by Prue Batten
Ulric led his horse from the barn and tied it to a rail, running his hand down the off-foreleg, lifting the hoof, tapping all over the sole. The horse arced its head slightly and I knew at once that Ulric had discovered a bruise, perhaps from a large pebble. He would talk to Biddy and she would mix a poultice to ease the bruising. He looked up and met my gaze and his eyebrows rose but I shook my head and turned back to the chamber.
Read it, Ysabel. Grow a thicker skin.
And so I reached for it. Fondling it, letting the silky slub of the parchment slip underneath my fingers. It was folded and a strip of leather was wound round and round and off the end of the leather hung an arrowhead.
Again, apt.
The cause of his indictment.
De Courcey shot through the neck with an arrow.
In a perverse way I found the arrowhead offensive, as though he reminded me of something I wanted to forget.
Why so cruel, Guy? It is unnecessary.
I unwound the leather, only to find on unfolding the note that the arrowhead was attached to the bottom of the letter by a wax seal and that seal apparently Gisborne’s. I had not realised he had his own mark but of course as a knight he was entitled to an insignia and his almost made me retch in memory of unpleasant deaths.
Three arrows barbed, feathered, gathered together and pointing upward.
Do you not think, Ysabel, that this insignia may be a private mark, to indicate his integrity amongst a world of possibly duplicitous men?
It could be, I supposed, and resolved to ask Ulric. For some reason it seemed to matter.
But the moment could not be delayed any longer and I sucked in a breath to hold it tight in a chest that threatened to burst.
Ysabel, I write in haste. I am to leave on the tide.
To where? When was this written?
I leave the care of our son in your hands in the knowledge that you will manage his welfare with courage, caution and with love. Halsham has told me he will avenge the life and honour of his friend De Courcey, no matter the outcome of the ecclesiastical court.
I wished Gisborne stood in the room, leaning his height against the doorframe, fixing me with those depthless, cool eyes. I had so many questions.
‘Then what prevented him from killing you between York and London?’ I would say.
You and I are still at risk, the letter continued.
‘Yes, Gisborne, it is self-evident. Else I should be back at Moncrieff warming your bed.’ I would growl at him.
He would shift from the door with straight shoulders, disturbed at my sarcasm.
Ulric has access to funds for your comfort and security and you must heed his advice – he is apprised of enough to know where you shall be safe.
Ysabel – I regret nothing. Paenitet nihil.
And that was the end of the letter from my child’s father and the man whom I had thought would protect us all from now till Domesday. Everything about this pathetic message reminded me of my father’s perfunctory prose on the death of my mother, but this time there was to be no gallant galloping down a hill alongside me to prevent my headlong flight of despair. I folded his letter meticulously, placing it by the others, then stood back with the shaking fingers of one hand pressed to my lips.
I heard a howl like a wolf caught in a hunter’s snare and vaguely saw the parchments fly as my hand swept across the table, knocking all before it. My teeth snapped together and gritted in a snarl so filled with anger and animal frustration that I almost broke every single one.
Ulric threw open the door.
‘Ysabel!’ He looked at the spilled flagon of ale, the scattered wastel, the bowls and mugs. All tipped across the floor with the parchments soaked and disrespected whilst I stood panting like a cornered animal.
‘I hate him, Ulric. How dare he do this!’ My eyes slitted and I thought my scalp might lift in the ferocity of the moment. ‘He seduced me, got a child on me then left me to be raped. Killed my husband for what? At least I had a home when the bastard was alive. And Gisborne has the gall to say he regrets nothing? Damn his rotten black soul!’
‘Ysabel, stop. Think of William. If he hears you he shall be terrified.’
Ulric had shut the door behind him even though there was little need because the mention of William’s name was like a pail of water thrown over fighting hounds. But the anger re-formed into something secret, something I needed and which I recognised from once before…
As Ulric paddled through the ale, retrieving the letters and William’s gift, something definite and infinitely dangerous began to form in my mind and I was glad. He passed me William’s gift saying, ‘At least this is dry,’ as he lay the documents side by side on the table facing the glowing embers of our fire.
I had little care of anything from Gisborne for his son but picked at the strings of the chamois bag and pulled out a silk-wrapped oblong.
I gasped.
‘Where did he find it?’
‘Where Halsham found you. Trampled into the riverbank with a hood. The hood and chamois protected it.’
‘He went back?’
‘He had gone to fetch horses, Ysabel. If you remember.’
I did, but would grant Gisborne no leeway.
‘Given its value,’ Ulric shook out Gisborne’s note, the arrow heads catching the light, ‘he has kept it safe.’
I unfolded the silk and revealed the Saracen book of poetry – each jewel on the cover still in place, barely a mark on the worded pages.
A king’s ransom.
My plan gained lifeblood with each powerful beat of my heart.
‘He believed you would want William to have it for his future.’
Ulric spoke over his shoulder as he pushed at the ale-soaked wastel with his foot, ‘tsk’-ing at my wanton wreckage so that an image of Cecilia floated before my eyes. But I would not be gainsaid. Not by the shade of my godmother nor by my oldest friend.
Yes, I might have replied, an immediate and distant future, but chose not to invite him into my thoughts.
To be continued…