by Deryn Lake
In the darkness Stratford felt — just as the great Thomas before him — that though he loved his king yet he feared him. Like his ancestor Henry II, an enormous confidence, bordering on brashness, flowed in Edward’s veins. One could never be quite sure what he was going to do next, or whether one might suddenly find oneself his enemy.
Preparing himself for prayer, Stratford guided his thoughts away from such matters and on to his own family life. And, as if God were already listening to him, a great pang of guilt swept him for his manipulation of Sharndene. Quite cruelly, quite coldly, quite without mercy, he had condemned a young and lively girl to a marriage that could bring her no joy. For kind and endearing though Colin might be, his brain was that of a child in every sense. Though his body might suspect the existence of a physical union between man and woman, unlike many madmen Colin would be incapable of the act. Oriel de Sharndene was destined for a life without love.
Or was she? In the dim light Stratford felt a shiver of disquiet. Forces were at work, things over which he had no control. ‘Oh God help me,’ he murmured. ‘I am Your most powerful servant, and yet the most humble of them all. Help me to know what is right.’
He shivered more violently than ever. He felt that a man knelt beside him, could almost feel the penitent’s hair shirt beneath the finespun robe. It seemed that a voice breathed to him, ‘Let events take their course.’ In glorious terror Stratford crossed himself and closed his eyes fervently, lest he should actually see the great Becket and die of joy.
But an hour later as dawn came up he was himself once more. As he led the prayers in the larger chapel, his eyes were without expression in a face blank as a mask.
‘I shall leave for Canterbury,’ he told his wizened secretary afterwards. ‘Be prepared to go within the hour. And see that Sir Paul d’Estrange is roused. I think on this occasion it might be as well if he accompanies me.’
*
The palace was in an uproar, servants hurrying about and a great many monks rushing to and fro with papers and books.
‘What is happening?’ Marcus asked Wevere.
‘My lord is leaving for Canterbury with no prior warning. We must be ready within the hour.’
Knowing how dishevelled he must appear, Marcus nonetheless went at once to Paul’s chamber, where he found the knight dressed for riding, pulling a pair of boots on to his plump legs.
‘Marcus, where have you been? I needed help to dress but when I went to your chamber you were not there.’
Rather irritably, Marcus answered, ‘Colin was afraid of the storm and I spent the night in his chamber.’
‘Well, those kind of duties won’t befall you much longer. He is soon to be a married man. Robert Sharndene came here last night to give his consent to the match with his daughter.’
Marcus did not answer, bending down to help pull on Paul’s boots.
‘An odd business,’ went on Paul, unaware of his squire’s frozen manner. ‘There will be no joy for her in that relationship.’
Marcus’s face appeared wearily. ‘Do you mean that the marriage will go unconsummated?’ he asked.
‘Either that or Colin will not leave her alone. Whichever way it turns out it will not make for a happy situation.’
Something of the taut and narrowed lips, and the patches of white that appeared round Marcus’s nostrils, made Paul pause. Was it distaste that brought about such violent reaction? The Gascon’s voice took on a soothing note, much as it had to a solemn-faced little boy with a ring pinned to his hat. ‘What is the matter? Do you not approve of the match?’
The squire flung himself violently to his feet. ‘The very idea revolts me. I do not like to think of a young girl being sacrificed.’
‘Young girls are sacrificed every day and yet none of us are incensed. Why are you so concerned about this one in particular? I did not realise you had even met her.’
‘Well I have, briefly.’
Paul looked thoughtful. ‘I believe you have formed some sort of attachment already. Be careful, Marcus.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. Danger lies along that path. Robert Sharndene is a hard man.’
Almost savagely Marcus answered, ‘I care nothing for him but I will not see his daughter suffer.’
‘And how will you stop it?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I shall try.’
The knight’s mouth was a mere line in the folds of his jolly face. ‘You are not to lay a hand on the archbishop’s brother. Stratford is our patron in this country and you will remember it.’
Marcus nodded. ‘I will remember it.’
Paul stood up. ‘Marcus, I know you too well. Give me your oath that you will behave while I am away.’
‘I swear it.’
But there the unpredictable side of the squire’s nature overruled his promise, for no sooner had Paul left the room than Marcus picked up a jar of ointment intended for Margaret and hid it within his jerkin. He fully intended to see Robert Sharndene’s daughter again before the day was out.
*
Oriel sat before her mirror and thought, ‘Is that solemn creature really me? Is that Oriel Sharndene who gazes out at me without a smile?’
She studied her reflection carefully, seeing the fall of gilt-coloured hair, the mazarine eyes, the red mouth with its curving lips. She thought, dispassionately, that today she looked well. She had drunk wine to cheer herself and her cheeks were pink and glowing; her eyes sparkled like fine-cut gemstones. Yet still she had a sad air, the air of one resigned to settle for whatever fate was about to mete out.
Oriel sipped the wine again, relishing its fine heady taste, and leant forward to trace the lines of her nose with her forefinger. Yes, she had beauty; a healthy golden beauty that she had hoped would bring her a man with whom she could taste all the dangerous and delicious fruits of love. But that was not to be her fate, she must settle instead for life with a good companion.
A noise in the hall below had her starting to her feet. Surely that was the voice of the Gascon? Putting her head on one side Oriel listened carefully. Yes, Marcus Flaviel had come to Sharndene and was speaking to her mother. With a lift of her heart Oriel whirled to the mirror again. She saw eyes more brilliant than ever, and lips already beginning to smile. Satisfied, she hurried down the stairs.
Marcus caught sight of her and she stopped where she stood in the hall entrance, faltering beneath his gaze. He was not able to conceal his admiration, nor his desire for her. It was only the second time they had met yet Oriel knew for sure that Marcus Flaviel was already in love with her.
The hall crackled with feeling and there was silence as Margaret’s words died on her lips. She was aware, as was her serving woman, that the young squire was staring at her daughter as if, at any moment, he would snatch her in his arms. Margaret cleared her throat remembering suddenly how Robert had once looked at her, all those years ago when he had chosen her rather than Anne de Winter.
‘Master Marcus,’ she said, ‘I thank you for bringing this ointment and would ask you to take refreshment with us if it were not for the fact that we are going out.’
It was a lie and everyone knew it. With an effort Marcus collected himself. ‘I thank you, Madam, but I could not stay in any case. Master Colin will soon be requiring my services.’
‘Are you to remain his ... er ... companion after the wedding?’ Margaret asked, her voice unusually loud.
‘I do not know, Madam. The archbishop has given me no instructions. But I do not suppose so.’
‘But you will be staying on at the palace?’ This from Oriel whose voice, in turn, sounded unnaturally high-pitched.
Marcus bowed. ‘Again, I do not know, Mistress Oriel. I am in the hands of my patron, Sir Paul. I can only await developments.’
There was another breathless pause during which Margaret was horrified to see her daughter blush furiously and murmur, ‘I hope you will remain.’
‘In a minute,’ thought Margaret, ‘they will kiss
one another. Oh Jesu, that this should happen just as she is to be married! I must speak to Robert. The Gascons must go from the palace.’
But even as she thought it, Margaret knew that she would do nothing of the kind; that she would rather see her daughter go into deep water than lose the companionship and advice of Paul d’Estrange at this stage of her life. Why, the mirror told her how her looks were improving and her heart said that she no longer cared if Robert had a hundred women with sarcanet gloves.
Almost against her will, Margaret found herself saying, ‘Yes, I do hope that you will remain with us.’
He paid no attention to her, lost as he was, in the look that he and Oriel were exchanging.
Eleven
On the evening before her wedding Oriel Sharndene vanished for a while and nobody could find her within the vicinity of the house. It was Marcus who by chance saw her, sitting by the Rother at the point where the pastureland joined the water in a profusion of flowers. He saw green moss and silver willow and spun-gold hair, all reflected in the water’s glassy surface and he knew that fate had sent him this way to come face to face with Oriel on the night before she married.
She sat with her back to him, her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms clasped around them, so that she did not hear his approach. It was only when his shadow fell over her, blotting out the August sunshine, that she turned and regarded him steadily, no smile playing round the curving mouth or lighting the bluebell eyes.
They stared at each other in silence, conscious of the sound of birds all about them and the distant call of cattle from the meadows. Eventually Oriel said, ‘Why have you come? Did you know I was here?’
Marcus did not answer, but asked instead, ‘What are you doing by yourself?’
She turned her head away from him. ‘Thinking.’
‘Oriel, do you love the archbishop’s brother?’ asked the squire abruptly.
‘I don’t know,’ came the reply. ‘I know nothing of love. How could I? All I know about is my duty — and that is clear. I have been promised to Colin by my father.’
‘Then there is no tenderness in your heart for your betrothed?’
Oriel turned to look at Marcus once more. ‘I have great affection for him. In fact I believe he will become my greatest friend. But I do not love him as a woman loves a man, if that answers your question.’
‘Yes, it answers it,’ answered Marcus, gently raising her to her feet. ‘So now may I ask another?’
‘What is that?’
‘That day, four weeks ago, when I called on your mother at Sharndene ...’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you not feel then, as I did, that there was great affection between us? An affection that could easily turn to love?’
Oriel’s colour heightened. ‘I felt ... drawn to you, yes.’
Marcus took a step closer and placed his hands on her shoulders. He was so tall that Oriel had to bend her head backwards in order to see him.
‘In my case it did change. The affection has become love.’
She looked at him very seriously, ‘Are you teasing me?’
For answer his lips touched hers, so gently that it was like the brush of birds’ wings, then slid down to embrace every curve and hollow of her neck until finally they returned to her mouth. Suddenly the manner of the kiss changed and her lips parted beneath his as Marcus swept Oriel into his arms, the hardness of his body pressing against the softness of hers.
Finally they drew apart and he said, ‘By Christ’s Holy Blood I am not teasing you. I love you and want you — and have from the first moment I saw you.’
Breathlessly Oriel drew back. ‘But you cannot have me. You know that. Tomorrow is my wedding day.’
The strength of his feelings aroused Marcus’s anger. ‘Damn your wedding. Colin shall not be your husband. If he lays a finger on you he is a dead man.’
Oriel froze where she stood. ‘You must not harm him, it would be base and wrong. Mentally he is still a child. I shall be his wife in name only.’
There was a silence while they looked at one another searchingly until finally Oriel added, ‘It is not going to be easy for either of us. I think, perhaps, we have chosen the path to destruction.’
The hawk features were set in hard lines as he answered, ‘I can bear destruction if your love is my reward. Will it be?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
They drew close to kiss once more, this time quite gently, knowing that they must leave each other’s company and that he would not see her again until she was a bride. Then he lifted her onto her horse and watched as Oriel began the journey home.
When she vanished from view, Marcus mounted and rode slowly through Isabel’s lands until he was almost within sight of John Waleis’s manor house, then the sound of a horse thudding behind him made him turn swiftly, thinking that Oriel had come back. But he was disappointed, for there riding hard towards him, his handsome face drawn into a scowl, was her brother, Piers.
As if to underline the contrast between himself and his sister, the first thing young Sharndene did was to spit upon the ground with deliberation.
‘When I was told two Gascons had joined the archbishop’s retinue I had my suspicions. And when I heard you described, I knew. The fat man and the tall thin hawk — there could be no other! So it won’t be as difficult for me to avenge James as I thought. You bloody murderer!’
Marcus was off his horse so fast that Piers had not time to draw breath before the squire had grabbed the collar of his beautiful mantle, newly purchased in London, and had half pulled him out of the saddle. If it were not for the fact that one of Piers’s feet had caught in his stirrup, he would have been flat on his back on the ground.
‘Listen you prick,’ hissed the Gascon, pulling Sharndene’s face to within an inch of his own, ‘it was your hand that held the knife, and don’t forget it. If you heard a rumour that my patron and I were here, then so did I hear a rumour. It was that you had married your lily boy’s mother and in return for frequent servicing she had dressed you like a whore in spangles — and so she has.’ The hard fingers deliberately tore the velvet collar and Piers let out a furious cry. ‘One word of trouble from you, Sharndene, and I shall go straight to your keeper and tell her the truth. How, in a brawl, you were not even capable of killing the right man. How you missed me and struck her son instead.’
Piers struggled furiously in his grasp. ‘By Christ, I’ll kill you one day, Gascon. And when I have done so I’ll bury you six feet deep and piss on your grave.’
‘The more you threaten the greater fool you look. It is those who talk most who end up dead themselves.’
Marcus released Piers so violently, that he fell the rest of the way, and lay on the ground staring angrily up at the squire. ‘Sleep with your sword, Gascon. You’ll not last six months.’
Marcus remounted, his horse wheeling round as he did so, pointing its head towards the palace. ‘Au revoir. Try to be civil at the wedding feast.’
Piers struggled to his feet. ‘A wedding or a funeral, we shall have to wait and see.’
‘Indeed we shall,’ called Marcus over his departing shoulder.
*
The wedding morning dawned in a soft glow of lavender. Mist had rolled down the hills during the night and through its gentle veil the sun could be seen rising and burning, gilding the hours which should have been the brightest of a bride’s life, and casting warmth on all those at Sharndene preparing for Oriel’s marriage. When the vapour finally cleared, the land was subjected to the fierce heat of August, and the wedding guests grumbled aloud as sweat began to run against their skin and soak into their clothes.
Naturally the most finely garbed was Piers, clad in saffron and white, his hose so tight that his buttocks were stretched round and high as Lombard puddings in a buckram cloth. Juliana wore tawny and morello which only served to make her look gawdy, while Hamon, who had journeyed from London on the previous day, seemed, by contrast, sombre in dark grey, his shor
t and jagged hair hidden beneath a hat of blue.
So it was, on that hot and merciless day, that they left the shade of Sharndene in a procession which wound its jingling way up the valley towards Maghefeld. First came the musicians: the pipers from Robert’s household augmented by villagers banging neckeners and drums. Behind them rode the men of the main party, surrounded by servants, the litters which carried Margaret and Juliana swaying aloft on two stout horses. Last of all and accompanied on either side by the Gascons came the blue litter bearing Oriel, modestly curtained off from the world.
Yet she could see out to where Marcus rode but a foot or two away from her, his face set and determined, his hands gripping the reins too hard, his gaze directed straight ahead. Oriel would have given anything, then, to reach over and touch him.
The cavalcade swept down the hill and out of the valley of Byvelham, then climbed up on the other side to the village of Maghefeld. As with all communities built around a religious house, the scene was dominated by the main building. For the cluster of cottages, the church and the near distant mill were all strung out from the archbishop’s residence down a long central street atop the ridge. From the doors of the thatched, mud-walled cottages, the curious inhabitants now stepped forth to see the daughter of Sharndene pass by to her wedding, and to listen to the music of her musicians, knowing that beer and food from the great banquet would be passed amongst them later in the day, and cheerful because of it.
They watched eagerly as the wedding party drew up before the church of St Dunstan.
The saint’s original wooden building had long since vanished and now a stone church, built some hundred years earlier, stood on the same site. Waiting outside it, clad in vestments usually only seen in Canterbury so gorgeous were they, stood the archbishop himself, while Colin peered nervously from the porch.