‘You’ll be making a fool of yourself, then. Be sensible, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Then let me be a fool and enjoy my foolishness, whatever you say.’
For the second time in his life, Sir William was defeated by a woman’s rebellion, and it shook his faith in his own authority. Racked by rheumatism in his joints, and a stone pressing painfully and embarrassingly on his bladder, he had reason enough not to go on a long and hazardous journey; even so, Judith’s determination touched something in his heart.
Suddenly he capitulated and told his wife that he would arrange a mount for her and provide a strong groom to protect her from danger.
‘Thank you, William – but won’t you escort me? It would be such happiness to be all together, and give thanks for this great blessing.’
He grunted and shook his head. ‘I’m tired,’ he muttered, and they both heard the sound of mortality in the words.
Beulah made a good recovery and fed her baby without difficulty. When her mother entered the room, she stopped and stared at the beautiful real-life picture of a mother and child.
‘God bless you, my daughter and granddaughter,’ she said, and it was a moment to remember; both of them wept for joy.
That evening Lady Judith spoke at length with her son-in-law, and learned the family news. Wulfstan and Beulah lived happily as master and mistress of Ebbasterne Hall, pending the day when his nephew, young Sir Denys Wynstede, now nearly fifteen, would take over the reins of management.
‘Beulah and I have been asked if we’ll stay on here then, and advise him for the first year or two,’ Wulfstan told his mother-in-law. ‘Lady Janet Wynstede and Mistress Keepence at Blagge House are great friends and share the Wynstede children, now growing up. One of the twin girls, Joanna, is married and has a child they both dote on. My sister Lady Ethelreda de Lusignan is widowed and has lost both her in-laws, so her eldest son, Count Piers, looks to her as the lady of the house until he marries. She too is a close friend of my sister-in-law. It’s a little confusing, isn’t it, with the three families, Wynstede, de Lusignan and Blagge?’
Compared to her own increasingly lonely life, the friendliness between the three families sounded enviable, and Judith inwardly resolved to keep in touch with Ebbasterne Hall, and no longer submit to her husband’s blind prejudice.
On her return to Greneholt Manor, her husband admitted that he had missed her, but there was no change in his own stance. He saw and noted her bright eyes and the smiles that so often lit up her face, and could almost have envied her, but he was a stubborn man, never ready to admit to being wrong in his judgements.
Seventeen
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‘No, sweetheart, don’t go too close to the pond, you’ll get all muddy!’ And drown if you fall into it with nobody by, Wulfstan added silently. The dainty little four-year-old girl turned back and ran towards him. He put his arm around her, and lifted her up. She seemed as light as a feather, he thought; a puff of wind might blow her away, heaven save her.
It was good to walk around the estate now that spring had come again, but dangers lurked at every step for the little girl, from stinging nettles to rabbit holes to trip over. He set her down but held her hand firmly as they approached the great field where tenants farmed their own strips, now neatly planted with root crops and onions, with the occasional currant bush and gooseberry. Wulfstan encouraged his tenants to grow more than they needed, and paid generously for the surplus produce, either to use at the Hall, or sell at the Wednesday market, a new venture that he had begun in Hyam St Ebba, and proving profitable to sellers and buyers. Little Judith trotted along at his side, and he looked down at her fondly. She was especially precious to her parents, for there had been no further living children born to them. Oswald’s brood were growing up, but still looked to him as to a father; Sir Denys at nineteen showed every sign of being a generous, fair-minded landowner, liked by his tenants and their families. Beulah visited their homes when a birth took place, though she avoided infections that might be brought home to little Judith. Lois, now twenty-one, undertook this duty, as did Mistress Keepence; Lady Janet Wynstede was plagued with women’s trouble, heavy bleeding which left her pale and tired, thankful to have her duties taken over by her sisters-in-law.
‘Look. Dada, look!’ cried Judith, pointing back to the Hall. ‘There’s an old man!’
Wulfstan turned round to see whether the man was a genuine messenger or a beggar, and unable to decide, he went to meet him. Judith had said ‘old’, and as they drew nearer Wulfstan saw grizzled grey hair and a beard. The stranger also had a limp, and had lost an eye, all too typical of a returning soldier; close to, he was scarcely older than Wulfstan. And he seemed vaguely familiar, though not immediately recognizable. His long woollen cote-hardie had worn thin.
‘Good day to you, stranger, and what is your business?’ asked Wulfstan, at which the man stared back at him with something like reproach.
‘You’ve done well for yourself, Wulfstan! Will you turn away an old friend?’
On hearing his voice, Wulfstan smiled and let go Judith’s hand so as to grasp that of Sir Ranulf Ormiston. ‘How could I not know you? Come in, come in – Judith, go to fetch mama. Step inside, let me fetch you some wine – and meet my wife; she’ll order a chamber to be made ready for you to stay with us. Oh, this is splendid, Ranulf, you must tell me all your news – have you come from the Black Prince?’
Ormiston was clearly touched by the warmth of this welcome, and bowed to Beulah when she appeared to greet her husband’s friend.
‘I feared you might turn me away as a beggar,’ he confessed to them. ‘Knighthood doesn’t always confer wealth and prestige, nor does it guarantee hospitality. Yes, Wulfstan, I have come from the Black Prince, and won’t be going back, for he is sadly changed.’ He took a seat, and sipped from a beaker of barley wine. ‘So you’re master of Ebbasterne Hall now?’
‘No, my friend, only holding it in trust for my eldest nephew, now Sir Denys Wynstede, until he comes of age. My days of fighting and killing my fellow men are over, thanks be to God.’
‘But what of your own estate, then?’
Wulfstan smiled. ‘I have no estate, as a younger brother, but am invited to remain here as a lifelong guest, myself and Beulah and our little one.’
‘No other children?’
‘No, only our little daughter, but my nephews and nieces have become like my own. But what of you? Where did you get your wounds?’
‘In Spain, mostly. The French declared war on Spain for commercial reasons, and our gracious Prince could never avoid a scrap, and joined King Charles of France to march over the Pyrenees. There was a bloody battle at Najera, and I survived it, only just. A lot of good men didn’t. The Prince was struck down with a wasting disease, and hasn’t recovered – none of his physicians can cure it, and when his son Edward died at six years old, he seemed to lose all pity and mercy.’ Ranulf frowned, and shook his head slightly, as if trying to dispel a memory. ‘Two years ago he assumed the title of King of Aquitaine, though it wasn’t his to take, and he wasn’t in control to make wise decisions. We were all weary of fighting, and wanted to get home to have some peace, but he forced us to stay, on peril of beheading, and those of us with no fortune . . .’ He spread out his hands and shrugged.
‘Good God, Ranulf, you make me glad indeed that I lost an arm. Did you find him difficult to deal with?’
‘I’ve never known such a change in a man. The only person able to calm him was the Princess, and sometimes he’d listen to her, otherwise we all went in fear of his temper. And then came Limoges. That was last year, but the memory lingers on like a bad smell.’
‘I heard something about a whole town being wiped out,’ said Wulfstan. ‘Was that Limoges? Don’t they make pottery there?’
‘They did,’ said Ranulf heavily. ‘The Black Prince’s army was camped all round the walls, and the Prince sent an order to the Bishop of Limoges, demanding to be acknowledged as their king and to han
d over the town to him. The Bishop refused, so the Prince stormed the walls and sent in his men with instructions to kill every man, woman and child, three thousand souls in a day. The streets ran with blood, I saw it for myself.’ Ranulf hid his face in his hands. ‘Then the Prince became so weakened by his illness, he had to hand over the rule of Aquitaine to his brother the Duke of Lancaster, him they call John o’ Gaunt, and return to England. He went straight to his castle at Berkhamsted and took to his bed. They say that he raves like a madman, and the disease has reduced him to skin and bone. What an end to a great man. He’ll die before his father, so won’t ever be king.’ Ranulf’s expression was bleak.
Wulfstan found it hard to take in this changed picture of the Prince he had so loved, and served with pride. He reflected once again on the folly and wickedness of war.
‘What of the Princess?’ he enquired.
‘Ah, poor woman, she has suffered for his sins. Former so-called friends have disappeared since they left the court at Bordeaux, and the loss of little Prince Edward must have broken her heart. She has another son, Richard, he must be four years old now, and if he lives he will become king – but the irony is that the Princess was asked to be godmother to the son of old Count d’Avour. The Count is as proud as a peacock that he’s sired such a fine boy, as handsome and strong as any father could wish, and quick at his lessons. They’ve named him Louis, he must be about nine, born to the Count’s young wife when they left Bordeaux for the Count’s home on the river Avour. Mind you, there were those who said that the boy was born many weeks before his time, and yet was big and healthy, the inference being that the Count had taken her earlier, hence the need for a hasty wedding. Or else –’ Ranulf grinned – ‘or else some noble knight had got in there first.’
‘Forgive me, Ranulf, your belly must be empty and here am I keeping you talking,’ said Wulfstan, getting up. ‘Let’s see what our kitchen can yield, and then you’ll want to rest.’
In the counting-house, Wulfstan sat and pondered on what he had learned. So his son was called Louis, and was handsome and clever, but belonged to the Count d’Avour who had denounced Wulfstan roundly; this was his punishment, he thought, as were his memories of the baby Pieter Van Brunt, belonging to a proud father who knew himself to be a eunuch, and also knew that Wulfstan was Pieter’s father. And he had forbidden Wulfstan to see the boy, even on the day of his birth. He sighed deeply: two fine sons, the result of his own misdemeanours, never to be seen and acknowledged by him. And his own dear wife had given birth to one little daughter, and suffered much by repeatedly miscarrying; the one son she had carried almost to the full time had been born dead. Truly, he was justly punished, and he prayed for the grace to accept what he deserved, and to give thanks for the delicate little girl whom they both adored, and pray for her preservation. Poor Ranulf, he thought, he had fared worse in his service to the Black Prince, now upon his deathbed after committing such atrocious war crimes.
He was partly consoled by Oswald’s children, and had trained Denys well to be master of Ebbasterne Hall. His other niece and nephew, Cecily’s children by her first husband, had also done well; Aelfric Blagge was a well-regarded lawyer based in London, and Katrine, now Mistress Percy, was married to the son of a nobleman and had borne him a son. As for his own future, he expected to assist Denys for perhaps a year or two, but could see no further ahead. One day he might be able to purchase a house in Hyam St Ebba, sufficient for the needs of a couple with one child. It would be a sad change for Beulah, he thought, used as she was to the manor house in which she had been brought up, and then Ebbasterne Hall. He knew that her love and loyalty would surmount any lowering of their social standing, and compared to poor Ranulf Ormiston, he considered himself a very fortunate man.
Master Aelfric Blagge, attorney-at-law, was mystified by the summons to Greneholt in distant Hertfordshire; it was a long journey up from London, and he would need an overnight stay at an inn for his sake and his horse’s, which would add to his client’s fee. Now in his mid-twenties, he had acquired a growing reputation for winning unpromising lawsuits for honest clients, and rejecting others, however lucrative, if he was unsure of the client’s integrity. But to be asked to journey so far simply to draw up a settlement of inheritance seemed unnecessary, but he supposed the client must have his reasons.
At Greneholt Manor he was welcomed by Lady Horst, a tired-looking, ageing woman who offered him bed and board for the night, supplied him with refreshment and then led him to the bedchamber where Sir William Horst lay, his skin parchment-pale, his eyes hollowed. Aelfric realized that this was to be a deathbed bequeathal, and accepted a chair to sit by the bed; Lady Horst sat on the other side, holding her husband’s hand.
‘Master Blagge the lawyer is here, William,’ she said gently, and the old man gave a grunt of acknowledgement. His words came as a surprise.
‘You’re Master Aelfric Blagge, and have you got parents?’ Aelfric replied that both his parents were dead.
‘But your mother had brothers?’ the old man continued in a weak, querulous voice.
‘Yes, sire, my uncle Oswald is dead, but my uncle Wulfstan lives at his seat, Ebbasterne Hall in Hyam St Ebba in the county of Hampshire.’
‘Ah!’ The half-closed eyes opened and a spark of interest showed. ‘And this Wulfstan, does he have a wife?’
‘Yes, sire, and she is my aunt by marriage,’ replied Aelfric, wondering where this was leading, and how this sick old man knew so much about his family. Lady Horst gave a little gasp, and stroked her husband’s hand.
‘And what will happen when Ebbasterne Hall is given over to its rightful owner?’
Aelfric was beginning to be irritated by this inquisition. ‘I really do not know, sire, and the ownership is no concern of mine.’
‘Well said, Master Blagge,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘It is a concern of mine, however, and now we may proceed to business.’ Sir William hoisted himself higher up on the bolster, helped by his wife. ‘Have you pen and legal paper? Are you ready to take down my instructions?’
‘I am, sire.’
‘I am the sole owner of Greneholt Manor and the estate. I have sons who have grown up and are well settled in life, who have not bothered me unduly by visiting their mother and father. They will receive half of my capital between them, and certain jewellery, chalices and gold plate, which Lady Horst knows about, and can give you details; I’ll leave it to her.’
‘Yes, William, I will see that they receive whatever you think is due to them,’ said Lady Horst, glancing at Aelfric who nodded and smiled in response.
‘Not until after I’ve gone, mind.’
‘No, William.’ Her voice shook, and after a pause for breath, he continued.
‘Everything else, the manor and its estate, together with the tenants and their families, is bequeathed to my daughter, Lady Beulah Wynstede and her issue.’
The air in the room suddenly seemed to crackle as if a flash of lightning had struck: in a moment Aelfric understood all that had mystified him. Lady Horst looked across the bed at Aelfric and smiled, though there were tears in her eyes. ‘Thanks be to God,’ she whispered. Sir William continued speaking, though his voice was weak.
‘Beulah and her issue, mind. I believe there is but one sickly daughter who will inherit from her mother if she survives, but she could be supplanted by a brother.’
‘And her husband, my uncle Sir Wulfstan Wynstede, sire?’
‘He will live with his wife here, with all the privileges of ownership, to care for the estate and its tenants as I have done. Her issue will be his issue also.’
‘Very good, sire.’ There was silence in the room for a minute, then Aelfric spoke again. ‘You have made your wishes known, Sir William, and I will draw up a legal document for you to sign. But first I must ask you – is there anything else to add to the settlement?’
There was a long silence, and Aelfric was about to leave the room and commence his official duties without further enquiries; La
dy Horst gazed wordlessly at her husband’s face, and he closed his eyes, as if trying to blot out her unspoken plea. But he suddenly raised his head from the bolster and in a stronger voice gave vent to all that had been suppressed in his heart.
‘It’s high time that old transgressions be forgotten and forgiven, Master Blagge, and I forgive my daughter for choosing to marry that man against my wishes,’ he burst out. ‘I forgive her, and wish that . . . oh, God be merciful, let Beulah forgive me. Let her forgive me!’ Tears came to his sunken eyes, and Lady Judith rose and laid her hand upon his forehead.
‘Ssh, ssh, William, don’t worry, it’s not too late to tell Beulah you love her,’ she said quietly, with a glance at Aelfric. Sir William looked from one to the other in rising agitation as he repeated, ‘I want her to forgive me, Judith. I’ve been cruel to her and unkind, and I want her to forgive me, my daughter . . . oh, let her forgive me, I shan’t be here much longer, but let her forgive me, please, please . . .’ He tried to sit up, and as Judith attempted to soothe him, Aelfric Blagge sat down again beside the bed, took hold of Sir William’s other hand and spoke soothingly, with reassurance and authority.
‘Your daughter will know that you ask her forgiveness. Listen: when I leave this house, I will go straight to Hyam St Ebba, and see Beulah, and tell her that you love her, and let her know about the settlement that you have asked me to draw up. I promise most solemnly, as God above sees and knows all our hearts, I will tell her, and she will know, and so will her husband Wulfstan.’
A sense of calm descended upon the room, and Sir William lay back on the bolster, consoled by the lawyer’s words. His wife kissed his forehead, and looked at Aelfric with all the gratitude that she felt in her heart. He nodded, smiled and left them.
Somehow Beulah knew that Sir Ranulf Ormiston’s visit had affected Wulfstan deeply, and not just by bringing back memories of war and its degrading influence on men, the suffering of the innocent and the tragic waste of it all. She understood that her husband had been reminded of the two sons he had fathered, and would never meet. She said nothing during Ormiston’s visit, but on the afternoon when he left them, she sat beside Wulfstan on an old wooden bench at the edge of the grassy slope leading down to the great field, with little Judith close by, playing with a frisky new puppy. Beulah always sat on her husband’s right side, so that he could put his arm around her, as he did now.
Every Noble Knight Page 26