Poor Wulfstan. This was worse than anything. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not like that at all, sire; the lady Beulah is entirely virtuous – but I must release her from the betrothal, for I cannot marry her.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘My wrongdoing has caught up with me, sire, and I have . . . my duty is towards another,’ Wulfstan said miserably.
‘Another? Don’t tell me that you’ve gone back to the kitchen-maid! Surely, you could not be so foolish, Sir Wulfstan.’ The Prince was genuinely puzzled.
‘No, my liege, I didn’t go back to her. I paid her five crowns and thought that was the end of it, but it seems I got her with child before dismissing her. Mistress Dibbert came to me and more or less demanded that I . . . that I admit my fault, and confess it to you. Mistress Dibbert says she will care for the girl until she is safely delivered, and then I intend to marry her.’ He sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees as he waited for the Prince’s roar of anger. Or contempt. Or both.
‘Marry her? A knight of the realm, close to the King’s son, to marry an unlettered kitchen wench? Don’t be a fool, Sir Wulfstan! – though I wish I could have seen Mistress Dibbert making you shake in your shoes. Ha! When’s the bastard due, do you know?’
‘About the beginning of December, according to Mistress Dibbert,’ muttered Wulfstan. ‘And I have to do my duty by her, sire. I have to show that I’m not one of those men who take advantage of a girl and then forsake her. Mistress Dibbert said—’
‘A plague upon Mistress Dibbert, she’s too free with her opinions. Didn’t your father teach you anything, Wulfstan? When a mistake like this is made, the usual course is to marry her off as soon as possible to a man of her own stock, be he servant or groom. For this a bribe must be offered him, and maybe haggled over, but be as generous as you can. I’ll help you out; I always come back from France loaded with plunder. Now, let me see who we’ve got – there’s Old Togs who waits upon the guards, somewhat of a drinker, he’d accept a bag of crowns to call the child his – and Willie One-eye who helps on the estate, harmless enough, but lacking more than an eye.’
Wulfstan was horrified. ‘Do you mean, sire, that Miril could be married off to any ill-favoured hulk who’d be father to . . . to—’
‘Your child, Wulfstan, yes. Married off and paid off is quite often the answer to a maid’s dilemma, and ’tis a better fate than being left homeless and penniless. Leave it to me, I’ll speak to Old Togs, and have a word in the ear of Willie One-eye’s mother who’s a laundress here. You just lay low and keep away from Miril and Mistress Dibbert.’
‘No! I won’t see the girl married to a drinker or an idiot! I’ll marry her myself first!’ Wulfstan almost shouted, flushed and trembling.
The Prince’s features softened. ‘Your anger does you credit, Wulfstan. It’s infernally bad luck, just as you’d given her money and thought that was an end of it. I can’t stop you marrying if you’re set on ruining all your prospects – remember you’re a knight of the realm and younger brother of another knight. If you were to inherit the Wynstede estate, think of the ridicule that’d be thrown at you and your kitchen-wench wife!’
‘That wouldn’t deter me, sire, I will not desert this girl.’ Wulfstan’s voice had quietened, but was firm and steady, his mouth a hard, straight line.
‘Then for God’s sake wait until the child’s born and let Mistress Dibbert take a long, hard look at it. She’s proved her worth as a wise-woman, usually able to name the father of a newborn when there’s doubt. And Wulfstan – don’t go galloping down to Greneholt with the bad news, not until the end of the month. I shall need all your help with the day-to-day running of the castle, and keeping the expenses within a reasonable limit.’
He stood up, and Wulfstan rose likewise. ‘I can’t afford to lose such a good brain and willing worker as yourself, young Wulfstan. And don’t spread your bad luck around just to punish yourself – you’d be punishing the poor wench as well. Keep your mouth shut and leave the matter with me.’
And with that pronouncement Wulfstan had to be content, for the Black Prince’s orders demanded obedience. He threw himself into his work, sometimes spending whole days in the counting-house, denying himself the outdoor pursuits of the Prince’s men and the guards who practised jousting and hunting the boar. His only relaxation was to spend an hour or two with Claus Van Brunt, who understood that any further questioning about Wulfstan’s secret burden would be unwelcome.
One afternoon he was surprised to find Mistress Dibbert in Claus’s room, sitting beside him and apparently listening to his experiences as a soldier.
‘Welcome, brother!’ said Claus with a smile. ‘Our master has sent this good dame to find out how I like my meat dressed, whether boiled, baked or fried, and we’ve been talking very happily. She says what this room needs is a woman’s touch!’
Mistress Dibbert rose to her feet, and curtseyed to them both, smoothing down her apron and avoiding Wulfstan’s eyes. ‘I bid ye good day, masters.’
‘Let’s go for a walk in the sunshine, Wulfstan, and watch the Prince’s soldiers learning how to deal with enemies of the realm,’ said Claus Van Brunt, rising from his couch slowly but without grimacing. ‘No, friend, I don’t need your arm to pull me up, I can do it myself now.’
Watching Claus coping with his difficulties, Wulfstan experienced an odd, inexplicable sinking of his heart; when his friend no longer needed him, would he be limited to a life of scribing, adding and subtracting? He could no longer dream of a future with the lady Beulah, now that he was committed to marrying Miril after her baby was born, much to the amusement, no doubt, of Hamald and his kind. And then what would be his future? Would he still be able to visit Charles? How would Lady Hélène and Ethelreda receive his wife?
‘There you are, Wulfstan, I’ve been looking for you! I need a trustworthy person to take an urgent message to my father the king, so prepare for a journey!’ Wulfstan’s thoughts were scattered as the Prince strode into the room. ‘This is very important, the safety of the realm may depend upon it, and secrecy is essential. I know you to be trustworthy, and a one-armed man is less likely to be set upon by outlaws. Good day to you, Van Brunt, you are much improved. Come, Sir Wulfstan, there is no time to be lost.’
‘But, my liege, my work here . . .’
‘Baldoc can be scribe and treasurer; it’s time he moved his backside and showed me what he can do – he’s done enough grumbling, God knows.’
‘But there are dues to be collected this month,’ said Wulfstan, mystified by this sudden summons.
‘I’ll send a couple of guards out to do it, heaven knows it’s not that difficult,’ snapped the Prince. ‘And some of my landowners need shaking up, you are too easy on them. What I’m ordering you to do now is far more important. Go and get such clothes as you’ll need to take, and saddle Jewel. I want you to leave for Westminster before the day is out!’
‘But who’s to care for Claus Van Brunt if I’m not here?’ asked Wulfstan, at which the Prince completely lost his temper.
‘How dare you argue with me! How dare you question a royal Prince! Any other man would be honoured to be entrusted with such an errand. As for Van Brunt, it’s time he managed to shift for himself without your nursemaiding. Get yourself ready for the journey, and come to my room within the hour!’
He turned and left the room without a glance at Van Brunt who had listened in blank-faced silence, though a twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement at Wulfstan’s stunned expression at this display of another side to the Prince.
‘So much for those who say I’m a favourite of the Prince, a lapdog who can do no wrong,’ Wulfstan said, shaking his head. ‘I’ll be more on my guard in future.’
‘He’s right, Wulfstan, you spend too much time with me, and it’s time I started to walk without assistance,’ said Claus, ‘though you’ve saved my life, and given me back the will to live, and I’ll always be grateful. But do as he says, my friend; it doesn’t d
o to keep royalty waiting!’ He smiled and then said more seriously, ‘and it is a great honour to be entrusted with a secret message, it’s a tribute to your trustworthiness.’
Wulfstan gave a grunt of acknowledgement, though his thoughts were in a whirl. Might the Prince regret confiding in him about his hopeless love for Joan of Kent? He shrugged, beginning to realize that the situation had certain advantages; he now had a good reason not to visit Greneholt and the lovely Beulah, she whom he could hardly face now, not before Miril had been found a suitable husband from her own serving class – or if none were forthcoming, he had promised to marry her himself. At the thought of such an outcome, he sighed deeply for the hundredth time, for with this urgent, secret business on his hands, the Prince would have neither time nor interest in seeking among the castle servants for a husband for poor, pregnant Miril.
As it was fairly late, Wulfstan’s departure was fixed for dawn on the following day. He took leave of Claus Van Brunt and shook hands with an apprehensive Hugh Baldoc, suddenly thrust into Wulfstan’s envied position in the Prince’s household. He swung himself into the saddle on Jewel’s back without help, and set off.
The solitary ride through peaceful Hampshire countryside was uneventful. It was at the end of May, evenings were long and morning larks ascended early. Wulfstan did not stop at any place in his journey, mindful always of the precious letter wrapped in a linen kerchief inside a leather purse tied to his body under his shirt. He carried a long-bladed knife in its scabbard on his leather belt, and would have used it without hesitation if waylaid, ready to kill rather than yield up the secret message he carried, the contents of which he had not been told, only that he must deliver it into the King’s hands and no other.
‘When you arrive at Westminster Hall, show the guard this ring which carries my seal, and demand to be taken to the King,’ the Prince had ordered him. ‘Do not wear the ring whilst travelling, but slide it on to your third finger when you arrive, and it will gain you admittance to the King’s private chambers.’ He had paused briefly, and added, ‘Ride carefully, Wulfstan, and God go with you.’
When the tower of St Peter’s Abbey came into view, Wulfstan saw two large birds, black against the bright sky, circling above Westminster with outspread wings. He thought of the ravens who were said to fly above the Tower of London at the time of an execution, and a shiver of apprehension ran down his spine: he hoped that these eagle-like creatures were not an augury of some nameless disaster. Holding his head high, he rode into the courtyard to face the guards, where sure enough, the sight of the ring with the Prince’s seal of three ostrich feathers caused their suspicious looks to turn to deferential bows to the Prince’s envoy, and to allow him passage to the King’s quarters; a servant was then despatched to fetch the King who, when he saw the messenger, held out his hand for the letter which Wulfstan drew from under his shirt. He gestured towards a bench for Wulfstan to be seated while he opened the letter and read its contents. His face was grave, and he stroked his reddish-brown beard thoughtfully.
‘These are grave tidings, Sir Wulfstan, and will have to be considered carefully. My son did well to choose you as messenger. I shall have to consult with my Privy Council as to what had best be done. Until then, you must stay here at Westminster as our guest.’ He beckoned to a manservant to attend on Wulfstan and take him to a well-appointed bedchamber, where water was brought to him to wash, and a clean shirt and hose were supplied. When the manservant came to tell him he was to take supper with the King and Queen, he hurried to join them at the high table at one end of the great hall. Two huge dogs lay sleeping by the embers of a fire, for even in summer a fire was needed to cook meat and bake bread. By now he was intensely curious as to the message he had carried, but nothing was said, and he was left to speculate; was there to be more warfare with France so soon after signing a peace treaty? Surely not! Was it that France was planning to invade England? Never! The French were deeply thankful for the hard-won peace so recently secured.
Tired after his journey and rubbing his left shoulder which had begun to ache, Wulfstan was taken in hand by Queen Philippa, delighted to see him again, remembering their last meeting in January when she had come to collect army rations from Berkhamsted. She questioned him about his present duties in the Prince’s household, and on hearing that he dealt with letters and accounts, her eyes brightened.
‘I shall demand that my husband the King allows me to take advantage of your skills while you are with us!’ she exclaimed. ‘For my own court has need of a sensible secretary, and the King always says that he has no one to spare – but now he cannot refuse me!’
To his shame Wulfstan gave a great yawn which he could hardly conceal, and the Queen took pity on his weariness; she persuaded the King to let him go early to his room, accompanied by the manservant to wait upon him and see that he had clean clothing for the morrow. It was after Wulfstan had dismissed this attendant and blown out the candle beside his bed, that he heard men’s voices drifting up beneath the open window on the warm air.
‘He’s lost an arm, so he’s been in battle, though hardly more than a boy,’ said one.
‘He must be the one who brought a message from the Black Prince,’ said another.
‘Yes, he’ll be the Prince’s favourite, name of . . . er . . . Witstead or something. Watch out, lads, else he’ll be carrying more tales to the King!’ There was a general guffaw, and Wulfstan allowed himself a wry smile, but tired though he was, he could not settle to sleep. Images of Beulah floated before his mind’s eye, pale and far away; Miril was closer, whispering in his ear and begging him to kiss her. It seemed that wherever he went, no matter how far he travelled, his misdeeds would always accompany him, accusing him, troubling his rest.
True to her word, Queen Philippa ordered the Prince’s envoy to come to meet with her and her ladies in the solarium after breakfast. When she showed him the papers on which her private household accounts were written, he saw at once that they were badly organized and not in any order. No attempt had been made to gather them into some kind of sequence for easy reference, with dates for incoming monies and outgoings. She was granted an allowance by the King, but not on a regular basis, nor was it a constant amount, so would take him some time to untangle. He was not helped by her own charming presence and chattering ladies-in-waiting; she asked after Prince Edward, and deplored his choice of Berkhamsted as his home, rather than Westminster.
‘He’s either in France or buried in the depths of Hertfordshire,’ she complained. ‘It must be very dull at the castle, with no Princess of Wales to bring a little laughter and gaiety to that all-male establishment. Who can partner the gentlemen of his retinue when the musicians strike up after supper? With no ladies to dance with, they must be so bored!’
‘It sometimes happens that the Prince sends for maidservants,’ Wulfstan answered without thinking, ‘but only if Mistress Dibbert gives them leave. She is the cook, and in charge of—’
‘Good heavens above, Wulfstan, do you speak truth? Does my son allow his courtiers to dance with kitchen maids?’ The Queen was clearly shocked. ‘It’s no wonder that there’s trouble when one of them—’ She broke off and shook her head, tut-tutting, and Wulfstan blushed painfully, unable to make a reply. Thankfully she did not pursue the matter, but leaned towards him, lowering her voice.
‘The King and I are most anxious that Edward should find a suitable lady to wed and make Princess of Wales, to secure the royal line,’ she confided. ‘And he’s more likely to find her here at Court than at Berkhamsted.’
He now became aware that a bevy of ladies had gradually drawn closer, smiling and eyeing him with some curiosity. One in particular, with milky-white skin and flame-red hair, was appraising him, a question in her large greenish eyes which sparkled with gold flecks. Wulfstan turned away from her glance, not wanting to show the slightest interest in her; he was in more than enough trouble already, thinking of his sweet, innocent Beulah, lost to him because of the hapless Miril who
was carrying his child; the two were constantly on his mind, leaving no room for any other woman, however beautiful or willing.
The Queen noticed their brief contact, and lowered her voice almost to a whisper.
‘Mademoiselle de l’Isle is indeed a beauty, and has Anjou blood in her veins. Would that my son the Prince would choose such a one as his bride! She would join our two countries together in the best possible way – it would be a matrimonial alliance!’
The lady in question moved away from her companions, giving Wulfstan a look of disdain. He ignored her, and got down to his secretarial and monetary duties for the Queen, thankful to have a demanding task to engage his thoughts.
It took Wulfstan three days to make some sense of the Queen’s personal accounts, and she openly marvelled at his mathematical skill.
‘The King has never allowed me a scrivener or treasurer of my own,’ she told him. ‘Dear old Dame Marilla, who was my nurse, does her best for me, but she’s nearly blind, and I have to read out the numbers to her, loudly because of her deafness, and it takes hours. But you are better than the King’s secretaries, so serve him right!’
Wulfstan bowed politely, though waiting hourly for a message from the King to send him back to Berkhamsted with an answer to the Prince’s message, whatever it was; but two days passed, and then a third; the King’s haughty scrivener told him that the King was much taken up with affairs of state, and when a message finally came from the King, it was to congratulate Wulfstan on his services to the Queen and invite him to take part in a hawking display the following morning, on common ground to the north of Westminster, unofficially named the King’s Fields. At first Wulfstan was minded not to attend, having no interest in hawking, and a little irritated by the secrecy surrounding the important matter the Prince had sent to his royal father, but of which he, the messenger, had been told nothing.
Queen Philippa advised him to obey and attend upon the King, as a refusal would be discourteous.
Every Noble Knight Page 17