by Deryn Lake
With fingers that trembled as she moved, Oriel drew back the curtains and found, before she could say a word, that Marcus had his hands at her waist and was lifting her to the ground below. She slid down his body, so close to him that she could feel his thudding heart. But she could make no sign to him. Almost as if he feared she might run away the archbishop had thrust Colin’s hand into hers and was beckoning them both forward.
Then she was in the cool of the porch, the smell of incense in her nostrils and the sound of music and voices suddenly hollow beneath the vaulted roof within. Beside her Colin began to tremble and she turned to look at him enquiringly. He was very pale. A fact accentuated by the silver tissue clothes he had been given to wear and the darkness of his hair, recently washed and rubbed with herbs.
Oriel smiled at him and he gave her a timorous glance. He suddenly seemed so vulnerable that the thought of Marcus’s threat was dreadful. Standing behind her she could sense the presence of de Flaviel, his hands clasping and unclasping the hilt of his sword as if he would draw it at any moment.
A sudden hush told her that the wedding party was ready and that Archbishop Stratford — was it possible that in minutes he would be her brother-in-law? — was speaking to her, asking her to make her vows, looking at her penetratingly when for a moment she seemed nonplussed and did not reply. And then it was Colin’s turn and as he mumbled and muttered incoherently, staring at the ground and going whiter and whiter with each passing second, Oriel’s heart bled for him. Frantically he pushed the wedding band on her finger, wrenching it down over her knuckle like a child, and as it finally slipped into place she realised that it was done; that she was Colin’s wife now and that truly only his death could ever set her free.
She was in a trance through the rest of the nuptial mass, the archbishop at his most astringent as the long ritual dragged on. It seemed to her that she took in nothing more until she found herself at the high table in the hall, staring out at a sea of faces turned towards her as winecups were raised in a toast.
‘To the bride and groom,’ came a chorused shout, and in response the archbishop rose to his feet and said smoothly that his brother would not be addressing the guests owing to hoarseness in his throat. Almost as soon as he had sat down again the palace musicians burst into abandoned noise and the first course of tasty cherries — to stimulate and awaken the appetite — was commenced.
As was customary on these occasions the most important people sat at the high table with the family and the low tables along the sides of the hall were occupied by the less influential. At the farthest board of all sat thirteen poor people of the manor feeding at the archbishop’s expense; a practice he had started of late along with giving bread to the needy with his own hands.
The fruit done, the first serving of eleven different dishes was carried in on high platters. A boar’s head with tusks was accompanied by cygnets, pheasants, herons, to say nothing of Crustarde Lumbarde — a pie made from cream, eggs, dates, prunes and sugar — together with sturgeon and great pike. The company fell on the feast like wolves, only the bride and groom sitting withdrawn, overwhelmed by their own feelings, scarcely touching a mouthful.
And, as the second course was brought on, Hamon de Sharndene, looking towards his father, mother and sister, wondered about them. He wondered if Robert had ever tasted passion as raw as that which he had experienced with Nichola de Rougemont and then pitied his father that he had grown old and past such things. He wondered if his mother — looking far more vital of late — knew what it was to feel flirtatious and wicked, as he and Nichola did when they were together. He wondered, most of all, seeing how pale she was, whether his sister could cope with a lifetime tied to an idiot, passion, flirting and wickedness all pushed away as if they did not exist.
As the second course of venison — presented with a gruel of cream, wheat and eggs — accompanied by sucking pig, peacocks in their plumage, cranes, bitterns, great pies and Leche Lumbarde — small spiced date cakes from Lombardy — were served, Hamon’s eyes turned away from the banquet and towards Gilbert Meryweder’s thirteen-year-old daughter. She was everything that he should, in truth, desire. Young, good-looking in a docile way, obviously virginal and pure of heart, he should have been, at the least, interested in her. But she bored him to the roots of his feet.
With a shock Hamon realised that ‘the sweet slut of Battle’ as he had secretly named Nichola was, yet again, in his thoughts and he forcibly dismissed her, concentrating instead upon the great portion of Pome Dorreng — the spit-roasted and herb-crusted rissole to which he had helped himself. As he bit into it, the archbishop’s musicians struck up a trotto and the wedding guests, full of drink and forgetting or recalling their own wedding day, were upon their feet in a body and capering between the tables and around the brazier which still, even on this hot August night, threw its smoke and flames towards the blackened ceiling. To eat more was impossible. The music gained in momentum and everybody was dancing with the exception of the archbishop and the bride and groom who sat in silence at the top table.
If Hamon had been a man more concerned with people, if he had been able to think of anything other than his own affairs, he would have noticed his sister’s frightened expression and her husband’s pitifully white face. But as it was he observed nothing and went galloping on, pressing Matilda de Aylardenne close to him, and wishing that she were Nichola and that, when the festivities were done, he and the little slut could roll together in a delicious bed of sin.
Without warning, the archbishop suddenly stood up, signalling to the musicians as he did so. There was a sudden hush and Stratford announced, ‘It is time for the bride and groom to leave the feast.’
There was a general snigger and Oriel felt sick with shame as Colin gazed at her in fright.
‘It will be all right,’ she murmured to him. ‘It only means that we must go to sleep now.’
Reassured, he took her hand in his — at which there was delighted applause from some of the onlookers. Then suddenly the pair were surrounded by well-wishers; backs were patted, remarks passed with double meanings, somebody banged a neckener loudly, and a young girl fainted at the thought of it all. Then they were marched up the stairs and Colin taken to one chamber, Oriel to another. Just for a moment she and Margaret were alone.
‘My child,’ murmured her mother, her face grim. ‘I feel I must ...’
‘It will be all right,’ answered Oriel in great distress for, as the door had opened to reveal Colin being pushed forward, his face a study of misery, she had caught a glimpse of Marcus hovering like an avenging angel in the corridor outside.
‘Oriel,’ Margaret tried again, her voice quite harsh with anxiety, ‘you know what is likely to happen to you? You understand, don’t you?’
Oriel nodded her head, too nervous even to speak as Stratford himself entered the room, and headed purposefully for the great bed by which she and Colin went to stand in silence.
His voice sibilant, the archbishop said, ‘I bless this union and this marriage bed in the name of our Holy Mother and Her Blessed Son. May the fruits of Colin de Stratford and Oriel de Sharndene grow in Christian love and compassion in the years to come.’
Just for a second Oriel caught his eye and just for a second it was unshuttered, the thoughts behind it clear for her to read. She knew very well that he did not believe the words he said, that he knew the chances of consummation were virtually nonexistent. She wondered, in amazement, what scheme could be running through that devious mind.
But as she and Colin climbed into bed, Stratford was already making the sign of the cross over them, then leaving the room in a swirl of vestments, leading out the other guests, until at last everything was silent. Oriel realised in fright that she was completely alone with her simpleton husband in the darkness.
Very endearingly but rather shockingly in view of her racing thoughts, Colin said into the quietness, ‘Need we go to sleep yet? Could we not play for a while?’
In the lig
ht of the flickering candle which she lit at once, she looked at him wide-eyed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I could play the gittern if you like. Or we could have a battle with my little knights and horses.’
She did not know whether to laugh or cry. ‘The gittern, Colin. That would be best.’
She leant over and kissed him on the cheek and he said with pleasure, ‘Is this what having a wife means? That you will always be here to play with me and share my bed?’
She nodded.
‘And there is nothing more?’
Once again she asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘The kitchen scullions were teasing me. Speaking of my having to jig all night. And to see that you do also. Must we dance instead of sleep now that we are married?’
‘I don’t think so,’ answered Oriel gravely.
Colin turned to where his gittern lay on a table beside the bed. No sooner was it in his hands than the usual transformation took place. He seemed to grow in stature, the composition of his features altering to those of a fine-boned adult. In a second the wealth of music began to pour out and it was then, with Colin totally immersed in playing and unaware of anything else, that Oriel saw the door open slightly and Marcus de Flaviel stand in the entrance.
‘No, no, he has not touched me,’ she whispered, but he ignored her. In what seemed like one stride he was across the room and, as one of his hands clapped over Colin’s mouth, the other held a dagger, blade lengthways, to the simpleton’s throat.
For some reason that Oriel could never afterwards understand, Colin went on playing. The welter of sound filled the room and Oriel saw Marcus hesitate. She seized her chance and flung herself headlong out of bed, throwing herself at the squire’s feet and winding both arms around his knees.
‘Don’t kill him,’ she sobbed. ‘Listen to him. He is gifted, a creature of God. You must not harm him. It would be a crime I could never forgive.’
It was then that she saw something for which there was no explanation. Colin played a note and laid down the instrument. Then still with the wicked knife blade across his throat he rolled his gaze up to see who grasped him so menacingly. For a long moment he and Marcus stared into the depths of each other’s eyes.
From behind Marcus’s hand Colin tried to speak and as the Gascon loosened his grip the words became audible. ‘Why are you so angry? I promise I have not been wicked.’
And with that he went into a dead faint, falling forward over the bed like a broken toy. In the silence that followed Marcus and Oriel stared at each other and then she saw what she would not have believed. Quite suddenly Marcus dropped the knife and buried his face in his hands, convulsed with sobs.
‘God damn him!’ he said loudly. ‘God damn him! I cannot kill him any more than I could kill you. Oh Oriel, what are we going to do with him?’
She put her arms round Marcus gently, as if he were a little boy.
‘We can only love and cherish him.’
‘But what of us?’
‘We must love and cherish each other too.’
‘And what of the future?’
‘The future will be that the three of us ... remain together.’
Marcus nodded slowly as somewhere at the back of his mind three boys on horseback raced across a glowing strand.
Twelve
The great solar of the archbishop’s palace seemed a web of grey shadows, drawn together tightly by a central knot, in which sat a crimson spider. For in the gloom of a sunless afternoon Stratford waited alone, clad in his travelling mantle, his fingertips together and his face so devoid of life that he appeared in a trance.
In response to a knock he called out ‘Enter,’ though altering his expression not at all. It was as if he acted automatically, his soul removed to another plane. Yet the eyes that ran glitteringly over Marcus de Flaviel, who stood bowing in the doorway, were appraising enough and the voice that said, ‘Sit down, if you will,’ was brisk and incisive.
‘You sent for me, my Lord?’
‘Yes, Flaviel. I want to talk to you, principally to ask you how you see your role here now that my brother has become a married man?’
Marcus hesitated. ‘I am not certain, my Lord. You have given no instructions. I am not sure whether you wish me to continue as his guardian, or if you would now prefer that my duties were changed?’
There was a long silence, a silence during which the light eyes fixed on Marcus unblinkingly and it grew so quiet that every distant noise of the palace, from an argument between Wevere and the baker, to the cry of a young hound kennelled below, was magnified out of all proportion.
But Stratford sat immobile, looking at Marcus so directly that the squire had an uncomfortable feeling the primate could read thoughts.
‘I wish you to continue to watch over him — and over madam as well,’ Stratford said finally.
There was another pause during which Marcus asked stiffly, ‘You wish me to be her bodyguard also, my Lord?’
Stratford nodded, a shutter opening behind his eye.
‘Did you know that many madmen are like ravening beasts, Marcus?’ he said finally. ‘Beasts who satisfy their appetites — all their appetites — as greedily and as often as they will?’
Marcus grew rigid beneath the terrifying gaze. ‘My Lord?’
‘My brother is not one of that number. In all things he is ascetic. You understand me?’
‘Not completely, my Lord.’
‘I want you to do what must be done, Flaviel. I want it to be your principal concern that my brother — and his wife — lead a fulfilled and contented life.’
There could be no doubt now as to the message that lay beneath the words, but still Marcus persisted, terrified that he might be making a mistake.
‘You want me to ensure that their marriage is a happy one, my Lord?’
Without moving a muscle Stratford altered his expression and, as he did so, a white hand shot out from the depths of the red mantle and pushed Marcus on to his knees before the primate.
‘Now, vow before Christ that you will remain forever silent on this matter, as must I.’
The whispered voice was fierce.
Marcus bent his head and put his lips to the extended hand before him, his mouth brushing the great ring of the archbishops as he did so.
‘I swear it, my Lord,’
‘Then may God protect you, my son.’ Stratford stood up, his voice altering to its normal tone, and the customary blankness returned to mask his features. He said, without emotion, ‘Affairs will keep me away from Maghefeld this autumn and I shall leave the management of the household in the hands of Wevere; its safety in those of you and Sir Paul.’
Marcus bowed, his shock of hair falling on either side of his cheek bones. ‘I will try to guard everyone well, my Lord.’
‘Do what you think to be right, Flaviel. As long as we are all true to God there can be nothing amiss in any of our actions.’
He was gone from the room leaving the squire to stare after him wonderingly. What man could order another to sin with so clear a conscience? What servant of God could possibly take such a stand? And then, in a flash, he realised that Stratford saw the greater evil as the greater sin. He had plotted against the late king in order that England might have a young and vigorous monarch. Now he had virtually ordered Marcus to take possession of Colin’s wife.
Slowly Flaviel left the solar, and was in time to see the archbishop’s retinue move over the cobbles as it headed towards London.
‘God speed,’ he called.
Stratford turned to give Marcus an unreadable look. Then the archbishop gave an abrupt nod before he turned his back on Maghefeld and all those left behind. Shaking his head Marcus went inside.
From a chamber above the sound of music and laughter rang out and, going up the great staircase, Marcus followed the noise to where, in a room that had been given to them for day time use, Colin and Oriel were dancing. As he came in their heads turned simultaneously.
‘I
am to be your special protector,’ he said. ‘My Lord of Canterbury has commanded that it be so.’
‘My special protector?’ asked Oriel.
‘I am to look after you both.’
She became thoughtful, the colour in her cheeks heightening a little. ‘What will it mean?’
‘That I am to keep the pair of you safe and happy.’
‘Why has he ordered that?’
‘Because I love you both,’ answered Marcus, pausing for a moment before he added, ‘As I believe does my Lord of Canterbury in his own particular way.’
*
Adam de Bayndenn looked up as the archbishop’s cavalcade passed, shielding his eyes with an earth-stained hand and watching until it had vanished from sight. Then he sighed deeply, his handsome face set in hard grim lines.
He had never been unhappier in his life, imagining what all the world must be saying. That he was a stallion, bought to service a wealthy woman. And to add to his burden he had, of late, grown almost incapable of that, lying beside Isabel apologetically as his powerful body failed to show the least enthusiasm for her. How much he would have liked to confess to his wife — whom he loved in his own way — what lay at the heart of his difficulties; what it was that caused this cruel and mocking shortcoming in such a mighty man. Poor, poor Isabel! What a tragedy for them both that Adam had fallen in love with the unattainable Oriel and could speak of it to no living creature.
The realisation of the truth had come to Adam suddenly, on the night they had all dined with the archbishop. He had sunk his head into his hands then, overcome with emotion, and now he did so again. What hope was there? It seemed to Adam that he had no purpose left; that his life was meaningless. And now his dreams were further shattered by the fact that Oriel had yesterday become the madman’s bride.
A deep sob shook him before he raised his head again and put his great hands once more to the plough, shouting at the oxen to get on. He was utterly without hope as he resolutely cut another furrow into the dark, rich soil of Sussex.