by Deryn Lake
*
Just as Isabel’s black mare picked her hooves through the fields there was a roll of distant thunder and a flash of lightning cracked through the sky like a spear. Madam Bayndenn pulled in her horse at the sound and looked about in awe, unaware of the first light raindrops that had begun to fall.
From the high field in which she stood, the valley stretched out into a bluish haze; on the ridge above, a line of deer hastily threading their way to the shelter of the trees, while the river weaving through the valley’s foot like a gypsy ribbon, had turned periwinkle blue as it took on the reflection of the storm.
It was a sight to make mortals shiver, dangerously beautiful as the distant tempest took hold, and Isabel made her way cautiously through the wood and from there picked her way downwards to the fields beyond.
Even from the distance where she stood she could see that Adam had stopped ploughing and had buried his face in his hands. Instantly her heart sank, her mind running like a hare in a trap, over and over the same wretched course. What was it that ailed him? Why could he not be happy? She had freed him from serfdom; she had given him a home in Sir Godfrey’s house; he had good food and good wine and warmth and clothes and comfort.
Isabel’s thoughts shied away from the next possibility, her full, warm mouth drawing down at the corners at the very idea. Of course he could not consider her too old; by her rituals, by her suffering ice-cold water and dancing naked on the river bank — rituals that would have had her branded a witch had she been observed — she had kept the years at bay. She was as desirable now as when she had gone as a virgin bride to her first husband. Isabel straightened her shoulders, telling herself she had nothing to fear. But even as she did so she saw Adam savagely kick the side of the plough and wave a clenched fist at the sky. Without warning she lost patience. What had the great fool to complain of? As she stood watching him, Isabel felt the first drops of rain turn quickly into a heavy shower. She could see the cold rain soaking through Adam’s shirt and Isabel wrestled with the temptation to let her husband be, to let him get drenched as befitted such an ungrateful clod. Then her maternal instincts came, most infuriatingly, to the surface. Angry with herself she nonetheless called out, ‘Adam, come home! There is no point in staying out here.’
He spun round, unaware that he had been observed, and she saw the deep scowl that hung over his features.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said abruptly.
Isabel lost the last vestige of patience. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Who else did you expect? If it was some secret love then you are bound for disappointment.’
Much to her amazement Adam turned the colour of the mistletoe that grew about the trunk of the ripening apple tree beneath her window and did not reply.
‘You are welcome to her,’ Isabel shouted furiously, heading her horse towards Bayndenn without a backward glance.
*
‘What a summer of storms,’ said Colin. ‘It thundered the night your father came to the palace to say we were betrothed. Do you remember, Oriel?’
‘No,’ she answered, half smiling, ‘I was asleep.’
‘So was I. But I heard him arrive. You remember that night, don’t you, Marcus? It was when you slept on my floor.’
The squire nodded his head. ‘Yes, I remember,’ he said.
The three of them had ridden out of Maghefeld, heading north-west, and were on a thickly wooded slope which climbed steeply up above a lush green valley. Far below them a herd of black and white cows grazed contentedly, oblivious to the driving rain.
‘Quickly,’ said Marcus, ‘there’s a hovel by that field. We’ll take shelter.’
Most surprisingly Oriel answered, ‘Take Colin there. I must speak with you alone.’
He turned to look at her but was unable to read her face, the brilliant eyes masked and inscrutable.
‘But you’ll get wet?’ said Colin.
‘It won’t matter,’ she replied quietly.
‘I see.’
And just for a moment it seemed as if Colin was more aware than Marcus of what Oriel meant, for a glimmer of understanding appeared on his face.
‘You never did mind getting wet,’ he said.
Oriel imagined a boy splashing through the brilliant water of a foreign shore, his horse’s feet kicking up the spume which shot into the air in a million droplets and showered his tunic through.
‘... hurry then,’ Marcus was saying. ‘Oriel, wait for me under this tree.’
His eyes were full of questions as he rode off with his charge but Oriel would not meet his glance. For once she was in control of her destiny. It was her decision, and her decision alone, that here in this remote place, with the warm rain soaking through to her skin, she would leave her girlhood behind and step through the gateway from which there could be no return.
When Marcus returned he found her naked, looking up at him, the boldness in her eyes masking an inner fear.
‘Let it be now,’ she said.
‘Here, in this storm? Are you not afraid?’
‘I am afraid of everything — and nothing. Is Colin safe?’
‘Safe and happy.’
The squire dismounted and stood before the girl, his eyes taking in her body from the sweep of neck to high, firm breast, the small waist and finely-shaped limbs. Without speaking further he led her by the hand into the heart of the glade and there laid her down on his cloak, seeing her watch him in wonderment as he slowly revealed his body.
The rain ran down his bare back as he dropped to his knees beside her and kissed each delicate undulation from neck to ankle; preparing to take his love through the threshold of pain to the bliss that could lie beyond. They fitted one another in every way, their rhythm quite perfect until at last it was over and they climaxed together as though they were lovers of many years understanding.
There was no guilt as they lay entwined afterwards, drawing comfort from each other’s rain-wet bodies. For mixed with the drops were not only the body’s natural dews but also Oriel’s tears and the precious blood which she had spilled so willingly for Marcus de Flaviel.
As they lay in silence, not needing to speak, over the voice of the storm rose another sound, so sad and sweet that they knew at once what it was.
‘Colin is playing,’ said Oriel. ‘Playing for us.’
‘Do you think he knows?’ asked Marcus.
‘He knows something,’ came the reply, ‘but he is not sure what it is.’
She half sat up. ‘You will never hurt him, will you?’
‘No, I will never hurt him. I was jealous then; now I never can be so again for he has given me his greatest gift.’
‘And what is that?’
‘You, Oriel,’ said Marcus. ‘He has given you to me — once more.’
Thirteen
That summer, that strange and eventful summer of 1334, at first gave way so slowly to autumn that the signs were barely perceptible. The trees took on the merest tinge of ochre; the creepers that consumed the walls of the palace only hinted a glow of red; the change in the sky was hardly discernible as a deeper and more vivid blue; the afternoon shadows could scarcely be seen to grow purple as the great sun circled lower in the heavens.
And then suddenly, as nobody looked, the season was upon the inhabitants of the village and the valley: leaves crackled beneath feet in the palace’s cobbled courtyard; chill winds blew through the houses; rain hissed on to the hearths; and there was a general gathering of garments to the neck as the landscape burst forth in all the magic colours of topaz and amber, crimson and flame. The year was dead. It was over. They must all look to new beginnings and new ideas, for soon the birth of a new year would be facing them all.
Challenge came then. Everyone thinking of the winter that lay ahead and of survival: survival from the cold, survival of the herds and crops, survival from illness, survival of life lived out on a land hard as iron. And with that prospect still to come, Stratford, raised up in pomp and glory before his king and fellow clergy, heard the
choir of Canterbury call out that a new archbishop was being enthroned, and knelt down humbly to pray for guidance in the place where the great Thomas had bowed the knee so long ago. And while he did this his brother Colin, sitting amongst the assembled company and trying very hard to concentrate, thought of warm soup, and his gittern and, above all, his friends Oriel and Marcus who had transformed his humble life to one of infinite contentment, and for whom he would have laid down that same life on the instant, if one of them had so asked.
But thoughts far less tranquil were also abroad on the day of the archbishop’s raising up. Robert de Sharndene, now a candidate for the post of Sheriff, silently railed against the fact that he was getting older; that commitments had kept him away from his mistress; and that on the one occasion he had managed to have free time in Battle, Nichola had been mysteriously out. And Robert also grumbled to himself that, since Oriel’s wedding, Margaret had spent little time at Sharndene and had become, instead, a constant visitor to the palace. The horrid suspicion that she might be meeting Paul d’Estrange continually crossed Robert’s mind and this, together with her increased vivacity and attractiveness, gave him disquieting food for thought.
And it was true that Margaret had never been more at ease. Gone her old jealousy of Oriel, gone the fears of her ugliness, gone, too, the worry about losing her husband. And all because the Gascon knight, with his lotions and potions and obvious admiration, had at last given her confidence.
Also at Canterbury that day, Sir John Waleis, representing his ancient father Sir Godfrey, sat flanked by his wife, Alice, and all four of his children: the eldest two, stolid Andrew and William, the product of his first marriage; the younger, Hugh and Richard, Alice’s sons, all long legs and bony wrists and fine coltish ways.
As the mitre of the archbishop was placed on Stratford’s head, ‘Gloria,’ sang the cathedral choir. ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo.’
It was done. England had a new archbishop — the second most powerful man in the realm was now John de Stratford.
*
The autumn passed and snow came early, silent and waxen, falling slowly at first. Then came chilling winds and mutinous skies which spoke of further heavy falls and, during the next few days, the landscape was blotted out by deceptively gentle gossamer flakes which left in their wake a grip of drifts and ice. People huddled in smoke-filled rooms, unable to venture forth and hardly knowing night from day, so dark and ominous was the brooding sky.
The snow fell for a week without stopping and finally fluttered to a halt during the darkest of nights. The next morning, winter lay on the land. Everywhere there was glittering frost and glinting ice, and the berries on the holly were as red as the sunset. At Sharndene the moat was frozen and the swans lay on the snow. White feathers on white flakes and a white world beyond; a world in which people could at last venture forth but in which a pair of forbidden lovers found it hard to discover a secret place where they might go unseen. For even Oriel’s grey horse showed up in the bleak landscape and the naked trees gave no protection from curious eyes.
So for this reason, with Colin left safely at the palace by the brazier, the couple set out on foot, the squire leading his lady over the bleak terrain to a deserted woodcutter’s home, where he spread his cloak for her on the floor and lit a fire in the small hearth within.
This day he played lovemaking to the full until he and Oriel moved, as one, beyond return. Together they called out joyfully and it was at this moment that Marcus thought he heard a noise in the doorway and, turning his head swiftly, caught a glimpse of something moving hastily out of sight.
Jumping to his feet, the squire straightened his clothes and rushed out. There was nothing to be seen, only a track of footprints leading off to the woods to tell him that the incident had not been a trick of his imagination.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ called Oriel from within the hut.
‘I thought I heard something, that is all,’ answered Marcus, as he went back inside.
‘Was there anyone there?’
‘No, no one.’ He could not bring himself to sicken her with the thought of a peeping Tom. As he smiled Oriel stood up, then swayed a little.
‘Are you ill?’ he said anxiously.
‘No, just cold. We must return home. Colin will be anxious.’
‘Yes, he will. Come, walk close to me. Let us get you back to safety.’
Oriel did not think to question his words as they stepped together into a crystal world, already turning dark beneath a glowing winter sky.
*
So cold was that evening that Hamon de Sharndene, in residence at the King’s castle at Windsor, sat crouched virtually on top of the brazier of logs, playing a game of chess with a fellow soldier.
But his mind was not on the board before him. Nor indeed on the bitter night beyond the castle’s stout walls. Instead Hamon thought about himself and admitted, in a moment of blinding truth, that he had fallen in love with a slut and was powerless to do anything about it.
With a sigh, Hamon moved a piece on the board and considered recent events. Ever since Oriel’s wedding he had tried to put Nichola from his mind, even going so far as to call on Gilbert Meryweder unexpectedly, and running an appraising eye over his virgin daughter. But the girl’s innocence had bored him and he had soon returned to Windsor and the arms of the most uninhibited creature in the brothel that nestled at the foot of the walls. But he had been bored even more.
It was then that the truth had finally dawned on him. He had arrived at a point in his life when only the little strumpet from Battle — with whom he had managed to spend one incredible week’s leave during the summer — could satisfy him. Yet the thought of his parents’ reaction to such a situation made him sigh aloud.
At the sound his companion asked, ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill? I’ve never known you to play worse.’
‘My mind is not on the game,’ answered Hamon shortly.
‘On a new conquest I suppose?’ Hamon’s reputation was spoken of in awed tones even among the men.
‘Tom, I believe I might have fallen in love at last,’ came the unexpected reply.
Much to Hamon’s annoyance his companion burst into uncontrollable laughter, slapping his thigh and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘I never thought I would see the day! Who is she?’
‘A widow from Battle.’
For some reason this struck Tom as even funnier and he roared all the more. Hamon had a strong urge to punch him.
‘There is something about this story I do not trust,’ Tom gasped eventually. ‘I believe you have fallen in love with a whore.’
‘She is nothing of the kind.’ Hamon stood up, snatching at his dignity like the threads of a well-worn robe. ‘She is a respectable woman and I intend to marry her. In fact I shall ask for leave and, as soon as it is granted, I shall go to Battle and arrange for us to see a priest.’
Tom quietened, Hamon’s serious expression at last penetrating his hilarity. ‘I am sure your parents will be delighted after all these years,’ he said contritely.
His friend, with absolutely no idea of the import of his words, answered, ‘My mother very probably; of my father’s feelings, I am not so sure.’
*
‘In the spring I am to bear a child,’ gushed Juliana. ‘Do you know you impregnated me the very first time we lay together? Oh my dear Piers, you are so virile.’
She smiled at him lovingly.
‘That is because you are desirable, my sweet,’ he answered automatically, his mind planning the early stages of an affair with a youth.
If he brought a young man into the household and an amorous adventure were to begin, would it mean — if he continued to sleep with Juliana — that he was utterly beyond hope? Would his life’s ambition of total debauchery at last be realised?
The idea was so intriguing that Piers hardly heard the steward step into the hall and say to Juliana, ‘There is a traveller at the door, Madam, desiring to know if Mistress Oriel is within.�
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‘Oriel?’ Piers came back to full attention. ‘Why should she be here?’
The steward coughed slightly. ‘It is her husband who enquires. He seems to be somewhat bewildered.’
Piers groaned. ‘Oh no, not the half-wit! What can he be doing out alone?’
‘You had better show him in,’ said Juliana, and as Piers frowned added, ‘We can hardly leave the poor wretch standing in the cold.’
‘No,’ Piers answered reluctantly. ‘Bring it in.’
A moment later, Colin entered the hall in total silence, his dark hair flattened, cowl-like, to his head and his clothing all but frozen to his body.
‘Is Oriel here?’ he asked abruptly, his teeth chattering as he made a clumsy bow.
Juliana stood up, startled yet again by his simplicity. Nobody but a dullard would have addressed her so peremptorily and stared about quite so wide-eyed.
‘Master Colin,’ she said, her voice plumlike. ‘What brings you to Mouleshale out of the storm? Why should Oriel be with us?’
Colin shuffled even more, sensing her condescending manner.
‘I am looking for my wife and Marcus, Madam. They went out some hours ago and still have not returned. Usually I do not worry but tonight the weather is so bitter I fear for their safety. Madam, I have come to you alone through the cold and the darkness.’ His lips quivered. ‘Please help me.’
Piers, who had been sprawling in his chair, a look of great distaste about his mouth, suddenly leapt to attention.
‘What do you mean, Oriel and Marcus went out, Master Colin? Are they in the habit of doing so?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the wretched innocent. ‘They frequently go off together but always come back quite safely, yet today the cold is so intense I am afraid for their lives. If anything should happen to them I ...’ His voice trailed miserably into silence.
‘Sit down,’ purred Piers. ‘Pray do not distress yourself. Some strong wine might help matters.’
He jerked his head at Juliana who rose to pour a goodly measure from a jug.