by Deryn Lake
He looked down at his body with some satisfaction. As the dirt of London rolled away he saw firm skin and hard muscle. He was in excellent condition to put his plan into motion; to woo and win Juliana and thus get his hands on the Mouleshale fortune.
For his visit to the widow’s home, having been dried carefully and rubbed with oils by the same young servant, he chose a rich black gipon with buttoned sleeves and a silver cotehardie with very long flaps, which he had purchased in London. On his legs he had black hose and shoes with pointed toes. And over all this he sported a crimson mantle and cap, rather like that worn by the archbishop.
With one last look at the splendid effect this created, Piers took his father’s black stallion from the stable and, with no word to anyone, swung into the saddle. Then both horse and rider climbed the heights above the manor house, following a thin track skirting Tide Brook, until they reached the point where Mouleshale land became visible. Here Piers reined in. Twenty years before, Juliana’s husband, a merchant, had built himself a grand house on the site. Narrowing his eyes Piers looked at it critically now for any signs of bad taste. Of these, alas, there were many and he fell to thinking how they could be replaced with finer things when he eventually became master.
But he had little time for more detailed contemplation, for no sooner had he entered the hall than the Mistress of Mouleshale was upon him. With a graceful move, Piers dropped to one knee before her, raising her fingers to his lips.
‘Madam,’ he said in a voice that, rich and sonorous though it was, contrived to tremble very slightly.
‘I am told you returned to Sharndene alone last night,’ she answered in a frantic tone. ‘Where is James?’
Piers gave her a hollow-eyed stare, then let his eyes fall to the floor miserably. Without saying a word he conveyed all the anguish of a principal mourner.
‘God’s blood,’ shrieked Juliana, clawing the air frantically. ‘What has happened? Where is my son? Is he ill?’
Piers rose to his feet and made a motion to suggest that he would have laid a comforting hand upon her had not convention decreed otherwise.
‘Alas ...’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Speak to me, Master Piers. Tell me the truth.’
He looked beyond her bleakly, his dark eyes misting over. ‘Yes, Madam, I fear so. He lost his life in London.’
He paused while he weighed his next few words. To lay the blame squarely upon the Gascon squire was the obvious course. Yet Piers knew well that the truth had a cruel way of often coming to light. Better to be vague as to the manner of James’s passing. But he was not able to utter a word as one look at Juliana’s face frightened him to silence.
For a second or two she appeared demented, her jaw and lips working feverishly, a great torrent of tears flowing down her cheeks. Then she began to howl fiercely, at the same time gripping Piers’s cotehardie and pulling at the material in a frenzy of anguish. Terrified lest the expensive stuff should rend beneath her grasp, Piers had to physically check himself from throwing her off, and only with a masterful show of self-control could he compose his features into a look of sympathy.
‘Madam,’ he said brokenly. ‘Dearest Madam.’
But she was not listening to him. Releasing her grip she was threshing about the hall in despair.
‘Juliana,’ he tried tentatively, but was interrupted by a haglike old servant who flew to her mistress’s side from nowhere and clutched her to a greasy bosom.
‘There, there,’ the beldam shouted. ‘There, there, little sweet. Joan is here, old Joan is here.’
The sweat broke out on Piers’s brow — he had never seen a more repellent couple. Just for a moment blind panic seized him and he thought that he could never bring himself to woo the Mistress of Mouleshale even were she ten times as rich. He turned to go but a fluttering motion attracted his attention. Juliana was flapping a pale hand at him.
‘Stay,’ she said, her voice muffled by the hag’s embrace. ‘Stay, dear Piers. Tell me how my boy met his end.’
He hesitated one second longer — this was the moment when he could have resisted the chance to change his fortune and gone from Mouleshale forever. But the thought of all that vast and glorious wealth was too much. He turned back towards her, his eyes sweetly sad.
‘Madam Juliana ...’ he answered. ‘I shall wait here until your need for me is done.’
He said this without inference but hoping, nonetheless, that the words might quicken her attention. And, sure enough, that terrible grieving eye did glance at him briefly — and then away again.
‘Yes stay, Piers, stay. I will be recovered enough to speak soon. Joan, see to Master Sharndene’s wishes.’
She wandered from the room like a sleepwalker, the servant turning to Piers for instructions.
‘Wine,’ he said tersely. ‘Your best. And food within the hour.’ And then muttered to himself. ‘I believe there is a long night’s work ahead of me.’
*
As Piers began his repast so, too, did Paul and Marcus, dining late with the Abbot of St Augustine in the abbot’s private chamber. They sat at a wooden table, the abbot at the head, the two men on either side of him, and while the knight and the cleric discussed cures, salves and potions, the squire looked about with interest at the personal possessions of their friend and benefactor.
The abbot’s room in the abbey’s west wing, though small and fairly spartan — there being no rug on the stone floor nor hangings on the wall — nonetheless held a carved desk of intricate design and a wooden chest of sturdy antiquity, a panel of which depicted a swineherd knocking acorns from a tree for his pigs, and another a sun risen in splendour. Marcus caught himself wondering if it held a secret compartment in which the abbot kept documents and valuables.
As with all the other parts of the abbey the smell of incense and herbs permeated the air, together with the soft green aroma which rose from the rushes spread beneath their feet. There was also a faint odour of musk, presumably coming from the abbot’s garments and, as always, the scent conjured into Marcus’s mind one of his few early memories. He saw again a slant-eyed woman pin a ring to a little boy’s hat and then slowly walk away from him without looking back. He could remember, even now, the sway of her hips and the way she had moved, putting her feet down silently, as if she were stalking. He could remember, too, the anguish of standing still in the middle of the narrow, thronged street, waiting for her to return. And he could remember how he had cried, helpless and afraid, when she had not appeared.
Marcus looked across the table at his patron. Tonight the fat knight was at his most affable, basking in the abbot’s praise. For the herbal compound Paul had prepared had cured the acidity that burned in the abbot’s chest and restored him to full appetite, as he had claimed it would. In fact the hollow cheeks were already filling out and the emaciated body had a covering of flesh.
The conversation of the two older men had by now turned away from medicine and Paul was smiling a little anxiously as the abbot said, ‘But what of the future, Sir Paul? If the king is too busy to hear your suit, what is your plan?’
The knight spread his hands. ‘I have no idea, my Lord. There seems little point in returning to Gascony. I thought perhaps of offering myself as physician to some great English household.’
‘You are not married then?’
‘I am a widower.’
‘So there is no reason why you should not settle here?’
‘None at all, my Lord. As long as my squire is welcome too.’
The abbot looked thoughtful, cupping his chin in a thin-fingered hand.
‘My sphere of influence is limited, as you can imagine, but I will gladly write you a letter of commendation to the archbishop. He succeeded only last year and may still need men in his household. He is in Maghefeld at the moment ...’
‘Maghefeld?’
‘In Sussex. He has a palace there, rather a beautiful one in fact, and takes great pleasure in visiting it. It will be a pleasant ride for yo
u in the morning.’
Paul nodded his head. ‘It is God’s will, my Lord, that you have spoken. I thank you for your suggestion and tomorrow will go to pay him homage.’
The abbot poured some white wine, the colour of sunshine, into two cups. ‘I drink to your good fortune, Sir Paul,’ he said.
The Gascon took the offered cup, obviously on the point of launching into a fulsome speech of thanks.
Marcus rose to his feet, ‘My Lord, Sir Paul, if I might be excused. I would like to take the air before I retire.’
He bowed his way out, glad to be alone. Before him, beyond the abbey gardens, stretched the fields and, beyond these, a river flowed into the distance. In its cool, silver depths both the setting June sun and its sister moon — strangely at odds against the mazarine sky — were reflected. Marcus stared at them thinking that the same sun and moon shone over Gascony and over the lands that had once belonged to Paul d’Estrange. He supposed it probable that he would never see them again, never look on the places that were his only known background. He wondered what lay ahead of him and if he might, perhaps, join the household of the archbishop when he arrived in Maghefeld.
Rather alarmingly at that moment the abbey bells began to toll the knell, calling the monks to evening prayer. With a slight shiver Marcus turned back to the abbey, glad to find the sleeping draught Paul had compounded waiting in his cell. He swallowed it in a mouthful, feeling its warmth fire his stomach. And after it came oblivion and no dreams and not even the thought of the youth who had died in London to trouble his sleeping mind.
Seven
The waking was harsh, swift and rather frightening. At one moment Oriel had been wandering in a dream-world: a world in which the noise of a gittern turned into the cry of a great white swan, and, at every step, a young man with long brown hair stood in her path; at the next she was wide awake, staring at the ceiling, her heart thumping crazily and her hands grasping the material of the bedcover in panic.
Yet there was nothing to be afraid of, for lying there in the chill of early morning she could see by the light thrown from the windows that all was perfectly peaceful and could hear the sounds of the awakening household. Chains crunched, bolts creaked and somewhere a servant’s voice raised itself in song.
Oriel quickly got out of bed, her feet shuddering against the harsh wood of the floor, and crossed to where she could see over the moat to the land beyond. A silver sun, early and not yet full-blooded, was struggling up through the dawning mist, and the swans still slept on a moat bright as emerald. Smoke from the re-kindled fire in the hall hung thin and straight as a lance, and an answering thread from the bakehouse told her that fresh crisp bread would soon be pulled from the cavernous ovens.
Beyond Sharndene and its encompassing circle of water, the slopes of the basin in which it lay peeped through the mist like strips of ribbon, while on the heights above the full-leafed trees thrust eager fingers into the vapour. Within two hours it would be fine and hot; a day for riding forth. Eagerly, Oriel walked through to the chamber beyond to see if her mother stirred or slumbered.
Margaret looked younger in her sleep, her hair fluffed out on the pillow and the severe lines of her face softened. She slept alone — Robert being once again in Battle — and the empty bed diminished her, making her seem somehow more vulnerable. Oriel felt a rush of guilt; guilt for resenting her mother and her angry snappish ways. Without really knowing why, she put her arms round the slumbering form and dropped a kiss on its peaceful cheek.
‘Robert?’ said Margaret, not awake.
‘No Mother, it is Oriel. Go back to sleep.’
But her mother was struggling to consciousness, her eyes opening slowly and taking in the fact that she was in her bedchamber and that it was her daughter who leaned over her and looked so kindly into her face.
‘It is early,’ she said at last. ‘Why are you up?’
‘I could not sleep. I was dreaming and it woke me. Mother, it is going to be fine. May we go out?’
Margaret sat up, yawning. ‘I intend to go to the palace with Cogger. I have some fowl for the archbishop. You may perhaps accompany me.’
Yet though she knew she ought to take her daughter, there was once again the old sense of reluctance. If Margaret could have had her way she would never again be seen with Oriel at her side. She could imagine only too clearly the comparisons that even her friends must make. How they must think that it was the Devil’s parody — a plain woman giving birth to such a rare and delicate beauty.
Through dropped lids she looked at her daughter in the white light of the misty dawn, saw the elegant sweep of cheek bones, the fall of pale gold hair, the eyes bright as harebells.
‘You are beautiful,’ she said.
Oriel turned pink. ‘No, Mother. I am ordinary. It is you who are beautiful.’
Margaret stared at her. In all the times they had spent together their conversation had never gone down such a path.
‘How can you say that, Oriel? Look for yourself. I am hog-featured: thick of nose and small of eye.’
‘But Mother, you are vivid where I am pale. I am but a simpering shadow measured to your colour.’
Margaret savoured the words slowly. Was it possible that some knowledge of paints and a certain style in dress could pass for beauty? Or was it, perhaps, that when she wanted to converse her amusing turn of chatter could blind her listeners?
‘Oriel,’ she said suddenly, ‘do you care for me?’
‘You know I do,’ answered her daughter without hesitation. They regarded each other silently. Words of devotion between parents and children were not spoken lightly for, after all, times were not easy. A son was procreated to inherit, to fight, to emulate his father; a girl was useful for one thing only, to attract the best marriage possible in order to further the position of her family. Domestic life was entirely centred around these reasonings. There was very little room for anything approaching affection.
‘We shall certainly go out today,’ said Margaret, moved to generosity by a sudden upsurge of emotion. ‘You may indeed ride with me to Maghefeld.’
Oriel shivered slightly, her cheeks pale where they had been dark a moment ago.
‘I dreamt that there was a stranger in the woods, but still I would like to come. Nothing exciting happens to those who stay at home.’
Margaret gave her a reproving look. ‘There will be plenty of time for excitement when your father finds you a husband, my girl.’
Oriel did not answer.
*
An hour before the ladies of Sharndene rose from their beds Marcus Flaviel was already fully awake and dressing himself for the day, his long fingers dealing swiftly with fastenings and buckles, his face set as he shaved away the night’s growth of beard. Everything about him suggested a certain mistrust, his shoulders taut and tense, his whole body alert as if he would spring on an enemy at any moment. For to him victory had been too quick. The archbishop had accepted both himself and Paul into the palace entourage with so little questioning, so little fuss, that it was almost as if he had been expecting them before their arrival.
As he slipped on his jerkin, Marcus thought back to yesterday. He and his patron had been shown into the presence just as the afternoon sun had started to lower in the sky, only to find John Stratford already seated, reading the letter which had been sent up ahead of them. Finally he had looked up. ‘The abbot tells me that you have cured his lack of appetite by use of Arab remedies, Sir. He also says that you and your squire seek some post in England while the king looks into your suit for redress.’
‘Indeed, my Lord, that is so. I wondered if perhaps you might know of a household where we could be of use.’
Marcus thought of the archbishop’s cool crystal eyes and frozen look as he had answered, ‘A knight versed in the art of herbalism must be welcome wherever he goes. And as to your squire ...’
He had stopped, staring Marcus up and down thoughtfully. ‘You look as if you fear nothing,’ he had said. ‘Do you?�
�
It had been a disconcerting question and Marcus had remained silent. The archbishop’s expression had not wavered as he continued, ‘Well, answer me!’
‘My Lord, I fear what most men fear: dying in pain, being friendless, losing a limb.’
‘But not the unusual; things that others might shrink from as strange?’
‘It depends, my Lord.’
Stratford had then slipped into such a long silence that Paul had eventually ended it with a polite cough.
‘You know of someone who might welcome us, my Lord?’
The archbishop had smiled, though the look in the wintery eyes had not altered at all.
‘I think you might both stay here for a while,’ he had said. ‘I am sure that you could be of service as members of my personal staff.’
It had been too easy, Marcus thought now, as he walked beyond the confines of the palace. Something else lay behind the archbishop’s decision. If it had been the household of any man other than that of the primate, the squire would have thought that they had been lured into a trap. And now, as he made his way into the quadrangle, the feeling recurred. What secret was it that these walls held? What was it that the archbishop really wanted them to do?
His hand flew automatically to his sword as a softly whispering voice startled him unreasonably. But as he could see no one he was about to make his way out of the courtyard to the palace gardens, when a rose fell from the skies above and landed at his feet. Marcus looked up, cursing the morning mist that shrouded everything and hid the higher branches of the trees from sight.
There was a mischievous laugh and a voice said, ‘Up here, look!’
And there above him sat an impish man with a mass of curling dark hair, perched on a branch of a tree and holding a struggling cat in his arms. He gave a sweet smile, but it was immediately obvious to Marcus from the slightly vacant look in the stranger’s eyes that there was something unusual about him.