At the head of his flock strode Father Jerome. His ecclesiastical robe flapped in the strong breeze blowing in from across the rippling sea, which for once looked benign as it glittered in the sunlight. Foaming white waves pounced playfully onto the rocks down below and tumbled the golden pebbles into a happy chatter.
Tall, silver-haired Father Jerome carried on his broad shoulder a wooden cross which stood higher than he. Across its horizontal beam was the inscription They died in Christ, and on the upright beam were inscribed the names of the fishermen who had been killed by the castle’s occupants, and of the young girl who had wandered out onto the headland.
When Father Jerome reached the tip of the Devil’s Finger he halted, sat the cross down in front of him, and held it upright while a group of the slain fishermen’s kin piled rocks around its base until it was securely in place.
Father Jerome looked out at the smoking ruin of the once-defiant castle and, in a loud, echoing voice, addressed his flock. ‘These waters have always brought life to the people of Hamlin. Their abundant fruits fill our tables with food, their swelling waves bring ships and trade to our doors, and their song that goes ever on feeds our souls. But when the Evil Ones sailed across these life-giving waters, when their demonic souls entered our cove, they polluted it. Evil lurked on the waters, malice stalked the seashore, and fear dwelt in our souls. Today, we stand before the waters in peace, our souls burdened by fear no longer; for we were blessed with a man who overcame all obstacles, who rose to lofty heights and discovered a hero within himself. This man, this knight of Saint George, was a true Christian warrior. For this warrior, and for every true warrior that came before him and will come after him, we, the people of this place, give thanks to God and to all His heavenly hosts. Amen.’
And every year from that day forth, the people of Hamlin walked out to the end of the Devil’s Finger with their priest at their head on the anniversary of the castle’s fall, and give thanks to God and to the two brave Chaucy men.
.21.
Hang Ups and Let Downs
ROWENA stepped lightly over the ground, the fallen autumn leaves crunching crisply beneath her feet and rustling as her skirt swished past. She held it up with one hand, anxious to keep the hem of the new gold-coloured wool gown from getting muddy as she passed across the meadow behind Eaglestone Castle.
Walter Gray had been completely overwhelmed with gratitude upon the safe return of his two daughters, and after falling at Sir Richard’s feet and kissing the hem of his cloak, he had bowed repeatedly before both her and Sir Richard and offered half his worldly goods as thanks.
They had both been rather embarrassed by this, especially Sir Richard, and had graciously declined the very generous offer. But Gray would not hear of his daughters’ brave rescuers leaving without accepting some token of his thanks. He had managed to persuade Sir Richard to take a well-filled purse, and Rowena to accept the gift of a lifetime discount on any cloth from his haberdashery shop.
The new gown of softest lamb’s wool was among three new gowns she had sewn up from fabric bought in Walter Gray’s shop. The new gowns may have been simple in style, but to the humble country maid, it was enough to almost make her feel like a princess. Though Lady Sabina had been so surprised by these first-ever new additions to her cousin’s wardrobe that Rowena was sure she suspected her of stealing them.
Rowena sighed and set down the basket she was carrying on a crook in the branch of an ancient oak tree at the bottom of the meadow. At least her aunt and cousin were far too busy with preparations for and talk of Lady Sabina’s wedding to Lord Shrewsbury in a little over three months’ time, on St Valentine’s day, to bother with the usual amusement of taunting Rowena.
She pulled herself up onto the low branch beside her basket. St Valentine’s Day. The very mention of it made her heart quicken with fear and her stomach twist with dread, because the Cunninghams were not the only ones preparing for St Valentine’s Day.
Rowena looked across the meadow to where the narrow towers of Eaglestone Castle soared up towards a cloudless blue sky, their brightly coloured banners fluttering lazily in the gentle breeze. Below these lofty towers, a pair of white swans glided serenely across the surface of the glittering moat, which now brimmed with clear water.
Against this peaceful backdrop, a much less serene sight was to be seen. It was now late November, and every morning the sun rose to be greeted by Jack Frost’s icy workings. But despite this, Sir Richard’s shirt was soaked with sweat. His black doublet lay cast aside on the ground beside him. Holding his long, glittering sword in one hand and his shield in the other, he hacked furiously at the tall wooden post set in the ground for Eaglestone’s men to practice their fighting skills on. Blow after ringing blow rained down onto the pole with tremendous speed and power.
Rowena sighed again and absent-mindedly took a bite out of one of the custard and blackberry pies in her basket.
Sir Richard had been like this ever since he had arranged to meet his nemesis de Wintore at the tournament to be held by the Shrewsburys to mark the wedding of Lady Sabina and Lord Shrewsbury. He spent hours every day down in this meadow practicing his skill-at-arms or riding at the tilting arm with his aimed lance.
Sir Richard seemed to have noticed her arrival at last. He slipped the shield off his arm and leaned it against the tall pole, then slid the massive blade back into its scabbard. Wiping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, he walked over to where Rowena sat.
‘Greetings, precious darling,’ he called, smiling fondly.
Her answering smile was more brave than cheerful. ‘Good day.’ She tilted up her face to receive the kiss Sir Richard stooped to bestow.
‘Mmm, those pies you’ve been eating taste good.’
She bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘They do taste good, but not when they are mixed with your salt.’
‘What have I done now?’
She flung her hands into her lap. ‘Oh Richard, I can’t bear this agony of waiting! Day and night I can think of nothing else but your duel with de Wintore! Why did you do this thing?’
‘Fear not, my love. I have righteousness on my side. I will overcome de Wintore. That man has tormented me, tried to take you from me, to ruin me and to blacken my name. On St Valentine’s Day, the one man leaving the field of battle alive shall be me.’
‘But how can you be so sure?’ she wailed. ‘De Wintore is a famed warrior; he has vanquished many great knights!’
He looked at her reproachfully. ‘Are you saying that you do not believe me to be as good a warrior as he?’
‘No, but you have your old battle wounds; your shoulder and your knee!’
He flexed his shoulder experimentally. ‘Yes, this shoulder has been giving me some bother, but by the time of the tournament I will be stronger.’
‘Why do you always have to be so pig-headed? You know de Wintore will turn up in the best armour money can buy and with an unlawful sharp sword, whereas you do not even own a suit of armour!’
‘You are right, my love. But it is no matter. I will win a suit of armour by jousting a knight before I take on de Wintore.’
She clutched the sides of her head in exasperation. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Joust a fully armoured knight wearing next to nothing!’
‘I will pit myself against one of those vain young peacocks who turn up at tournaments only to impress the ladies. They will think a poor knight like me an easy conquest, but some of these puffed-up twits can barely lift a sword.’
‘All they’ll need is one lucky hit and you will be dead before de Wintore even has a chance to kill you himself!’
Sir Richard let out a long-suffering sigh and wiped his still-sweating face with the forearm of his shirt again. ‘I’m going to vanquish de Wintore once and for all at the tournament. And even if you nag from this day to that one, you will not succeed in dissuading me. Now—’ He perched up beside her on the log. ‘Surely you have not come down here looking so rosy-cheeked and ch
arming just to scold?’
‘No,’ she replied tensely. ‘I also—’ She paused for a moment as he started stroking her hair absent-mindedly. ‘I also brought you something to eat, thinking you might be hungry after all that effort.’
He rested his cheek on her shoulder with a contented sigh. ‘How thoughtful of you, sweetheart.’
‘Sir Richard, stop being so familiar!’ she snapped, giving him a half-hearted push. ‘Someone might see us.’
He reluctantly lifted his head. ‘Yes, someone might. But it is perfectly permissible for betrothed couples to be familiar.’
‘But we are not betrothed!’ she replied, in a voice that was almost a shout.
He smiled darkly. ‘But everyone thinks we are…’
‘Yes, thanks to you, you clever rascal,’ she replied, with a look that was somewhat admiring and thoroughly cross.
It really had been a stroke of genius on Sir Richard’s part. The astonished Abbess Hawisa had paid a visit to Stoatley Manor as soon as she had heard the news of the deliciously shocking betrothal. Lady Cunningham had been livid with rage at the news of her niece’s sudden betrothal, which offended her on every level. She had burst into Rowena’s tiny chamber without so much as knocking, and set about berating her. ‘Do you not know that Sir Richard will become a commoner if he marries you?’ she had screamed. ‘How dare you drag a nobleman down to your level! It is an abomination, an abomination!’
Rowena did know that anyone of noble birth became a commoner if they married one, although a knight like Sir Richard would not lose his knighthood. Her aunt had then demanded that she break off the betrothal immediately. But Rowena had been so offended by her aunt’s reaction that, before she could deny she was promised in marriage, she had told Lady Cunningham she refused to break it off. So now everyone was forever asking her when the wedding was to be, and would it be in St Luke’s or St Agnes’s? Had she decided on a dress? And how many guests would be invited to the wedding feast? All she could do in reply was stammer that there were no plans as yet, while the asker cooed admiringly over her maidenly modesty.
It was torturous.
Sir Richard broke the pensive silence at last. ‘I have not yet asked if you will be coming to the tournament…’ The question was cautious in tone, and he busied himself with reaching into her basket for a pie.
‘Yes, of course I will be there,’ she replied softly, after a moment’s silence. Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes. ‘Letting her knight die in her arms is the one comfort and service a lady can offer in war.’
He put the arm that was not occupied with delivering the pie to his mouth around her waist. ‘With such a peerless lady at his side and the sword of righteousness in his hand, what knight could possibly fail?’
She sniffed miserably. ‘You could.’
‘If your concern were not so great a sign of your feelings for me, I should be deeply offended by your lack of regard for my knightly prowess. I used to make my living fighting at tournaments, which I had proved to be rather good at, you know.’
‘Yes, used to.’
Rowena looked away so he would not see her tear-filled eyes. Ever since they had returned from Lothbury two moons ago, she had been berating him and pleading him not to go through with his challenge to fight de Wintore to the death. But all his answers had been in the same vein as the ones which had just fallen on her ears. Why was he so sure? The Sir Richard she had been familiar with was only ever sure of one thing: it was going to fail, disaster was sure to befall him. Now he was as confident of triumphing over de Wintore as of the sun rising the next day.
He gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘I beg you, do not fear for me. I gave up jousting because I was tired of the vanity and self-seeking of many of the knights who fought at the tournaments, and decided to hang up my armour once and for all.’
‘But you did not hang it up once and for all—you took it down and carted it to market!’
‘Yes, but I shall be armed with the sword of righteousness.’
‘You are so trying and provocative!
‘Surely you will not feel my loss that much then—and just think: you would not have to worry about everyone falsely thinking you and I betrothed.’
The statement was smoothly delivered, but she felt a definite stab in his final words. It was so unfair of him.
‘You are the bravest of knights but also the most insensitive!’ she cried. ‘If you really wished to honour me, you would not torture me with this stupid fight with de Wintore. You are always getting in my hair and underfoot—it’s unbearable!’
She was surprised to find a smug smile playing on his lips when her condemnation was over. ‘How can I be in your hair if I am also underfoot?’
She gave him a shove. ‘Argh! you’re impossible!’
The dark smile only widened. ‘My sweet darling, your doting words of love and oaths of undying faithfulness are heavenly ambrosia to my ardent heart.’
‘Impossible…’ she muttered, shaking her head and crossing her arms.
He hopped off the branch. ‘Yes, your sweetness and grace are impossibly perfect. Now, I must go and exercise Lucifer.’
She gave a sulky grunt in reply, then quickly leaned back as Sir Richard moved towards her. But the manoeuvre was futile. A moment later she was receiving a firm kiss as she teetered on the brink of falling off her perch backwards.
‘Be off with you, thieving knave!’ she cried, as soon as her lips were free.
He bowed low. ‘My mistress commands, I obey.’ And with that, the laughing knight was gone.
Holding the empty basket in her lap, Rowena sat there like a stone. What would she do when he was gone? Spend the rest of her days living as an unwanted spinster in Stoatley Manor? It could be worse; at least she could help the poor folk and roam the woods and fields of Heathcote all day.
She angrily swatted away a hovering midge. And why was she allowing that knight to act with a lover’s familiarity? Dangerous men like him should be kept away from. Why did she love him? And why, oh why did she dread his death with a lover’s passion?
‘Rowena…’
She was roused from her reverie by a far-distant voice which sounded like it belonged to Sir Richard.
‘Rowena, come here…’
What did he want now? By St Elroy, why couldn’t he manage to stay out of her hair for a single moment!
‘Hell’s heat, get over here!’ The sound was still distant and rather muffled, but he was definitely getting bothered.
She sighed and hopped off the tree limb, then made for the woodland path Sir Richard had disappeared down earlier.
‘Rowena, where the hell are you?’ his bellow came from up ahead.
She broke into a trot. ‘I’m coming, have a little patience!’
This time, the only answer was some inaudible dark mutterings. She kept hurrying onward. The path narrowed, branches thrust themselves into her face and heavy shade reigned.
Rowena pushed aside a large hornbeam bough —and suddenly found herself face-to-face with Sir Richard. Except that he was not the same way up as her—he was suspended upside down. Her mouth fell open.
The thin-lipped, thoroughly unimpressed expression he wore could have turned living flesh into stone. Standing rooted to the ground a mere foot from his face, she gaped in shock for a moment, and then suddenly burst out laughing. She dropped the basket and laughed until tears ran down her cheeks and her sides ached.
Some muffled twittering and giggling joined her from behind a wide-girthed beech tree near the path. But the object of her mirth did not look amused. Suspended from a beech tree’s high overhead branch by a noose around the ankles, Sir Richard just observed Rowena in grimly bad-tempered silence until she finally stopped laughing.
‘Alright, so I’ve been hocked! Very funny. Now can you please pay these ruthless vixens the ransom so they will let me down?’
Even though she had stopped howling with laughter, she still could not suppress the odd giggle. ‘Well it is Hocktid
e Monday; women have every right to hock local men and ask for a donation for the parish. It’s all in a good cause, you know.’
The knight was quite red in the face by now, though whether from embarrassment or simply being hung upside down she could not be sure. He did not look happy, of that she could be sure. ‘The stone-hearted banshees are demanding a one-pound ransom to let me down, yet I haven’t so much as a farthing on me!’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well neither have I. Besides, it is not Hocktide Tuesday; ladies may only be ransomed on that day.’
‘But they’re asking one whole pound; it’s outrageous! Have they any idea how poor I am? That damn folly of a pile—’ he jerked a hand in Eaglestone castle’s direction, but quickly went still again when the movement set him swinging on the end of the rope, ‘eats up money like a proud wife. Half the place is empty, yet the king still expects me to maintain it even though it would be useless under siege! Folk around here seem to think I have coffers full of silver just lying about. I have barely a penny to my name!’
She looked him in the ever-reddening face detachedly. ‘Be that as it may, the fact is you have managed to avoid capture every Hocktide thus far, so it is to be expected that the ransom will be higher when the women finally got your feet in their noose.’
‘The slippery wenches tricked me, setting up an ambush right where only I walk—and they won’t even dare show their faces!’ he shouted in the direction of the beech trunk.
There was an outbreak of self-satisfied laughter from behind the tree. ‘Pay up or hang up!’ a shrill female voice called out.
The woman sounded an awful lot like Betty, young man-at-arms Will’s new wife. After all that time she had spent working as a barmaid in the rowdy Cockerel and Cow alehouse, little could be expected in the way of leniency from her…
‘But I have only got one pound and a few pennies left!’ Sir Richard shouted back. ‘The only damn money I get as sheriff is from the cut of the taxes and court fines I’m entitled to, but nobody has been committing any crime lately. Hell, at the last shire court the only convictions were a yokel who had his hogs roaming at large to the annoyance of his neighbours, and a couple of young twits who’d been playing tennis in the guildhall. Those offences only carry a fine of forty pennies each. The lack of crime is ruining me!’
The Heart of Darkness Page 31