Wulfstan bowed, and simply said, ‘May it be so, Your Grace.’
‘I am most grateful, Sir Wulfstan. I know that my son the Prince has every trust in you to govern the castle while he is away, even though –’ she smiled – ‘even though you are young. You won your knighthood by valour on the field of battle, losing your arm. I shall send my son a good report of Berkhamsted!’
Wulfstan bowed again and thanked her. He watched her departure and her retinue with a mixture of relief and regret that her news had not been better, and went to the empty chapel to pray for the king’s army and such French citizens who were innocent, which he feared would be most of them. Kneeling on the cold stone and shivering, he resolved to visit Greneholt at the earliest sign of improvement in the miserable weather. The Queen’s visit and her commendation of him had pulled together his wandering thoughts of Miril, and he accused himself of idle, lustful dreams, unworthy of a knight of the realm; he was determined to pursue the path of a celibate life until he could honourably take Beulah as his lawful wife.
That night he lay down on his feather-filled mattress, pulling the thick sheepskin over himself, waiting to drift into sleep. But he could not settle, and in spite of the heavy woollen wall-hangings there was a draught coming from somewhere, and the pain in his left shoulder returned if he lay on that side. His restless thoughts gave him no peace; when he tried to pray, all he could see was the tempting image of a woman’s naked body. Cursing the ungodly desires of his treacherous flesh, he pulled the sheepskin up to his chin, and wished that he had Friar Valerian to counsel him.
Then there came a gentle tap on the door. At first he thought he had imagined it, and made no answer. Then it came again, tap, tap, tap . . .
‘What?’ he called out, sitting up and staring into the darkness. ‘Who is this? Name yourself!’
‘Here I am, Sir Wulfstan,’ said a little voice as Miril entered, carrying a candle. She closed the door behind her. ‘Here I am, Wulfstan.’
Snow and ice continued throughout February, and there were grim stories of travellers found frozen in the drifts; a horse trotted painfully up to a farmhouse with a dead rider on its back, stiff and staring. News from London was scarce, let alone news from across the Narrow Sea; even the Queen’s special messenger was unable to set sail. Food supplies were low, and farm labourers and their families faced starvation. What life must be like in France for the army and the people, Wulfstan could only conjecture. He wondered how far the king had progressed to Paris, and whether he had yet come face-to-face with the dauphin who with his own troops remained within the city walls, and was said to be a weak, sickly young man.
March came in with lengthening days and a thaw set in; the skies cleared, the snow melted, and signs of new growth rejoiced the hearts of the people, their numbers diminished by the deaths of young children and old people during the bitter winter months, which had also killed many animals. Now the brooks and streams flowed freely, and the small animals, squirrels, hedgehogs and field mice began to wake from their winter hibernation. It was as if the earth had been released from icy chains, and the Queen ordered thanksgiving Masses to be said in all churches and the chapels of castles and great houses. Spring was on the way, and the birds were singing; surely there would soon be news from France!
Wulfstan was now faced with a dilemma. For two months he had shared his bed with Miril, and had been grateful for the comfort she gave to the uncontrollable needs of his body. In the winter darkness he had held her close, and knew the soft, moist cave between her thighs; her legs had embraced him as he thrust into her, gasping, crying out as each swelling wave of pleasure swept over him again and again.
‘Oh, Miril.’ It was almost a sob.
‘Here I am, Wulfstan, all yours . . .’
He groaned and she laughed as the stream of life flowed. It was as if they were up above the world, whirling round and round in the night sky, all else forgotten, something beyond words, and Wulfstan did not want to come down to earth. He wanted to reward her, to show his gratitude, he wanted to tell her that he loved her—
This would have to stop.
‘Wulfstan – do ye love me as much as any fine lady?’
He wanted to tell her that he did, but the words would not come.
It would have to stop.
And it did stop, but not through any virtue on his part. In the early dawn of the last day of March, as they lay sleeping in each other’s arms, there came a loud knock at the door, and Baldoc strode in.
‘Great news, Sir Wulfstan! The King has reached Paris and met the dauphin—’
He stopped speaking and stood stock-still, staring at the two heads on the bolster. Wulfstan stirred and passed his arm across his face; his eyes opened, and he returned Baldoc’s stare. Miril slept on, or pretended to. Wulfstan sat up.
‘Master Baldoc, I thank you for your news, and will hear the rest of it later. You may go.’ Without another word, but with a certain gleam in his eye, Baldoc left the bedchamber.
Wulfstan got out of bed, and roused the girl. ‘You must get dressed and go back to your kitchen, ma petite. I will see that you are not blamed, for the fault is all mine. Come, we must be as quick as we can.’
‘Don’t you want me to come to you again tonight, Sir Wulfstan?’
‘Not tonight, Miril. Later, perhaps . . .’
He cursed himself for not being honest with her, for there would not be a later. He guessed that Guy Hamald had put Baldoc up to this, sending the unsuspecting scribe up to the bedchamber, to be surprised and shocked by what he saw – and to spread around the castle what he had witnessed with his own eyes. Now this liaison really had to stop, and he would have to tell Miril that she must never come to his bedchamber again. Not ever. His misdemeanour would be gleefully told to the Prince on his return, shaming him before the whole retinue; he could picture Guy Hamald smirking in the background, and the jokes that would be made and guffawed over, all the more humiliating for the strict attitude he had taken towards any misbehaviour on the part of those left in his charge: such hypocrisy!
There was also deep regret at using Miril to assuage the natural longings of his body, only to cast her aside – much as Eric Berowne had cast aside the maidservant Ange at the Maison Duclair. And as for Beulah, he dared not even think about how she and her parents would react if they knew. He was no longer worthy of her.
The news from France was indeed good. A peace treaty had been drawn up for King Edward and the dauphin, under which the King would gain complete sovereignty over Aquitaine, Gascony and Brittany. The ransom on King John of France, now a prisoner at Windsor Castle, was to be greatly reduced, and he would be allowed to return to France with young Prince Philippe. King Edward and his sons were expected to be home by April or May. There was great rejoicing all round, though Wulfstan’s thanksgiving was marred by the entanglement with Miril. At his earliest opportunity he sent a message to her, asking her to attend him in the room where he kept his records and accounts, and as soon as she arrived he closed the door and asked her to be seated. Then he told her that though she would remain a maidservant at the castle, she must not come to his bedchamber ever again. The hurt and sadness he saw on her pretty face caused him yet more regret, but when she tried to protest he held up his hand.
‘No, Miril, I admit that I was wrong, and you have no need to blame yourself at all,’ he said. ‘And I have here something to recompense you, I hope. Please take it.’ And he held out to her a small leather bag containing five golden crowns, and as he tried to smile, he saw himself as no better than any lecher, paying off a whore. Would she see it in the same way? No, she carefully took the bag and looked inside it, then hid it in a fold of her gown.
‘I thank ye kindly, Sir Wulfstan,’ she said with a certain dignity.
‘Good girl. And we’ll keep it a secret between ourselves, Miril.’
‘It be too late for that, Sir Wynstede; the kitchen maids talk o’ little else, seein’ they’ve missed me from my bed.’
‘This has to be the last time, Miril. I thank you indeed for your . . . er . . . kindness.’
‘That’s good o’ ye, sire,’ she answered, also rising and taking his hand, hoping at least that he would raise it to his lips. He did not. She curtseyed and left the room.
There was another matter weighing heavily on his mind, one which would have to be settled now that there was no bar to his riding out to visit the manors from which the Prince received dues. The winter had left a backlog of money owing, and the King’s treasurer faced the wrath of some of the heads of households when he demanded back payments. He tried to judge each creditor on his merits, and in some cases accepted only half the payment, allowing an extension of the time in which to pay the rest.
And he was due, overdue in fact to visit Greneholt Manor. After much thought he decided to ask Sir William to release him from the betrothal, on the grounds of his own unworthiness and uncertainty of his position when the Prince returned. He might be asked to accompany his royal master over to France on a peacetime mission, and so would be unable to offer Beulah a stable home like her father’s. He could even admit that he had fallen into temptation with a maidservant, though he almost groaned aloud at the thought of what Sir William might say. Nevertheless, it had to be done, though Wulfstan put it off for week after week. Finally a letter arrived from Greneholt, and he opened it reluctantly.
Sir William Horst greeted his future son-in-law Sir Wulfstan in the Lord’s name, and said that he feared that some mishap had befallen him, as they had received no word since the thaw had set in and the roads were passable. His quarterly monies to the Prince were ready for collection, and he and Lady Judith hoped for the happiness of seeing Wulfstan soon, or to receive a message explaining the delay. Meanwhile, he wished him good health and assured him of their daily prayers for him. There was no mention of Beulah at all, and between the lines was a reproach: on the following day he set out on Jewel towards Greneholt.
Sir William greeted him warmly, and asked him into a side room where visitors were received and offered refreshment.
‘You are most welcome, Sir Wulfstan, and we thank the Lord for the sight of you. Lady Judith and Beulah will be joining us shortly, when we have finished our business.’
‘Permit me to speak first, Sir William,’ said Wulfstan hastily, feeling his face blazing red. ‘I wish the lady Beulah nothing but happiness, but I have been shown, painfully, that I am unworthy of her, and don’t deserve her . . . her love. I cannot marry her.’
Having spoken, he braced himself to hear words of dismay and disappointment, but they did not come. Sir William looked him straight in the eyes and nodded slightly.
‘My dear Wulfstan, for I think of you as a son, your self-blame does you credit rather than otherwise. You are a young man of strength and courage, as proved by your loss of an arm in battle. I too was a young man once –’ he smiled, and gave a little shrug – ‘and I know of the temptations of the flesh, and the need to overcome them. I can guess at your difficulties, and can only advise you to pray daily for chastity of thought as well as in deed, and be assured of forgiveness from your Lord and Saviour who bore all our transgressions on his Cross.’ He lowered his voice and spoke as one man to another. ‘We shall say nothing of this to Beulah. Young women are not troubled in this way as men are. Their thoughts are engaged in anticipation of motherhood, for the bearing of children is their privilege and honour, such as we men cannot know. And now I will send for my daughter – no, do not say another word.’
Wulfstan was disconcerted that Sir William clearly thought his immoral behaviour was limited to impure thoughts, and before he could speak again, Lady Judith entered, holding out a hand for him to kiss, followed by Beulah, whose shining eyes revealed her feelings towards Wulfstan more than any words could express. He was overcome anew by her beauty and natural sweetness, and bowed to her, not presuming to take her hand. She curtseyed low before him, and to his utter amazement, reached out to take hold of his hand and press it to her own lips.
‘Greetings, Sir Wulfstan, after such a long time,’ she said softly. He took her hand and kissed it reverently, then held it in his own and looked into her eyes.
He could not utter a word of what he had planned to say to her and her parents, for he knew that he loved her as a man should love his wife, and their betrothal still stood, more firmly than ever. What he had to do now was to prove himself worthy of her, and never to give way again to his baser nature. And so the visit ended happily, with a promise of another within a month.
Throughout April the news from abroad continued to be good; the treaty was duly signed, and on the nineteenth of May the King and his three valiant sons rode into London amid cheering crowds. Several weeks of feasting ensued, but Prince Edward of Wales did not stay long, so eager was he to be back in his castle at Berkhamsted. A message was sent on ahead to expect him and a dozen knights of his retinue that had fought alongside him in the campaign, and the whole household was galvanized into activity. It was as if the Black Prince was already back in charge, as maidservants scurried to and fro, tables were scrubbed and pewter was polished; grooms prepared the stables to receive an influx of horses, and Wulfstan spent much of his time in the counting-house, bringing accounts up to date.
Came the day when the Prince rode into the courtyard, holding up his sword in a gesture of victory. Wulfstan saw familiar faces among his retinue, Ranulf Ormiston and Theobald Eldrige; two foot soldiers carried a litter on which a man lay.
‘Good morrow, Sir Wulfstan!’ shouted the Prince. ‘We are right glad to set eyes on you, for we have sadly lacked your company and wise guidance!’ Laughing, he leapt down from his horse and embraced Wulfstan, kissing him first on one cheek and then the other, in the French fashion.
‘And has Master Baldoc done his duties, assisting you in the counting-house?’
‘He has, sire.’ Wulfstan reasoned that Baldoc would repeat his scandalous story to the Prince at his earliest opportunity, and then would come confession time. But not just now.
‘Good! Well, you’ll want to be reunited with your friends. Here’s Ranulf and Theobald – and remember to call Theo sire, for he has been knighted on the field of battle, not that the fighting was half as fierce as at Poitiers. Oh, and we’ve brought a casualty home with us –’ he nodded towards the litter – ‘beyond our aid, I fear. He’s Flemish, and I was for sending him home to die, but he’d never survive the journey. Then our brave new knight Sir Theobald said you knew him, and wanted to bring him home with us. I think he is not long for this world – and nor must he wish to live, poor devil.’
He turned away to join some of his close circle entering the castle, and Theobald pointed to the litter, beckoning Wulfstan to follow him.
At first Wulfstan did not recognize the deathly white bearded man who lay on a blanket slung between two poles; then he noticed the nose, now pale and pinched, but the bone structure was still large and prominent, such as Wulfstan remembered well.
‘God’s bones, Claus, is it you, my friend – Claus Van Brunt? Oh, welcome to Berkhamsted Castle, and I shall see that you are cared for.’ One of the man’s arms hung limply down, and Wulfstan lifted it and tucked it into the blanket covering the litter, but the man’s eyes remained closed, as if in death. Wulfstan ordered the two foot soldiers to carry him into the castle, and called a manservant to show them the way to his own bedchamber. ‘Be gentle with him,’ he told them, ‘and be very careful on the stairs.’
When the litter had been carried away, Wulfstan turned to Theobald. ‘He looks more dead than alive. What happened to him?’
‘It was a skirmish with brigands at Auxerre,’ came the reply; ‘not even the French military – those outlaws would have attacked either side for what they might gain.’
‘He must have lost more than half of the blood in his body,’ added Ormiston. ‘His wound is
stanched with clean sheep’s wool. I think the bleeding’s stopped now.’
‘Where is he wounded, then?’ asked Wulfstan. ‘He has both his arms and legs, and I see no damage to his head.’
‘He was wounded in the privities,’ said Theobald, shaking his head in pity for their comrade’s condition. ‘His trinity was cut away completely with a sword thrust.’
‘Oh, my God – oh, Mother of God, have mercy,’ gasped Wulfstan in horror. His trinity, the male member and the two seed pods – all that makes for manhood, taken from this man, turning him into a eunuch. The Prince’s gloomy verdict was explained, for what man would wish to live without his vital organs? Even so, Claus Van Brunt had a right to such care and comfort as was available with death approaching.
‘Yes, he shall lie in my bedchamber,’ murmured Wulfstan quietly. ‘He must be given wine and water. He must not just be left to die.’
Raising his voice, he addressed his two friends. ‘You go in and get refreshment after your journey, and we’ll talk later.’
And turning on his heel, he made for his bedchamber and its latest occupant.
‘Oho, Sir Wulfstan, what’s this I hear? Such lewdness, such shameless goings-on in my absence – and with a poor little serving-wench, and you betrothed to the daughter of a knight – and a beautiful lady, so Dame Rumour has it!’
The words were stern, but the Prince’s eyes were dancing with merriment. Wulfstan felt his face flush crimson, and he hung his head, unable to look his royal master in the eyes.
‘I am—’ he began, but the Prince cut him short.
Every Noble Knight Page 15