To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  ‘I hope he is duly appreciative.’

  ‘I think he is most grateful to Madam Margaret, Sir. He has already mixed her several compounds which, so her woman says, are Arab potions for health and beauty.’

  Robert would have loved to ask more but a certain dignity forbade him from gossiping with his steward. Instead he said, ‘I shall be most interested to hear about it from madam herself. Thank you, Cogger.’

  Duly chastened the steward relapsed into silence as he and his master cantered towards home.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Marcus, watching the horsemen disappear.

  ‘Master Sharndene.’

  ‘Oriel’s father?’ The squire looked at the distant figures with newly awakened interest.

  ‘Yes. Soon to be mine, I think.’

  ‘Who? What do you mean?’

  ‘John has offered for Oriel’s hand on my behalf. He wants her to be my wife.’

  Marcus’s stomach turned so suddenly that for a moment he thought he would vomit, and he was forced to clap his hand over his mouth as he retched.

  ‘What is it, Marcus? What is wrong? Are you ill?’

  The earnest blue eyes stared at him anxiously and the little man began to mouth with distress.

  ‘No, I’m all right. It will pass.’

  Marcus stood still, reining his horse in and slipping from the saddle in order to lean against its comforting brown flank. The smell of its skin was the thing he would always associate afterwards with pain in his chest, a pain which was, he presumed, generally termed a breaking heart.

  His eyes slid sideways and he regarded Colin with a hard, black stare. He had heard it said that madmen could be wild in their passion, as cruel and base as the beasts of the field.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked Colin. ‘Have I been naughty?’

  Instantly Marcus felt guilty. What right had he to react like this; he had done no more than talk to Oriel Sharndene. If her father wished to strengthen his position with the archbishop, what business was it of a humble Gascon squire whose master no longer even had estates?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking.’

  Colin’s smile was guileless. ‘You are thoughtful, yes. Then too.’

  ‘What do you mean? When?’

  ‘Oh, just then,’ answered Colin vaguely.

  They had reached the lands tenanted by Isabel, and Marcus found that he had dismounted by a large pond, heavily grown with willows which bent their heads to its dark green waters. Though there was no sign of anyone about, someone had started to build a cottage on its secluded shores for he could see its mud walls already taking shape.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, resolved not to punish the little man further, ‘I’ll show you how to skim a stone across the water.’

  He picked one up and watched it bounce across the tranquil surface, making little splashes as it went.

  ‘Here, let me.’ Colin was eager as a child; surely lust must be unknown to such an innocent?

  The half-wit’s stone sank but, grimly determined, he picked up another, his teeth biting his lower lip with the anxiety of perfecting this new game. Smiling, Marcus sat down, his back to one of the trees, removing his jerkin as he did so. He rolled it up and put it behind his head and, just momentarily in the heat of the day, closed his eyes.

  He must have dropped straight off to sleep for he had a curious dream almost immediately. It was that he opened his eyes and saw the cottage built and standing outside it a girl; a tall, lean girl with black hair hanging loosely to her waist. She was humming a song to herself and picking some flowers that grew in the shallow water. From inside the cottage came the clack of a spindle and a white cat sat on its step, washing its face with a long thin paw.

  In his dream Marcus stood up and the movement must have attracted the girl’s attention, for she looked over to him. He saw her face then; saw the angular bones of it; how the hair grew from a point on her forehead; and how her eyes gleamed against her skin.

  ‘You’ve come then,’ she said.

  He was so frightened that Marcus woke himself up, and sat panting and gasping beneath the tree. Colin looked at him curiously from where he stood skimming stones with ease.

  ‘I’ve learned how to do it,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve mastered that quickly.’ Marcus got to his feet, amazed at how stiff he felt.

  Colin regarded him seriously. ‘I thought it took me a long time. Look, the sun has started to dip.’

  He was right. The waters of the pond were shimmering, reflecting the light of a sinking sun, their stillness broken only by two wild ducks which silently emerged from the tall reeds and made rhythmically for the opposite bank. Marcus’s glance at the cottage confirmed that it was nothing but a shell, needing thatching and shaping and completion.

  ‘I must have slept for some while,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, though your eyes were open. You were staring.’

  Marcus felt a frissance of fear. ‘At what?’

  ‘At that little building.’

  ‘Was anybody there?’

  ‘No, nobody. We have been alone all the time.’

  Marcus suddenly shivered. ‘Come on, it’s getting chilly. We must get you home.’

  ‘Can we come here again tomorrow?’

  ‘No, not here. We shall go to the river as we usually do.’

  They mounted their horses in silence and turned back towards Maghefeld.

  As they arrived at the top of the hill from where they could look down on the palace, a man and a woman, very brightly dressed, came out of its main door. Marcus felt a sense of unease, the figure of the man was unpleasantly familiar.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  Colin squeezed up his light eyes. ‘Piers Sharndene, Oriel’s brother.’

  Marcus’s heart sank. The last time he had set eyes on Piers had been over the dripping corpse of James Mouleshale.

  *

  Without looking at Robert, Oriel swallowed and stared at the floor.

  ‘Say something.’ Sharndene could feel irritability rising in his throat. ‘Go on girl! Don’t stand there tongue-tied. Will you marry the archbishop’s brother?’

  Without waiting for her reply he went on, ‘I am giving you the chance to say no, Oriel, not holding you to your promise never to disobey me again. And why am I doing this? Because I believe Colin de Stratford to be a raving lunatic, that is why.’

  ‘That he is not.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘He is not mad, only childlike.’

  Oriel’s vivid eyes — usually so unclouded — looked fierce for a moment before she dropped her gaze once more to the ground.

  Robert lowered his tone and said soothingly, ‘So you do not find him offensive?’

  From somewhere behind him Sharndene was vaguely aware of the twitch of a blue-stockinged leg as Margaret signalled to Oriel with her foot. Ignoring the move he went on, ‘In that case it would be a great honour for us all if this family were to be allied with that of the archbishop.’

  He cleared his throat, ‘You realise I am being considered as Sheriff of the county. Stratford can influence the king enormously when the day comes for a choice to be made.’

  He paused and Oriel answered softly, ‘Father, thank you for giving me the right of refusal. However, Colin is kind and I accept.’

  Out of the shadows, Margaret spoke. ‘Oriel, you are quite certain about this? Your father’s future prospects are of little consequence compared with a lifetime tied to a man who is, at his best, retarded.’

  As Robert turned to glare at her, Margaret met his eyes with the boldest look he had seen in them for years, and he thought briefly that she was turning into a considerable woman.

  In the silence that followed, Oriel spoke again. ‘It is unnecessary to consider further. I shall have to marry someone soon and Colin will do as well as any.’

  ‘Then I shall leave at once to tell them,’ said Robert, turning to the window that Margaret might not se
e the conflicting emotions which swept his face.

  But he had no time to think, for immediately his eye was caught by an extraordinary cavalcade wending its way down into the hollow in which Sharndene nestled. With their backs to the setting sun and riding in quite the most excellently caparisoned splendour came Piers and Juliana de Mouleshale, accompanied by a host of out-riders.

  Even from this distance Robert could see that his son was dressed sumptuously in fine white clothes sewn with brilliants, a scarlet trimming around his hat and, on his feet, soft shoes with pointed toes. Juliana, too, was tricked up as finely as her escort, sporting a high pointed hennin from which floated a gold-threaded veil.

  ‘God ’a mercy!’ said Robert as Margaret and Oriel crowded beside him, the discussion of a moment ago completely forgotten in the excitement.

  ‘So that is where he’s been!’ said Margaret grimly.

  ‘Comforting the bereaved mother!’ Robert did not need to put an edge in his voice.

  The procession began to clatter over the drawbridge and from the hall below Piers’s shrill and excited tones could be heard as he dismounted and made his entrance.

  ‘Where is my father?’

  ‘Here,’ cried Robert, striding down the stairs and into the hall. ‘Where the Devil have you been?’ He ignored Juliana who was making her way a few paces behind.

  ‘Sir.’ Piers had decided to be effusive and had sunk on one knee as his father approached.

  ‘Get up, get up,’ said Robert irritably, and was horrified to see that Juliana, too, had dropped to her knees like a penitent.

  ‘We crave your blessing, Father,’ said Piers sweetly.

  ‘God’s Holy Blood,’ cried Robert. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘I have wived, Sir. Wived!’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ shouted Margaret from the stairs. ‘Madam, what has been going on?’

  For answer Juliana rose from her kneeling pose and hurled herself at Margaret crying, ‘Mother! Mother!’

  Robert sat down heavily on the dais. ‘Cogger, bring me a flagon. I feel my only escape is to lose myself in drink.’

  Oriel, wide-eyed, turned to her mother. ‘Is Juliana really my sister-in-law?’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ Piers rose to his feet, patting his sister on the head a fraction too hard. ‘We were visited yesternight by Sir Priest and are wedded and bedded and have told the archbishop. All we need is the blessing of you both to seal our joy.’

  He shot Robert a look which said, ‘I’ve done it! I’ve married the Mouleshale fortune and you can go to hell in a bucket if you don’t approve!’ But his lips continued to smile winningly as Juliana, gawky as a pole, curtsied to her new parents-in-law.

  ‘Oh God, God, God,’ said Robert, drinking deeply. ‘Two of them in one day! It is too much for human flesh to endure.’ And in reply to Piers’s puzzled frown, he went on, ‘Your sister has but an hour since consented to marry Colin de Stratford, the archbishop’s younger brother.’

  ‘The half-wit?’ Piers’s charming expression slipped noticeably.

  ‘You must not speak of him like that,’ shouted Oriel. ‘He is kind, and clever at music, and I feel as if I have known him always. He is already a friend to me.’

  And with that, Oriel turned and left the hall without a word of farewell.

  Ten

  The sun dipped beyond the wooded hollow in which Sharndene nestled so snugly, as a roll of thunder sounded from the hills and a dark race of clouds blew inland from the sea. Then came silence, broken only by the cry of a distant storm-bird. The beautiful June day of 1334 was ending ominously.

  To the great relief of the household, Piers insisted on leaving at once for Mouleshale, making a vast amount of noise about the danger of his bride getting drenched. Bidding his family a rapid farewell, he bundled Juliana on to her horse and carefully took to the saddle himself, adjusting his sleeves so that they could in no manner brush against the flanks of his mount.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ gasped Margaret, having seen him off.

  ‘I do,’ answered Robert tersely. ‘Piers has achieved his ambition. He has acquired a fortune by marrying a wretch. I would like to disown him.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you? You had your chance when he asked for your blessing,’ answered Margaret roundly.

  Yet again Robert was struck by the change in his wife. ‘I hear that the Gascon knight is mixing you potions for your beauty,’ he said abruptly. ‘And what, pray, brings him to have knowledge of such a subject?’

  Margaret blushed but answered, ‘I did not know that you had stooped to gossiping with servants, Robert. But yes, it is true; Sir Paul is making me compounds. He was educated by a priest who crossed the Pyrenees and studied Arab medicine.’

  Robert felt that he disliked the man before he had even met him. ‘I must look out for this paragon when I go to the palace tonight — this man of arms and medicine and charm and learning,’ he said irritably.

  Much to his annoyance, Margaret laughed. ‘I can see that you have taken against him, which is a pity for you. You will miss the companionship of a witty man.’ She changed the subject before her husband could argue. ‘If you are leaving for the palace I think it would be best if you did so soon. I believe we are in for a bad storm.’

  Oriel stood up from where she had been sitting.

  ‘You are going to tell Colin of my decision?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiled a little wearily. ‘I hope he receives the news well. Goodnight. I will go to bed before the tempest begins.’

  She turned and left the hall quietly, suddenly as small and defenceless as a flower. Staring after her Margaret said, ‘I do not like it. I do not like it at all.’

  Robert got to his feet. ‘You heard what she said for yourself. She told Piers to hold his tongue; she claimed that Colin was already her friend. You cannot argue with that, Margaret.’

  But his blustering words hid what he was really thinking and as his horse crossed the drawbridge, he almost turned back to tell his wife that he had changed his mind.

  A wind had come up and howled round Robert, plucking his mantle and snatching at his horse’s mane. As he rode through the woods it cried amongst the trees, as sad and forlorn as a dejected child. Even bending low and urging his mount to hurry could not take the sound away.

  ‘But she swore that he was a friend to her. I gave her the chance to refuse,’ he called out loud. But the wind ignored him and Robert was relieved to leave the trees and head for the open countryside and towards the palace. As he went through the door the rain started again, pouring down in a solid sheet, and he hurried inside and peered out again, making remarks about ‘Evil night,’ and wondering if the great Sir Paul d’Estrange were on hand and ready to receive a withering glance from Robert Sharndene.

  And, sure enough, as he climbed the stone staircase he heard the sound of voices and on being shown into the great chamber discovered that, seated beside the brazier, the chessboard and pieces set out before them, John de Stratford and a stranger sat discussing a move.

  They looked up as he entered and Robert thought, ‘That funny little fat man can’t be him!’ Yet as the stranger leapt to his feet and bowed, Robert reconsidered. The penetrating mouse-bright eyes suggested someone who could not be overlooked.

  Robert returned the bow and said coolly, ‘Robert Sharndene, Sir Paul. You are already spoken of with awe and I am happy to meet you at last.’

  The Gascon smiled. ‘Master Sharndene, my lord has also told me of you. It is an enormous pleasure to actually see you.’

  John de Stratford, still with a chess-piece in his hand, said, ‘Take a seat, Robert, do. I expect you have come with news for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharndene sitting down heavily, his mind suddenly removed from trying to put Paul d’Estrange in his place. ‘I have indeed.’

  *

  On the top floor of the palace the storm seemed to scream and rage all the louder, the wind tearing at the rattling panes like m
arauding fingers and the rain lashing dementedly against the shivering walls. The noise was such that Marcus imagined the heralding of the last trump as he peered out of the window, only to see a lightning-streaked sky deep as an ocean and full of racing black chariot clouds. Behind him Colin shivered as a clap of thunder burst overhead.

  ‘Has Master Sharndene really come to see John in this weather?’ he asked wonderingly.

  ‘Yes. I think he has come to tell the archbishop his decision about your marriage,’ Marcus answered, trying to appear uncaring.

  With the uncanny perception of the mad Colin said, ‘It doesn’t please you that I am to marry Oriel, does it? But it will not mean that we can no longer be friends.’

  He looked pathetic, his face wrinkled as a walnut in his anxiety and his steadfast eyes glassy with unshed tears. Impulsively, Marcus crossed to the bed and, sitting down upon it, took Colin in his arms.

  ‘I want you to be happy, you know I do. It is just that ...’

  ‘You are afraid I will prefer Oriel to you? I won’t, I promise you. The three of us will always be together.’

  He was growing tired and, after a moment or two, his eyes closed and he fell asleep, still with Marcus’s arms around him. Gently the squire put Colin down on his pillow and then flung himself on the floor beside his bed, lying fully dressed and listening to the storm, before slowly beginning to drift towards sleep.

  *

  The wicked weather blew itself away in the night, and the next day found clouds running like hounds in the sky and the sun slashing fire onto the hills. In the darkness before first light, John de Stratford rose from his bed and avoiding the chapel situated between the hall and the tower directly above the porch, went to the tiny place in his great chamber where Thomas à Becket had once knelt to pray. Here he was solitary and in the dim candlelight could think in peace.

  First he let his mind wander over the past: his part in the downfall of Edward II; his subsequent imprisonment at the hands of Roger Mortimer, the queen’s lover; his emergence into favour again when the young monarch had personally arrested Mortimer, storming into the earl’s bedroom and dragging him from the bed where he slept with the king’s mother. Stratford had heard that she had begged her son not to execute her lover on the spot and Edward had reluctantly agreed. But the archbishop knew full well that his youthful king had never intended that; was far too clever to spill blood himself. Instead Edward had let Mortimer stand trial for his life and had appointed his trusted friend John de Stratford as his Chancellor and principal adviser.