Every Noble Knight

by Maggie Bennett

  ‘And you should learn falconry, Wulfstan. ’Tis a fine sport, without danger to life and limb, as is jousting. You could learn to be just as skilful as an archer!’

  And reminding himself of the saying that when in Rome it was wisest to do as the Romans did, Wulfstan set out early the next morning to the King’s Fields, and found that an enthusiastic crowd had already gathered. A number of men, some on horseback, and a few ladies, carried huge, fierce-looking birds of prey perched on their wrists, falcons and kestrels, and smaller sparrowhawks and goshawks. The birds had leather hoods over their heads, and most of them were lightly strapped to their owners’ wrists, but some perched voluntarily, waiting for the signal to fly over their prey and seize it, kill it and bring it back to score points for their owners. The lady Mademoiselle de l’Isle was proudly showing off her pet goshawk, but Wulfstan did not look at her. He was more interested in identifying a tall, broad-shouldered man of about his own age, sporting a neatly clipped beard and moustache, though his face seemed familiar. An angry-looking bird perched on his wrist, which made Wulfstan unwilling to approach too closely, but the man suddenly smiled in recognition of him.

  ‘Sir Wulfstan Wynstede, I declare! Don’t you know me?’ – and Wulfstan remembered the face of André Demoins, a member of his chevauchée from the Maison Duclair in Normandy which now seemed so long ago. He cordially returned the greeting.

  ‘Well met, André! That’s a formidable bird you have there!’ he said, keeping clear of the cruel beak, the sharp claws. Demoins put a finger to his lips.

  ‘Sssh, not so loud, you’ll frighten her,’ he warned. ‘She’s as fine a falcon as any here today. But is it really you, Wulfstan? What brings you here to the King’s court? I heard that you covered your name with glory at Poitiers – but it cost you an arm, I see.’

  Wulfstan gave a modest shrug. ‘I happened to be in the right place at the right time to assist in the capture of the French king,’ he said.

  ‘God’s holy truth, Wulfstan, that was lucky! But losing your arm – no more soldiering for you, then. What do you do with your time?’

  ‘Scrivening and counting the Prince’s money at Berkhamsted Castle, and running the occasional errand for him, as now.’

  ‘Old men’s work. What a waste of a soldier,’ said Demoins, shaking his head, and Wulfstan was silent, feeling somehow diminished.

  ‘Have you news of any others from that time?’ asked Demoins. ‘Did you hear about Léon Merand? After saving our lives at Sailly, he changed sides when the war began, and was killed by one of the Prince’s own men on the battlefield, so it’s said. Do you know anything more about that?’

  ‘No,’ replied Wulfstan, unwilling to confess to the killing of a one-time comrade in arms, though he wondered how Demoins would react if he knew just how Merand’s life had ended. ‘War’s a bloody business, and I’m not sorry that I’m finished with soldiering.’

  ‘Charles Lemaitre must have felt the same, for he left the King’s service to enter a Benedictine monastery where no doubt he prays for us all,’ said Demoins, and Wulfstan stared back in astonishment.

  ‘Good heavens, Lemaitre? Whoever would have thought it? I suppose you would say that he too has become a waste of a soldier.’

  ‘His choice,’ said Demoins with a shrug. ‘And did you ever hear what happened to that Flemish clown, what was his name, Van Bronk or something? God’s teeth, what an oaf! I suppose he attacked one of our own men instead of the other side!’

  Wulfstan found himself disliking Demoins more and more. ‘I believe that Claus Van Brunt showed great courage, and suffered severe wounds,’ he said coldly. ‘Theobald Eldrige has been knighted for his courage on the battlefield, even though he is not yet twenty. Anyway, what brings you to King Edward’s court, André?’

  ‘Ah, that would be telling. Shall we say that I’m a courier between England and cities all over Europe. I work for several masters, and not without danger. And . . . er . . . well, there is another reason why I’m here today,’ he added with a self-consciously knowing look. ‘Queen Philippa is very kind, and allows me to speak to one of her ladies-in-waiting.’

  ‘Indeed? And does the lady answer?’

  ‘She pretends to be evasive, and I have competitors, but Lisette shares with me a love of sport, and she’s here this morning with her little goshawk – over there!’

  Wulfstan turned to see the lady de l’Isle in her clinging green gown with a gold-studded belt around her waist, expertly holding her hooded bird and talking with the Queen. So her name was Lisette.

  ‘I wish you good luck, André. She’s certainly a beauty,’ he said, aware of her raised eyebrows as she gazed in their direction, and not sure which one of them was the object of those green-gold eyes.

  ‘Come, Wulfstan, the King is about to give the signal for the first birds to be unhooded and set free. Do you see those baskets being taken up? One’s full of live mice, and the other of rabbits. Let’s see what my pretty bird will catch for me – get ready, my girl! Off you go!’

  The sound of a horn was heard, two quick blasts followed by a great flapping of wings as the birds were released up into the clear air, and then began to swoop down. The crowd did not cheer, but waited in silence for the predators to return with their kill.

  Wulfstan saw the lady Lisette de l’Isle welcome her goshawk back, its talons embedded in the body of a helpless rabbit as big as itself.

  Twelve

  1360

  The dusty track stretched ahead as far as the eye could see, shimmering in summer heat. Where the way ran close to woodland, Wulfstan chose to ride in the shade, but not too far in, for the woods were known to harbour outlaws, disaffected villeins who lay in wait for solitary, unprotected travellers, if only to steal their horses. Wulfstan carried a note for the Prince, and a jewelled necklet and bracelet, ‘for a lady’, the King had told him, ‘a gift from the Queen’.

  ‘Guard the written message with your life, Sir Wulfstan,’ the King had ordered, ‘and hand it only to Prince Edward.’ Wulfstan had bowed deeply, and mounted Jewel with inward dissatisfaction. He had been at Westminster for nearly three weeks, spending most of his time as secretary to the Queen. The music, dancing and flirting at court had not appealed to him, though more than one of the Queen’s ladies had tried to persuade him to dance, notwithstanding the lack of an arm. The lady Lisette had not approached him, though neither had she responded to Demoins’ advances, and the latter’s over-confident smiles had faded as she turned away, apparently preferring to converse with other ladies of the Queen’s bedchamber. Wulfstan had learned a little about falconry from the grey-haired man who trained the King’s birds, but he had avoided the company of André Demoins. As the days had gone by, his thoughts of Beulah gave him constant regret, for surely after all this time away from Greneholt, she and her parents must presume that he had broken his betrothal promises. To his further chagrin the King had given him no explanation of the nature of the message he had carried from the Prince, and there had been no signs of a political crisis.

  As Jewel carried him across open common land where pigs rooted and farm carts lumbered along the winding tracks where the occasional beggar asked him for alms, his spirits sank lower and lower. What was he to do with his life, an ex-soldier with but one arm? There was no longer a place for him at Hyam St Ebba, nor did he relish the prospect of scribing and adding up numbers for the rest of his life, with Miril as his wife. The only truly close friend he had was Claus Van Brunt, tragically made a eunuch by the war; had he really done the man a favour by saving his life? His thoughts turned to Friar Valerian who had loved his sister Cecily: would the good friar be able to advise him? Was he, like Charles Lemaitre, called to enter a monastic life of prayer and discipline? The idea did not attract him, but he resolved to ponder and pray to be shown the direction his life should take.

  The sight of the battlements of Berkhamsted Castle gave him no pleasure at returning to the place where he was a knight in the service of the Black Pr
ince, with duties to perform. He turned Jewel’s head towards the castle, and sat up straight on her back.

  There was nobody to greet him in the courtyard apart from a groom who came forward to take Jewel’s bridle as he dismounted without the man’s assistance. Carrying his precious leather bag, he walked stiffly towards the archway leading to the passage and stairway to the Prince’s private apartment and counting-house. The Prince was not there, only a harassed Hugh Baldoc sorting out various documents spread out on the table. He looked up in some relief.

  ‘Thanks be to God, I thought you were never coming back, Wynstede. I’ve scarcely left this room since you set out for London. The Prince is relentless in his wants—’

  ‘And you are infernally slow, Baldoc,’ said the Prince, striding in at that moment. ‘You may leave us, and wait outside. Well, Wulfstan, you’re back, thank heaven. That man’s got no sense, and is so slow, I might as well engage a snail. Now, I believe you have something for me, a message from the King.’

  Wulfstan drew forth the note from its bag, and the jewellery. At the sight of the latter, the Prince’s eyes lit up, and he held the necklet up to the sunlight which rippled like water through the polished stones – agates, topaz and onyx.

  ‘Splendid! A perfect gift for a bride!’

  Wulfstan did not dare to ask the identity of the bride, but assumed that his master had given up yearning for the ‘Fair Maid of Kent’, and had decided on a second choice, a suitable woman to be Princess of Wales.

  ‘I am happy to have fulfilled my duties to you and to the King, my liege,’ he said coolly. ‘I trust that the matter on which I was sent away has been resolved?’

  ‘It appears to have been settled, and thank you for your part in it. Oh, and by the way, the man I sent to collect the dues from Greneholt came back with a complaint from Sir William Horst, asking why you have stayed away for so long. I sent word that you were away on important business for the King.’

  Wulfstan sighed at hearing this, for it meant that he would still have to go to Greneholt and confess his shame. He bowed. ‘Even so, my liege.’

  ‘You had better go now to find refreshment. It must have been a hot, dusty ride.’

  ‘Very good, my liege.’ Wulfstan bowed again, and left the room feeling strangely empty. He was clearly not going to be told the nature of the secret messages he had carried. So, he would go to seek the one man who was his true friend, one who would welcome him back with real warmth.

  Claus Van Brunt was not in his room, nor in the inner courtyard where there were seats in the shade. Wulfstan was puzzled; surely Claus must be much improved to be able to walk this far, he thought as he descended the stone steps to the carved wooden door that gave on to the sweep of level greensward used for jousting. A couple of the Prince’s guards were practising with horses and blunt-tipped lances, and Wulfstan walked across to the groom attending them.

  ‘Have you any idea where I may find Master Van Brunt?’ he asked, at which the man smiled and said, ‘Welcome back, Sir Wulfstan! Go down that slope and you’ll find Master and Mistress Van Brunt sitting in the circular garden.’

  Mistress? Wulfstan was puzzled for a moment, but thought the man must mean Mistress Dibbert who had become nurse as well as cook to the invalid.

  ‘She’s brought him a very long way,’ he remarked, at which the man tapped the side of his nose. ‘Aye, sire, but he’s a different man since the wedding.’

  Wedding? What was the man talking about? He stared in bewilderment, and the groom grinned. ‘Haven’t ye heard, sir? The Prince himself witnessed it for ’em. Look, they’re coming back – see how well he walks with her holding his arm, he hardly needs that stick!’

  Wulfstan stared open-mouthed as the couple drew near. Claus hailed him with a wave of the walking-stick, holding his wife’s arm with his other hand. Beside him, blushing and looking extremely pretty, was Miril; a gentle curving beneath her gown showed that she carried a child. His child. What in God’s name had the Prince been doing while he was away?

  ‘Wulfstan! Thank heaven you’re back, safe and sound! You will see that I have acquired the blessing of a wife since you left for Westminster. Miril, my love, make your curtsey to Sir Wulfstan Wynstede.’

  Blushing and with a flutter of undoubted happiness, Mistress Van Brunt curtseyed low to her former lover. ‘My liege,’ she whispered, mistakenly giving him a prince’s title, though Wulfstan did not notice, confronted as he was by this totally unexpected situation. In his head his whirling emotions were beginning to settle, and he slowly began to see and understand why he had been so summarily despatched to the court at Westminster. The Prince had told him that he would find a suitable husband for Miril, a man who would take her and accept the child she carried as his own; but Van Brunt? A man tragically made a eunuch by the sword of war? When Wulfstan remembered how Claus had begged to be allowed to share the burden that was so troubling him, and how for shame Wulfstan had refused to tell him, he now marvelled that the burden was not only shared, but taken from his shoulders and placed on Van Brunt’s, he who for his friend’s sake had married an unlettered maidservant. This being so, he owed Claus an overwhelming debt of gratitude, but how could he express it in front of the smiling bride?

  Bride. At once he thought of the jewelled necklet and bracelet sent by the Queen to the Black Prince – ‘a perfect gift for a bride’. So was the gift for Miril?

  He must have been staring at the newly weds, because Claus Van Brunt now addressed him honestly and firmly.

  ‘You need have no doubts or misgivings, my good friend. This sweet girl has consented to be my wife, and she will present me with a child in due course, and make me the happiest of men.’ He lowered his voice and added, close to Wulfstan’s ear, ‘I shall be forever in your debt, my friend.’ He smiled and Wulfstan smiled back, rather uncertainly. It now appeared that Mistress Dibbert had been sent to Van Brunt’s room to assess his suitability as a husband for Miril and father for her child, and then to act as go-between – and that he, Wulfstan, had been hastily removed from the scene while the negotiations took place.

  Another thought occurred to him: if the Prince had told Sir William Horst that Beulah’s betrothed had been sent on urgent business with the King, he need make no shameful confession, but hurry to see his sweet love as soon as possible, and apologize to her parents for his sudden and prolonged absence ‘on business with the King’. So Van Brunt was happy with his bride, Miril was happy with a kind husband, and Wulfstan was rescued from disgrace and free to renew his promise to marry his beloved in three years’ time.

  When he next met the Prince in the counting-house, he thanked him fervently for his intervention which had brought about such a happy state of affairs. The Prince gave him a curious look and took a document from a drawer beneath the table.

  ‘You have complained at not being told of the important business for which you were sent to Westminster,’ he said. ‘This is the message my father the King sent back to me, the message you carried.’

  Wulfstan stared at the brief note, hardly able to make sense of it at first, but then the letters settled into place, and he was able to read what they said.

  Your young fool herewith returned. The Queen and I kept him as long as we could. Thank God for the Fleming, and may the girl bear him a son. The enclosed trinkets are for her from the Queen.

  Wulfstan’s face flamed. ‘B-but Claus cannot take her—’

  ‘God’s blood, did your father teach you nothing at all? There are other ways of pleasuring a woman – he’s got hands, hasn’t he? And fingers?’

  ‘I . . . if I could only thank you, my liege—’

  ‘Oh, don’t stand there stammering, get on your horse and gallop to Greneholt, where your ladylove awaits you, you lucky devil. And keep out of temptation’s way in future!’

  The grey stone walls of Greneholt Manor were bathed in warm midsummer sunshine, as was the nearby church of St Mary Greneholt; both had been built at the turn of the 13th century by the
Horst family, now well established as landowners of the hundred of Greneholt.

  Wulfstan dismounted, and looked upon the pleasing scene before him. In front of the entrance of the manor was a grassy area, edged with lavender bushes; a trellised archway to the right, covered with climbing pink roses, led to the right side of the house where a kitchen garden was planted with vege­tables. To the left was a hedge formed of gooseberry and currant bushes, beyond which lay a small orchard of apple and pear trees, continuing round to the back of the house.

  Wulfstan’s heart gave a sudden jolt: there in the archway stood a young woman in a blue gown, picking roses, and surely she was Beulah! Yes, she had caught sight of him, and for a moment they stared across the intervening space, before she quickly disappeared round the side of the house, to tell her parents of the long-awaited visitor. He walked towards the front entrance with a thudding heart: how would he greet her when they were face to face? Would he be allowed to speak to her alone?

  He soon found out that no such permission was given. He was shown into a cool room with tapestries hung from two walls opposite a window, its only furnishings a carved oak chest. Sir William Horst entered with a brief, unsmiling bow which Wulfstan returned, and came straight to the point.

  ‘My daughter has been deeply distressed and my wife and I quite bewildered by your absence, Sir Wulfstan. We knew you were unable to ride over in the cold and darkness of winter, with your disability, but with midsummer now upon us, we thought to see you long before now. When one of Prince Edward’s men came to collect our dues, I sent him back with a message for the Prince, asking about you, and he replied that you were away on urgent business with the King. If the Prince could courteously send us this message, why could you not do so, Sir Wulfstan? If you could have seen the disappointment on the face of the lady Beulah, you would surely have been moved!’

  Wulfstan hung his head like a condemned prisoner. Guilty as he was for neglecting his betrothed wife by his long absence, he felt ten times more guilty of his deception, about which Sir William knew nothing. What on earth would be his reaction if he ever found out, Wulfstan could not bear to contemplate. He had enemies in the Prince’s household, Baldoc and Sir Guy Hamald – men who would seize on an opportunity to discredit him, show up his hypocrisy and make him a figure of ridicule.