[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘Merci, mon frere.’ Heaving himself into the saddle, he trotted towards the Maison Dieu where the boy, coming with his flask, met him.

  When he had closed and locked the doors Brother Harold, blissfully unaware that he’d be kicking himself for ever more, hurried around the side of the church to the warming house.

  Tuppence, he thought disgustedly. The fat Frog was a miserly sod.

  The fat Frog trotted sedately southward. After he’d gone a mile or so, he hooked the uncomfortable wax plumpers from inside his cheeks and tossed them aside into the bushes. Under his padded garments he was neither fat nor French but English: Sir Richard Straccan, former crusader but now buyer and seller — and not for the first time stealer — of precious relics.

  Five miles from Cheringham he turned off the road, urging his hired nag to an unwilling gallop over rough country to Belmarie Wood. Dismounting, he led the horse in among the trees along ever narrower paths until he came to the clearing where his servant, Hawkan Bane, sat comfortably cooking sausages over a small bright fire. Two hobbled horses whickered softly in greeting as Bane scrambled to his feet.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said. Any longer and I’d have scoffed the lot. How’d it go?’

  ‘Give me a sausage, for God’s sake,’ said Straccan. ‘Here.’ He passed the relic to Bane and seized the skewer of sausages from the flames.

  ‘Mind,’ said Bane. ‘They’re — ’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘— hot. Any trouble?’

  ‘Not so far, but we’d best put a few more miles behind us while the moon shines, and get rid of this nag. Someone might recognise it.’

  No one was likely to recognise him. He peeled the lurid flour-and-paint scars from his face and wolfed six sausages before shedding the Frog’s garb and donning his own breeks, shirt and jerkin. Wadding the discarded hat, gloves and padded clothes into a tight bundle he shoved them well down into the middle of a tangle of brambles.

  Wrapping the relic with great care, first in a piece of silk and then in sheep’s wool, Bane stowed it in a leather satchel which Straccan buckled to his belt. They packed up the small camp and put the fire out, careful to cover all traces.

  The moon was right overhead when they struck on the worn and muddy line of Watling Street. Barring accidents they expected to reach Bromfield the day after tomorrow.

  Prior and community at Bromfield would be well pleased and not a little astonished. The relic had been stolen from them — they said — seventy years ago, when the Empress Maud’s army sacked the priory and burned the church. Some years later, the thief, dying, had bestowed his looted treasure upon the abbey at Cheringham, hoping to bluff his way past Saint Peter with the aid of the monks’ prayers. Civilised requests over the years from Bromfield’s Benedictines for the relic’s return had been met with scorn, insults and even blows from Cheringham’s Praemonstratensians. Hiring Straccan to steal it back had been a final act of desperation; the brethren of Bromfield never really expected to see the holy hand again.

  That wouldn’t stop them trying to screw the price down!

  Chapter Two

  Darkness had settled on Ludlow town. Wan glints of light seeped out around the edges of ill-fitting hide shutters, but only when the moon slipped out between the clouds were walls, doors, kennels and middens briefly revealed. There was still activity in certain parts of the town though, as the criminal fraternity — thieves, housebreakers and such — got ready for business. At the approach of two riders and a packhorse dark shadows faded into darker corners. Horsemen with swords were not the prey they favoured.

  'Hear that?’ Bane reined in. 'Over there.’

  They stopped.

  ‘There!’

  The sound, a groan, came from the midden ditch in the middle of the road. Straccan nudged his horse towards it, pausing when he saw a long bundle.

  Bane drew his sword. ‘Watch out.’

  Straccan got down and pushed the bundle with his foot. It rolled over heavily. A body. Moonlight showed a pale face and the dark wet gleam of blood, but the man was breathing and the pulse at his neck beat strongly.

  ‘Better take him with us,’ said Straccan. ‘Jesus, he’s soaking wet!’

  ‘Niffs a bit too,’ said Bane critically.

  ‘Can’t be helped.’ Grasping the man’s jerkin, Straccan heaved him over his saddle and led his horse up the steep road to the castle.

  ‘He’s been set upon,’ said Straccan, when the castle’s surgeon bustled into the dormitory followed by his apprentice. ‘His head’s still bleeding.’

  The surgeon leaned over the unconscious man, parting the bloody hair to peer at the seeping wound and raising the closed eyelids to examine the eyes. He sniffed at the mouth. ‘Not been drinking,’ he said. Tm surprised they left him his clothes. Must’ve heard you coming. Let’s get em off, see the damage.’

  ‘They took his shoes,’ said Bane as he and the surgeon stripped the man. There was a large rough and ready darn in one stocking.

  The surgeon ran his hands over his patient’s ribs, belly and limbs with casual efficiency.

  ‘Hmm. Lot of bruising. Had a good kicking, by the look of it. Nothing broken. Bruising over the liver though — might be fatal, might not. Heartbeat’s strong, he’ll probably be all right. Though you never can tell,’ he added hastily, just in case. ‘Internal injuries aren’t always obvious so soon after the event. The head wound needs cautery.’

  Putting his satchel on the bed he took out a cautery iron and handed it to the apprentice, who stuck it in the coals of the brazier and fell to picking his nose while waiting.

  ‘Took his purse, did they?’ the surgeon enquired.

  ‘Purse and anything else he had.’

  ‘Lucky for him you happened along, or they’d have taken his life as well, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He snapped his fingers and the apprentice jumped, handing him the cautery iron glowing cherry red. The surgeon spat on the iron, approved the hiss and clapped it to the wound. Bane winced. There was a deep groan from the patient and a stench of burning hair and skin. ‘Two, three, four, five,’ intoned the surgeon. He removed the iron and inspected the damage. ‘That’s stopped it,’ he said with satisfaction.

  Straccan dug into his purse and gave the surgeon some coins.

  ‘Thank you, sir. He should come round before long. There may be some fever; there often is after cautery. I’ll bleed him if there is.’ He took his satchel and departed, followed by his apprentice, scowling because he hadn’t had a tip.

  Bane hung the man’s hide jerkin on a peg by the bedhead and draped the rest of his wet, bloody clothes over the drying-rail by the fire, investigating pockets as he did so.

  ‘Aha!’ There was a small pocket, roughly but solidly stitched, inside the shirt on the left. Bane’s probing finger hooked something out — a glossy wisp, a curl of dark hair tied with a scrap of blue wool. Sweetheart, wife, daughter?

  ‘Look at this.’

  And this,’ said Straccan with the man’s belt in his hands. Its lining was split, neatly and deliberately, to make a safe place to tuck a few coins or any other small thing of value. A bit of parchment.’ He smoothed it out and angled it to the candlelight. ‘Latin,’ he said, surprised.

  ‘Cymbium something. Cymbium Vulstani sum.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It says, I am Wulstan’s cup.

  Sounds like an inscription.’

  ‘Maybe that’s his name. Wulstan.’

  They looked at the unconscious vulnerable face in the narrow bed. It was young, pleasant, square-chinned, straight-nosed, with dark curly hair. Beard shadow darkened the jaw and there was a small crescent-shaped scar on the chin. By the fire, the steady dripping from his clothes had made small puddles on the flags.

  ‘I wonder how he got so wet,’ Straccan said. ‘He was soaked to the skin.’

  ‘Perhaps he fell in the river,’ Bane suggested.

  ‘Maybe.’ Straccan yawned hugely, picking up his saddlebags. ‘We’ll find o
ut when he wakes up. Will you doss down here and keep an eye on him? If he comes round he won’t know where he is. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Leaving the dormitory he found the small room he was to share with two other knights in transit; they were both snoring. Resigned to a bad night he got between the dubious blankets and pillowed his head on his empty saddlebags. It had been a busy day. He had delivered the relic to Bromfield and squeezed his payment from the monks’ coffers — not without a struggle — but his hard-won silver was safe now in the Templars’ keeping. He closed his eyes.

  As sleep continued to elude him, Straccan remembered the curl of hair in the young stranger’s pocket. A sweetheart most likely. Lucky man. Straccan’s hand closed on the charm he wore on a thong round his neck, given him by Janiva, the woman he wanted to marry.

  Last summer he’d told Sir Guy, the lord of Shawl manor and in some sense her guardian, that he wanted to marry Janiva.

  ‘Good luck to ye, me boy,’ the old man had wheezed. ‘When’s the weddin?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Straccan, catching a shrewd glance from Dame Alienor. As soon as she says yes. Do I have your permission?’

  ‘If you needed it, aye, but she’s a free woman, and—’

  ‘Wilful,’ supplied his wife.

  ‘Hard to please, I was goin to say,’ said Sir Guy. ‘She wouldn’t marry our son, ye know. If ye win her round there’s a mark of silver for her dowry, I’ll buy back her house and land and ye’ll have my blessing. I’ll be glad to see her safe wed before I die.’

  And now he was dead, that kindly old man. The widowed Dame Alienor still lived at Shawl but the manor belonged to their son Roger. Roger, who not so long ago had wanted to marry his foster-sister Janiva.

  With his eyes closed Straccan conjured her image: oval face, smooth sun-flushed skin, gold-brown eyes, generous lips, red-brown hair. Last summer when he’d asked her to marry him she’d refused, for reasons that seemed good to her but not to him. She was still of the same mind when he had seen her last, at Easter, but he was not giving up, then, now or ever, although their last meeting had ended badly.

  He still didn’t know why. She was glad enough to see him when he arrived, yet soon it seemed he could say nothing right. She put him off at every turn. He pressed her too hard, she said; besides, Dame Alienor, new-widowed, was ill and needed her. How could he talk of marriage at such a time? Her place was here. Every clumsy thing he said only made it worse, and in the end they’d parted unfriends, Janiva tearful, himself angry.

  He couldn’t leave it like that. Now the Bromfield job was done he could go back. He’d start tomorrow.

  Chapter Three

  It was warm in the still-room at Shawl and the fine fragrant dust of herbs hung in the sunbeams that slanted through the narrow windows. This had always been Janiva’s favourite place. Her earliest memories were of her mother and Dame Alienor talking and laughing together in this room, the dust of herbs on their hands, sweet scents clinging to their sleeves and aprons; two young women, one born unfree the other noble, mother and foster-mother united in their care for the son they shared and loved — Roger, Janiva’s foster-brother.

  The two babies shared the same cradle, fed from the same breasts, played together, squabbled, made up and loved each other, until at the age of seven Roger went away to begin his long training as squire and knight. In due course his parents would choose a wife for him, a girl of noble birth with a manor or two and money. Ten years later it really threw the cat among the pigeons when Roger announced he wanted to marry his foster-sister.

  His parents so doted on their only living child that against all good judgement they would have permitted it had not Janiva, to their relief and astonishment, refused. Before Roger could get his breath a suitable match was swiftly arranged — Richildis was heir to three manors — and the marriage had taken place last summer.

  Since the wedding the young couple had been away touring the dowry manors but now they were expected at Shawl any day. Troubles never come singly, and hard upon Sir Guy’s death arrived bad tidings: Roger’s cousin had laid claim to Shawl and was even now with the king, in favour, and likely to win his case. Roger would need to squeeze Shawl manor until it hurt if he was to raise the funds necessary to contest the claim.

  ‘… coltsfoot,’ finished Alienor.

  Janiva looked blankly at her.

  Dame Alienor laughed. ‘I thought so! You were miles away. I said, with all these coughs we have almost run out of coltsfoot.’

  ‘There’s plenty of horehound; it’s just as good with a little honey in hot water. What is it, my lady?’ for Alienor was watching her, smiling.

  She looks ill, Janiva thought with a pang of worry. Grief for her husband and anxiety for her son’s inheritance had aged the lady of Shawl. Her round cheerful face had fallen in, the flesh on her sturdy bones had thinned and she looked ten years older than she had last summer.

  ‘I’ll lay odds you were thinking of your sweetheart,’ Alienor said. ‘And don’t tell me he’s not, for he means to marry you. My lord made enquiries last year, discreetly, of course. Your Straccan is a good match.’

  ‘Madame—’

  ‘He’s well with the king, too; that’s useful while it lasts. He has a good estate, unencumbered my lord said, and only one daughter; so your son will inherit with no ill will. That’s fortunate; the sons of a first wife mean trouble.’

  Half laughing, half annoyed, Janiva interrupted. ‘Madame, I have told him no!’

  ‘So? He keeps coming back, doesn’t he? You can always change your mind. Not a bad thing,’ she added with an approving nod, ‘to begin by saying no.’

  ‘I meant it!’

  ‘Did you?’

  Alienor gave her a shrewd look. Janiva felt herself blushing. Did she? She’d been sure enough at first. But now?

  You should think on the future,’ said Alienor, reaching to pat her hand. ‘You are still young.’ She looked fondly at Janiva. ‘Do you really see yourself here years from now, an old woman alone?’

  Old? She had never thought about it. Youth seemed to stretch ahead, an eternal Now, unchanged by the years’ passing. Alone? Before Straccan came she had been content, self-sufficient, an entire being. That completeness was gone, no use pretending otherwise. Her life went on as it always had; she was busy and useful here in her own place among people she had known all her life.

  Nothing had changed.

  Everything was different.

  ‘It’s not at all like I thought,’ she said, and was surprised to hear herself saying it aloud.

  ‘What? Love?’ Alienor smiled and the ill, weary look was gone briefly from her face. ‘Bless you, girl. It never is.’

  Chapter Four

  The king had arrived at Bristol last night, several hours ahead of his baggage train and with only a handful of attendants. Most of the lords and captains summoned to meet him were there already, and the rest — if they knew what was good for them — would be there today.

  It was scarce five in the morning when the courier from Dublin was shown into the royal bedchamber, but the king had been up since three and the room was full of people: knights of the royal household, squires and pages, captains and guardsmen, servants, clerks, petitioners and place seekers. The king and his captains were grouped around the bed on which a great map of Ireland had been spread, three of its corners weighted down with small coffers and the fourth with the king’s brass pisspot.

  Blocks of colour on the map marked the holdings of the Anglo-Irish lords; the king’s left hand rested on William Marshal’s great expanse of blue as he jabbed with his right forefinger at the yellow splash of the de Lacy lords, Hugh and Walter. Other holdings were coloured green, purple, brown, grey, pink. There hadn’t been time to prepare a new map and the former holdings of the renegade lord William de Breos, appropriately blood red, eclipsed all but Marshal’s.

  The king took the letter and broke the seal. While he read his captains continued to argue, pointing here and there
at the map, shaking their heads or nodding agreement as each made some point. Hearing John’s exclamation they turned expectantly.

  ‘Kilkenny,’ said the king. ‘Breos is in Kilkenny. Or was, when this letter was written. Well, my friends, now we know where we’re going. From Crook we march on Kilkenny.’ He bent over the map, tracing the route from Crook through Newbridge and Thomastown with the point of his dagger until it reached Kilkenny. ‘There,’ he said, and drove the steel through map, coverlid, blankets, feather bed and all, right to the hilt.

  John’s captains exchanged furtive glances in which gleamed secret satisfactions. Breos had lorded it over them far too long before he tripped over his own arrogance and folly. He had it coming. They would outdo one another in baying at his heels, each thankful he was not the subject of John’s vengeful campaign.

  ‘He’ll know we’re coming,’ de Breaute said.

  ‘So much the better.’ D’Athee grinned. ‘He’ll run. More fun.’

  ‘Not for you, Gerard,’ said the king. ‘Sorry, old chap, but I want you here. He’ll run all right. I think he’ll run back to Wales, to my son-in-law Llywelyn, and try to raise the Welsh against me. He’ll be out of luck there. One of these days Llywelyn will do it, but not yet; he’s not ready. He’ll give Breos hospitality but no money and poor William must have money. There’s only one way he can get it: he’ll call up his knights and sworn men. He’ll have a raiding force, not a great one but enough to be a nuisance. So that’s your job, Gerard. You can have a hundred men. I’ll chase him out of Ireland; you hunt him down.’

  ‘I will, sire.’

  John dismissed them and read the letter again before crushing it in his fist and tossing it into the brazier where it wriggled like something alive before bursting into smoky flame.

  He stared into the glowing coals, thinking.

  To buy his way back into royal favour — some hopes! — to pay the vast sums he owed the king, to regain at least some of his former holdings and safeguard the inheritance of his sons Breos would need a great deal of money. A raiding party in the Marches, unhindered for a time, could sack rich towns and abbeys, extort money from travellers and hold wealthy prisoners to ransom. Given his head for a month or so, Breos stood an excellent chance of raising more than enough to pay his debts.