To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  He looked up and saw her. Years before, when they were first married, he would have hurried to be with her. Now he continued to trudge forward, his head lowered like that of a sheep on its way to slaughter.

  He began to climb the hill, his face set hard as stone, and as he drew nearer, Isabel saw that he silently wept.

  ‘Adam, don’t,’ she called out. ‘Do not punish yourself like that. What is done, is done.’

  He drew close to her. ‘I could not help loving her,’ he said. ‘Yet she betrayed me so often. My pure little girl was really a whore.’

  Very gently, Isabel answered, ‘Oriel was no whore, Adam. She loved Marcus.’

  ‘But I saw them together last winter. He rode her like a stallion. I could not bear to watch.’

  ‘Is that why you killed him?’ said Isabel softly.

  Adam’s great blank face turned to her in astonishment. ‘I killed him ...?’

  But the fact that it was a question was lost on Isabel as she took a sickle from behind her back and brought down its moon-shaped blade upon the artery that pulsed in Adam’s neck. He stood staring at her, amazed, watching his life’s blood course down his shirt and into the mossy earth below.

  ‘Isabel...’ he said, ‘I ...’

  And then he dropped, quite silently, his sad eyes staring up to the treetops and the great sky beyond, his gigantic body as still and calm as if he had just gone to sleep.

  Isabel said nothing at all, merely shaking her head a little sadly as she would at a child who had been naughty in her presence. Then, the dripping blade still in her hand, she made her way down the slope towards the river.

  As she came to the banks the sun began its final descent in a blaze of crimson, the Rother taking on the colour of fire and amber as it reflected the fiercesome light. Without a word Isabel raised the sickle above her head and watched the blood on it mingle with the brilliant waters as she threw it in. Then she stripped herself quite naked, gazing down at her ageing flesh without love.

  ‘Make me beautiful again,’ she cried to the flowing river.

  A heron, startled, rose from his evening nest as she waded into the fast-flowing water and felt the coolness of it close over her luxuriant dark head.

  Seventeen

  Harvest time, and the villeins and tenants hearty and hale as they wielded scythe and sickle, jug and ale. In the air the first crisp apple smell of autumn and over the land an intangible haze; a haze that spoke of summer but was really the very first sign of the end of the year.

  In a glow of scarlet against the golden wheat, vividly bright next to the rich dark earth, noisy as it hurried through towns and villages, the archbishop’s retinue, gleaming cross in the morning, prayers and wine cups at night, set forth from the hallowed town of York, through the long green stretches of middle England until the primate was, at last, once more within the boundaries of the ancient and mystical land of Sussex. After almost a year serving his king as chancellor and principal adviser for a second period of office, the archbishop ended the journey from York and came once more to his ancient palace.

  ‘How good,’ he thought, ‘to sniff the raw bright scents of Maghefeld in the autumn time.’ And then he thought of his sister-in-law Oriel, and of the child that she was to bear, and of all the love and all the hate he felt for his sad, mad brother Colin, and of everything he would do and had done to appease his guilt and assure his brother’s happiness.

  Wafting from the kitchens of the palace came the smells of meat upon the spit, of herbs being thrown into hot dark soups, of vegetables grown beneath warm and roseate walls. Stratford relished them all and felt that he had come home. He smiled to himself as he called out, ‘Wevere, who is about? Where are you?’

  There was an instant hustle and bustle as every servant in the place scurried to receive the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. Horses’ heads were held, legs swung out of stirrups, the wizened cleric who still, despite his eighty years, acted as Stratford’s secretary, was lifted bodily down to the cobbles below. Everything was right in the great Palace of Maghefeld: the Primate of all England was once more in residence.

  As soon as they heard his voice, Colin and Oriel came from their apartments to greet him, his brother running and calling out, ‘John, John,’ the girl walking more slowly behind. She was heavy with child now, almost at full term and longing to be free of her burden and hold Marcus’s baby in her arms.

  With these guilty thoughts she descended the stone staircase and found herself, after so many months and so many stirring events, staring into the frozen face and glittering eyes of her mighty brother-in-law.

  Oriel dropped a difficult curtsey and felt Stratford’s hand take her elbow to raise her up.

  ‘You are well, my child?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘And the babe?’

  ‘It moves within, my Lord. The midwife tells me it will be here very soon.’

  He looked at her dispassionately and Oriel found herself wondering whether he guessed the secret of its paternity.

  As if he read her thoughts, the archbishop said, ‘I hear that Flaviel has left the palace and is presumed by many to be dead.’

  Oriel said nothing, certain that a trap was being set, and Stratford went on, ‘Wevere has kept me informed of events. There is little that escapes him and he is an excellent correspondent.’

  Though his face had not altered at all, Oriel became convinced that he was giving her a secret message.

  ‘I am glad, my Lord.’

  She could see that he was about to speak again, was about to delve more deeply, but was saved by the return of Colin who had bounded off to search for Paul d’Estrange.

  ‘My Lord,’ said the knight, bending his knee and kissing Canterbury’s ring.

  ‘I hear that you have kept the palace safe in my absence, d’Estrange. I also hear that you have lost Flaviel in mysterious circumstances. Is there any hope that he might still be alive?’

  Paul stood up. ‘No body has yet been found, my Lord, so there is always hope. But knowing him as well as I do I cannot bring myself to believe that he would have gone of his own choosing without a word of farewell.’

  The archbishop nodded and said, ‘I would speak of this further. Come to my chamber. Let the younger people rest before the evening’s repast.’

  He swept past the three of them, his cloak rippling, and mounted the great staircase at speed, the heavier-built man panting behind him. And so far ahead was he that by the time Paul caught him up in the antechamber above the staircase, the archbishop had already let the cloak slip to the ground where it lay like a scarlet pool, and stood, a sombre black-clad figure, staring out of the window, his back averted.

  ‘Sir Paul,’ he said, without turning round, ‘you must deal with me honestly if you value your future. Is there any chance of my brother being the father of his wife’s child?’

  In an agony the knight shifted from foot to foot, his fieldmouse eyes dark.

  ‘Speak out! I must know the truth. You have been here all these months while I have served our Sovereign Lord in York. And though no man can be privy to the bedchamber of another, there is a way of knowing these things. Tell me the truth.’

  He wheeled round and for a moment Paul thought that the second most powerful man in England had taken leave of his senses. The archbishop’s skin had blanched to the colour of snow, his eyes turned glassy, while a beating vein throbbed snakelike at his temple.

  ‘Speak up man. It was Flaviel, wasn’t it? He fulfilled the role that Colin could never take?’

  ‘My Lord,’ answered Paul in distress, ‘it is not right that you should ask me these things.’

  ‘It is right,’ hissed the primate. ‘Some deeds are done as a result of others. It is essential that I know the facts.’

  ‘Then to the best of my knowledge the child that your sister-in-law carries is that of Marcus de Flaviel.’

  The most curious expression crossed the face of the archbishop, an expression that seemed
to carry in its depths triumph, despair and a strange kind of relief.

  ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘God’s will be done. You will not speak of this again. Let Colin be accepted as the father in the eyes of the world.’

  For two men with the same objective there seemed a strange disharmony between them. There was a coldness in the room and Paul caught himself shivering. Much as his natural son had done before him he caught something, then, of the essence of Stratford. Saw him like a black rook, plotting the downfall of kings and the raising up of princes; saw him signing his name to documents of which surely God, in His infinite love and mercy, would not have approved. Saw him as a whisperer in corners and yet at the same time, confusingly, saw him as a man of vision, a man who would stop at nothing in order ultimately to achieve the good of all.

  ‘My Lord, what can I say?’ he replied. ‘I would not wish Marcus’s name to be slurred — nor yet that of your brother and Oriel. I learned many years ago the power of keeping a still tongue.’

  ‘Does anyone else know?’

  ‘Only Oriel’s mother, and she is sworn to secrecy for love of her daughter.’

  ‘Then so be it. We must forget Flaviel, and look to the future.’ An obvious elation now held Stratford in its grip.

  ‘I shall certainly do so, my Lord. But as to forgetting Marcus — that is a different matter. I shall always remember him with the greatest affection.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ the archbishop shrugged a thin shoulder. ‘Thank you, d’Estrange.’

  In one stroke he had ended the conversation and Paul was left with no choice but to bow his way out, wondering all the while about the strange facets that went to form the character of God’s foremost servant in England.

  But an hour later in the splendour of the great hall a different side of the primate was on display. Before his temporal subjects a gorgeously gowned actor now appeared, magnificent of speech and easy of laugh. The great voice, intoning thanks for the repast, was telling all those bowing their heads and clasping their hands that no distant saint was amongst them but a man of flesh and blood; that a sympathetic and worldly ear would listen to their little misdeeds with compassion and understanding. And as he swirled from his place on the dais to feed the poor of Maghefeld with his own pale hands there were few present who did not consider him a great man, a visionary, a true Vicar of Christ walking amongst and loving them all.

  Only Oriel felt bemused by his display; felt after her early rush of courage she no longer had the strength to deceive her mighty brother-in-law. She sat, like a flower about to burst its seeds — in a gown full as a tent yet which still felt tight — eating scarcely nothing. And the smell from the floor, clean at first for the archbishop’s arrival but now giving off odours of spit, vomit and urine, assailed her nostrils like poison.

  Beside her Colin watched like an anxious pup, gazing earnestly into her face and occasionally leaning forward to wipe her brow and the place above her upper lip. He was the only one who noticed her distress and she turned on him a faint yet grateful smile as he took her hand in his.

  ‘Presently we shall go to our room,’ he said, and she thought of their cool, quiet chamber where she occupied the bed and he lay, like a servant, on a trussing mattress at its foot. Last winter they had occupied it together, cuddling like children, but now that she was so large he had moved out to make way for her.

  ‘Let it be soon,’ she answered, and as she did so a wave of sensation, starting in her womb and building up like an arch, seized her entire body. Her breathing quickened in response and Paul d’Estrange heard her from where he stood behind the archbishop.

  She saw him step forward and whisper in Stratford’s ear and she felt the crystal eyes turn assessingly in her direction. ‘Oriel, are you not well?’ The full voice was lowered to a whisper.

  ‘If I might retire, my Lord. I am in discomfort.’

  ‘Is it the child?’

  She could not answer but heard Paul murmur and then saw Stratford turn to her once more. ‘You may withdraw discreetly. I will have word sent to your mother to attend you in your chamber. A servant will fetch Joan the midwife.’

  As she got to her feet so, too, did Colin, and Stratford added abruptly, ‘Stay where you are brother. This is not your affair.’

  Like a child, Colin said pugnaciously, ‘If my wife is leaving, so am I.’

  Oriel felt everyone at the table stiffen but particularly Stratford. Caring nothing for any of them as her womb tightened hard once more, she gasped, ‘Colin, please come with me.’

  He thrust out his lower lip and glared at his elder brother, ‘Yes I shall.’ Then he announced at the top of his voice, ‘I put the babe there with my love, you know.’

  At any other time Oriel would have hidden her head in shame but now all she could think of was walking through the screens at the back of the dais and making her way somehow — anyhow — to the top of the staircase. Water began to trickle down her legs.

  ‘What is happening?’ she called out fearfully.

  ‘The baby is leaving its caul,’ said the voice of Paul, surprisingly close behind her. ‘Come Oriel, we must put you to bed.’

  ‘Am I in labour?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t be afraid. The women will be here shortly.’

  As the next wave of contraction came Oriel reached the door of her room and she fell forward upon her bed as the impact struck. Someone took off her shoes and someone else removed her flowing robe and replaced it with a shift. She opened her eyes to see her mother leaning over her, her face anxious and, turning her head slightly, Oriel saw Colin struggling in the doorway, wrenching at the arm of the midwife as she tried to put him from the room.

  ‘Oh let him stay,’ she gasped. ‘He is so harmless and I draw comfort from his company.’

  Margaret and Joan exchanged a glance but eventually Madam Sharndene weakened and said, ‘Very well, he may sit outside the door. But he must go even from there when your labour advances.’

  Oriel could not answer as a huge wave dashed against her, leaving her broken and trembling. Then she cried, ‘Colin, play for me. Play to help me, my little love.’

  She saw his worried face as he snatched up his gittern a moment before he was shown outside and the door locked against him. In it Oriel read so much love, so much compassion, that she marvelled she should have known such tenderness in her short life; that two men should have cared for her so much. Then all thought was gone as another wave came upon her unannounced, throwing her fragile body into the air and breaking her against the rocky shore before it died away.

  The music began, soft and insinuating, and Oriel realised dimly that Colin was playing as he never had before. That from his poor blunt hands was pouring forth a lullaby composed for the child of a lost dead friend, the infant of a well-beloved wife. From beneath her closed lids tears began to trickle as the tempest hit her without mercy.

  Oriel had never realised that a human being could be subjected to so much suffering. She was in a lashing sea without a spar; she was in the depths, sucked beneath icy waters; she was helpless, shot towards heaven on the crest of monstrous waves. A siren began to sing from the deep, a merchild joined its voice with Colin’s gittern, a girl began to scream as she fell down and down into the vortex.

  Somewhere, Margaret’s voice said, ‘For God’s sake fetch Sir Paul. Maybe he can help her.’

  Out of the darkness, Joan answered. ‘There is something wrong with this labour. It is women’s curse to suffer but never like this.’

  In the far corner of reality the chamber door was unlocked. ‘Oriel,’ said Colin, ‘I am here. They won’t put me out again. I shall stay with you until the infant comes.’

  Now he played a requiem, but for whom who could tell? Distantly Sir Paul said, ‘The child is too big. It is taking the mother with it.’

  ‘Save her,’ said a voice that resembled Margaret’s. ‘Sacrifice the baby. Kill it if you must.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Paul. ‘She is too small
and it has won.’

  The voice of the gittern rose high, drowning all, then, as the thin cry of a newborn child rang out, Oriel smiled as her hand fell into that of a sad little simpleton who wept beside the bed as if his heart would break.

  *

  Midnight in the palace; candles and whispering; and in the two chapels, two brothers about their different affairs. In the room above the porch where Oriel lay at peace, only the sound of Colin’s sobs. In Becket’s tiny praying place, the muttered words of baptism as John de Stratford held Marcus’s son in his arms and acknowledged him into the Christian faith.

  She had died quietly, her cries stilled as the baby was assisted into the world by Paul d’Estrange. She had suffered very little at the end, full of some potion the Gascon knight had given to ease her passing. But, as if her agony had gone in to him, Colin had fallen to the floor, crumpled and beaten, and had had to be carried to the chapel where, later, he kept lone vigil beside the slight body of his young wife.

  From his great chamber the archbishop had come, vestments rustling as he walked, and had administered the last rites before he had gathered the infant up and taken it away from the midwife to where he might be alone with his thoughts. Looking down at the sleeping child, John Stratford’s face had taken on the odd frozen expression that was so very much part of him.

  Then he had made the sign of the cross and dipping his fingers in holy water had repeated it on the forehead of Marcus’s son.

  ‘God forgive me for the destruction of your father,’ he prayed. ‘It was too dangerous to let him live. He might not have been able to hold his tongue when you were born. But a small evil is sometimes necessary to achieve ultimate good.’

  And how easy it had been for the hired assassin to waylay the unsuspecting squire in the darkness and afterwards hide his body by concealing it within the wall of a cottage still under construction.

  The child did not stir and laying it down on his bed, Stratford went to kneel where Thomas à Becket had before him.