by Prue Batten
‘Obey me, William.’
I put him on the floor and he continued staring, weighing me up, and then reached for the remains of a chess set we had found in the house. He took the knight and his beloved wooden rouncey, or ‘Ounthee’ as it was known, and began to tell himself a story in that secret language only he could understand.
I took the moment to stir the fire and strip my gown and chemise, rubbing down with the remains of William’s water, fumbling with the cloth, tangling my lacings as I tried to pull them tight. My gown echoed the unremarkable colour of the grey dawn outside but the difference was that its colour would remain ordinary whereas the cloud would burn off to an intense late winter blue. It was a long time since I had seen rain, I reflected, as it had been a long time since I had seen tears blot the surface of my gowns.
Is that what happens when you lose the half of you that makes a breath worthwhile?
I looked at William and shook my head. No. I breathed for him, of course.
But…
‘Everything I do, I do for you and for William.’
Gisborne’s echo plagued me incessantly, never easing. It forecast so much that was intolerable and I longed for it to cease.
A slight tap at the door presaged Gwen’s enquiring face, breaking the litany.
‘Did you hear the horse, my lady?’
I nodded but said nothing and if I thought on it, I would say my prescient little Gwenny could see my heart leaping about inside my chest.
‘Shall I feed him?’
She held out her arms and William launched himself at her knees, rouncey and knight grasped firmly.
‘Yes, take him, he is full of himself today.’
‘And when isn’t he, Madame?’ She tickled him. ‘But we don’t mind, Wills, do we? You keep us happy.’
‘You keep us happy.’
It was true. His innocence, his joy, the seriousness that occasionally manifested in his play; it was like watching a puppy and hoping it would not grow to bare its teeth and snap. I walked quickly in their wake, heading toward Fate.
At the table, I took a mug of watered Occitán wine and sucked deep.
‘I heard the horse, Peter.’
‘Ulric’s dead tired, my lady, and just collapsed on his bed for a quick shut-eye.’ Gwenny’s betrothed grinned as he chewed. ‘By the saints, I tell you he can snore.’
There was only a small part of me that was glad I hadn’t demanded a report immediately Ulric of Camden had dismounted. The greater part of me was filled with urgency and disquiet all at once.
‘Oowic! Oowic!’
William’s voice pierced my selfish thinking and I looked up from stirring a spoon through frumenty to see my friend walk toward the table. His eyes were bright, though ringed, his gait sprightly and it would be possible to take heart from his air if I let myself. Despite the shrieking voice of the child, Ulric went straight to him and kissed him, sticky fingers wrapping around his neck. That is what I admired about Ulric, he accepted the child’s love and the infantile mess that went with it with not a murmur.
‘Hallo, young William. Louder than a cockcrow you are.’ He mussed the fine dark hair. ‘I wonder – are you ever quiet, Master Gisborne?’
My body stilled as the words were spoken and heads spun to stare at me, only Ulric oblivious to the tension he had unearthed.
Master Gisborne. Master of Gisborne.
No. Not of Gisborne because the estates were now Templar lands. But Master Gisborne?
‘Githb’n! Githb’n!’
William began to chant, bouncing his wooden rouncey and we could all see immediately that Ounthee would ever after be known as Githb’n.
‘Quiet?’ I offered into the cautiously interested air as I hugged Ulric. ‘He has his moments. Our young Master Gisborne can swing from shrill to soft in a breath.’
Whilst there was no audible sigh of relief that I was unhurt by Ulric’s spontaneous naming of William, I was dryly amused at how those at the table shifted about their business with alacrity. Almost as if they had been caught spying when they should not.
‘Be kind to Peter,’ Ulric pinched William’s cheek gently as Peter hoisted the child on his shoulders. ‘Those broad shoulders are not a horseback!’
William never demurred with Ulric, replacement father, merely smiling a cherub’s smile that crinkled the dark blue eyes, and then he was gone leaving a roaring silence in his place.
I passed Ulric bread and wine.
‘I cannot wait any longer.’
‘I know. I see it in your hands. They shake. Ysabel, he is alive and…’
I found I could breathe.
‘Yes?’
‘They escorted him to London from York and then took him downstream to a vessel bound for France. He is banished by the Church’s decree and the King is happy.’
‘The King? The King?’ I muttered walking back and forth, my fingers knotted by my sides. ‘What care I for a king like Richard? Godforsaken cousin! I would that he should rot in some far-flung dungeon.’
‘Ysabel…’ Ulric chastised but there was little force to his words.
‘Well, can I be blamed?’
He shrugged his shoulders and continued.
‘The Church rescued Gisborne from the gallows. With a little help.’
‘You say?’ I threw myself on the oak bench beside my teller of tales.
‘Brother John spoke of the treatment you received and what kind of reputation the Baron had and that along with a short and extremely pointed revelation from Mother Mercia of Linn on the threat she had suffered from the Baron quite put the Church in Gisborne’s favour.’
Brother John and Mercia! God-sent!
But I had visions of a battered man, as I had heard much from travellers’ gossip and closed my eyes against the image.
‘Ulric, it is well known that although the Church might decide for the accused, once he steps outside sanctuary he is fair game for anyone who wants to claim a reward from the Crown. How did he escape that?’
‘Here’s the curious thing.’ Ulric swallowed on a piece of Biddy’s hare pie. ‘Gisborne was given a military escort to the ship. Even through London. No one could get near him.’
‘You?’
He winked.
‘Well, am I not a master of the disguise these days? I spoke to him as a monk in the cathedral in York. Mind you, it was with Brother John’s assistance. We took him food and writing materials. And of course I saw him again but by then I was one of the crew on the vessel.’
Illumination was as bright as day.
‘Jesu,’ I sat back, almost winded with the exposition. ‘Was it Davey? Was the Marolingian the vessel that brought you both away from England?’
Ulric grinned.
‘You still have your wits about you, my lady. I can see that. But no, it was not Davey. He is elsewhere just now. But it was another ship known to all of us.’
‘How? How was this managed?’
‘Ah,’ Ulric tapped the side of his nose. ‘Wheels within wheels.’
I thought of the web of intrigue that Gisborne appeared to have spun across Christendom … thread upon thread along which dewy snippets of information would slide.
‘But Ysabel…’
My heart, so lately lightened, hit my toes like a stone.
‘He is unwell. Halsham commanded the guard and quite simply he was maltreated. Chained on the horse, forced at pace, and fed and watered less than the animal he rode. In addition, they provided him with no warmth or shelter and he became weak and then very ill.’
I reached for Ulric’s hand and grasped it, fear beginning to raid the corners of my mind.
‘He is alive, Ysabel, I have told you. Do not look like that! You make me think you shall swoon.’
‘Then perhaps choose your words with delicacy, Ulric, and how you deliver them.’ I took a breath. ‘But Halsham! How could the King allow this?’
‘Halsham has stepped into Gisborne’s shoes. He is the new spymaster, Ysabel. Quite
simply he has become as important to Richard’s plans as was De Courcey – even more so because he has also taken command of De Courcey’s men. My bet is he offered to escort his cousin to the shores of England and the offer was graciously accepted.’
‘God! I hate Halsham as much as I hate my King.’
‘You speak treason, Ysabel.’
I snorted.
‘And who is to hear? I care not, Ulric. Both men are tainted and mark my words, one or both shall pay in the end.’
‘Be that as it may, Gisborne is even now aboard a ship where he shall stay until his health is improved. He is cared for and you may rest assured that by now he is planning his future.’
Something about that last comment stirred the hairs on my neck.
His future.
‘You begin to scare me, Ulric.’
He grunted and squirmed on the seat next to me.
‘I do not mean to at all, Ysabel. But I have some letters for you, one of which may go part way to explaining...’
He walked to the door and grabbed a satchel which he opened.
‘From Brother John.’
He passed over a folded and sealed parchment, and then another.
‘From Lady Cecilia. And from Sir Guy, this…’
‘This’ weighed heavier than the others, even though it was the same shape and size.
‘And this is for William. For later.’
A package about the size of a man’s palm.
What do you do, Guy? This is not what I want.
‘He asked you to read his words and accept that what he does…’
‘… he does for me and for William.’
I looked from the pile on my lap to my friend and his image swam as tears welled.
‘He is not coming, is he?’
Ulric said nothing. Just reached over and pulled me to his shoulder.
Time had taught me not to cry. Tears would pool and might even run, but I no longer allowed myself to sob for what was the use? In this instance I just allowed the strength of my friend’s arm to remind me that I was not, nor perhaps never would be, completely alone. Eventually he sat back, holding me at arms’ length.
‘Alright?’ he postured.
I nodded. We had learned both of us to be economical with word and feeling.
‘Then while you read your letters, I shall check the horse’s hoof. He seemed sore as we came along the village track last night.’
Without more explanation he left quietly and once again I wondered why he had never taken Orders as he truly was the most remarkably thoughtful person.
I was left alone in the room with three letters that sat blindingly white in the morning light bleeding through the window. One of those letters might as well have been from the Devil, so much did I shrink from its opening. But the other two were messages from angels I knew, designed to comfort and guide and give me succour and so I reached for the first.
It was not sealed, merely folded once with a strip of hemp cord knotted to hold it closed. I undid the thick parchment and saw at once the hand of Brother John, the refined graceful style that made him a scribe of note in his past life. I smiled. He had illuminated the opening letter, a conceit carried out as a gift for me, because set into the square in which rested the letter Y, a four square castle was depicted surrounded by a lake. An image of my home and a reminder of things dear from my past … my long past, not the most recent when the Moncrieff daughter had been raped and her face scarred for life.
In my mind I could see the industrious old priest bent over his work, his bald skull shining in the light from the window under which he worked. I could hear him swearing as he nicked his hand sharpening the quill, and swearing again as he removed one too many hairs from his available brushes. His robes I noted were clean and fresh and he was shaven and glistening as if he had developed a new pride in his God, St.Agatha’s and his work. Ah, the imagination is a wonderful thing when one lets it fly, and how heart-warming.
‘Ysabel of Moncrieff,’ it read. ‘Lady de Courcey by the Grace of God.
Or not…’
I laughed with delight. Sometimes Brother John could be so irreligious and I loved him for it.
‘My dearest Ysabel, I think henceforth to dispense with your married title as it offends those of us who love you and your family.
Ulric of Camden informs us that your journeys have been tedious but safe for which we thank God in His Mercy. I should also inform you that though Guy of Gisborne is shamed before his King, the Church thought to absolve him and he seemed well because of it…’
Written then before Guy was transported to London and whilst he was still well. How I wished Brother John could have travelled with him as the Church’s representative. Maybe then…
‘Daughter, with what is to come I must ask you to think twice, pray and ask for God’s guidance and then act once with assurance for there is none but God and your own resources to help you make decisions of great bearing.’
I wondered what Brother John knew that I do not and a faint disquiet stirred the hairs on my neck.
‘I am glad you have Ulric by your side, and Brigid’s little family as well but it is you who must think of William and yourself ultimately. Rest assured that Moncrieff is in the fine and upright care of Cecilia of Upton…’
I looked out of the window heavenward and thanked God for this good thing. I would not thank my king for surely such governance was an act of Divine Providence.
‘… and she is loved by all.
Go in peace, dear child, knowing that all of Moncrieff support you and love you and offer prayers for you. Opto de semper in Christo bene valere.
Brother John of the Church of Saint Agatha.
Moncrieff.’
I bent toward the tiny image of Moncrieff and stroked it with my finger … perhaps in that one touch I was communicating with all who were dear. And such a thing serves to strengthen oneself, to be sure. As if the prayers of those who cared in Moncrieff were concealed in the pigment and it slipped onto my hand and then seeped into my soul.
I closed the letter, slipped the cord around it and laid it carefully on the table, moving my hand toward the third one, the one that lay next to the thick packet for William. But I dithered, my fingers curling into the palm, quickly shifting back to the second letter.
Folded over once and then again, it was sealed with a drop of honey-coloured wax, the seal of a bee pressed proud. I broke the crust, the flakes falling amongst the breadcrumbs of the morning so it was hard to tell which was one or the other and I wondered what Cecilia would think of my uncleared kitchen table. Her voice echoed. ‘You must never let your standards droop, Ysabel. You are of the nobility and your son must be raised according to those standards…’ She would grab a damp cloth and sweep the crumbs into her hand, throwing them into the fire for she would just as easily do a job herself than call for her lady.
‘My Dearest God Daughter, Mary Mother but I miss you…’
My eyes prickled but I read on.
‘… Ulric tells me that William and yourself wait for Sir Guy at Cazenay. I am heartened to know you are safe but am concerned in respect of Gisborne’s plans…’
I breathed in sharply. What plans did she know of that I did not?
‘…for if he has a grand plan then he keeps it under lock and key. Even Ulric admits to knowing little or else he plays the spyman himself. I find intrigue exhausting and much prefer flagrant truth. Be that as it may, I beg you, my love, do not act in haste. Think hard on yours and William’s future. I am in charge of Moncrieff, a charge laid on me by William Longchamp in Richard’s absence and mothering Moncrieff and Upton is like mothering twins. Fineux taught me much in his time.
I am concerned to receive a letter from you. Ulric, dear boy, has said he will consign it to Gisborne’s couriers.
I urge you to caution now – Halsham is to be feared, Ysabel, more than de Courcey. Wits, my dear. Use your wits…’
She finished plainly.
‘
C F.’
They said nothing and in that dark nothingness they were shouting loud. Their cries echoed from wall to wall, assaulting my ears and I shuddered.
‘… act once with assurance for there is none but God and your own resources to help you make decisions of great bearing,’ said John.
‘… do not act in haste. Think hard on yours and William’s future,’ said Ceci.
Almost as if they expected Gisborne not to gather us to his side. But how did they know this?
Of course Brother John saw him in York, spoke to him, perhaps heard his confession. Such confidences might colour the words of my priest who would find the need to warn his late patron’s daughter without breaking the trust of the confessional. Would he then tell the current castellan? Would Ceci and the monk have sat in the Lady Chamber discussing how best to warn Ysabel of Moncrieff without shattering her heart into a million pieces?
Gisborne’s letter sat alone.
How apt.
Nothing about it apart from its solitary state implied that it would invite me to find him or tell me I must not. Already plans formed and reformed in my head, without even reading the text. In truth I could hardly bear to read it and yet I wanted to see the inked words that had been shaped by his hand, touch the parchment that he had folded, discover the directions that we should follow in order to go to his side, to his protection … to his love and his regard.
But I walked away to stand at the door and watch the odd collection of folk that formed my household. Peter chopped wood while Biddy plucked at herbs in the plot she had tended since we arrived and even though it was small, she supplemented her medicinals by judicious expeditions through the tracks and trails of the Cazenay demesnes. Gwen and William filled a small trug with the speckled eggs of the hens we had inherited, my son squatting as only a small child can, collecting an egg with two chubby hands and passing it to Gwen reverentially as if it were a sacred relic. Domestic activities that smacked of security.
At best we would not starve and we were not sick – but we marked time. Behind me sat a letter that would put an end to this strange sabbatical and instead of opening it, I, coward that I was, left it lying.