Every Noble Knight

by Maggie Bennett

  Wulfstan frowned. ‘You had no right to pick apples without permission,’ he said sharply. ‘Now I shall have to pay for them out of the allowance I’ve been given.’

  ‘Oh, is that a problem, Monsieur?’ asked Lemaitre. ‘Happily, I’m not limited to a meagre allowance!’ And he drew from beneath his tunic a purse out of which he tipped a handful of silver coins. ‘Will that cover the cost?’ he asked with feigned politeness, for the money would pay for much more than half a dozen apples.

  Wulfstan’s mouth set in a hard, straight line. ‘You had no right to bring money with you, Lemaitre. This chevauchée is to test our initiative and self-denial. I’ve a good mind to order you to take it back, but your companions are already eating the fruit, so just put your purse away. This is not to happen again, do you understand?’

  ‘If you say so, Monsieur.’ The youth’s eyes were insolent, and he did not conceal his amusement when the dame reappeared and exclaimed at seeing the money on the table.

  ‘Oh, but this is far too much, messieurs! I can give you newly smoked ham with eggs and a game pie for such largesse!’

  Wulfstan could hardly forbid her to supply more food, nor stop the young men from eating it with enthusiasm, but he smarted inwardly, and refused to eat any of the appetising extra fare. Theobald Eldrige and Van Brunt looked at him questioningly for a moment, clearly wondering if they should follow his example, but their stomachs overcame their scruples, and they rather sheepishly helped themselves to it.

  ‘I see you’re enjoying the game pie, Monsieur Eldrige,’ said Demoins with a grin round the table. ‘Would you like another slice? Can I tempt you to take one?’

  Poor Theobald felt like guilty Adam when Eve offered him a bite of the forbidden apple. He shook his head and wiped the crumbs from his tunic.

  ‘The sun’s past its zenith, and we must move on,’ said Wulfstan shortly. He remounted Troilus, and beckoned them to follow him out on to the dusty road. The incident had spoiled the sense of adventure he’d had on the morning ride, and he blamed himself as much as Lemaitre; to report the matter to the Monseigneur when they returned would sound unbelievably petty, like a falling-out between silly girls rather than soldiers in training. He had been outwitted, and there was nothing to be done but press forward. The written instructions told him to go due south on a path that climbed upward through a stony and sparsely populated terrain, which would eventually descend into a wooded valley where there was a large Cistercian monastery; possibly they could stay overnight there. Ordering his charges to follow closely behind him, he urged Troilus forward, hoping that they would reach some kind of stopping place, some habitation, be it a humble cottage or wayside inn, where he could purchase food before nightfall, however plain. The others, well refreshed after their feast at the farmhouse, were content to traverse an increasingly bare landscape, where the view to their right was of thick forest, darkening almost to black in the fading light.

  Having surmounted a small rise, they were suddenly confronted by a fork in the road. There were no signposts to point the way before or behind, and the Monseigneur’s instructions said nothing of a fork at this point. Wulfstan had therefore to decide which way to take. To go to the right, proceeding due south led directly towards the forest, while to their left the road appeared to turn eastwards and continue uphill. Wulfstan dared not hesitate, and chose to turn right, assuming that the path would skirt the edge of the forest and then lead down to the valley.

  ‘This way, messieurs!’ he called, aware of murmurings being made about the purpose of this expedition, and of his ability to lead it. He ignored them, though was somewhat taken aback when the path entered the forest and continued along a track just broad enough to accommodate horses. He rode boldly straight ahead in the half-dark, tired and hungry, trying to quieten a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that this was not the right way. Monseigneur’s directions had mentioned woodlands, but these trees were dark and dense. Their way became narrower, and thorny bushes had closed in on either side. The horses seemed reluctant to pursue it, and there was a shout behind Wulfstan when Léon Merand’s horse stumbled over a tree root and almost shook his rider off; fortunately there was no harm done apart from thoroughly disconcerting the horse, but Merand dismounted and spoke quietly to the beast. Wulfstan then gave the order for them all to dismount and lead their horses, proceeding in single file.

  The density of the forest shut out the darkening sky, and they had to feel their way forward; progress became slower and slower, until Wulfstan unsheathed his sword and used it to hack away at the undergrowth which now impeded every step they took. The darkness was complete, but there was no silence; the woods were full of scufflings and rustlings as the creatures of the night went about their foraging. An owl hooted, making Van Brunt jump and tighten his grip on his horse’s bridle. There were croakings and mysterious whisperings among the trees, and Wulfstan thought of the outlaws that lurked in the forests of England, coming forth at night to steal and plunder and then disappearing before dawn. Were there such bands of robbers in the forests of France? He felt increasingly unsure of himself and his judgement.

  The path then seemed to peter out altogether, overgrown with bushes, and they came to a standstill. The mutterings of the company were getting louder, and Wulfstan now seriously doubted that they had come the right way. It was pitch dark, the tops of the trees cutting out moon and stars, and he did not know what he should do. Not generally of a religious nature, he now prayed silently that he was not leading these young men into danger, and when he heard Claus Van Brunt whispering in his own Flemish language, he knew that the boy was also praying for their protection; after all, except for himself and Merand they were hardly more than boys.

  Every one of them cried out when there was a sudden horrible screeching quite close to them, like a man in unbearable pain. It was followed by a furious bellowing, and more agonized screaming. Wulfstan crossed himself. Was it a killing, a strangling or a knifing of some unlucky traveller? Was it, heaven forbid, a spirit of the forest, a howling demon – or was it the ghost of one who had perished at this spot? Or a messenger from hell, come to seize their unshriven souls? The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and the cold, creeping fingers of fear seized him. His heart was pounding, so that he could hardly draw breath, but when more grunts and screams followed, Léon Merand shouted, ‘Pigs! It’s a wild boar having his way with a female!’ Wulfstan heard the shaky laughter of the others, and thought he would faint from sheer relief. Of course, there were boars a-plenty in the forests of France, as in England, but even as he breathed a shuddering sigh of thanks, he knew that the time had come for him to make a decision, either to admit his mistake and turn back, or to struggle on towards whatever lay ahead. These five souls were in his care; on his decision might hang their fates, whether or not they would see their mothers and fathers again. And yet he could not decide, though he prayed desperately to be shown the way, to be granted a sign . . .

  And then there came upon his ears from a long way off, the sweetest sound imaginable: far below them he heard the faint distant chiming of a church bell, marking the hours of the night. One – two – was that three? Or four? He could not be sure of the hour, but heaven be blessed, they were within reach of human habitation! The thought gave him the strength to forge ahead, thankful that he had not shown his terror. After a short while the ground began to descend, the path reappeared and broadened into a track. Wulfstan remounted Troilus, and triumphantly called to them all.

  ‘Follow me, boys!’ he roared. ‘Get on your horses and follow me out of the forest!’

  There was a cheer as they obeyed, but they soon encountered another obstruction. The sound of a great snuffling and snorting turned out to be a large herd of pigs being driven up the track by a surly swineherd, to forage among the trees for acorns and suchlike delicacies. Wulfstan’s ‘Good morning, friend!’ was hardly out of his mouth before their horses began to shy and rear in fright among the heavy, noisy creatures. Wulfs
tan managed to stay in the saddle, but Theobald slithered off his steed, and Lemaitre and Merand dismounted and led their horses through the herd. Demoins shouted, ‘Look out, it’s the Gadarene swine!’ and the swineherd glared at them for upsetting his animals. Once they were past, the track ran straight down to a village, where they found no monastery, just a country church, its bell marking the passing hours. It stood at the centre of a small group of wooden and stone houses arranged around three sides of a cobbled square with the church on the fourth side. A handsome stone house faced the church, taller than the rest, and with a balcony around its upper storey. A plump woman wearing a brown kirtle and laced-up bodice stared in amazement and alarm at the six young horsemen who had cantered into the square.

  Wulfstan dismounted and greeted her politely. ‘Good day to you, Mistress! We are soldiers of—’ He got no further, for the woman recoiled in fear, and began to run towards the tall house.

  ‘It’s the English, they’re here, they’ve come!’ she shrieked. ‘Help, good Père Bonnat, they’ve come for us!’

  A man appeared on the balcony. ‘What’s the matter, Claudine? Who—oh, I see,’ he said as his eyes took in the strangers. If Wulfstan and his little band had hoped for hospitality, they were soon disappointed, for they were definitely unwelcome here.

  ‘Who are you, and what are you after?’ the man shouted down to them. ‘How have you got here?’

  ‘We have come over the hill yonder, sire,’ Wulfstan answered, ‘through the forest.’

  ‘Liar! One man might cut his way through the trackless forest, but not six men on horseback! Where have you come from?’

  ‘We are from Lisieux, sire, and are on chevauchée,’ replied Wulfstan, somewhat disconcerted in the face of such hostile questioning. He was about to ask the name of the village and whether they could purchase food here, but the man cut him short.

  ‘You look English to me! English soldiers, come to spoil our land and turn us into slaves of that accursed island! Tell me at once, are you enemies of France?’

  Wulfstan was at a loss as to how to answer the question, and hesitated for a moment. He was standing in front of his company, and did not see Léon Merand creep silently up behind him; in a flash he had pulled Wulfstan’s sword from its sheath on his belt, pushed Wulfstan aside and stepped forward, holding up the sword in a gesture of truce.

  ‘He is an English enemy of France, mon Père, and is our prisoner under escort. I am Capitaine Léon Merand of Paris, and we have indeed come over the hill and through the forest. It took us all night, and I have had to cut a way through with my sword. We will pass through your village with peaceful intent, and ask for nothing but to buy a little refreshment and water for ourselves and our horses.’

  Wulfstan was thunderstruck, and so were the others, judging by their incredulous gasps. Léon’s well-bred Parisian French had clearly impressed the man who then turned away from the balcony to come down to the square. While they waited, Léon muttered furiously to the rest, ‘Keep your mouths shut. Don’t deny what I’ve said. Leave him to me.’

  The man appeared at the door, and came towards them. He was tall, with an air of authority, and wore the long black cassock of a priest.

  ‘I am Père Bonnat, priest and notary of Sailly,’ he said, unknowingly giving the name of the village to Léon, who bowed. ‘We seldom see military men here. And where are you bound for?’

  ‘We are on our way back to the military academy at Lisieux, Père Bonnat, to which place I am returning these boys. They are mainly French and Flemish. We have been on chevauchée in Normandy as part of their training.’

  ‘Lisieux is a fair way off, surely? And who is this prisoner, and where are you taking him? And why did you make him your spokesman?’

  ‘I have to be careful, Père Bonnat,’ answered Léon promptly. ‘I needed to find out the allegiances of your village, whether you would welcome us or our prisoner. Is it possible to detain this fellow here?’

  ‘Indeed, Capitaine! I have a cellar, a prison cell beneath my house, securely locked. I seldom have to use it, but you may leave this fellow here while you go on to Lisieux without the encumbrance of him.’

  ‘Ah, that is a most gracious offer, Père Bonnat,’ said Léon with another bow, ‘but what we truly beg for is some refreshment after our ordeal. There are five of us and six horses. I . . . We will pay you well,’ he added, thinking of Lemaitre’s purse of silver coins.

  ‘Good! I shall give you breakfast, and your horses may drink from the trough in the square. And your prisoner will stay with me, to save you the trouble of guarding him.’

  Léon hesitated. He suspected that Wynstede would in fact be a hostage, to ensure that ‘Capitaine’ Merand and his youthful band would behave themselves and leave Sailly without causing any trouble. He decided to accept the offer for the time being, and ordered Wynstede forward.

  ‘I thank you, good Père Bonnat, and ask that this man too may be given breakfast; he has had very little to eat for the past day and night.’

  ‘Huh! He’ll get bread and water, and be thankful. We don’t fatten up our enemies. So, Capitaine, I will see that you and your young charges are given hospitality in Sailly – and I’ll call my guard to escort him to the cellar. You are welcome!’

  Wulfstan felt as if he were in the grip of a nightmare, so soon after their deliverance from the forest. Why had Léon taken his sword and told such a string of lies? While waiting for Bonnat to call for a guard, he turned his head and looked straight into Léon Merand’s eyes in a silent question. The self-styled ‘Capitaine’ did not flinch from his gaze, but closed his left eye in a deliberate wink of reassurance.

  As he was led away to the cellar, Père Bonnat invited the others to partake of bread, bacon, cheese and a light wine set out by Claudine on a table in the square. They were utterly mystified by Merand’s behaviour, not having seen the wink he had given Wulfstan, but dared not ask questions. The priest stood over them, and when they had finished, showed them the way out of Sailly on the road that ran north-east towards upper Normandy. They had no choice but to be on their way, though Troilus absolutely refused to leave without his master.

  ‘See that you smile and wave farewell to the man,’ Merand ordered, for any reluctance to leave on their part would arouse suspicion. They rode for about three miles, passing the empty and odorous piggery on their way, until they came upon a shady bank on the edge of a wood. Merand halted, and told them that here they would stay and rest, out of sight of the road. They dismounted and stretched out on the grass, but did not rest, for they now had the opportunity to challenge Merand.

  ‘Why in God’s name did you step in, and why did you snatch his sword?’ they demanded. ‘Why did you lie to that priest? Why have you left him there, a prisoner?’ And the most urgent question of all, ‘What are you going to do about him now? How is he to be rescued?’

  Merand answered that he cared about Monsieur Wynstede as much as they, but he had feared that they might all be taken prisoner because of Wynstede’s uncertain replies. By posing as a French capitaine, he had got the five of them out of danger and secured a good breakfast. They continued to accuse him.

  ‘Yes, we’re free, but our leader’s in a miserable cellar, under lock and key,’ said Eldrige. ‘I for one will go no further until he’s out of it.’

  Merand tried to reassure them. ‘And I shall go no further. Please believe me, and let us rest a few hours in this place – and tonight under cover of darkness we will go back to Sailly where I have a plan to release our leader. Take it on my word, friends, I have a plan.’

  ‘How can we believe you?’ asked Eldrige. ‘You have already told so many lies, and can tell a whole lot more. You had better tell us about this plan.’

  ‘Yes, let us hear it,’ said Claus Van Brunt, ‘and see if we all agree upon it.’

  When he told them, they readily agreed to accompany him back to Sailly that evening, each one having his own special part to play.

  Wulfstan had ne
ver lived through a worse experience than the one he now endured. In the dark of the windowless cellar, he could not rest on the narrow straw mattress against a wall, weary though he was. The guard had come in with a loud clanking of keys, to leave him a crust of bread and a cup of water, and pointed to an earthenware pot in one corner for him to relieve himself. Confusion and bewilderment filled his head, and he relived the speed with which Merand had snatched his sword and taken over the leadership of the chevauchée, denouncing Wulfstan and leaving him a prisoner in the priest’s cellar. He had been somewhat relieved by the wink Merand had given him, but began to doubt that it had any meaning, other than to give him a sense of false security. He had heard the sound of horses’ hooves as his charges rode away, and a distant voice had called out, ‘Come on, Troilus, you stupid creature, you’re coming with us!’ followed by another voice, ‘No, leave the stubborn beast here.’

  Wulfstan’s uncertainty about Léon Merand was his greatest burden: had the man betrayed him? And what would happen to the four other young soldiers under his leadership? Would they ever see the Maison Duclair again? And would the Monseigneur be told a cock-and-bull story about Wynstede’s treachery, and Merand’s bid to save them? The thought of the Maison Duclair brought back the memory of Madame la Gouvernante, she who had initiated him to manhood: what would she be told about his alleged misconduct, and would she care? No, she would be more contemptuous than ever. He groaned aloud, and was almost inclined to give way to despair, but he thought of his mother and his sister Cecily, God rest their souls: what would they say to him if they could see his wretched condition? He knew that they would tell him to put his trust in God and pray.

  He fell to his knees, and tried to remember the words he heard every week at the Mass, but to which he often paid little attention, his thoughts straying to more adventurous matters like horsemanship, jousting and his dream of one day fighting alongside the Prince of Wales, his hero in black armour who would one day be King Edward the IV of England.