by Prue Batten
‘Punished for trying to feed hungry children? Then your Gisborne is neither fair nor decent, Reverend Mother. There are extenuating circumstances for Owen.’
‘Which I am sure will be taken into account.’
‘I cannot see fair nor decent in Gisborne. I am sorry.’
‘As I said, my dear, Sir Guy hangs no one. He makes arrests and arranges surreptitious escapes.’
I laughed, but her expression halted my mockery.
‘Truly?’
I fingered my stitches, aware my voice still displayed disbelief. For a moment I was quiet and then, ‘Why, it’s … it’s rebellious, treasonous. If the Sheriff or other nobles should find out...’
‘But then who would tell? I will not.’
‘This is unbelievable,’ I shook my head, finding it hard to reconcile my newfound knowledge with my most recent observations.
I subsided onto a stone bench under the boughs of an almond tree. Beatrice reposed beside me.
‘You tell me this for a reason, don’t you?’ I said.
‘You seem to have a memory of him from the past.’
I sat up straight.
‘You knew him once, did you not?’ she asked.
The question was posed softly but it none-the-less skewered me like a dagger. How could I tell this woman of God that I had born a child to Guy of Gisborne?
‘I did, Reverend Mother.’
My hands twisted.
She laid her own over them and said gently, ‘I can listen, dear girl. It will go no further and you may find a burden lifts.’
Two tears drifted down my cheeks. In a moment I was in Cazenay, surrounded by all that was familiar and on the brink of a tempestuous affair from which I don’t believe I ever recovered. I lapsed into quiet on the stone bench in the Infirmary Garden. Beatrice of Locksley played with the folds of her habit, and all was silence but for the birds that filled the almond and fig trees.
‘Reverend Mother, it was a short time but makes a long story…’
‘I would not have you upset, my child. I would like to know your connection with Sir Guy as I can see it turns you awry even now but perhaps it is not the time. Rather you need to decide if you shall return to the manor or whether you should proceed on your way. I can give you coin to get you to the next town if you wish, but there are just two things I would say.’ I watched her fingers press hard together. ‘You have told me some truths today. And whilst I realize there is a lot more to tell, I owe you more of the story I related.’
She stood and began to pace back and forth, her robes swishing, her crucifix swaying as she flung herself about to walk back. ‘I was … expeditious with the truth for which I must ask God and yourself for forgiveness, but it seemed to me that you disliked Guy unjustly and I sought to remedy that. What I should have explained was that when he arrived, he appeared every bit as dark as you seem to think he is even now. That odious Halsham forever dropped in and out and one drew conclusions. He and that godless man, De Courcey … Devil’s consorts!’
My heart began its freeze again and I despaired – as if my life stretched before me as a dank and muddy road with nary a sunbeam in sight.
‘And what changed?’ I dared to ask. ‘What made Gisborne different in the eyes of Beatrice of Locksley?’
Beatrice sat down. ‘He is an enigma…’
‘An enigma? Huh.’ I remarked emptily and then sighed. ‘Reverend Mother, even if any view I might have of him changed, it is better if he does not know me.’
Her brows drew together as if something I said displeased her, but as quickly smoothed out again. ‘Do you think he recognises you?’
I could not help the bitterness in my reply. ‘I am different now. Very different,’ I said gesturing to my wound and my hair. ‘And in truth I have been at pains to change my voice as well.’
‘Would it really matter if he remembered? It might be what God wants for you both.’
I gave a small laugh, acrid and dry. ‘Reverend Mother, it is not what I want.’
Isn’t it?
A bell tolled. ‘Sext. I must get back to the manor. Mother, I would speak with you again before I leave. May I see you on the morrow? It will be after Vespers.’
‘Of course dear child, I think we have much more to say. But can I ask you to go back to the manor with an open mind and an open heart?’
‘I’m not sure I can do either, Reverend Mother.’
The time for an open heart ended when he sold me and I wished only to find my way out of England and into Wales to find my son but it was not for Beatrice to know this, not yet. I knelt and kissed her fingers and felt her hand on my head as she offered a quick blessing.
‘Go into the kitchens and calm the cook.’ His voice barked at me.
‘Good day to you too, Sir Guy,’ I muttered without even looking at him.
He grabbed my wrist as I pushed past.
‘If you’d been here, the house would have been calm and the kitchen under control.’
‘If you hadn’t arrested Owen, the cook wouldn’t need soothing,’ I retaliated, jerking my hand away.
I slid by him, knowing it was an unjust comment, that if Reverend Mother was to be believed, Owen was probably already a man on the run far from here.
Ellen seemed lost, leaning against the wall with a cloth to her eyes. I took her by the elbow and led her outside into the yard, conscious that Gisborne had followed me and even now, was watching from a distance.
I turned Ellen aside, my arm around her, and whispered, ‘Pull yourself together. Owen’s life depends on it. He will live but it is our secret.’ She tried to pull away, surprise and shock in her action, but I held tight. ‘Tell no one what I have told you. Remember it is his life.’
She dabbed her eyes and nodded and I pushed her toward the kitchen. ‘Cook, Ellen, better than you have ever done.’
She bobbed a curtsy at Guy as she squeezed by him whereas I just strode on unconcerned to the hall where long trestles had been set. The head table had prodigiously carved chairs as well as a fine embroidered linen cloth I had pilfered from what looked like Church accoutrements. It had been in a chest in Gisborne’s chamber and I thought nothing of purloining it for un-ecclesiastical use.
He had said he wanted platters and not trenchers and so I found a collection of pewter, enough for the noblemen who would sit with Prince John. The rest of the guests would be seated down the long sides of the Hall. Behind the high table hung banners in Prince John’s and colours and my flowers bloomed in their churns.
The walls were hung with more pennants and the manor’s men-at-arms were clean and polished. I thought that whilst I languished at the Abbey, Gisborne had been a very busy man. I ordered the huge hall fire lit and the flagons on the tables to be filled. I spoke to servants and gave them orders, Gisborne having brought in extra villagers, cleaning them up for this occasion. Indeed I wondered why he needed me at all as everything seemed to be proceeding smoothly. But I remembered Ellen in the kitchen and hurried back to find her once more well in control of the food. I encouraged her with a smile and decided it was time to wash and change into clothing more suited to the proceedings.
The water pitcher and bowl stood where they had been left yesterday and it was a matter of moment to strip to my skin. As I did so, I heard horns and horses, barking and much shouting and knew the regal party was arriving and wished I could curl up on the cot and think my dilemmas through. I was almost there, so close, and by this night’s end I would have earned enough pennies and would be able to leave with no fuss.
No fuss?
The chemise slid down my frame softly and the fine wool of the bliaut clung to curves I’d forgotten existed. The girdle encircled the folds – it really was excellent embroidery – and I took the comb causing a small chamois bag to fall to the floor with a clink. Picking it up and pulling it open, silver pennies were revealed and I realized Gisborne had been into the room and left my wages – a gesture no doubt urged by Beatrice together with a belief that
I would stay as long as required.
Dangerous, Gisborne.
But I wondered if I meant his confidence was misplaced or if I was in danger by thinking thus.
Thoughts ran over what I had related to the abbess as I worked at tangles in the hair until the shortened length hung smooth. How wonderful it would be if life could be dealt with so easily I thought, a sheet of brown hair slipping over my eyes. It smacked of carefree youth and I snorted, quickly dragging it away and searching for a veil in the small chest on which stood the candle. There were a few feminine things concealed inside, a little aged and crumpled – a kerchief and a folded veil that I set upon my head, wondering how to secure it. But at the bottom of the chest was a filet of twisted linen and perversely I wished for a beaten looking glass. Such things were not for housekeepers though, and this room was merely a servant’s cupboard, the chest contents merely remnants of a previous occupant. Besides, such things as wounds might not warrant detailed investigation.
By now the first floor noise had disappeared down the stairwell and I could here a muffled hub-bub in the Hall, bursts of laughter, a cheer as Prince John no doubt took his seat and then a murmuring quiet as Gisborne gave his welcome. Knowing I should be in the shadows, discreetly checking for knots in the fabric of my early endeavours, I thrust open my door and clipped down the stair, noting cressets that needed to be lit and braziers that would need lighting later.
The Hall hummed with the burble of guests. Men and women from the adjoining demesnes and swathed in richly trimmed robes had taken their seats whilst the royal table oversaw the mélange from a dais. I kept to the darkened walls noting Ellen’s food was being delivered and devoured and pleased that she had kept her word. I slipped into the kitchen without raising any notice and found the cook sweaty and tired as she ordered the hirelings around.
‘Good job, Ellen. Good job indeed,’ I complimented.
She looked up from dismembering a roasted sheep carcass.
‘I trust you, Linette. It’s all that matters.’
And the word ‘trust’ lit a trail of bonfires through my mind and illuminated a past that I never wished to countenance.
A hand touched my shoulder and I turned. Our eyes met and I could read nothing in his, as I hoped he could read nothing in mine and yet his hand lying on my shoulder did more to stoke those bonfires than anything.
‘You look…’ he appeared to struggle.
I modulated my voice, altering the tone, attempting to confuse.
‘Clean and serviceable as your housekeeper should, for which I must thank you.’
‘I was going to say lovely,’ he snapped. ‘But have it your way.’
I closed my eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I am tired.’
‘All that praying, no doubt.’
‘Perhaps,’ I replied, my lips twitching.
We stood in the passage, servants squeezing past with giant platters of meats and breads and flagons of wines. But for a brief second, we were alone and his fingers touched my cheek near the stitches and I felt as if a misericorde scored a well-worn track.
‘How did you…’ his voice cracked slightly.
‘Gisborne!’ A depised voice yelled from the hall. ‘Get yourself here, Gisborne.’
Sir Guy’s midnight eyes shuttered again and his hand, so lately gentle, clenched. He turned, rigid and withdrawn.
‘Thank you,’ he threw over his shoulder.
Halsham!
Bile gorged into my belly, swirling around as I thought of vipers and the bloody body of Baron De Courcey.
Another trail of food marched to the Hall on the shoulders of the hirelings and I followed with trepidation, managing to secure a place in the darkest corner, almost concealed by a long hanging. From this secret place, I could watch the proceedings and assess any problems for the household.
Or myself.
Prince John sat sideways in his chair, a leg carelessly thrown over the arm, his hand dancing up and down which I assumed was from boredom. From such negligence, only potential trouble could come and from his flushed face and sparkling eyes, I could see he was filled with the grape and I feared for any who crossed him. He was indeed the swarthy Plantagenet son, unlike his brother Richard who was golden haired and tall. John had none of Eleanor’s nor Henry’s looks and I suspected he could almost have been a changeling if one believed in the fey. Halsham whispered in his ear and it was like watching one snake coiling around another.
‘Gisborne,’ Halsham’s voice had the drawl of a man in his cups. ‘His Highness tells me Baron De Courcey is absent for personal reasons. Did you know?’
I grabbed the colours to hold myself up, my knees folding as De Courcey’s name pierced my soul. In a vacillating distance, I heard Sir Guy answer with cool remove.
‘I did not. What say you, Sire?’
‘It is a laugh,’ responded Prince John. ‘De Courcey has woman troubles.’
He sucked on a leg bone and followed it with a draught of wine, waiting until all in the Hall had turned to hear his wit and words.
‘Not long since, Lady De Courcey stabbed him and ran away. The Baron has searched for her ever since. Murderous bitch! She missed his heart by an inch they say. If I found her, despite her pleasing countenance I’d beat her to a pulp, have her strangled and hang her body from the castle ramparts.’ He slapped the table and laughed and the inebriated Court joined in. ‘He is a loyal subject and We have placed a price on the slattern’s head. Gold and much thereof shall be the reward. No one dares harm a favourite of the Prince’s.’
I turned to go, lightheaded with fear but I caught someone watching.
Gisborne stood as if he were carved from stone and I knew by his expression that my life was in his hands.
Chapter Sixteen
He remembers. He remembers me.
I hurried against the tide of servants, through the kitchens and outside. My freedom was at stake and I had fought for it too savagely. I found the external door of the tower which I knew gave onto the stair, opening it to slip through, hurrying up to the little chamber. In minutes I had packed my small possessions inside Frida’s old clothes, secreting Gisborne’s wage at my waist, flinging a cloak over the lot.
The noise from the Hall was louder and musicians had begun to play. It suited my needs, giving me cover to escape to the stable where the old mare waited. She was equable and friendly, alert to the fact that she was at last to leave the stables and journey forth. I mounted the horse astride, gown hitched high, the cloak maintaining decorum, and within minutes we were at the gate of the yard, the guard circling like an animal in rut. His hands reached for the reins and his voice was thick with ale and ill manners.
‘What’s a lass like you think you’re doin’?’
‘Let me through. Lady Demaze has been taken ill with labour pains and I am to fetch the wortwyf.’
‘That old witch! Better to fetch the butcher.’
‘I’m sure I will have to if you don’t let me through, and on your head be it. Sir Guy and Prince John himself will be livid if their favourite damsel loses her child and I shall watch your punishment with interest. Open the gate!’
I knew Lady Demaze was with child, it had been mentioned, but not anywhere near as advanced as I portrayed. But it suited me to lie and the brute looked crushed by the mention of his superiors, heaving the gate open. I dug my heels into the mare and we cantered down the road, heading toward the Abbey.
The portress opened the main gate for the mare and myself, the horse taken to the Abbey’s barn. It was almost Compline and the sisters had moved to the chapel early for quiet meditation so the portress lit my way along the cloisters to the Reverend Mother’s chamber. I could not sit and whilst I knew Beatrice would finish the devotion before she attended to my temporal needs, I paced back and forth, my hand worrying at my forehead and then at stitches that prickled.
Guy’s fingers.
Oh yes, I could feel them and part of me longed to go back, to tell him I had given birth to his son, to b
eg for help. But it was a fool’s thought and I sank onto a coffer by the fire and stared into the flames, chafing with anxiety.
Compline had still not ended and so I took a poker and stirred the embers, placing two logs of apple wood on top. The room filled with warmth and scent as I sat nervously, fingers moving to my teeth to be chewed upon, to fiddle with the stitches, to tighten the linen filet. I glanced around the sparsely furnished chamber. Coffers and seats were furnished with cushions whose simple embroidery created a monastic comfort. A small oratory hugged a wall where a crucifix frowned down and a carved wooden statue of the Virgin occupied a corner. An oak table held a tray of wine and goblets but I forbore to pour as it would be an abuse of the Reverend Mother’s hospitality.
She glided into the room moments later, a picture of serenity.
‘My child,’ she said as I kissed her hand, ‘I did not expect you this night.’
She listened while I told her of the unfolding of truths at Locksley Manor.
‘I can see you must go far from Prince John and Halsham. Although…’ she poured us both watered wine. ‘Guy would not denounce you, Ysabel. I swear that is not the man he is, and if I read into what you told me yesterday, I would say there is a deep relationship between you that he will remember and want to protect.’
If only you knew.
‘You talk about the man you know, Reverend Mother but I know an altogether different man who would sell me as quickly as he sells a good mare.’
‘And why should he?’
I closed my eyes and all I could see were his arms around me, holding me close. I could even smell the fragrance of leather and freshness that hovered about him.
‘It will take all night to tell and my chance of escape will be gone if I stay. Don’t you see?’