CHAPTER SIX
As soon as he judged they were out of hearing, de Soutenay edged his mount towards Lord John. “My liege, I went to great pains to obscure your identity, but what is the point if you will not do likewise?”
John laughed; Giles de Soutenay gritted his teeth.
“My dear de Soutenay, you did not fool those old crones in the slightest. They knew. Yes, they knew, and they perceived that I knew. I thought to take example from Brother Richard for once and charm them.” He smirked. “I warrant I succeeded full well, especially with the infirmaress. ‘Goodwife Nurse’ indeed! Did you see the adoration in those old eyes?” He chuckled at the memory. “Nay, Giles, they won’t betray me. And the others? Clucking hens who know nothing. They won’t betray me, in truth.”
He nodded, certain of their loyalty. “And it pleases me to know they will be praying for my soul. Heaven knows I need prayer, wouldn’t you say? What with my grievous sins, and with my enemies only too glad of a chance to make an end to me and bring that whelp Arthur over. Even Brother Richard prefers him as his heir, rather than troublesome John.”
The lightness went from his face and his eyes hardened to granite chips. “But the other? The wood nymph? I want her.”
He leant forward over his mount and lowered his voice, and the menace in his tone chilled Giles’ blood. “And the device she used? I want that. And I expect you to find them. If I don’t miss my mark, she is still in that abbey somewhere.” He straightened up, the menace gone from his voice but his eyes still hard. “Yes, I daresay I value that as much as you value your lands, de Soutenay, so I suggest you get back to the Abbey and wait.”
Giles started. John was not in a position to take his lands. John saw it and laughed harshly.
“Ah yes, you’re thinking it isn’t within my power to divest you of your lands. And you are right. It isn’t – yet! But it will be. That, upon my soul, I do swear to you.”
He gave another glittering smile to the fulminating de Soutenay. “As for me?” He turned to his men, laughing once more, “I have a wood nymph to chase, and where better to start than yonder village. Come, let us find some nymphs. I hear they can be most obliging.” And with a yell, he kicked his mount into a gallop and went headlong towards the village, followed by his men, whooping and laughing.
Giles watched him leave, a grim expression on his face. A pity he’d thought of taking him to the damned Abbey. But then, had he died, the chaos that would ensue didn’t bear thinking of. Richard, as yet, had no heirs, and if rumours were true, it looked as though he might never procreate. He was so busy crusading, his unfortunate bride would, in all likelihood, see little of him. John would make a poor king, but anything would be better than his dead brother’s child. For certes, the King of France along with Constance and her ilk would hold the leading reins there. It might lead to civil war again.
Giles shuddered. Tales were still told of the cost of the conflict between Stephen and Matilda. No, he had done the only thing he could and saved John’s miserable skin. And was John grateful? Not he! But now they must be sure his enemies didn’t discover his fatal reaction to bee stings.
Bee stings! Whoever would have thought it? Without that device, the problems of keeping John safe increased ten thousand fold.
Would that someone else had been with him when it happened. Anyone but me. And now his lands would be forfeit, for John was right – he would be king, de Soutenay had no doubt of that. He must find that device. And the woman. Now John had taken it into his head that she looked like a wood nymph, nothing would do but for him to see her. Knowing his lord’s insatiable appetite for women, Giles just hoped this one would be willing to satisfy it.
He turned his mount and made to the cover of some nearby trees. Dismounting, he tethered the horse to one of them, then sat hidden beneath the canopy of the largest tree he could find and prepared for a long and boring wait.
A short way from where he was sitting, Etheldreda was coming ever nearer to the Abbey.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The heat of the day and the warmth of the sun were penetrating even the heavy cover of leaf and branch where Giles had chosen to secrete himself from the trail which meandered alongside the woods to the Abbey. It was not the best of paths to take, but better than the track which ran through the deepest part of the woods. He also had a remarkably clear view of the Abbey from this secluded position. The haze of the day was beginning to make him feel drowsy. He needed to change position. Yawning, he got to his feet, stretching until his muscles cracked. Ah, that felt good. He rolled his neck and stretched his arms again. Then, he swatted irritably at the midges which were clustering above him, only clearing them temporarily, and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, wishing he was within reach of the stream which burbled so merrily in the distance. A large horse fly was hovering threateningly, but he dealt with that, waiting until it landed on Troubadour and swatting it before it could draw blood.
“Poor old boy, what wouldn’t you give for a drink from that stream, eh?” The sorrel nosed at his tunic hopefully. “You’re in luck, Troubadour, but you knew that, didn’t you? You old fraud.” Pulling out two apples, he proffered one to the horse, who took it from his open palm and crunched. Giles eyed his own apple thoughtfully, rubbed it on his tunic and took a satisfying bite. “It isn’t much, but better than nothing, eh, old fellow?” An unsentimental man, who could be brutish when necessary – and as one of John’s men, it was necessary far more often than he would have wished – he lavished what little affection he possessed on this horse of his.
Troubadour, although handsome enough, had nothing more to draw the eye than any other of his horses but responded to his every nuance so well that sometimes it was as if man and horse communed in spirit. There was no time or occasion in Giles’ life for any other tender emotions. He had lands, but not extensive ones, and the best he could hope for was for John to accede to the throne and bestow an heiress on him, hopefully a young and beautiful one. There was every possibility of the first. Richard was a warmonger, never happier than when fighting in yet another crusade. The likelihood of his surviving long was remote. It would only take a moment’s carelessness. And there would be many plots against his life. It was common knowledge that the French King and the German Emperor hated his guts, and were, in all probability, conspiring against him. And Richard was an absent king. At least, John would likely spend more time in the country he hoped to rule. Whether that would be beneficial to the country or not would remain to be seen. There were those who thought the infant Arthur would be a better choice. Better the devil you know, thought Giles. He sat with his back against a tree, eating his apple and waiting to see what his vigil would uncover.
Suddenly, he stiffened. A low-pitched voice came to his ears. Squinting through the leaves which hid him, he could see a figure – a nun, by the look of it. He would be able to see more clearly as she came nearer. But that was no church chant she was humming. He flattened himself against his tree and watched and waited for her to come into view.
Etheldreda had quite overcome her fears by this time. So close to the Abbey and once again in her habit, she felt secure enough to relish the novelty of being out in the fresh air completely alone. She had been enjoying the feel of the sunshine on her face and a rare sense of freedom and had forgotten herself enough to be humming a lay she had remembered from her previous life. She couldn’t remember the words – something about a maiden and larks singing.
Her hidden watcher grinned. It was the nun who had dared to cheek him earlier. She would be doing penance for that if anyone heard her. She probably had no idea what the words meant. It was a clever little song which sounded entirely innocent, but it was loaded with double meaning. Ah well, to the innocent all was innocent. And he had no doubt that her soul was as pure as the driven snow, at least compared to his. He sobered as he remembered how many mortal sins he had committed. It was high time he spoke to his confessor. A man could never be sure of living beyond
the moment.
Giles shook his head irritably. Enough of this foolishness. He was here to do a job, the development of a spiritual conscience was a luxury he could not afford.
He watched as she strode along. She had forgotten to glide as the nuns usually did, stepping out confidently as she passed his hiding place, her hands not tucked into the sleeves of her habit but swinging in time with her stride. He didn’t keep an unbroken stare upon her; if you did that, people oft-times sensed your eyes upon them. Better by far to look away frequently.
As she passed, he noticed something strange. She carried a basket of herbs, but there was something showing from beneath them, poking out from the basket. Giles stroked his chin thoughtfully. Now just what have you got hidden in there, my fine lady? Something was afoot. He watched more closely as she continued on her path, eyeing her with renewed interest as she entered the confines of the Abbey.
The nun disappeared behind the Abbey walls, the gates closed, and the Abbey basked peacefully in the afternoon sun. Bees droned, sucking on the small woodland flowers; birds sang and called as they flitted from tree to tree. Had he been aware of his surroundings, Giles could have seen men toiling in the fields, shouting to each other; ploughmen encouraging the oxen, calling as they worked. The heat of the day hung heavily about him but the soft fragrances of the woodlands in which he sheltered were wasted on him; he had but a single focus – the Abbey. He watched and waited patiently, something he was particularly good at.
As a child, Giles had been able to stay so still that the adults in his life had often been unaware of his presence, and thus he learnt things which most children would have missed. His sister, Petronilla, used to call him Catspaw, for she swore he moved as quietly as did the sly creature that inhabited the stables and barns. He leaned back against his tree, stretched his legs and dropped his chin onto his chest. Had anyone passed him, they would have thought he was in a deep sleep, except for the fact that his eyelids were not so much closed as narrowed. There was naught he could do now save continue to watch the Abbey.
Etheldreda ceased her humming as she approached the Abbey confines. She had forgotten herself for a few minutes but now slipped back into her more familiar role.
In her chamber, Hildegarde was pacing the floor. Where was Sister Etheldreda? She had been gone for longer than expected. Hildegarde berated herself for sending the nun and prayed she hadn’t endangered her. It was her job to protect her flock, not send them out into perilous situations.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I sat there alone in that dark, stuffy cell for what seemed like hours. Why was I in peril? I had no idea what was happening. I had barely got my head around the fact that I had somehow been pulled into another time. With Hildegarde, everything seemed so matter of fact, but here in the silence and the dark, my brain struggled to believe I was not dreaming. I touched the rough straw pallet beneath me. If it was a dream, the sensations seemed remarkably real.
I tried to ignore the panic which was swelling inside me, clutching at my heart and throat, threatening to rise up out of my mouth in an ear-splitting scream of terror. A cold sweat beaded my forehead, and gooseflesh came up on the skin of my arms. I was deathly afraid that I would be left in here, forgotten in the darkness and even more deathly afraid that I would be found by the men who were seeking me.
A scuffle in the straw confirmed another horror. Mice – or worse. I leapt up, biting my lip to stop myself crying out, then sat back down on my pallet, lifting my feet and curling them beneath me to get them off the floor. But mice could climb, couldn’t they? This nightmare was getting worse, and the urge to scream and cry was becoming harder to quell.
Deep breaths, that was it. And counting; I counted at the dentist, when I had a filling. It helped me stay calm. Maybe it would do the same here. One, two, three…
I had counted to fifty when I heard movement, a grunt and a scraping sound. Someone was moving the cupboard which concealed the entry to my hiding place. I froze, wishing I could find something to hide under or behind. Holding out my little lantern, I considered crouching behind the pallet, but it was too low to hide me. Anyway, it was too late. There came the noise of grating, as a key turned in the lock.
Light flooded into my prison. Blinded, I couldn’t see for a few moments and squeaked in alarm as a hand grasped mine. Then, the tension left my body as I made out Hildegarde’s face bending over me in concern. She pulled me gently to my feet and led me from the cell.
“You poor child. I wish I hadn’t had to leave you there in the dark for so long. Come, drink this.”
She handed me a goblet filled with what looked and smelled like red wine. I sipped at it gingerly, surprised by the sudden richness that flooded my mouth and sent a comforting warmth through my veins.
“Are you surprised that nuns drink wine?”
I nodded. “I am rather. I thought nuns lived on bread and water.”
She laughed merrily. “As did I. It turns out, though, that we eat and drink rather well. We don’t have meat often, but our diet is wholesome, and I have an excellent cellarer. Also as Abbess I have, on occasion, to entertain the nobility, so I have some rather fine wines at my disposal. Of course, you may have ale if you wish, but…”
“Wine is fine by me, and this really is good. But I don’t understand. Why am I in so much danger? What did I do?”
“It isn’t so much what you did, although that comes into it. It’s more what you may now be perceived as knowing.”
“But I don’t know anything,” I wailed.
“Ah, but they think you might. Let me explain.”
I wished she would. The fact that I might be in danger frightened me nearly as much as the thought that I might be stuck here forever.
“Marion, the young man who was stung by a bee is none other than John of Mortain – you would know him as Prince John.”
She looked at me, obviously expecting me to be impressed. I gazed back blankly. She was out of luck – the name meant nothing to me. I wished, not for the first time, I’d paid more attention at school.
“Marion! What do they teach in schools these days? Very well, let us go through the basics.”
Obviously, in whatever time I was, I would be considered an ignoramus.
“Now, the ruler at the moment is King Richard.”
“Is he the one who killed those poor little boys?”
“That’s the wrong Richard. This is Richard the Lionheart, as you know him. Now, pay attention. Richard has only just married so has no heirs of his own yet, and as he travels extensively and is fighting wars much of the time, to say nothing of plots against him, his lifestyle is not conducive to longevity. John is his brother and potentially his heir. At the moment, Richard has named his other brother’s son, Arthur, as heir, but he is a mere babe and is living in France. Richard will probably change his mind. Besides, Queen Eleanor, his mother, would never permit it. Not only does she favour John as heir, but she knows Arthur would be the pawn of the French King, and that she would never allow.
“It would suit some if Arthur were to inherit the throne, but it would be disastrous for England and would probably result in civil war. Now if, as it seems, John has developed an allergy to bee stings, and if his enemies were to hear of it, that would make him vulnerable. Do you understand?” She was observing my reactions closely. “I had to play dumb to his men otherwise the convent and the sisters might also be endangered, but I fear John was not deceived. And when he made that clear, I hope I made him believe in my love and loyalty.”
The light was beginning to dawn. “And I suppose he wants to make sure I keep my mouth shut?”
Frowning, she fiddled with the large cross she wore. “I’m afraid it’s rather more than that. John knows he is vulnerable, and he knows you have a device which saved his life. I think he was more conscious than we realised when you used it.”
Comprehension was becoming clearer and clearer. My blood ran cold again, the wine not proof enough against each new, fearful discov
ery. “But…but it isn’t any use to him,” I stuttered. “It can only be used once.”
She looked worried. “Marion, the man is medieval. And he’s a lord. He is used to being lied to, and he is used to getting his own way. If it can’t be used again, he will want more. If he gets his hands on you, he will want answers. Do you want to explain it to him? They have been known to use torture in this age, and John is not a reasonable man.” She paused, looking at me intently. “You are in 1191 now, Marion.”
1191? I blenched, feeling as though my blood was draining out from me.
Hildegarde looked at me, seemingly undecided about something.
I couldn’t meet her gaze – I was appalled. This was beyond any nightmare; I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I grasped the stem of my goblet as though it was a lifeline, raising it to my lips. I am not much of a drinker, but if ever I needed alcohol, it was now. My hands were shaking so much that I needed both of them to hold it steady, and my teeth were chattering so badly, I was afraid I might take a bite out of the goblet. I took a long drink and felt the liquid warm me as it went down. It helped – a little. At least, it eased the shaking. I drained it and set it back on the table.
Hildegarde sat silently watching me, then nodded decisively. “I suppose you’d better know the rest.”
There was more? How much worse could it get?
“John is capable of charm and even great kindness, but he is a hard man at heart and petulant. He also has an insatiable appetite for women, and he loves novelty.”
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