your father staked everything…’

  ‘Even my mother’s possessions? I am surprised my father did not think of me at all in this time and keep something of hers for his daughter.’

  I sat upright, my fingers toying with the stem of my pewter goblet, rolling it and rolling again.

  ‘He lost everything, madame. Daily he would play at any type of game, staking more and more until there was nothing left.’

  I had a vision of my weak father, drunk and incapable, being pushed around a circle of bullies, back and forth until his purse had been well and truly picked and he dizzy and confused.

  ‘Daily sir, he would ride out with his cronies,’ disgust laced my words, ‘who lubricated him until he lost all sense and reason.’

  De Courcey laughed, a gravelly sound, and replied with a trace of mockery.

  ‘And you think he was an unwilling playfellow? I fear you are wrong, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, I dare say he was as willing as any man who has lost his most adored
wife and his reason. But it strikes me that other men, friends shall we say, would have extricated my father from the sticky bog into which he had cast himself rather than pushing him deeper.’

  De Courcey’s eyes had darkened as I spoke, anger rippling his brow. He strode to the table and ripped out a chair to sit directly opposite and we sat like two opponents in a chess game.

  ‘Pray continue, my lady. What is it you infer?’

  His voice was as soft as swansdown, such a contrast to the visible energy that emanated from his very fingertips.

  ‘I infer sir, that you manipulated my father so that he lost the very thing you coveted. How convenient for you.’

  Careful, Ysabel.

  The square face had hardened, cheeks flooding with colour. He slammed his hand on the table, the flagon of wine crashing to the floor. I blinked as it hit the stone flags but would not be cowed.

  ‘Don’t push your position. You are not above my discipline.’ He leaned close and I smelled wine and food on his breath. ‘Don’t ever tell me what I should and should not have done, Lady Ysabel. Your father was an incompetent fool and as for you … by the saints madame, you watch yourself.’

  ‘Or what, sir? What shall you do to Richard Plantagent’s family?’

  He smiled and that was when my heart sank to my boots. Something about his expression, about the innate confidence, made my stomach turn up.

  ‘Ah, to be sure we shall find out. I have written to my liege lord explaining your predicament and asking what are his wishes in respect of your wardship.’

  I stood, my self-discipline flying out the window on the wings of full-blown anger.

  ‘Wardship? How dare you? Did you know then, when you wrote to the king, that my father had in fact died? Did you? And if you knew that my father was dead, why did you not have the decency to inform me the minute this conversation … hah, conversation! What conversation?’ I yelled at him. ‘Why did you not inform me with what little grace you appear to possess that my father was indeed dead?’

  He went to speak but I slammed my hand on the table, shouting him down and leaning forward.