Every muscle in Wulfstan’s body tensed, for he saw where Sir William was leading. He assumed an expression of gravity to match the older man’s seriousness.
‘Have you any idea why I wish to speak to you, Sir Wulfstan?’
It was a direct approach, and demanded an honest answer.
‘I dare to say that you are thinking of your daughter Beulah, sire.’
‘Ah, I see that you do know, and I have to remind you that at seventeen years old she is far too young to consider marriage. She is totally ignorant of the ways of men, as innocent as a young child, and Lady Judith and I are much concerned over her.’
Wulfstan flushed darkly. ‘Indeed, I know this well, sire, and I have nothing but the deepest respect for her maidenhood.’
‘I am sure of it, and told my lady wife as much. I believe you to be an honourable man, grievously wounded in battle, but still able to give valuable service to the Prince. We have the greatest trust in your integrity, but Beulah is our youngest daughter, and we think she should wait until she’s twenty-one, and we look for a husband at least five years older than herself. May I ask your age, Sir Wulfstan?’
‘My age? I am twenty-one, sire, exactly four years older than Beulah,’ Wulfstan replied, utterly amazed at what he had just heard. He had been content just to look upon Beulah as a knight looks up to his lady – but here was her father talking of marriage! To be married to Beulah, with her innocent wifely virtues would be as happy a match and as prudent as could be imagined – in other circumstances, if the man were whole and sound in body, not carrying around an accursed arm, as hideous as it was useless.
‘I am honoured beyond all telling, sire, and I understand your reluctance to—’
But Sir William interrupted him, his face beaming with joy.
‘Good, Sir Wulfstan, my wife and I welcome you! Our beloved daughter could have no better husband, and so we ask that you will enter into a betrothal to Beulah, who I may tell you returns your feelings for her. Are you willing for a betrothal to be declared here at St Mary Greneholt church, and be further willing to wait four years? For I must tell you that if you are not thus willing, we could not allow you to see or speak to Beulah. Only as her future husband can we permit her to meet you, and we trust that you will protect and respect her virtue. Are you agreed to this?’
The prospect of meeting and talking with Beulah as a welcome guest of her parents was a pleasure that Wulfstan could not reject. Perhaps in the course of four years he might be able to tell her father the truth, and show him the hideous blemish on an otherwise fit and healthy body, that gruesome dead arm that hung from his ever-painful left shoulder – a sight that had terrified an older, experienced woman. And then perhaps her father would tell her mother, and her mother would tell Beulah, so that she might be prepared . . .
But Sir William was shaking his hand and calling for Lady Judith and Mistress Beulah to come to the study and hear the news; in another moment the sweet girl stood before him, her shining eyes leaving no doubt of her happiness. Prompted by her mother, she held out her hand and he pressed it to his lips. What should he say to her?
‘Dearest Beulah . . .’ was all he could manage.
‘Dear Sir Wulfstan,’ she whispered in return, and the promise was made and sealed. Later he might have doubts and question his fitness for her, but now, as she stood before him with her parents’ glad approval, he resolved to banish such dark thoughts in the light of love.
Within three weeks the betrothal was formally declared and blessed in the church of St Mary Greneholt in the face of the congregation, and later that day, in the presence of her parents he was allowed to kiss her on the cheek. Her complexion was clear with a faint, rosy blush, and when he placed his hand on her shoulder, she gladly put her arms around his neck – at which Lady Judith hurriedly stepped forward and made her withdraw them. Beulah blushed and curtsied to the man whose wife she would eventually be, but her soft brown eyes sparkled. It was a moment to savour and remember for life, and he did not anticipate the emotional strain that lay ahead, the coming years of separation and frustration.
Nine
1359
Heads turned to look at the two young men on horseback as they rode westwards out of London on a clear June morning; passing through Staines they reined in to stop at an inn for refreshment, and were very civilly received.
‘D’ye reckon one of ’em be a prince?’ the innkeeper’s wife whispered. ‘That handsome one in the russet tunic and leather belt with a sword at his side?’
‘No, can’t ye see, woman, he handles everything with his right hand, and that’s ’cause he ain’t got no left arm,’ replied her husband. ‘He must be some young nobleman who’s lost it in the service o’ the king, though he’s scarcely twenty, neither be the other one. See to them horses, boy, and don’t stand staring!’ he added to a lad standing by.
The other young rider was similarly dressed in darker colours, and both wore elongated hoods; the swordsman had his twisted around his head in the style of a lord, while the other’s hung down his back in a liripipe, denoting his servant status. Both men had short, clipped beards, and seemed on very friendly terms.
The swordsman thanked the innkeeper and paid him in good coin before they continued on their way; by mid-afternoon they crossed over the Bourne river into Hampshire, and proceeded along the valley until they rounded a bend and came in sight of Castle de Lusignan, perched up on a rocky outcrop above where the river Bourne meets the Dene.
‘Well, there it is, Theo,’ the young knight said to his squire as they crossed the bridge over the Bourne above the meeting of the rivers. ‘The Castle de Lusignan. We’d better dismount and start climbing.’
The squire took the reins of both their horses as they toiled slowly up the steep-sided cliff to the forbidding castle.
‘It’s one of those built by William the Conqueror after his victory in 1066, more fortress than home,’ he told his squire, for that was how young Sir Wulfstan remembered it from childhood days when the de Lusignans had considered themselves far superior to any of the families in the hundred of Hyam St Ebba.
‘Times have changed a lot since this war with France,’ Wulfstan continued as he made his way upward with the use of his one arm. ‘Their sons fought side by side with us, and lost their first son Piers at Crécy, where my brother Oswald was also . . . er,’ he hesitated and then went on, ‘and their second son Charles was wounded at Poitiers three years ago and lost a leg. He’s the man I’m going to see.’
Looking up at the castle, Sir Wulfstan’s spirits rose, for here he was at last, given permission from Edward, known as the Black Prince, to visit his relations – and better still, his friends. He patted the neck of the docile grey mare which he had named Jewel, a gift from the Queen. She was sturdier than she at first appeared, and a bond of mutual trust had grown up between master and mount; she seemed to know that Wulfstan needed to avoid steep and difficult pathways, choosing to travel a longer way if it was easier. By his side was his squire, Theobald Eldrige, strong and reliable, happy to attend on Sir Wulfstan as his squire before joining the king’s army later in the year.
Count Robert de Lusignan and Lady Hélène received their visitor civilly enough, though Wulfstan sensed a certain coolness in their greeting.
‘We have long waited for a sight of you, seeing that you said you would visit Charles and help his recovery,’ said the Count. ‘Yet we have scarcely had news of you, other than your favour with the Black Prince. Our son has been much disappointed, and has not regained his strength as we were led to hope he would.’
‘Even so, he will still be glad to see you, and Ethelreda will take you to his room,’ said the Countess, and Wulfstan was taken aback by the sadness in her face; both of them had considerably aged during the intervening years since Poitiers, and Wulfstan felt a sword thrust of conscience towards this family who had treated him with much kindness in the past. He bowed and murmured an apology, at which they nodded briefly, and retired to
their room, leaving it to his sister to do duty as his hostess.
Ethelreda greeted him with kisses and tears, and the children gathered around him, Piers, Norval and Sofia, and also a smiling toddler that Wulfstan assumed had been inside his sister’s belly on his last visit.
‘What happiness to see you again, Wulfstan! I thought you’d forgotten all about us!’ she cried. ‘Charles has been wanting to see you so often, but we thought you had grown too grand for us, now that the Prince has made you his right-hand man – so come and see him now, and tell him all about life at Court!’
Wulfstan had expected Charles to come out to greet him, on crutches or at least with a stick; but when he saw his friend and fellow soldier lying on a couch in a room that was clearly set apart as a sickroom, he understood only too well, and could hardly conceal his shock at seeing Charles, once so vigorous, now so pale and thin. He did not rise, but smiled a welcome, holding out a hand whichWulfstan took, smiling back at this shadow of the man he had known.
‘So, what’s the news from Berkhamsted?’ asked Charles, raising an eyebrow. ‘Is it true that our gracious King Edward and his warlike son Prince Edward are planning another onslaught on France? Tell me it isn’t so!’
Wulfstan told him regretfully that the rumours were indeed true, but that he of course would not be going; instead he had been given the privilege of overseeing the day-to-day running of the castle at Berkhamsted with regard to expenses, and answerable to the Queen.
‘So you see, Charles, my wretched arm has spared me from further slaughter of other men’s sons,’ he said, and Ethelreda shot him a warning glance.
‘Come, Charles old friend,’ he continued with forced brightness, ‘we’ve still got three arms and three legs between us, and I’ve been lucky in gaining a good position in the Prince’s household. I’ll still be able to ride out to collect rents for him, and I’ll come over whenever I can.’ He made a movement towards the couch, then gasped and winced. Ethelreda noticed.
‘Are you in pain, Wulfstan? You have frown lines between your eyebrows. Is it since your arm was lost? Charles says he feels pain in his missing leg.’
Wulfstan did not want to go into any details about his own health while Charles lay languidly on a couch.
‘I have not actually lost the arm, Ethelreda, it’s still there, and ’tis a horrible sight, shrunken and discoloured.’ He shuddered involuntarily. ‘’Twould frighten you if you saw it.’
‘But that’s not right, Brother! You must have it seen by a surgeon, and ask if anything can be done for it.’
‘I have had the services of the prince’s own surgeon, and I know that the pain will be there in my shoulder joint for the rest of my life.’
‘Then you must go up to the Abbey St Ebba, and ask for Friar Valerian to see it,’ she told him. ‘He’s the infirmarian there, and is known to have a healing touch. I always have him to see the children if they have a fever or rash, and so does our sister-in-law at Ebbasterne Hall – he comes at once.’
‘But this is ten miles away – why should he come all that distance just to see your children, or Janet’s? Shouldn’t he stay within the Abbey?’
‘He’s not a monk, but a Franciscan friar,’ she explained, ‘used to travelling from one place to another, like St Francis himself, and he will come at any hour to see a Wynstede. He lives at the Abbey now, because his rigorous life has aged him, but he has a healing touch – though I’ve heard he’s something of a law unto himself.’
‘Is there any reason why our family should be so privileged?’ he asked curiously.
For a moment she hesitated, then answered, ‘He has always had a close bond with the Wynstedes since we were children. He can’t give Charles his leg back, nor restore him to vitality of body – but he raises Charles’s spirits by his wise sayings. I insist that you go and consult him!’
‘Well, Sister, I shall do as you say, though I would hardly think my trouble to be compared with . . . with Charles’s. And first I must visit our brother at Ebbasterne Hall, and his lady wife.’ He grinned as he spoke of Janet, a Blagge who had acquired airs and graces since her marriage, and Ethelreda smiled and nodded.
‘And you’ll go to see Kitty and Aelfric at Blagge House, of course?’
‘Of course, if that appalling old man will let me over the threshold – if not I shall arrange for Mistress Keepence to bring them to me at Ebbasterne Hall.’
‘No, Wulfstan, command that they be brought here, to the Castle de Lusignan,’ said his sister. ‘Let them have a few days getting to know their Uncle Wulfstan and their cousins. They’re fine young people; she’s thirteen now, and already a beauty. Give them a holiday from their grandsire!’
‘I’d better get my duty done first, and call at Ebbasterne Hall. You’ll have to remind me of all the children’s names, which I’ve completely forgotten.’
Ethelreda reminded him that the Wynstede twin girls were Lois and Joanna, and their three younger brothers Denys, Elmete and the latest to arrive, Cedric.
‘I’ll never remember, though I’m as much their uncle as I am to yours – and to Kitty and Aelfric,’ he replied. ‘And what’s the name of your youngest, this little toddling fellow who keeps falling over?’
‘Robert,’ she said, her eyes softening with maternal pride. ‘He’s the joy of my life, Wulfstan – our youngest son, and the last – aren’t you, my precious boy?’
She folded the smiling two-year-old in her arms, and Wulfstan looked at her keenly. She was no longer the roguish playmate he remembered from those far-off days of childhood. Though not yet five-and-twenty, she had lost the sparkle of her youth; and how did she know that Robert was their last baby? The answer was painfully obvious: Charles no longer took her as his lawful wife because of his weakness. Wulfstan sighed over the far-reaching ill consequences of war, and his thoughts turned to Beulah – dear little pious Beulah, willing to accept a long betrothal, all unaware of his misgivings about his secret disfigurement. He partly confided in Ethelreda, though he would not show her the arm, and she said that if Beulah loved him as she said she did, she would not be upset by the blemish of a withered arm, and wished him well. Yet it remained his deepest fear; for if the bold, experienced Lady Mildred had been terrified by it, how would it appear to Beulah – and her parents?
Abbot Damian received Wulfstan with the courtesy befitting a knight of the realm, and when Wulfstan asked if he might see Friar Valerian, a kind of recognition came to the Abbot’s eyes, and he sent a lay brother to the infirmary; back came a message that the friar would see Sir Wulfstan straight away in the herb garden adjacent to the infirmary.
Friar Valerian had aged considerably since Wulfstan had last seen him as a child. Tall and rake-thin, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, a livid ridged scar ran down the right side of his face, pulling down the skin around the eye; the once red-brown hair was grey, tonsured over the crown and hanging down to his shoulders. Nevertheless, Wulfstan knew him at once, even before the friar held out both arms to embrace him.
‘Sir Wulfstan, little brother, I would have known you without being told. I thank God for letting me see you again as a man!’
Wulfstan returned the embrace, so close did he already feel to this man of God.
‘I heard that you lost an arm at the Battle of Poitiers,’ went on the friar. ‘Tell me, how has it healed, my son?’
Wulfstan had grown accustomed to making light of his wound, and usually answered this question with stoic endurance; but now he spoke the plain truth.
‘I still have the arm, good Friar, and suffer constant pain in the shoulder on that side.’
‘Let me see it, Wulfstan. Come, take off your tunic and shirt – here, I’ll help you.’
His touch was firm but gentle, avoiding direct contact with the left shoulder. Wulfstan obeyed his instructions, and felt a curious sense of relief when the withered arm was free of its bandage and hung down in all its ugliness.
‘You poor boy,’ muttered the friar, gently raisin
g the arm and regarding the dark, claw-like hand and very lightly feeling the irregular shoulder bones, wrongly knitted together. He asked Wulfstan to stand up, sit down and then lie down upon a trestle table; a very light traction on the arm caused Wulfstan to moan involuntarily.
‘My son, this will have to come off.’
Wulfstan nodded mutely. He had suspected this for some time, but only now did he admit it. The friar’s eyes were filled with pity.
‘You’ll have seen arms and legs cut off after battles?’
‘Yes, Friar. My brother-in-law Charles de Lusignan lost his right leg after Poitiers, and he has not recovered well after three years.’
‘Ah, yes. Poor Mistress Ethelreda and their children.’
‘I’ve heard that you visit my nieces and nephews when they’re ill, Friar.’
‘I do what I can for Cecily’s children,’ said the friar, crossing himself. ‘And I’ll do what I can for you, though it will not be without danger. You are otherwise young and strong, which is greatly in your favour.’
‘I’ll face danger, Friar Valerian – I’ll risk death for a chance of losing this horrible thing.’
‘Hm. You must speak to your brother Oswald, and obtain his permission.’
‘I am my own man, Friar, of one-and-twenty years, and need no man’s permission.’
‘Even so, your brother and sister must know what you are prepared to undergo, and the risk of bleeding and of putrid suppuration after the limb is severed. They must be told of the danger, and I am reluctant to take this step without their knowledge.’ The friar’s voice was low. ‘How long will you be staying at the castle?’
‘For the whole month of June.’
‘Have you a competent manservant?’
‘Yes, my squire Theobald is strong and sensible.’ There was only one question left. ‘Suppose I do not submit to the knife and the saw, Friar, suppose I go on living with this withered arm, what would happen?’
Every Noble Knight Page 13