To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  She had not gone another fifty yards before she heard evidence of someone else abroad, for, on the cold morning air, came the sound of a gittern most exquisitely played. Curious, Isabel followed the tune and, to her amazement, came across Wevere and a small dark man who sat cross-legged upon the ground, plucking the strings with short stubby fingers.

  ‘Good-morrow,’ she said, and both men looked up, thoroughly startled.

  Wevere scrambled to his feet to acknowledge the greeting, but the other man merely gazed at her and continued to play. There could be no doubt that he was a genius, inspired. Isabel had never heard anything like the wealth of sound that poured from those blunt hands. It was as if the man had touched the gate of heaven and then communicated the anthem back to earth.

  She could not help herself. Isabel dismounted and went to stand beside the stranger, staring at him enraptured. He did not acknowledge her presence but went on as if neither she nor Wevere were there. The steward caught her eye and saw by the slant of her fine dark brows that she was puzzled, but he said nothing. And so the three remained without speaking as the great wealth of sound filled the dawn.

  Nicholas le Mist hurried up, his feet beginning to stamp and his knees bending into a jig.

  ‘Come on, young man,’ he shouted. ‘Give us a tune for dancing.’

  The player changed at once to the liveliest melody Isabel had ever heard. To stand still was an impossibility, so there — in the pinkness of the new day — she whirled about with Nicholas, laughing and breathless and acting half her age.

  ‘Who is that man?’ she gasped, as the music stopped.

  ‘Why, that’s mad Colin.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The archbishop’s younger brother. He’s kept well hidden, of course, but that’s who he is.’

  ‘How can he be mad when he can play like that?’

  ‘Ah, there is the mystery of it all. Who could answer you that but God?’

  Isabel had never heard Master le Mist quite so profound and she shot him a curious glance.

  ‘How is he mad?’

  ‘Not cruelly. He is just a simpleton. A boy trapped in a man’s body. He would not hurt a living thing.’

  Isabel stared at the player and was treated to one of the most beautiful smiles she had ever seen. For all innocence radiated from it, all purity, all joy. She knew that she was in the presence of something remarkable but found herself quite unable to say a word.

  So merely giving a grateful smile in return, Isabel dropped a respectful curtsey and allowed Nicholas to hold her shoe as she remounted. Then she set off towards Bayndenn and listened all the way back to a lark joining his voice with the wild soaring notes of Colin’s music.

  Four

  The long unyielding winter of 1333 vanished overnight. There had been no true spring, just bitter winds and frosts one day and sweet breezes and flowers the next. The beautiful valley of Byvelham burst forth like a jewel lifted to the sun. Bluebells stood in regiments, armies even; buds — sticky, pushing, bursting with blossom beneath — clustered on high; the slopes of the dales lost their wildness and glowed amethyst, sage and brimstone.

  And the gentle weather brought forth all those who had huddled round their fires, avoiding the draughts and gusts of their cold houses. Robert de Sharndene, nimble as a squirrel, swung into his saddle and headed off in the direction of Battle Abbey, where he would conduct the business of the archbishop. For he held important posts, being not only Steward of the Abbey, presiding at the manorial courts and supervising the Abbey’s vast estates, but also Bailiff of the Liberty of the Archbishop, which necessitated much travelling and attention to legal affairs.

  But today Robert was not thinking simply of his many duties as his horse climbed the hill above Sharndene. Instead his mind was running over the fact that Margaret’s lips had trembled when he had announced his intention of being away a full week. Had she guessed that he kept a mistress in Battle: that his love was nineteen years old and widowed already, her soldier husband killed in Scotland? If so, his wife must be sick with anguish. But yet he had been so careful, so discreet. Nothing would induce him to hurt the mother of his children. It was simply that he could not resist his sweetheart’s laugh or eyes or eager-mouthed embrace. With Nichola de Rougemont — so young and free with her passion — he felt twenty again, strong and potent and ready for challenge.

  And this train of thought set Robert thinking about Piers, and the depressing realisation that his second son was unnatural. That the youth’s wretched partner had been James de Mouleshale had made the situation seem even worse. In fact Robert had been delighted to see Piers depart for London, nursing his wounds and muttering darkly of making his way in the world.

  Yet the satisfaction at the removal of his second son had been short-lived. Within a week came the gossip — Juliana no longer deigned to speak to anyone connected with Sharndene — that James had left for London as well. The two young men had obviously planned to be reunited behind the backs of their families. Robert found himself wishing that he had broken Piers’s neck on that morning when he had had the opportunity to do so.

  As Robert of Sharndene headed for Battle thinking such murderous thoughts, his wife, pleading an aching head, plodded to her chamber and lay down upon her great bed. She had never felt more wretched having discovered, within the last week, a sarcanet glove of small and delicate design thrust into a secret pocket in her husband’s gipon; a pocket that lay above his heart.

  She had realised immediately that it belonged to a woman, for the perfume of expensive eastern spice arising from it was both overpowering and heady. After contemplating it with disgust, Margaret had thrown it onto the fire and said nothing to anyone.

  But now, lying alone in her room, she faced facts. She was forty-seven and had not had a flux from her body for nearly a year, though the rapid and horrible heats associated with that great change were still an everyday occurrence. And she, who had never possessed a jot of beauty to start with, now felt herself to be growing puffy, seeing only too clearly the sagging lines of her eyes and chin. At that moment, ugly Margaret felt that she wished to die before her looks grew even worse. But before she did so she wanted more than anything to choke the life out of the owner of that small and scented glove, then dance a jig upon her grave.

  Another tear ran from the far corner of Margaret’s eye and trickled down her cheek towards the pillow. She could have wept all day then, stopped only by the thought that this would make her face swell till it resembled that of an adder. So instead she rose resolutely to her feet and thrust her burning cheeks into a little bowl of cold water that stood, with a jug, beside the bed.

  Then she changed her kirtle for one of a brilliant and dashing blue, put on red wool stockings, and headed down to the stable. She would ride to Bayndenn and enquire as to whether Alice Waleis was in residence and would receive her.

  As she mounted her horse Margaret saw, in the distance, Oriel and her serving woman heading off towards the woods, and frowned disapprovingly. She considered her daughter to be out and about too much for her own good and hoped that Oriel would never come across Nicholas le Mist energetically pursuing a maiden or — oh terrible prospect! — actually catching up with one! Such sights were not for the eyes of young and innocent girls.

  But Oriel’s thoughts were far from Master Mist. Instead she was wondering whether her father would be keeping a wary eye out for younger sons — those less likely to be pre-contracted from birth but nevertheless with prospects — on this visit to Battle. But such ideas were driven straight from her head as from deep in the wood came the sound of a gittern, brilliantly played. So brilliantly, in fact, that Oriel could truly say she had never heard anything quite like it.

  For it was not really music — it was more a conversation between the player and God. Every note, every tone, every pluck of the wild wonderful strings, came from the depth of a spirit soaring up to touch the fingertips of the Almighty. Nobody who was not worshipping by the very act of h
is art could ever have poured out such glory.

  As she drew nearer she dismounted and, leaving Emma to hold the horses, went through the bluebells alone and on foot, her shoes making no sound as she approached. In the near distance she could glimpse the musician, a dark young man sitting on a fallen tree trunk — his face rather comic and yet somehow sad — quite unaware of her presence and utterly absorbed in what he was doing.

  Oriel suddenly felt an intruder and hid herself behind a tree, too polite to venture further but too taken up with the sound to turn away. She stood like that, quite still, for an age, hardly breathing, or so it seemed until, at length, the young man looked up and straight at her.

  It was an odd first glance that they gave each other, for Oriel immediately had an overpowering sense of recognition, as if she had known the stranger all her life. So strong was this feeling in fact that, without being able to help herself, she gave a half-smile and held out her hand. Just for a fleeting second, just for a curious moment, she felt that he had recognised her too, and then his expression changed to one of blind and quite unreasonable fear. He scrambled to his feet shouting, ‘Wevere! Wevere!’ and with one more terrified glance at her, bolted into the protection of the trees.

  Oriel stood transfixed, quite amazed by what she had seen. She could have been an ogre, a monster, a dragon — or even the ominous vision of St Dunstan working at his forge, the vision that supposedly killed anyone unfortunate enough to look upon the saint’s holy features. All she could reasonably assume was that the musician had mistaken her for somebody else, somebody foreign and frightening to him. Rather sadly she turned away, walking slowly back to where Emma stood with the horses.

  ‘Who was that playing, my Lady?’

  ‘I don’t know. A man I have never seen before. And yet it was odd, I felt as if I have always known him,’ answered Oriel in bewilderment.

  *

  The riders from Gascony, leading their horses down the wooden plank of a ship — riding so hard at its moorings that it seemed likely at any moment to capsize — were nearly blown into the foaming race beneath. Everywhere they looked the sea was in strips of colour, jade plunging beneath iron, and cream leaping over turquoise, the noise of a million merpeople shouting in their ears. But dominating every other sound was the beating of the cruel and desolate rain, and the elder man pulled his black beaver well down upon him while the other raised his hood as they mounted their horses and turned their faces towards Canterbury.

  The pair were an interesting study in contrasts as they rode silently, side by side: the elder rather fat, with short stout legs bulging against the flanks of his mount, his plump knees high and bent by the angle of his stirrups. Yet though heavily built it was obvious that he was still quite nimble, and the jowled face with its large nose and curving lips had once been handsome. His light brown eyes, as merry and sparkling as those of a harvest mouse, even now had great charm, set roundly and boldly in his moonlike visage. And his general demeanour was one of a sociable man, a bon viveur, yet a man who was nobody’s fool and understood only too well the ways of a wicked and weak-willed world.

  As the older man was bulky, so the younger one was spare. Tall, thin, he sat his horse as if he were a bird of prey, his shoulders hunched and his brilliant eyes turning, hawklike, from side to side. From his head a shock of full hair, the colour of cob nuts, hung to his shoulders, and a great strand of it, which he tossed back with an impatient hand, had worked its way loose from his hood. His fingers were long, bony, rather cruel-looking; his mouth hard as a rock. It was obvious that here was a man who was not to be crossed.

  The two men went fast, covering the miles that lay between Dover and Canterbury as if they feared darkness might fall at any moment; for the storm had made evening out of afternoon and the crashing trees of the great woods forced the riders to lie low beneath the dripping branches, thus shielding them from what little light was left. It was with a sense of relief that they finally picked their way through the last of the springs and ponds, swollen to bursting point by the overwhelming downpour, and saw the walls of the cathedral rising in the distance before them.

  ‘We shall stay here,’ said the elder. ‘We can leave for London at first light.’

  ‘I have heard that travellers may rest at the Abbey of St Augustine. Shall I enquire the way?’

  As they reached the gates a bolt of lightning tore the clouds and the rain intensified, falling from the purplish sky in a solid sheet. Both men, strong though they were, shivered involuntarily and were glad to go in to the shelter of the abbey’s stout and uncompromising building.

  All about them, as they entered, they saw the dimness of old stone walls and flagstone floors, with light entering in shafts from high windows above; in their nostrils, meanwhile, came the smell of incense and fresh rushes, mixed with the pungent spiciness of garden herbs. The older man sniffed and the young monk who had acted as porter smiled.

  ‘We grow many herbs here. The abbot believes that they are of medicinal as well as culinary value. He has a book of remedies said to be very old.’

  ‘I should be interested to see it. I, too, believe in the power of plants’ healing properties. But let me introduce myself — Paul d’Estrange, knight of Gascony. And this is my squire, Marcus de Flaviel.’

  The monk inclined his head slightly. ‘You have travelled far. Come, let me show you to your quarters. Our repast is not for another hour and you will have time to rest.’

  The younger man said abruptly, ‘I’ll see to the horses first. They have served us well, and must do so again if we are to reach London tomorrow.’

  The monk nodded and asked, ‘You have business there?’

  ‘Great business,’ answered Paul. ‘Business that we must lay at the feet of the king himself if we are to get satisfaction.’

  *

  In the flickering rush light the private chamber at Bayndenn took on a new dimension, the walls spreading outward to a blur of blackness, so that the far corners appeared huge and cavelike. And in those places where the torchlight did not reach, the sound of the wind echoed, while the house creaked eerily like a cog in a tempest.

  ‘I should not have come,’ said Margaret Sharndene, shivering. ‘I know I will have great difficulty in journeying back.’

  ‘Then you can stay here,’ answered Alice soothingly. ‘With Robert in Battle there is no need for you to hurry.’

  Margaret continued to frown. ‘I should have been sensible and remained at Sharndene. I called on you yesterday, when the weather was fine, and was told by Isabel that you would not be here until today. But I wanted to see you so much. Alice, I need help.’

  The younger woman looked at her sharply. ‘What sort of help? What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing serious. That is, nothing serious to anyone except me. It is simply that Robert loves another, and the very idea is eating at me like a canker. I think of nothing else, day or night.’

  There was a moment’s silence during which the rain tapped on the window like a knocking finger and the wind blew a great gust of smoke throughout the house. Alice drew back into the shadows thinking how strange people were. If she had been asked to name the last person on earth to suffer jealousy, she would have said Margaret. In fact Alice would have wagered that her friend almost expected her husband to take a mistress in view of their life together.

  ‘Why does it upset you so much?’ she asked, hiding her surprise. ‘Most men have a lover — and many women too.’

  ‘I cannot help convention. I am stricken to the heart.’

  ‘Do you fear that he will leave you for her?’

  Margaret considered for a second then said, ‘No, I don’t think that.’

  ‘Then why do you feel so badly? If he has a little whore, so be it. Robert would never sacrifice his family — or his future — for lust.’

  Margaret blew her nose overloudly, looking at Alice from watery eyes.

  ‘It is all very well for you, Alice. Sir John loves you. Everybody knows it.�
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  ‘Perhaps because he looks on me as his mistress. After all, I am so much younger than he is and he chose me freely after his first wife died.’

  Very softly, Margaret began to cry again, her broad nose swelling and reddening, her lips trembling slightly.

  ‘But I love him, Alice. Robert may not love me but I love him. What am I to do? Which way shall I turn?’

  Alice stood up, the hem of her kirtle falling heavily to the ground and swishing as she walked.

  ‘For shame on you. I would never have thought to hear you say those words. Fight the girl with all the weapons in your armoury. You have Robert for husband, so hold on to him.’

  Her friend, quite hideous with tearstains, raised her head. ‘How?’

  ‘Dress brightly, paint your face and charm his friends. He will soon wonder what has transformed you. You cannot slip into misery and middle life without a fight. Come Margaret, where is your courage?’

  There was another pause during which her friend blew her nose once more, though this time with a certain amount of conviction. Then Margaret took from her pocket a cooling bag of mint with which she dabbed her cheeks.

  ‘I will do as you suggest,’ she said finally. ‘But first I would like to know that my efforts will not be wasted.’

  ‘Know? How can you know?’

  ‘Alice, I want you to divine your magic stones for me. Read their message and tell me the truth.’

  Lady Waleis went very still. ‘You know how dangerous it is. Things like that are forbidden. Not only by the teachings of the Church but also by my husband. His anger would be enormous if he knew what you had asked.’

  ‘But he will never know. Please, Alice. I feel in need of guidance. Help me on this occasion. And then I promise I will do everything you have advised.’