by Deryn Lake
‘Now Master Colin, let me hasten to assure you that all at Mouleshale will do their best to find the missing pair. Tell me when you last saw them.’
‘At noon. They told me they were going for their usual walk — and I stayed at home to play with my little wooden knights.’
Piers and Juliana shot each other a meaningful look and he said, ‘When they go out together do they often leave you behind?’
‘Oh no,’ said Colin. ‘In the fine weather I go with them and then I go off to pick flowers while they talk.’
‘Really?’ Piers uncoiled like a snake. ‘And have they been doing this for a long while?’
‘Oh yes,’ answered Colin happily, swigging his cup with relish. ‘Since the day after the wedding.’
Piers rubbed his hands together. ‘Then may I suggest,’ he said, smooth as silk and smiling sweetly, ‘that you stay here this night and tomorrow we go together to the palace to see if they have returned.’
‘Oh no,’ answered Colin, putting down the cup, ‘I could not risk their being lost. I must find Oriel and Marcus tonight. You see, there is no life for me without them. And anyway none of us mind about getting cold or damp.’
Piers raised an eyebrow in the direction of Juliana and stood up, his robe falling back to reveal a bare chest and stomach that were beginning to gain weight with all the comforts of married life.
‘Well, there’s no help for it,’ he said. ‘I must ride out into the night. Juliana, you stay here. You must not risk the babe.’
His voice dramatically fell as she clasped her hands together in delight. ‘Oh Piers, Piers, you are so good to me.’
‘Who could be other to a wife like you?’
She smiled unattractively, baring her tooth, and even Colin looked startled.
‘Come then, brother-in-law, let us make haste to find your wife — and her friend. And you can be assured that when I do so I shall have words to say.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That I shall greet them as they deserve to be greeted.’
‘Oh!’ said Colin wonderingly, and trotted out behind Piers into the freezing night.
*
‘Look Adam,’ said Isabel, ‘it’s freezing hard. See the ice in the valley? In the morning it will be cut off.’
She stood beside her husband in the doorway of Bayndenn, gazing down on a vista transformed by the magic touch of winter’s hand. Below and beyond her the slopes of the Rother fell away in an eternal sweep, broken here and there by the iced diamond branches of the distant trees. It was a view of complete purity, of gleaming frost-capped hills, of a silver river scurrying through a glint of deepening rime.
As they stood there in silence, looking out, the flame of torches appeared in the distance, wending their way up from Maghefeld and breaking the great stillness of that sparkling night. The lights lit the snow with circles of saffron, turning the darkness into a fantasy of fire and ice. In the distance could be heard the wild, high yelping of dogs.
‘What is it?’ asked Isabel.
‘A search-party,’ came the brief reply.
‘Who is missing?’
‘Oriel, I suppose. Oriel and her friend Flaviel.’
Curiously Isabel turned her attention to her husband. He stood with his face set grimly, gazing to where the lights lit the distant view.
‘How do you know it is them?’
‘I don’t.’ He turned to look at her and just for a second Isabel felt afraid of him, so stern were his features. ‘I only think so because they are in the habit of wandering off together, regardless of the weather.’
‘What for?’
Adam gave a bitter laugh. ‘Who knows? Perhaps they enjoy such things.’
The way he said that told Isabel everything. She knew at once the two young people were lovers; that her husband was not only aware of it but seething with jealousy as a result. In one terrible and icy moment — as cold as the night into which Isabel gazed — everything fell into place: Adam’s strange behaviour during Colin’s pathetic courtship, his misery since Oriel had become a bride, and his recent and almost total inability in the bedchamber.
A great wave of tenderness swept her. She had bought the fellow so that she might have a young and vigorous husband and had given no thought to his feelings, to his capability for falling in love.
Very gently she put her hand on his arm and said, ‘Whatever they do I think we should speak of it to no one.’
From his vast height Adam looked down at her, ‘Oh, never worry about that. I will not mention it again. It was difficult to say even to you that Oriel is a slut.’
In a voice that was only barely beyond a whisper Isabel said, ‘You must love her very much.’
Equally quietly he answered, ‘If only you knew ...’ And then he seemed to collect himself, shaking his head and staring about him as if he had just awoken. ‘Isabel ...’ he said wretchedly.
‘Speak of it no more. Come inside by the fire.’
‘I would rather go and search. Would you mind?’
A terrible feeling of unease, of things awry and getting worse, swept the tenant of Bayndenn. So much so that she said, ‘I think it would be better if you did not, Adam. I think your feelings are too confused tonight. In the morning we will ride to the palace and see that all is well.’
He gave her a long, dark look. ‘Things will never be well at the palace until those Gascons are gone.’
‘Don’t speak so. It is dangerous. They are here to stay and nothing can change that.’
Adam made no answer, striding ahead of his wife into the warmth of the hall, without a backward glance.
*
It was on the track above the heights of Sharndene that Marcus, who was leading the search party from the palace, finally found Colin, wandering on his own and looking near to death. As the squire approached, the simpleton came running forward, his feet shuffling through the snow, holding his arms out to Marcus and weeping silently.
The Gascon picked the pathetic creature off his feet. ‘Where have you been, you naughty boy? We have looked everywhere for you.’
‘But I have been looking for you. I thought you and Oriel were in danger so I stopped playing with my knights and went searching. I went to Piers and he came to help me but he said we must separate to widen the net.’
Marcus shook his head fondly. ‘We were out a little longer on our walk than we intended, that is all. And when we got back you were gone.’
Out of the darkness a voice said, ‘Of course it is wonderful weather for walking, is it not?’ It was Piers, expensively dressed against the cold, and sitting astride a sturdy horse which had come upon them quietly.
He looked down at the pair and said, ‘A word in private with you, Flaviel. Before the rest of the party catch up.’
‘Then dismount and come over here. Colin, hold the horse’s bridle and do not move from this spot.’
Through the ankle-deep snow the two men walked just out of earshot, their eyes still on the simpleton who stood transfixed, obviously terrified of being alone.
‘You do not deceive me for a moment,’ said Piers without preamble. ‘You are leading my sister into wickedness and depravity — and by God’s Holy Blood, I shall see that you pay for it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Speak to the archbishop of course.’
The collar of Piers’s mantle was suddenly pulled tight as Marcus seized it furiously.
‘I’ll kill you first, you son of Sodom. One move to tell de Stratford and I’ll string you up by your privy parts. Do not think I would hesitate — nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
‘You would not dare.’
‘Oh no? I will spare you now for the sake of your sister and your mother. But one mistake and you can count your days, Sharndene. There is nothing more disgusting than a peeping Tom.’
Piers’s eyes rolled wildly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know perfectly well.’
‘I have never s
pied on you. I guessed all from Colin’s chatter. Besides you foreigners are all the same. Your mind never gets any higher than the place between a woman’s thighs ...’
But he said no more as a mighty blow sent him reeling backwards into a drift.
‘Damn you, Marcus de Flaviel,’ he said from where he lay. ‘I wish you in hell and I promise you that I shall bring that journey about ere long.’
For answer Marcus turned on his heel and strode to the place where Colin stood, lifting the little man onto Piers’s horse and leading him away.
‘Wait!’ shouted Piers, struggling to his feet. ‘How am I supposed to get back?’
‘You can walk,’ called Marcus’s distant voice, ‘or die in the darkness for all I care.’
‘Flaviel!’ screamed Piers, saliva flecking his mouth. ‘Start to count your days.’
There was no reply as the distant baying of dogs told the limping Piers that the search-party was on its way back to the palace, and that he was alone in the treacherous night with only his hatred to spur his safe return.
Fourteen
There was much suffering during that terrible winter. Many died of hunger and many more of cold, lying stiff and silent in their dwellings while outside a shroud covered all the earth in a great pall of white. The bleakness took babies and old men alike; wasted young girls and brought hardened men to their knees with starvation. And then, gradually, the cold, clear air had a smell in it like sea-salt; buds thrust their way through the pearls of ice; the Rother roared at full spate, swift with its icy cargo. It was over: life had begun again; the cycle had swung into its rightful place; the winter was finished.
Everything returned to normal. Tenants hastened to their holdings; the sheep —penned for their own protection — were turned out to graze; freshly-killed meat was brought to the archbishop’s palace; and Nicholas le Mist once again seduced a willing wench behind the barn. Spring had come to the village and valley.
And so it was that the first manorial court of the year was called at Sharndene and as the Lord of the Manor strode purposefully to the hall, Cogger called out, ‘Let all be upstanding.’
Robert saw before him a sea of faces, some dark and lean, others pink and round, but all watchful and wary, wondering what mood he would be in and what ear he would give to their suits. The colour of their clothes, lit by the glow of the flames, seemed to him to blend with their skins. He saw shades of tan and brown; nature’s hues echoed in the rough woollen clothes and weaves of his tenants. The hounds before the fire; the smoke wafting through the chamber; the mud-caked rushes where forty feet had recently trod — all this and the strangely comforting smell of sweat and dirt and candles conjured up for Robert de Sharndene the raw bones of his entire life. He felt a great lift of his heart. ‘You may be seated,’ he said.
‘Oh yea, oh yea,’ called Cogger, opening the formal proceedings. ‘Let all those with business at this court draw near and give your attention.’
The official procedures had begun and Robert sat back, his elbow resting on the table and his chin in his hand, as the defaulters were noted by the clerk and subsequently fined twopence by the jurors.
Sir John Waleis — not a usual visitor — rose to his feet. ‘I propose to construct a certain park at Hawkesden and have come to this court today to seek the assent of the Lord and his tenants at the ford whose lands and enclosures adjoin the said enclosure.’
Robert nodded. He had already privately agreed to the park’s creation, but formal application was essential if John’s plans were to go through. His friend continued to plead his case and Robert switched his brain from the matter at issue.
Instantly he thought of Margaret. Where was she, he wondered? She had set off within an hour of daylight, saying that she must make some charitable visits, but her horse had turned in the direction of Maghefeld.
Robert moved his shoulders irritably. He positively detested Paul d’Estrange, who struck him at once as a posturing and opinionated windsack. For how could one overlook the fact that Margaret’s constant visits to the palace, ostensibly to see her newly-married daughter, must also allow her to indulge in witty conversation with the Gascon. With a feeling of betrayal Robert caught himself thinking that Nichola was not witty. In fact, even worse, she was rather stupid.
‘My Lord?’ said John.
‘Eh?’ Robert returned to the present with a start.
‘Is it your wish, my Lord, that I proceed to create such a park under the terms just stated?’
‘Er ... yes.’
‘And that such an agreement may be drawn that my heirs and assigns may proceed should my decease come about before the completion of such a park?’
‘He’s being terribly pompous,’ thought Robert, but replied, ‘Permission granted to draw the agreement.’
John sat down, smiling, and the business of the court moved on.
‘Presentments for lerywite, my Lord,’ said Cogger.
Robert always found the fines for immorality amongst the villeins faintly amusing and his full attention was restored as he nodded consent.
‘Simon Lukke, drunkenness.’
‘Twopence,’ answered the jurors without conferring.
‘William Nosy, stealing Widow Button’s hen.’
‘Sixpence.’
‘Peter de Chilihop, adultery with the wife of Walter Cokerel of Maghefeld.’
‘Fourpence.’
‘John Wynter, adultery with Margery Swetyng, Matilda le Coche, Christina Colyn, Alice de Eversfield and Matilda atte Red, and persistent fornication with the Relict of Steld, the Relict of Chomcels and the Relict of Button. Also the impregnation of Julia Serymond.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Robert. ‘John Wynter, where are you?’
A little man with a leathery face and hangdog expression stepped forward and said plaintively, ‘I only did it to please them, my Lord, because they did keep pestering so. Particularly the three widows.’
He wiped his hand across his brow and Robert said, ‘You should know better. Can you not control yourself, man?’
Wynter gulped convulsively and said, ‘Only with great difficulty, my Lord.’
‘Who am I to judge him?’ thought Robert guiltily as the jurors announced, ‘A penny for each adultery and a further presentment when the child is born. The widows free of fine.’
There was a muffled laugh as Wynter vanished into the throng, his leathery face turning from crimson to white and his eyes firmly fixed on his feet.
The business of the court droned on as Robert found his mind once more on Nichola. Then from what seemed a great distance he heard the jurors pronounce sentence on the final case and Cogger accept the last fee from a tenant. The court’s first session of 1335 was over.
The Lord of the Manor got to his feet, looking at his tenants narrowly before he swept away from them and out of the hall. They were going, that pack of people whose lives depended upon him. He paused for one final glance before they trudged off into the waning light of the chilly February afternoon.
*
As the winter finally died and spring leapt into life over the beautiful land of Sussex, Oriel, hugging her arms tightly around herself and circling silently in a private dance of joy, realised that the great rhythm of the seasons was being echoed within her own body. That the absence for two consecutive cycles of the flux controlled by the moon’s mysterious path could mean only one thing. The wonder had taken place. The seed of Marcus de Flaviel had flowered within and had formed a new being; from the great love of two people an individual had been created. She felt as humble as the recipient of one of the miracles, and cried with the splendour of it all.
She knew exactly when it had been, that day last winter in the bitter cold. As she stood upright she had felt a moment’s weakness and this — or so she believed — had been the moment of conception. Even as she had walked back through the ice to the palace, she had already been pregnant.
She felt alive with the news, longing to run from room to room and tell
everyone — servants, guards, kitchen lads, anyone. But there was no one to be seen as she hurried down the great stone staircase; and when she ran outside only Paul d’Estrange was there, sitting on the seat in the herb garden and turning his face towards the feeble sun, his eyes closed.
‘Oh dear me,’ he said, jumping slightly as she came up to him. ‘Oh, Oriel, it is you. I must have fallen asleep.’
She smiled at him and he patted the silver-gilt hair affectionately. ‘My dear little girl. How happy you look.’
Oriel could not help it. She knew even as she spoke that it was not discreet to do so, but could conceal her joy no longer. Kissing him on the cheek, she said, ‘Oh Sir Paul, I am happy — because I am with child.’
He stiffened and drew away from her. ‘Oriel, what are you saying? Have you told anyone else of this? Does your mother know?’
Oriel felt sudden tears. ‘No, not yet. Why are you not pleased?’
‘Because the possibility of Colin having fathered this babe is too remote to be considered.’
She stared at him, aghast. ‘But he is my husband. Surely no one will suspect ...’
‘The truth. That you and Marcus have been lovers for months. That it is his child you carry.’
The sun suddenly went in and Oriel realised it was cold. ‘How did you know?’ she asked sullenly.
‘Because Colin is a child in every way. It stands to reason that your lover is Marcus.’
‘Will other people guess?’
‘Most probably. But you must not give them a scrap of evidence. They can whisper all they wish but there must be no grounds for them to point the finger. I beg you in your exalted position as kinswoman of the archbishop not to allow a breath of scandal to besmirch your name.’
‘But how can I stop it?’
‘By ending your affair with Marcus at once.’
Oriel did not answer, merely turning on her heel and walking back into the palace. Paul stared after her, shaking his head from side to side but after a few moments seemed to come to some sort of decision and followed her slowly into the palace.
Calling to a servant, he said, ‘Saddle up your horse. I want you to take a letter to Sharndene. The matter is urgent.’