Every Noble Knight

by Maggie Bennett

  ‘Don’t try to excuse yourself, young lecher, don’t tell me the old tale about how the girl tempted you, that she asked for it; I’ve heard that one too many times. Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’

  With eyes still downcast, Wulfstan answered, ‘The shame is entirely mine, my liege, and I was indeed tempted by my body’s lustful cravings. The girl was not to blame, for I treated her like a whore, even to paying her off. I ask for the forgiveness of Almighty God, and for your pardon, my liege.’

  He raised his eyes and saw a broad grin spread across the Prince’s face.

  ‘Say no more, Wulfstan, your guilt does you credit,’ continued the Prince in a softer tone. ‘Not many men would accuse themselves as you have done – but I wish I could have seen Master Baldoc’s face when he came upon you taking your pleasure! Tell me, were you poised above her, holding your spear aloft, when he interrupted you?’

  ‘No, sire, we were both sleeping.’

  ‘How disappointing. Ah, well, Wulfstan my son,’ he went on with all the seniority of eight years, ‘I too have been tempted sometimes, when I’ve yearned for my heart’s desire, the love of my life, married to another man, and a good man, too, Sir Thomas, Earl of Kent. My father has left him behind in France to oversee the English garrisons – and I am tempted, Wulfstan, I am sorely tempted! But she is as virtuous as she is beautiful, and so am I saved from the great sin of David.’

  He sighed, and Wulfstan understood that he was referring to King David of Israel who had sent Bathsheba’s husband Uriah into the thick of the battle to be slain, thereby removing the obstacle to David’s lust. Wulfstan felt that he must answer.

  ‘Even so, my liege, I thank you for your . . . er . . . kindness. ‘We are . . . we are . . .’ He hesitated, not presuming himself to be equal with the Prince.

  ‘Brothers in adversity, yes, Wulfstan, we are.’ He paused, and then added, seriously, ‘But be warned – do not let temptation overcome you in that way again, or you could land yourself in real trouble and lose your lovely betrothed lady at Greneholt for ever.’

  Wulfstan muttered, ‘Even so, my liege. It will never happen again.’

  To everyone’s surprise the Flemish soldier slowly began to recover his strength. Wulfstan tended him daily, and ordered that he be given wine with water and simple gruel made from wheat and sweetened with honey until he could manage to eat bread and meat. The ghastly wound at the bottom of his belly appeared as a red, raw, bloody mess, but it began to heal, and new skin formed over it. Wulfstan took it upon himself to support Claus when he passed water painfully from what remained of the conduit from the bladder. This too began to heal, turning from raw flesh into scarred skin.

  ‘I have to squat down to piss, like a woman,’ said Claus weakly, overcome with thankfulness for Wulfstan’s care, as firm as a man’s and gentle as a woman’s. Colour returned to his face, and strength to his limbs; his eyes brightened and he was able to share his thoughts with Wulfstan, to understand where he was, and the implications of his wound.

  ‘Truly I thought God had deserted me, but now I see that he’s led me to you, good friend,’ he said. ‘You have saved my life, and I’m learning to accept that my life will be limited as a eunuch. I cannot marry and sire children – but I’ll still be able to work and be of use to England.’ He sighed. ‘I cannot return to Flanders as I am now.’

  Wulfstan laid his arm on his friend’s shoulder. As young men they didn’t attempt to show their emotions, but both were aware of the strong mutual attachment that bound them together.

  The summer months passed in peace and there were acts of goodwill towards the French, such as when the King and Prince Edward of Wales escorted King John II and Prince Philippe back to their native land after four years of exile, held under house arrest in various royal residences, the last being Windsor Castle. They all boarded a ship at Dover which carried them to Calais, and from there to Paris, with many assurances of peace between the two countries from now on.

  Wulfstan enjoyed his journeyings on Jewel in the warm summer weather, and was able to visit Greneholt Manor and see the lovely Beulah; they were now allowed to walk together in the garden, bright with roses and honeysuckle, the fragrant rosemary and lavender that Lady Judith grew for use as nosegays and posies to sweeten the linen. Beulah would timidly put her hand in his as they strolled or sat on a wooden bench in the sun, and he felt that he had never known such a pure, unselfish love as this. Her beauty seemed to increase as the months went by, and he sometimes allowed himself to dream of the day when he would hold her in his arms as his wedded wife.

  Until there came a blow that shattered all his wishful dreams . . .

  He was in the counting-house when there came a knock on the door, and on being told to enter, one of the older menservants stepped in, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Pardon me, sire, but may I speak with you on a private matter?’

  Wulfstan was adding up the figures of the household incomings and outgoings, but nodded his assent.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sire, but one of the maidservants needs help, and Mistress Dibbert says you ought to know.’ Mistress Dibbert was a cook, in charge of the kitchen-maids. Wulfstan’s heart sank. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘’Tis the girl called Miril, sire, she’s weeping all the time. Mrs Dibbert asks if you’ll see her and . . . er . . . hear what she says, sire, or whether she should go to the Prince.’

  The implication seemed to be that if Sir Wulfstan would not see the unhappy girl, her trouble would be made known to the Prince himself. With a sinking heart Wulfstan set aside his books.

  ‘Very well, send her to me here.’

  While he waited, he prayed that she was not bringing the news he dreaded to hear. He knew very little about the mysterious ways of female bodies, and he had not given much thought to the connection between the act of making love and the reproduction of children, but already he knew in his heart that the girl must be with child. He remembered from his days at the Maison Duclair that to dally with maidservants was to risk this consequence, and he had blamed Jean-Pierre Fourrier and Eric Berowne for what seemed to be their callous attitude towards the girls they had used and deserted. Dan Widget had bedded the maid Mab, but had wedded her and now had a happy little family. Wulfstan’s own experiences had not run any such risk – Madame la Gouvernante had seduced him, and little Dorine’s shyness and her mother’s vigilance had prevented any closer intimacy, just as Lady Mildred’s horror of his withered arm had cut short their eagerly anticipated pleasure. What must he do now to deal honourably with this kitchen maid?

  Eleven

  1360

  When she entered the room, he was struck by her woebegone appearance, her usually bright eyes red and puffy with crying.

  ‘Good day to you, Miril. Please sit down and tell me what ails you.’

  More tears gathered in her eyes, and spilled down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Wulfstan, don’t be angry with me; we was so happy before that ol’ scribe came in and caught us!’

  ‘I won’t be angry, Miril, just tell me what’s the matter.’

  ‘I . . . I’m with child, Wulfstan – Sir Wulfstan, and Mistress Dibbert said I was to come to you, seein’ that . . .’ She covered her face with her hands, and Wulfstan felt hopelessly caught in a trap. He cursed his own thoughtlessness.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, sire. Mistress Dibbert says it’ll be born about November or December. Me mother won’t have me home again; she says I got to marry as quick as I can.’

  Marriage. It was unthinkable, this nightmare that had come about through his own selfish carelessness, but if it were the only solution, he must do his duty. But oh, Beulah, Beulah! It seemed he would never be worthy of her.

  ‘Dry your tears, Miril. I’m not yet sure what had better be done, but I won’t desert you, or try to deny that I’m the . . . er . . .’ He could not bring himself to say the word father.

  ‘Look, go back to your Mistress Dibbert, and tell her
that I’ve promised to look after you.’

  ‘Thank you, sire. I told her you was a good man.’

  ‘All right, then, Miril. I shall have to think about this, and then I’ll send for you again.’

  He stood up, and so did she, her eyes pleading. ‘Won’t you kiss me, sire?’

  It had to be done, and he did it, then she went back to the kitchen while he sat at his desk with his head in his hands. The Prince was away with his father the King, consolidating the peace treaty with France. This latest turn of events would have to be confessed on his return, and Wulfstan suspected that the Prince would be much more severe in his attitude to Wulfstan’s careless lovemaking: he would be more likely to judge than to tease. Marriage would surely be the only solution to this otherwise insoluble dilemma, a last resort to spare the girl shame and possible poverty and homelessness.

  And there was Beulah, once more lost to him, for Sir William and Lady Horst would not show leniency if they knew about the poor kitchenmaid’s plight; they would say that his duty was to marry the girl and never see Beulah again.

  What else could he do? Pay Miril off with gold? No, for there could be no monetary compensation for bearing and rearing his child, losing her good name and having nowhere to live if her mother refused to shelter her, and she could not stay at Berkhamsted Castle with a child in tow. Memories of his mother, Lady Wynstede who had helped girls in trouble now came back to his mind. She would send for the man, usually a groom or manservant, and order him to marry the girl, offering some monetary assistance. There was no such lady at Berkhamsted, no kind mistress to intervene, but what would his mother have said if told that the girl’s disgrace was due to him, her own son? He must accept his responsibility and acknowledge the child growing in Miril’s womb. Meanwhile, he sent for Mistress Dibbert, the motherly cook who had charge of the maidservants; she appeared before him, red-cheeked and defiant, clearly prepared to argue. He asked her to be seated, but she remained standing. He took a breath and tried to speak quietly and reasonably.

  ‘You did well to send Miril to me, Mistress Dibbert, and I intend to confess to the Prince about her when he returns,’ he said, facing her accusing stare. ‘I shall not blame her for what was my fault.’

  She looked surprised at this unexpected admission, and had to revise her prepared speech. ‘I thought she’d better tell you of her trouble, seein’ as you was the one . . . er . . . sire,’ she said. ‘She’s a silly little goose, but not a bad girl, and she was led astray. I’m willing to take care of her until she’s brought to childbed, and then I’ll try to make her mother forgive her – they usually do when they sees the helpless baby, and the Prince might sweeten her with money if you do as you say, and tell him you’re the one.’

  ‘Thank you, Mistress Dibbert, I am much obliged to you. I shall have to see what the Prince advises, and if he orders me to marry her, I . . . I shall obey.’

  ‘Well, that’s fair, and better than the usual fine gentlemen who deny they ever touched the girl,’ she answered, clearly mollified. ‘And there’s no need to marry her before the babe’s born, in case she miscarries or bears a dead child. Wait and see what comes out.’ She took a deep breath, and looking straight into his eyes, said, ‘She was right, you are a fair man, even though you’re young to be made a knight. I didn’t think you’d face up to your duty by her.’

  She actually smiled and made a curtsey; he shook her hand and thanked her heartily, asking her to pass on his promise to Miril who would remain a kitchenmaid until she presented him with a son or daughter, ‘before Christmas, I reckon’, she told him, adding, ‘Don’t worry, sire, I’ll take care of her, and won’t have her made fun of.’

  Good Mistress Dibbert, a true mother to the maids in her charge. Wulfstan was relieved at having made an ally of her, for he guessed she would be a formidable enemy.

  But there was still Beulah. He would have to release her from their betrothal, and tell her father the reason why.

  ‘There’s something on your mind, friend,’ Claus Van Brunt remarked as they walked out of doors, Wulfstan supporting Claus with his arm, and adjusting his steps to the other man’s halting progress, for the extensive wound still gave him pain, though it had scarred over cleanly, with no dreaded infection pouring pus, as so often happened.

  Getting no response, Van Brunt continued, ‘Is there some trouble? Forgive me for asking, but we’ve become as close as brothers, and if you’re carrying any sort of burden, I want to share it with you. Come, Wulfstan, I have a right to share it, as you’ve shared mine, and saved my life by your care.’

  Wulfstan sighed and said it was a matter for him to deal with as his conscience dictated. ‘I shall not speak of it to anybody, Claus, until the Prince returns. He must be the first to hear of what I fear will displease him. I have to face the consequences of . . . of my actions, so please, ask me no more. You will hear of it soon enough – all too soon.’

  Claus nodded. ‘As you wish, my friend.’ After a short silence he asked, ‘How is the lovely Beulah and her religious parents?’ He smiled. ‘When will you next ride over to Greneholt Manor and wander with her among the flowers?’

  There was a long pause. ‘Is it not well with her?’ asked Claus, alerted by his friend’s silence. ‘Is she ill? Have her parents forbidden the marriage? Please, Wulfstan, don’t suffer alone when you have a friend at hand – is your betrothal at an end?’

  ‘’Twill be ended soon,’ Wulfstan replied heavily. ‘And now, I beg you, leave me to bear it alone as I must – as I deserve,’ he said, his voice breaking on the last words. ‘Believe me, Claus, there is nothing you could do, nothing to help me bear it – so let us talk of other matters. You’re walking better each day – is the pain also better?’

  ‘Yes, thanks to you! I’m better in every way except one – and I can still live usefully here in England, for I have no wish to go to my homeland to meet my kin again, not as I am now. They’ll assume that I’m dead.’

  ‘My dear friend – brother – say not so. None of us know the future,’ said Wulfstan quickly, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘Let’s enjoy the summer sun, and say no more of troubles past or present, just for this afternoon.’

  Claus returned the gesture, putting his left arm around Wulfstan’s shoulder and vowing not to plague his good friend with any more questions.

  It was the day when Wulfstan called upon his reserves of courage to mount Jewel and set out for Greneholt to unburden himself of the latest turn of events, to confess the sin that must end his betrothal to Beulah. He dug his heels into Jewel’s flanks – and then as she began to trot, sharply reined her in. He had heard the distant horn that heralded his master’s arrival, and within minutes the Black Prince rode into the courtyard, followed by half a dozen of his knights.

  ‘We should have warned you!’ he called cheerfully, leaping down from his horse. ‘I could wait no longer to see Berkhamsted!’

  ‘My liege,’ said Wulfstan, dismounting and bowing low. ‘You are right welcome, sire.’

  ‘Ha! Where were you off to? Have I interrupted a lover’s tryst at Greneholt?’ The Prince’s eyes danced.

  ‘No, sire, not at all. I will send word to the kitchens, and meat will be put on the spit.’

  ‘Excellent, Sir Wulfstan. But first I need to wash and change my shirt, for I stink. How have you all been behaving yourselves while I was away? Better than last time, I hope!’ He gave Wulfstan a broad wink, and Wulfstan quickly managed a smile, avoiding the Prince’s eyes. The Castle would now be turned into a hive of activity on the return of its master, and inwardly he felt a guilty relief at the postponement of his ride to Greneholt; neither would there be an opportunity for an early confession to the Prince.

  On the following day he thankfully turned to report on the castle’s finances, and basked in the Prince’s approval and admiration of the accuracy of his accounts and the general air of contentment among the hierarchy of the household, from guards and bailiffs to grooms, cooks, men and
maidservants; the Prince greeted them all.

  ‘Mistress Dibbert seems amiable,’ he said, ‘which is all to the good, for she can be a virago. I’ve known her ever since I was a boy, and am still fearful of her.’ He grinned. ‘You’ve made a good impression on her, Wulfstan. Well done!’

  Wulfstan gave a nod and a half smile, thinking of the inevitable interview with his master; with every word of praise he dreaded it more than ever. Mistress Dibbert had been giving him some meaningful looks, reminding him of his promise to confess to the Prince.

  Prince Edward of Wales looked older. Two vertical lines between his brows had deepened into furrows, and his handsome features had become hardened by warfare and rough living. When he had finished the work in the counting-house, he sent for wine and indicated that Wulfstan sit down with him by the table for private discussion.

  ‘I shall be staying here for the rest of the year, I hope,’ he said. ‘Things are quiet in France for the time being. To tell the truth, I think King John was sorry to leave England – my father had made him very comfortable here, and I fear he’s going to have trouble with that sickly, treacherous dauphin, a creature I wouldn’t trust further than I can spit.’ He shook his head, and added, ‘My father has better hopes of his eldest son and heir to the throne.’

  Wulfstan supposed that he should make strong patriotic agreement, but he remained silent, not wishing to be seen as an idle flatterer when his story was told. And now was the time to tell it, as May sunshine streamed through the window. There was no excuse for further delay. It had to be now.

  ‘Forgive me, my liege, I have a certain matter to speak of,’ he said, forcing himself to meet the Prince’s eyes.

  ‘What? Ah, your beautiful little maiden at Greneholt – what was her name? – you’re about to tell me that the wedding date is to be brought forward, and you need to have leave of absence for the nuptials, am I right? Happy infant, to be born to such a couple! When is the little angel due? I shall expect to be godfather.’