Sir William had stopped speaking. Making an effort to raise his head and look the old knight in his eyes, he attempted to give an answer.
‘I am sorry beyond all words, Sir William, that I have caused sorrow to your daughter the lady Beulah.’ He paused, and when Sir William gave no reply, he drew in a long breath and continued. ‘As Prince Edward explained, I was sent away suddenly to the King’s court at Westminster on an errand concerning the . . . the safety of the realm, a . . . a very delicate matter. I hope that you and the Lady Judith can find it in your hearts to forgive me, and be assured that this will never happen again.’
The two men regarded each other for a long moment, and then Sir William Horst put his hands together and nodded.
‘Because of the strong attachment my daughter has towards you, and the respect owed to your position at court, a soldier who has fought bravely in battle and lost a limb, I accept your apology and will instruct my wife to do likewise.’ He held out his hand, and Wulfstan took it, sighing gratefully with relief, bowing and thanking Sir William. When Lady Judith entered the room with a shyly smiling Beulah, she followed her husband in shaking Wulfstan’s hand, nodding to her daughter to step forward and do the same; but Beulah burst into tears and went down on her knees before Wulfstan.
‘I never doubted you, dear Wulfstan; I knew there would be some good reason for you staying away. I’ve prayed for you morning and night—’
‘Get up, Beulah, you forget yourself!’ said her father sharply, and Lady Judith put out a hand to help her arise. The sobbing girl then ran from the room, and when her parents looked at Wulfstan they saw tears in his eyes, which had more effect on them in his favour than any words of regret.
‘It appears that you have retained her love, Wulfstan, and so we will say no more. When she has composed herself, you may walk with her in the garden, accompanied by a trusted lady companion of my wife’s.’
Wulfstan bowed, unable to speak, and half an hour later he took Beulah’s hand, and they walked out into the orchard, with Mistress Craik the chaperone following at a discreet distance, and they kept their voices down, out of earshot.
‘Thank you for your trust in me, dearest Beulah,’ he said in a low tone. ‘I will never again cause you grief, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me.’
‘Don’t . . . Please don’t say any more, Wulfstan, there is nothing to forgive,’ she whispered, hanging on to his hand, and he was overwhelmed by a sense of his own unworthiness. How happy he would be, he thought, how proud to be the object of her devotion, if he had only been as innocent as she believed him to be. But her adoration was another sword thrust of conscience, of self-accusation. Part of him would have welcomed a chance to confess, to unburden himself of the shameful truth, that he had got a maidservant with child, and consented to her being married to another man – his best friend. But this he could never do. He pictured the incredulous shock in those soft brown eyes, and the very thought of Sir William’s anger and contempt made his heart shrivel as if burned by fire. All connection with the Horst family would be over.
No – he would have to keep such knowledge from them, and pray that it would never be revealed by ill-wishers. He stopped walking, and looked down into those shining eyes. She held up her face to him.
‘Kiss me, dearest Wulfstan, let’s kiss to seal our betrothal as a man and his wife!’
How could he refuse? She put her arms around his neck, and his arm encircled her waist. His lips brushed her cheek, but she turned her face so that his lips met hers in a kiss of sudden fervour.
Until Mistress Craik gave a cry of alarm, and forcibly thrust herself between them.
‘In God’s name, what are you thinking of? Beulah, let go of him at once! Shame on you, sire, for laying hands upon her – for . . . for . . .’ Words failed the good lady as they drew apart – but they had sealed their love with a kiss that said more than a hundred words.
Mistress Craik took Beulah’s arm and nothing more was said as she accompanied them back to the house, but Wulfstan saw from the corner of his eye that his betrothed was smiling to herself.
As the summer days shortened into an autumn of mists and early frosts, life at Berkhamsted went on much as usual. Wulfstan’s secretarial duties kept him well occupied, and Baldoc assisted him with a much better grace than formerly. The Prince no longer sent Wulfstan on errands to collect dues, but ordered two of his guards to take on this duty, except for Greneholt Manor which Wulfstan was able to visit every three or four weeks. There was no repetition of the emotional scene in the garden, and any kissing between the betrothed pair was confined to hands; Beulah’s eyes were kept modestly lowered, and Wulfstan had to tell himself to be content to wait for another three years, and count himself extremely fortunate to have escaped further censure. He could never forget his wrongdoing, being reminded of it daily by the sight of Master and Mistress Van Brunt who occupied a room in the castle to await the birth of their child. Claus’s happiness was reflected in his good health and spirits, his constant care for his pretty little wife, now growing big with the baby; they were truly in love, though Wulfstan knew that he would not be sorry to see them go to Flanders after the birth, for Van Brunt now wanted to settle among his relatives as a married man and father.
Having now no especial friend at Berkhamsted, Wulfstan was delighted by the return of Sir Ranulf Ormiston, a sensible ally to counteract the insolence of Hamald. It was a relief to have him as companion and confidante in place of Claus Van Brunt who had no further need of his friendship.
The new peace with France appeared to be unruffled, and halfway through October the Prince joined his father on an expedition to their territories in France and the English occupying forces there, now inevitably fraternizing with the population and taking French wives.
‘We shall be back before the year’s end,’ Prince Edward told Wulfstan. ‘I can leave you here under the jurisdiction of the Queen – and you’d better get down to Greneholt to see your lady-love before the winter sets in. The country people say there will be storms. I’ll leave Ormiston here to back you up.’
Wulfstan duly set out on Jewel for the place where he was now welcomed without reservation. He arrived as dusk was falling, and even Mistress Craik smiled upon the handsome knight betrothed to her lady’s beautiful daughter. A strong wind had arisen, scattering the last of the summer leaves and whipping through the homes of the peasant labourers on the estate, blowing on their smoky fires, sending sparks flying up to threaten wooden beams and dry straw, which then had to be doused with water. Sir William set out with two manservants to bring distressed families into the shelter of the manor for the night, and Lady Judith ordered extra victuals to be set out on trestle tables for them.
Wulfstan was invited to sit at table between Lady Judith and Mistress Craik, though he would far rather have sat next to Beulah on her mother’s other side. Outside the wind grew stronger, and soon there were flashes of lightning followed by deafening crashes of thunder, always a portent of trouble to come, and the sheltering villagers clung to each other in terror. Sir William stood up to ask for the Lord’s protection and beg for forgiveness if any had offended him.
‘Restrain thy wrath, O Lord, and have mercy on us thy penitent sinners!’ he prayed aloud, but the tempest continued to rage, and the howling of the wind was joined by more sinister noises, crashes that caused the house to shake on its foundations, and moans that sent shivers of fear down their spines. Children sobbed and their mothers wept.
‘’Tis the wailing of the damned souls in hell!’ somebody yelled, and Beulah cried out in fear. Wulfstan could not keep his seat, but got up to sit beside her and encircle her in his arm, holding her head upon his shoulder and whispering comfort, saying that God would take care of them; even so, he sent up his own silent prayer for safety. The storm thundered on, the shouting rose, and oaths filled the air; one woman cried out that she saw a dark figure holding a flaming sword.
‘’Tis the Devil himself come among us,
seeking his own! Help us, save our souls! Lord, have mercy upon us miserable sinners!’ she screamed as a lightning flash illumined the high windows.
‘Be calm, beloved Beulah,’ whispered Wulfstan. ‘I’m here beside you. No evil can come near you.’ Nevertheless he crossed himself and muttered a prayer of contrition for his own secret sins, holding her all the while, and though unable to stroke her hair, he kissed the top of her head. Her father and mother sat close together, and did not miss this intimacy, in spite of the darkness. Mistress Craik enfolded a frightened housemaid.
At last, after what seemed hours but in fact was less than an hour, the storm began to abate and die away. Prayers of thanksgiving were led by Sir William, kneeling on the stone floor, and gradually the company regained composure, and even to fall asleep, children in their mothers’ arms.
When Sir William announced that he was going outside to assess the storm damage, he told Wulfstan to accompany him, with two menservants. A scene of devastation met their eyes, trees uprooted and lying on the ground, broken branches and peasants’ homes collapsed in heaps of wet timber and clay. A couple of horses without a stable neighed their distress, and the lowing of cows accounted for the sounds heard during the storm.
‘But it’s over, Wulfstan,’ said Sir William, ‘and God has spared our lives.’
‘So he has, sire, and for that we must rejoice,’ answered Wulfstan. ‘But it was a terrifying experience, and I had to comfort Beulah and bid her take courage. It made me realize how much I long to take her as wife and be near her.’
‘Beulah is safest with us, Wulfstan, and here she will stay for the next three years,’ Sir William replied sharply. ‘Her mother and I would never allow you to break the terms of your betrothal.’
Wulfstan made no reply. The storm had awakened his discontent at this long separation from Beulah, and he might have disputed with her father and put the case for marrying her earlier if only he had been able to offer her a home at Berkhamsted, for the Prince would have no objection; but this was out of the question with Van Brunt and Miril there – and too many tongues to make mischief. And even if he had been able to offer her a palace, it was abundantly clear that her parents would never consent.
‘We have a formidable task before us, to repair the storm damage and our tenants’ dwellings without delay, with winter so nearly upon us,’ remarked Sir William gravely. ‘Until they have roofs again, the children and their mothers must remain in the manor. How long will you be able to stay with us, Wulfstan?’
Wulfstan was apologetic. ‘With the Prince away I need to be at Berkhamsted, sire. I can only stay until tomorrow, but today you may command me to give what help I can. I regret that I can stay no longer.’
He then threw himself into working from dawn to dusk, side by side with the tenants and menservants in clearing away fallen trees and the collapsed roofs and walls of peasants’ homes, scarcely stopping to eat. It left no time to exchange a word with Beulah until after supper, by which time he ached in every muscle, and she was concerned for him. After a night’s exhausted sleep, he bid his hosts farewell and set off on a nervous Jewel to cover the distance to Berkhamsted by afternoon, wondering how the storm had affected the household there: would there be reports of the Devil appearing and gathering souls to hell? How would he be greeted?
As soon as he rode into the courtyard, he was aware that something momentous had happened. He dismounted and strode into the great hall. There were voices exclaiming and even laughing – and from a chamber above came the sound of the cry of a newborn baby. Wulfstan’s heart lurched: his child was born.
Mistress Dibbert came down the stairs with a satisfied expression on her rosy face.
‘The storm so affrighted Mistress Van Brunt that her travail came upon her and I’ve delivered her of a fine boy!’ she cried in triumph. ‘He’s small, of course, he wasn’t due to be born for another month or so, but he’s strong and healthy, and has a great voice on him! Master Van Brunt is the happiest man in England!’
Wulfstan hardly knew what to say. So this was the end of his passionate embraces with Miril – a son. He thanked Mistress Dibbert for her good services, and sent his congratulations to the happy parents. She told him that the storm had caused little damage in Berkhamsted, but the noise had kept them all awake and brought on the birth of Mistress Van Brunt’s child.
‘I’ll have refreshment sent to you, sire,’ she said with a smile, and left the hall.
Wulfstan sat down wearily on a bench against the wall. His back ached and his legs were stiff; the old pain in his left shoulder had returned. A maidservant entered with a bowl of soup and a crust of yesterday’s bread which she set before him, and he had just begun to start dipping the bread in the soup when he heard footsteps on the stairs; looking up he saw Van Brunt. Again, words deserted him, but his friend smiled broadly and thanked him for his good wishes. ‘Mother and child are very well, thanks be to God,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes, I heard the child crying as I came in, Claus,’ said Wulfstan awkwardly, disorientated by fatigue and not knowing how to react to this sudden news. Which was why he next said what he did.
‘I shall look forward to seeing my son.’
There was a moment of silence, and it was as if the very air in the room had chilled to ice. Then Van Brunt spoke.
‘Pieter is my son, not yours, Wynstede. His mother is my wife, and he is my son. I intend to take them home to Flanders as soon as they are well enough to travel. I thank you for your hospitality and the good care you gave me which saved my life. I am indebted to you, but I must ask you not to see Pieter. He is my son, and I don’t want anything said otherwise.’
He turned on his heel and left the hall.
Wulfstan set aside the food. This must be the very worst day of his life, worse than the loss of his arm which had made a hero of him – or the shame of his encounter with Lady Mildred Points and its aftermath which had made a fool of him in front of his peers; nothing had been as painful as this cold rejection from the man he had looked upon as his closest friend. And he could make no claim at all on the son he had fathered, not even to set eyes on the babe who had been named without his knowledge.
After a while he accepted that what had happened was fair enough; he had handed Miril over to his friend without realizing what a strong attachment would grow between them. He had no cause for complaint, and was affianced to the lovely lady Beulah, of whom he was unworthy.
Only – he knew that he could not endure to share the castle with the new parents and their son, and the next day he rose early and rode to Westminster for an audience with the Queen, under whose jurisdiction he now held office in her son’s absence.
Queen Philippa agreed at once to see him, turning away other suppliants and bidding him follow her into an inner chamber.
‘What brings you back to court, Sir Wulfstan, so soon after my son’s departure? Is there trouble at the castle?’
‘No, no, Your Grace, I beg your forbearance in what must seem a trifling matter,’ he said with a low bow. ‘I have come to appeal to your kindness for a tender babe who was born untimely early because of the storm. It needs warmth and the care of wise women. If you can find room for it and the parents in a kinder lodging than Berkhamsted Castle, it would be a great blessing.’
‘What? You have ridden all this way just to ask me to take a newly born babe off your hands?’ asked the Queen with a curious look. ‘Of whom do you speak?’
‘A Flemish family named Van Brunt, Your Grace, who will be returning to their home after Christmas,’ answered Wulfstan, fearing that this would be no easy interview.
‘Who is this child’s mother?’
‘The wife of a Flemish soldier who served under the Prince at Poitiers, and was badly wounded, Madam.’
The Queen looked straight into his eyes. ‘And the child’s father?’
Wulfstan opened his mouth, but could not speak; he was unable to meet her eyes.
‘Is this the lady who received a jewel
led necklet from me? Ah, Wulfstan, you need say no more. So you cannot face your son?’ Her tone was stern but not unkindly, and Wulfstan’s face flamed. He abandoned all pretence.
‘I may not see him, Madam. I cannot endure it, not under the same roof.’ To his further shame, he blinked back tears. The Queen regarded him for a long minute before replying, and Wulfstan prepared himself for a rebuke. Her face remained grave.
‘Very well, your request is granted. The three will be carried to Kennington Palace forthwith, where there is more comfort for a child born early, and women to attend on it and the mother. Take some refreshment now, and then return to Berkhamsted at once.’ She held out her hand for him to kiss.
‘I thank you from my heart, Your Grace. I shall pray for—’
‘You may leave us, Sir Wulfstan.’
King Edward and the Prince of Wales sailed back to Dover on October 31st, and proceeded to the King’s domain at Westminster. The Prince returned to Berkhamsted two days later, declaring the short expedition a success.
‘I think we may hang up our swords or beat them into ploughshares,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘As soon as the French saw we were there to renew the peace, and not to stir up old enmities, they were happy to exchange civilities. The King has ordered Sir Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent, to start withdrawing the English garrisons.’
Wulfstan nodded discreetly, knowing that the name of Sir Thomas Holland, one of the founder members of the Order of the Garter, a respected leader of men and friend of the King, was fraught with emotion for the Prince.
‘And is this your mind also, my liege?’
The Prince nodded. ‘The men will welcome it. Winter lies ahead, and they’d rather be at home beside their own hearths – and to bed with their wives, eh, Wulfstan? Have you been over to Greneholt while I’ve been away?’
Every Noble Knight Page 19