by Deryn Lake
*
As the archbishop began his conversation with God, the Gascon knight and his squire walked into an alehouse in Bread Street and sat down at one of the crude trestles that were its only form of furniture. The squire, so tall that he had to bend almost in two to negotiate the entrance, called for ale and one of the daughters of the house — a pretty slattern with a curving red mouth — hurried forward to serve him. She was thirteen and not yet wed, and gazed at Marcus admiringly, thinking him arresting, with his exceptional height and hard hawkish features.
As she fluttered a smile, Paul whispered, ‘I believe you have made a conquest,’ but Marcus did not respond, merely raising one thin shoulder in dismissal.
‘How much longer will this go on?’ he asked. ‘We have been in London a month now and barely glimpsed the king. I do not believe he is interested in our suit.’
Paul sighed. ‘He is involved in his own affairs. His hands are full.’
‘You mean Scotland?’
‘Scotland, France, everything. The plight of a middle-rank Gascon knight must be very low on Edward’s list of priorities.’
‘Then what are we to do?’
Paul did not answer but finished his ale, banging the flagon on the table for attention when he had done so. Instantly the girl was at his side, leaning forward as she poured from the jug to touch the knight’s arm. Now it was Marcus’s turn to smile and his set features transformed spectacularly. But a commotion in the doorway of the alehouse brought both men’s attention back to their surroundings as two elegants made an unlikely entrance into the squalid tavern.
‘Or rather,’ Paul thought, ‘one elegant and one would-be.’
For though one of the newcomers was handsome, with crisply curling hair and eyes lustrous as darkened pearls, the other was ugly, his face a seething quagmire of yellowed pustules and angry blemishes. Yet even he, like the other, was dressed in the height of fashion with long pendant sleeves and pointed shoes — utterly out of place in such surroundings.
‘Ale,’ called one shrilly. ‘Your best.’
Every head turned and there was a rumble of spiteful laughter. ‘Your best!’ mimicked a voice from a dark corner.
Ignoring the hostility the two sat down at the far end of the trestle which d’Estrange and Flaviel already shared with several others.
‘Odious!’ said the handsome man. ‘Odious! If it were not that I die of thirst nothing would induce me to remain.’
He had an affected manner of speech which Paul found faintly comic but which obviously impressed the alekeeper’s daughter, who now approached with a sinuous movement of her hips. As she leant forward, all eagerness, Paul noticed a flicker of interest in the stranger’s black pearl eyes. So he did not mind which side of the bed he lay in!
So quickly that the movement was over before it had even begun, the man put up his hand and pinched the girl’s rounded buttocks. She blushed and moved away but not before she had shot him a brilliant glance. He gave her a slow sweet smile in return, while his companion gulped miserably, riddled with jealousy. As if he delighted in his friend’s misery, the stranger proceeded to give the girl a wink and beckoned her back to his side.
‘How rare to find a rose blooming in such wasteland,’ he said huskily. ‘Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Piers Sharndene and this is James Mouleshale.’
The girl made no answer, only turning a darker shade of pink. As her colour deepened, that of James drained away. He looked utterly bereft. Paul could almost see the working of James’s mind as the young man turned to Marcus and said, ‘You are a stranger in London, Sir?’
‘Yes, I am a Gascon,’ came the brief reply.
‘You are here for a while?’
‘At the moment it would seem indefinitely.’
James rose and made a florid bow, his sleeves dragging in the dirt of the flagstone floor. ‘Then perhaps you would permit me to show you the City. I have only been here a month but already I feel I know my way.’
Piers gave a cluck of irritation, half his attention on the simpering girl, the other on James’s pathetic attempt at nonchalance.
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ answered Marcus. ‘I am squire to Sir Paul d’Estrange and am here simply to serve him.’ Paul could not remember Marcus more frosty.
‘James,’ said Piers, ‘be quiet.’
The miserable youth rubbed his hand over his spots. ‘No, I won’t,’ he answered. ‘I may speak to whom I please.’
Sensing that an argument was ripening, the alekeeper’s daughter moved away to the protection of her father, who stood watching silently, his arms folded upon his chest.
‘When you are in my company you will behave yourself.’
James’s pale face flushed with passion. ‘Do not speak to me so. Remember it is my money that keeps you.’
His voice had risen shrilly and other conversations in the alehouse ceased abruptly. Somewhere a chair was pushed back and those sitting in the dark corner came forward for a better view.
‘I shall ignore that,’ answered Piers, with an attempt at remaining calm.
Before James could reply Marcus stood up, his lean frame towering over the seated couple. ‘It would be better if you continued this outside,’ he said. ‘You are disturbing Sir Paul.’
‘Piss Sir Paul,’ said Piers.
He did not see the fist come flying towards him until he was flat on his back on the stinking floor, something disgusting soiling the fine stuff of his cotehardie. There was a commotion as every man present rose to his feet and the alekeeper’s wife hurried out her daughters.
Paul had a moment of terrible premonition and jumped up. ‘Leave it, Marcus,’ he said. But he was too late. Piers had scrambled upright and was hurling himself at the squire, a sharp bladed knife gleaming in his hand. At that James, who had scrambled on to the table, launched himself onto Marcus’s back and there was a thud of bodies hitting stone as all three toppled over, then sprang up again.
Paul d’Estrange thrust in to protect his squire, pulling at the hapless James who still clung on to Marcus, but Piers, who had somehow managed to extricate himself, ignored the knight, wildly plunging his knife towards the Gascon’s chest. There was the sickening sound of a blade entering flesh, then a moment of absolute quiet as James looked in surprise at the blood spurting from his heart, before he dropped to his knees and then fell sideways, broken and spent amongst the dirt.
‘You’ve killed him,’ screamed Piers. ‘You’ve killed him as surely as if you held the knife.’
‘No,’ Marcus shouted furiously, ‘you are responsible. It is your hand that misjudged, not mine.’
‘Get them out,’ ordered the alekeeper. ‘Get them all out before there is more trouble.’
The dripping corpse went first, hurled through the door as if it had been a toy, followed by the two Gascons and Piers Sharndene. Behind them they saw the throng pick up jugs, pans, chairs — any kind of weapon to see the strangers off. It was not dignified for a knight of Gascony to break into a run, nor for his squire to drag him along by the arm. Neither was it seemly for an elegant to kick off his pointed shoes and hurtle into the maze of alleyways in which the alehouse stood. But there was little choice and the three of them fled off in different directions without daring to look behind.
A voice echoed out of the alley into which Piers had vanished. ‘I’ll be revenged on you, Gascon. Even if it takes me years, James Mouleshale shall not go unavenged.’
But though Marcus turned to shout back there was no sign of the young man who had only a moment ago become his sworn and bitter enemy.
*
‘... what do you say to that, Mistress Oriel?’
Leaning back in his chair the crimson-clad figure of John de Stratford — a gold and jewelled winecup twirling in his fingers, a smile, for once, lighting his wintery features — seemed to feast his eyes on Robert de Sharndene’s fifteen-year-old daughter. In fact if the man had not been a celibate it might well have been thought that the archbishop was
paying court to her. But she sat still, her hands folded mildly in her lap, her eyes averted shyly from his face.
‘Well ...?’
Oriel knew she must appear attentive but all she really wanted to do was stare at the dancing flames of the brazier and listen to the music. For a dreamy mood was upon her; a dreamy mood that had begun some weeks earlier when she had come across the strange young man who had sat alone and played the gittern.
But the archbishop’s voice went droning on. ‘... you are fond of music? The Court has many minstrels.’
‘Really?’ Oriel smiled, trying hard to look alert.
The archbishop smiled back, his mouth twitching up at the corner as if he guessed she was day-dreaming.
‘Yes. The king has five trumpeters, five pipers, two clarion players — to say nothing of a citoler, a tabouretter, a fiddler and a drum. In wartime, of course, they become a military band.’
‘Does he have a gittern?’ The question seemed to slip out almost without her thinking.
The archbishop frowned, his eyes suddenly dark.
‘No, no he does not. Why do you ask?’
‘I heard one the other day,’ Oriel answered slowly. ‘It belonged to a stranger, a young man. It was played more beautifully than I ever thought possible.’
She might not have spoken, so little response did Stratford make. Eventually, after draining his winecup to the full he said quietly, ‘Yes, yes. I know what you mean.’
Oriel woke up at last. ‘You know?’
There was another silence during which the girl found herself subjected to a strange scrutiny. The crystal eyes gazed at her as if they were seeing beyond her mortal flesh and into the depths of her soul. The man of God was frightening like that; a fierce and questioning archangel.
Eventually he spoke. ‘Yes, I know the man.’
Robert, rather bored at being left out, entered the conversation.
‘Is she being a nuisance, my Lord? She has not yet learned to hold her tongue in great company. Oriel, be quiet.’
Once again the archbishop’s face changed. Before her gaze Oriel saw him grow sleek as the slinking black cat that stalked birds in the bluebell woods.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he said urbanely. ‘Your daughter was merely remarking on someone she heard playing the gittern the other day and asking if I knew who it was.’
‘The gittern?’ Margaret’s thin eyebrows rose slightly.
‘Yes, Madam. And it was my brother in fact. Though cursed with a terrible shyness he is a brilliant musician. Quite untutored, I might add. It is a gift from God.’
The master and mistress of Sharndene exchanged incredulous glances.
‘Your brother?’ said Robert eventually. ‘I did not know that you had a brother, my Lord.’
‘I have two. Robert, who resides in London, and Colin, who is here in Maghefeld.’
As Oriel’s parents exchanged a series of startled glances, their daughter clasped her hands together with pleasure.
‘Then it is possible I will hear him play again?’
The archbishop laughed, a rare sound. ‘Anything is possible, my child. But Colin does not care for company. He has always been shy of other people.’
Stratford looked at his guests with an unaltered expression, but inside, his heart began to beat fractionally faster. ‘But of course I shall ask him to play for you again, my dear. He would enjoy that.’
His guest went the colour of a hedgerose, the pale gold hair falling forward as she bent her head again.
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ she murmured, then turned her attention to the contemplation of her food.
The archbishop now gave his full charm to his Bailiff of the Liberty.
‘How did you fare in Battle, Master Sharndene?’
Robert shifted uncomfortably beneath the glittering gaze. Did the man of God know something? Had some agency — human or otherwise — murmured into the archbishop’s ear that Sharndene had visited the house of a certain young widow?
‘I presided at the indictments and attended the gaol delivery, my Lord.’
‘Yes, yes. And ...?’
Robert shrank within. If it had not been for Stratford’s unusually urbane mood he would have thought some kind of trap was being set. And then he wondered if all the good humour was a prelude to disaster, whether the primate always smiled before he struck.
‘And ... my Lord?’
‘And what of William of Northrop? Was he also in attendance?’
Visibly relieved, Robert answered quickly, ‘Aye, my Lord. And also John of Ifield and Thomas of Faversham.’
‘Good, good.’
The archbishop was smiling again and Robert was once more unnerved.
‘Now, Master Sharndene ...’
How unlike Stratford to use this formal mode of address; something was quite definitely in the wind. Finding himself unable to speak Robert merely inclined his head. He was horrified to realise that the archbishop had lowered his tone to one of confidentiality.
‘I want you to come and see me, Sharndene. On a personal matter.’
Robert could not meet the primate’s eye as he murmured, ‘Very good, my Lord. When shall I attend you?’
Stratford purred out his answer. ‘No hurry. It is nothing of urgency. Shall we say when you next return from Battle?’
‘Certainly, my Lord.’
Robert wished himself a thousand miles distant as, with a secretive twitch of his lips, John of Stratford toasted the Master of Sharndene by raising his jewelled winecup.
*
On the morning after the death of James de Mouleshale, three riders left London shortly after daybreak. They rode swiftly, fearing repercussions from the accidental killing in which they had all been involved, and anxious to put as many miles as possible between them and the scene of the death.
The first to leave was Piers, his dark pearl eyes ringed through lack of sleep, his heart icy in his breast. To have to go back to Sharndene; to Robert and his narrow mind; to his flushed cross mother; to his fine-boned sister with her winsome ways, was a nauseous prospect to which he must find a permanent solution — a means of escape which would last forever.
London and, unbeknownst to James, the silken bed of a wealthy merchant had given him a full purse, but Piers knew his own extravagance; was aware that his craving for fine things ruled his entire life. He thought of bales of rich materials; tender meats and sweet red wines; soothing music played by handsome young minstrels, and felt desperation rise in his throat.
His mind moved on to the depressing prospect of telling Juliana Mouleshale that her only child was dead and, even as he thought of her, Piers shuddered. Those dim and peering eyes; the gawky shapeless body. Why, she could not have had a man in her bed in years.
The inspiration that came to him then was like a flash of lightning. At one moment he had been mulling over his lack of prospects, at the next he had seen the solution! Letting out a loud cry, Piers crossed himself in gratitude and spurred his horse on to Maghefeld.
Not far behind him on the same road galloped Paul d’Estrange and Marcus Flaviel, heading for Canterbury and the patronage of the Abbot of St Augustine’s. The knight had left the abbot with a great jar of compound, the herbs picked and prepared by himself, and to enquire whether it had proved effective was as good an excuse as any to spend a few days away from prying eyes.
‘Do you think there will be trouble?’ asked Marcus, as they rode.
‘No. It was an accident. You cannot be brought to account for brawling. Still I think it will be as well to vanish for a while.’
‘But what of your suit to the king?’
‘That will have to wait.’ Paul looked at his companion, saw his pallor and the great purple bruise on his cheek where a flying fist had caught him. ‘You look tired. A good sleep will do you no harm, Marcus. I shall give you a draught tonight.’
Marcus looked impatient. ‘I am not concerned about tonight. It is the future that worries me.’
The fa
t knight smiled imperturbably. ‘The future will take care of itself. I have a plan.’
‘Will you tell me of it?’
The Gascon shook his head. ‘No. Let us make haste to Canterbury. I feel the key to everything lies there.’
And with those puzzling words Marcus had to be content as they galloped through the dust along the pilgrims’ way.
Six
On the afternoon after his return to his father’s house, Piers de Sharndene rose from the bed in which he had been lying throughout the day, and called for his men to bring the great wooden bathtub up the stairs and in to his private chamber. Then, whilst the servants laboured up and down with steaming pails of hot water, he idly strummed a citoler, looked at his clothes critically, and finally visited the garderobe, set in the ample thickness of the wall and boasting a vertical shaft which dropped straight to the moat below. Thus relieved he came back to his room, stripped himself naked before all and lowered himself into the tolerably warm water beneath a shower of rose petals thrown by a handsome young boy.
Piers closed his eyes and let the comfort sink into his bones, while his mind ran rapidly over the plan that was growing more and more acceptable to him. When Piers had heard it spoken that his namesake — young Piers Gaveston, the late king’s lover — had walked at Edward II’s coronation dressed in royal purple sewn with pearls and so decked out that he more resembled the god Mars than an ordinary mortal, Piers had known the direction in which his life must go. He too wanted to clothe himself sumptuously; to have glorious jewels and plate; to own a bathtub like that of the king, with four gilt bronze taps and four leopards’ heads, screened off from the cold by partitions and paving tiles and thick, rich mats. Piers wanted music and laughter, poetry and song, and if ugly things must be done in order to achieve beauty and perfection, then so be it.