[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘Be patient. It’ll take a while.’ He glanced up. The mercenary was right behind him and paying close attention. ‘I have to leave Ludlow today. Will you be all right?’

  Wulstan’s face fell. ‘Oh, I… Of course. You’ve been very kind to me, sir. Master Bane gave me these clothes, he even managed to find some shoes to fit me. If, when, I’m myself again I’ll repay you somehow.’

  ‘Never mind that. You can put up at the priory until you get your memory back or until someone comes looking for you. The constable has promised to arrange it. I’ll see you when I get back.’

  Whenever the hell that is, he thought sourly.

  Wulstan looked down at the table. ‘You are very good, sir, to be concerned.’

  Straccan clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, lad. It may seem strange but it’s better than being dead.’

  Bane wasn’t in the dormitory either, nor in Straccan’s pokey bedchamber. With a sigh, and shadowed by the German, Straccan headed for the kitchen. He should have looked there first.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Bane, stowing bread and cheese in his already bulging scrip. ‘Pass that ham, will you? Ta. He can’t want me. He doesn’t even know I exist! What would he want me for?'

  I don’t know! He’ — with a jerk of his head towards Bruno, whose expression of faint amusement was becoming annoying — ‘won’t say. Have you packed our stuff?’

  ‘Course. I was just getting some extra supplies for the journey.’ He stared at the German. ‘I hope he’s brought his own. We won’t be going to see Mistress Janiva now, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Straccan, with a face like thunder, ‘we won’t!’

  Chapter Eight

  The king had left Bristol three days ago.

  ‘No matter,’ said Captain von Koln calmly. ‘Ve vill follow.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The host sails for Ireland from Cross-on-Sea.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  Bruno smiled thinly. ‘Don’t vorry, Sir Richard. Ve vill catch up vith the king tomorrow or the day after.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Neath, perhaps. If not then Cardiff.’

  Straccan groaned.

  ‘Look at it this vay, Sir Richard. Sooner Cardiff than Vaterford, nein?’

  ‘Are you serious? Not Ireland!’

  ‘You do not vish this meeting vith the king,’ the German observed. ‘Noticed that, did you?’

  Bruno grinned.

  ‘No,’ Straccan said ruefully. ‘It’s not that; it’s just that I had other plans.’

  ‘Involving a lady,’ said the German with a sympathetic nod.

  ‘Yes.’

  Oh God, yes, and what would she be thinking of him now? He’d said he’d come back. Now God alone knew when that might be.

  ‘Veil, the faster ve ride, the sooner you may return.’

  Two days later, in a dripping Welsh dawn eight miles or so outside Cardiff, they caught up with the tail end of the royal baggage train and began slogging slowly past.

  The servants and functionaries of the royal household straggled over three miles of road, reduced to crawling pace by the heavy wagons which churned and rutted the road to clay-pit consistency and sank to their axles every few yards. It had rained non-stop since Bristol, and the escorting knights, men-at-arms and archers, soaked to the skin and dripping, cursed monotonously as they struggled through the sticky quagmire.

  At the front were the king’s hawks and dogs, precious creatures most tenderly transported. Then came the lumbering sumpter wagons carrying beds and bedding, coffers full of hangings and draperies, the trappings of the royal bedroom, the king’s chairs, cushions, Jordan, livery cupboard, bath and all essentials. Next came the wardrobe, with the king’s clothes folded in chests, layered with rue and fleabane and sprinkled with pieces of costly ambergris to perfume the precious fabrics. Tucked somewhere safely among the royal shirts, drawers, robes and tunics were the king’s books and jewels, hidden where only his valet Petit knew to find them.

  Two long carts were necessary to transport the royal chapel, altar, candlesticks and candles, priest’s vestments and the Halidom. Cooks and kitchen clanged and rattled along, pots and pans dangling and jangling, swathed hams and bacons smelling strong, barrels of dried fish and dried fruits, salt and the valuable spice chest, all surrounded by men armed to the teeth to defend the king’s dinner.

  Workers in the fields straightened and stared. Some waved, some made rude gestures, and when the noisy, seemingly endless procession reached a village small children ran alongside shouting, and bony limping dogs left off scratching to bark the gaudy creaking show along.

  The din was unbelievable, and when they had passed it and the train was long out of sight Straccan could still hear the confused noise of shouting, clanging and rumbling wheels. It sounded like a distant battle.

  ‘Not too much off,’ said the king.

  The barber had finished trimming the royal beard. There was more grey in it now than a year ago but the king’s hair was still predominately red. The barber moved round to tidy the curls at the back of the royal neck. A puppy with hair of much the same colour slept in an abandoned position on the king’s lap. John’s fingers gently circled its tight pink belly in a continuous caress. Beside his chair in a basket slept a reddish long-haired bitch and the rest of her litter, snorting and twitching in snug security.

  The last time Straccan had been summoned to the royal presence he’d been kept waiting four days before John found time to see him. This time Bruno von Koln took them straight to the king’s private solar, without so much as a bite of breakfast or a chance to wash.

  It was pleasantly warm in the room. Scented candles and a brazier cheered the relentlessly dismal morning. There were only a couple of clerks and a brace of pages in attendance, and in one corner a Welsh minstrel played his harp softly.

  ‘Am I getting thin on top?’ the king asked.

  One of the clerks said hastily "Your grace’s hair is as thick as ever it was.’ Over the top of the royal head the barber shot him a may-you-be-forgiven look and winked. Sauce! The clerk stared coldly back.

  Outside, rain lashed the shutters, but within the chamber the only sounds were the murmuring harpstrings and the soothing, competent switch-switch of the scissors as the barber, snipping, circled the king.

  ‘I once found my father sitting on an upturned bucket in the yard, with a stable boy cutting his hair,’ said John suddenly. At Chinon, it was. No sense of dignity, my father, yet no one ever dared bugge him about the way they do me!’

  The barber made a sympathetic sound.

  ‘Even he couldn’t live for ever, though,’ said John. ‘Ah, Straccan, there you are! Have you seen his tomb?’

  ‘King Henry’s, my lord? Yes. Very fine.’

  ‘All there, they are, at Fontevrault: Dad, Mother, my glorious brother. All very dignified and peaceful and quiet. God’s feet, that’s a laugh! I can’t remember them ever quiet! They never talked, you know. Just screamed at one another. My brothers too. Henry used to shout at everyone, Geoffrey was always yelling about something and as for Richard, well, you know what he was like. I remember them all purple with fury! I thought it was the normal colour for grown-ups, when I was small.’ He nibbled at a scrap of loose skin on the side of his thumb, pulling until it tore sharply into the quick flesh.

  ‘I’ve seen my father so mad with rage he’d roll on the floor and bite the rushes.’ He kicked at those underfoot. ‘And they weren’t kept sweet and clean like mine. Months old and full of dogshit. No wonder they call us the Devil’s Brood! Do you believe in ghosts?’

  Startled, Straccan said, ‘I don’t know, my lord. I’ve never seen one.’

  ‘Haven’t you? Lucky man. They’re everywhere. That’s why you won’t catch me lying at Fontevrault when my time’s up. Imagine the squabbling that goes on when there’s no one there to hear them.’

  The barber finished and was waved away. John set the puppy back among its siblings and the bitch wag
ged her tail and licked his fingers lovingly. As he took a handful of dates from a silver bowl a page darted forward to offer a perfumed napkin. The king wiped his sticky fingers and turned to Straccan.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Sir Richard. You’ve had a wet time of it. That’s Wales for you. I don’t know why I bother with it. You’ve brought your man, I see.’

  Bane shifted uneasily as the king’s green gaze fixed on him.

  ‘As you ordered, sire.’

  ‘Ordered?’ John looked surprised. ‘Did I? I can’t think why.’

  I can, thought Straccan. You didn't want anyone to find out you'd sent for me. Your captain kept us together so Bane couldn't tell anyone. Why's that I wonder? What's going on?

  The harper paused to tighten a string and in the sudden silence Bane’s belly gave a long loud rumble. Straccan had never seen him blush before.

  The king laughed. ‘Forgive me, Master Bane! You are both soaked and haven’t had a chance to break your fast. Bruno, take them to the bath house and get them some dry clothes. I’ll see you later, Straccan, when you’ve had something to eat.’

  ‘He knew my name,’ Bane muttered uneasily as they followed Bruno across the hall. ‘How’d he know my name?’

  ‘It’s nothing to vorry about,’ said Bruno, overhearing. ‘The king vants to know everything about everyvun he meets. He vill know vere you ver born, who your father vas—’

  ‘Huh! He knows more than my mum did, then,’ growled Bane.

  When Straccan returned the king wasted no time.

  ‘Relics are your business, Straccan; have you heard of the Pendragon Banner?’

  ‘Of course, sire. It belonged to Uther Pendragon and after him to Arthur his son. But like the Graal it has been lost since King Arthur died. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Fortunately Wace here has learned a bit more,’ said the king, crooking a finger at one of the clerks. ‘Come, Robert, tell us all about it. Sit down, Straccan, and pay attention.’

  Robert Wace came forward, bringing with him an overpowering scent of violets and an air of suppressed intensity. Peering at his note-tablet, he cleared his throat importantly.

  ‘The Banner was indeed King Arthur’s. In Nennius’ writings it is described as a swallowtail pennant of white silk, embroidered with a scarlet dragon. The saintly Abbot Gildas wrote that it was borne before Arthur in all his battles, and that while he had it he could not be defeated, for stitched into it’ — Straccan looked up curiously at the sudden quaver in the clerk’s voice — ‘was a linen n-napkin stained with the sacred b-blood of our Lord Christ.’ He crossed himself as did Straccan and, after a moment, the king also.

  ‘There can be no greater relic,’ Wace said eagerly. ‘None more precious! Only the Crown of Thorns could equal it!’

  The king had taken an orange from a silver dish at his elbow and was peeling it, popping segments into his mouth as Wace continued.

  ‘Saint Joseph the Arimathean brought the relic to Glastonbury, where it was kept for many years until Uther sacrilegiously tore it from the altar and took it for his own. When Arthur became king he had the precious thing sewn into his war pennant, and was never defeated until the traitor Mordred stole the Banner and slew Arthur in his last battle. After that no one knows what became of it.’

  ‘Until now, perhaps.’ The king leaned back in his chair and took up the tale, the harper’s chords providing an apposite accompaniment.

  ‘At Eastertide,’ John began, ‘a woman died in the hospital at Cwm Cuddfan in Wales: a Danish lady called Ragnhild. She came to England ten years ago to marry an English lord, and as part of her dowry she brought a relic that had been treasured in her family for hundreds of years: the Pendragon Banner.

  ‘But there was a storm. The bride-ship was wrecked in the Severn Sea and all aboard perished save Ragnhild and Hallgerd her maidservant. They were taken to a priory of the Penitent Sisters near Avonmouth. The river warden sent word to me of the wreck and the maidens, and I sent word to Ragnhild’s father in the Danes’ land to let him know his daughter was alive. But once he’d seen her safe aboard — as he thought — her father had raised rebellion against King Valdemar and he and all his kin had been put to death. So the lady had neither home nor family, all her goods were lost with the ship and the man she was to marry repudiated her for a wealthier bride.’

  ‘What became of her?’ Straccan asked.

  The king shrugged. ‘It was a bad time just then. I was busy elsewhere, new-come to my crown. There was trouble in Brittany — there’s always trouble in Brittany, and there was rebellion in Poitou. What with one thing and another I’m afraid the Danish maidens slipped my mind. The pity of it was they believed themselves to be prisoners at the convent and ran away.’ John spread his hands in an eloquent gesture of helplessness.

  ‘The winter was hard that year. They were caught in a blizzard. They found some poor shelter but with no food, no fire…’ He sighed. ‘Men hunting wolves found them but by then the maid was dead. Ragnhild however survived. When I was reminded of her I made what amends I could — a dowry, a husband. When she fell ill she was taken to Cwm Cuddfan, to Sulien’s hospital. Before she died she told him about the Banner.’

  There was more to come. Straccan waited.

  ‘When the ship struck, they feared what might befall. Ragnhild was a great lord’s daughter; if they were rescued she might be held for ransom or forced into a demeaning marriage. Such things happen. So she stripped off her rings and Hallgerd put them on. Until they knew themselves safe, the lady would pretend to be the maidservant. If they fell into honest hands and were delivered to her betrothed, that would be the time for truth.

  ‘With the ship sinking beneath them Ragnhild took the Banner from her dower chest and tied it round her neck under her cloak, and buckled her girdle around herself and Hallgerd so they should not be lost from each other and the power of the relic would save them both. And so it did.

  ‘But when they found themselves captive — as they thought — and learned that Ragnhild was penniless, without kin or home and cast off by her betrothed, they kept up the pretence. To the end. The maid who died in the snow was the lady Ragnhild, and the one who survived—’

  ‘Was the serving-maid,’ said Straccan.

  ‘Yes. Quite like a ballad, isn’t it? So sad. I must get Madoc here to set it to music.’

  ‘Is that why you sent for me, my lord? To get the Banner for you?’

  John arched his eyebrows. ‘You’re the expert. I apologise for the short notice. I’ve only just found out about all this, you see.’

  Straccan frowned. ‘How did you learn about it, my lord, after all this time?’

  ‘That doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘I think it does, sire. You may not be the only one to know about it. That makes it my concern.’

  John smiled. ‘You will just have to get to it first, won’t you?'

  'Is someone else after it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised; word gets around. There’s no time to lose. It wouldn’t do at all, politically you understand, for this relic to fall into the hands of, oh, the Bretons, for instance, and become a rallying point for traitors. There are traitors everywhere.’ John paused, his green gaze cold. ‘Straccan!' he mused. ‘Curious name, but of course it was Estraccan at one time, wasn’t it? A Breton name.’

  Straccan’s stomach gave an uneasy twist. ‘My grandsire’s father came over from Brittany in Red William’s time, more than a hundred years ago. I’ve no kin there now and no allegiance. You speak of traitors, my lord,’ he said boldly. ‘Do you think I’m one?’

  John got up and walked to the window, pushing the shutter aside and scowling at the rain. ‘No… No, of course not. God’s feet, what a climate! But talking of traitors, do you know William de Breos?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ said the king bitterly. ‘He’s in Ireland just now, brewing treason, but I’m going to chase him out. He’ll run back to Wales where he still has fri
ends. Somehow I don’t think it’ll be long before he starts looking for this thing. You may run into him. And although you don’t know him, I’m sure you’ll recognise his companion.’

  ‘Who’s that, my lord?’

  ‘An old aquaintance of yours — mine too — Julitta de Beauris.’ He saw Straccan’s face change. ‘I see you remember the lady.’

  Shock had frozen Straccan for a moment, but in the same instant a blazing core of rage lit within him. ‘Sire, do you think I could forget? That hell-witch kidnapped my daughter! She tried to murder her!’

  ‘There you are, then — a chance to settle old scores,’ said the king lightly. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something suitable. As long as she’s still alive when you’ve finished with her.’ He grinned wolfishly. 'My turn then.’

  ‘Where—’ Straccan’s voice broke hoarsely. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Still in Ireland, but not for long. He will be looking for the Banner. You had better get to it before he does.’

  ‘Where is it, then, my lord?’

  John looked speculatively at him. ‘That’s an interesting problem, Straccan. You see, Ragnhild hid it. She never told anyone where.’

  Chapter Nine

  Janiva filled her scrying bowl with water, signed the cross over it and cupped her palms against its rough sides. Emptying her mind of the day’s small happenings, breathing deeply, she gazed into the water and waited.

  There was her reflection, oval face framed in russet hair, braids plaited with green wool. For a moment she looked into her own brown eyes and then it was as if she gazed into a deep bright well. Far down was a swirl of movement, where glints of colour, and then images began to rise. Small, bright, they swam up one after the other to the surface, where each was broken and scattered by the next.

  Once again, as she had for weeks now, she saw . . .

  Fire, and herself in the midst of it.

  Rivulets of flame licking her bare feet, rippling up around her body… her gown catching fire, gone in an instant, leaving her naked in the flames… her outstretched hands trying to push the fire away… her hair blazing in an aureole of flame around her head…