[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

‘Well, maybe. But I’m not takin that thing,’ pointing at the leper.

  ‘If you want the money take all of us.’

  ‘Stuff your money,’ snarled the boatman. ‘I’m not having any filthy lepers in my boat! You’ll sing another tune by night-time!’ And he pulled slowly away, past the obstacles, and let the boat drift out of sight around the bend behind the willows.

  The girl burst into tears, but presently wiped her eyes and nose on her wet mantle and met the leper’s lashless inflamed gaze over the horse’s back.

  ‘God will reward you, mistress,’ he husked.

  She wiped her nose on her mantle. ‘Let’s hope he sends us another boat, then.’

  Who are you, mistress?’

  ‘Alis of Devilstone.’

  ‘My name was Garnier.’

  During the cold grey day the flood subsided until the river no longer overran the banks but poured, still swift and muddy, between them, occasionally adding another bush or dead sheep and once a drowned man to their barricade. The wind died away in the late afternoon. It was dusk and a gauzy mist was thickening when they saw the boatman returning. The mist hung over the water so that he seemed to float eerily on cloud. He didn’t bother to come over to the pier but hung onto some of the debris alongside the bank and bellowed, ‘Changed your mind?’

  ‘No!’

  'Rot, then!’ He began to drift away downriver, but just then two horsemen, one behind the other, came slopping through the flooded meadow, round the river’s bend into the reeds at the bank. Reining in, they stared first at the pier and those upon it, and then at the boat on the far side.

  ‘Ferry!’ shouted the foremost rider.

  ‘Shillin!’ the boatman bawled back. ‘Each!’

  The man gave a snort, half amusement, half disgust, and beckoned the boatman across. The broad clumsy craft surged heavily over the water, grounding in the reeds, and the first rider led his horse, uneasy but obedient, into it.

  On the pier they watched the boat’s passage and saw the rider lead the animal ashore, up the steep bank on the far side, while the boat went back for the other man and deposited him in turn on the bank. The watchers on the bridge saw the first passenger spring down the bank back into the boat, heard a screech of dismayed surprise and saw some sort of scuffle. Presently the boat was rowed towards them, and as it drew close they saw the traveller sitting with his sword drawn, its point waving gently between the chest and throat of the boatman as if uncertain which to pierce first.

  The boat bumped into the flotsam, and their rescuer made it fast to a protruding root.

  ‘Get up there and help them down,’ he said, giving the boatman a shove.

  Whining, cursing, the man clambered over the heaving tangle of branches and rubbish. His nose was bleeding and blood from his split upper lip had sheeted his chin.

  It wasn’t easy getting the palfrey into the boat, terrified, stiff and awkward, but the girl jumped, scorning the boatman’s hands, and the leper slid unaided. As the boatman made to jump back down the stranger slipped the rope off and the boat swung away from the pier. The boatman hit the water with an enormous splash and surfaced, grasping at the tangled branches and swearing horribly. The stranger seized the oars and thrust the boat towards the bank.

  ‘Folk’ll be along in the morning,’ he shouted, adding in a normal voice, ‘more’s the pity!’ To his new companions he continued, ‘There’s a village just over the hill; there’ll be food and beds, and we can get dry there.’

  Alis said, ‘Who are you, sir?’

  ‘My name is Straccan.’

  The boat jarred against the bank. Straccan made it fast and helped Alis out, Bane reaching an arm to pull her up the slippery bank. The leper managed well enough, using his crutch to haul himself up the bank. They looked back at the ruins of the bridge. On the pier, silhouetted against the last westering light of the evening, a little figure leaped and waved its arms; its howling could faintly be heard even above the steady rushing of the river.

  Chapter Twelve

  Janiva had put on her best gown and a brave face, and taken her place at one of the tables below the dais. This feast, the first since Sir Guy’s death, was a chance for friends and neighbours who had missed the wedding last summer to see the young couple and bring gifts, besides wishing Sir Roger good fortune before he left in a few days’ time to put his case to the king.

  Sir Guy’s death had cost the manor dear. Sir Roger must win royal favour if he hoped to keep his inheritance. That meant thrusting himself forward to gain the king’s notice, taking expensive men-at-arms to join the king’s Irish expedition and parting, inevitably, with substantial sums of money to ensure the king’s goodwill.

  To finance this and outfit its new lord in style the manor had been tallaged and some minor properties sold. One way or another Shawl was feeling the pinch, but Dame Alienor had done her best at short notice to put on a show. Course after course came in to the uncertain accompaniment of a wobbly trumpet, and there was even professional entertainment.

  The tumblers were out of puff now, having a rest in the rushes, digging ale and sneaking out one at a time to try their luck with the kitchen girls. The musicians still piped and squeaked, though they’d drunk too much to know or care what they were playing, but that didn’t matter because the feast had gone on for hours and most of the diners were too drunk to notice.

  Several ladies had retired behind the vomiting cloths held up by their attendants. Two of the male guests were fast asleep, one with his face in his pudding. Under the table the dogs snarled over bones and scraps. Dame Alienor rummaged secredy with both hands at the side-lacings of her gown, trying to ease it, but the damned cords had gone into knots and she couldn’t work them loose.

  Bride and groom sat side by side. At Richildis’ other hand sat her chaplain, Benet Finacre, a thin pallid man made for candlelit closets and dark corners. A limp ring of ash-coloured hair circled his tonsure and the bare skin atop his head showed no sign of outdoor weathering. He and Richildis leaned together to speak over the general din, and from time to time he glanced down at Janiva as if she was the subject of their talk.

  Richildis was overwhelmed by her finery. There were so many rings on her plump fingers that she could not bend them to pick up food and, like a baby bird, she opened her mouth obediently for her husband to pop in titbits. Roger was very drunk and had missed her mouth several times, spilling sauces and custards down the front of her gown.

  From her seat below the dais Janiva could see sweat standing like blisters on the bride’s brow and the bloodless flesh around her lips. When Richildis’ eyes rolled back to show their whites as she slid from her seat to the floor in a faint, Janiva was there before Roger could sort his legs out and stand up.

  Women pressed round, elbowing Finacre out of the way. Janiva loosened the tight lacing at the girl’s throat and breasts, blotting the sweat from the waxy face with Richildis’ own veil. Red glossy faces ringed the tableau, bending over the fallen girl, reeking of food, wine and vomit and giving off enough heat to fry an egg. Murmurs of alarm were rising.

  ‘Roger,’ Janiva said sharply, ‘get her out of here. Get someone to carry her to bed. Let her lie in her shift. Bathe her face with cool water.’

  Her foster-brother was on his knees patting ineffectually at his wife’s limp hand.

  ‘My lord Roger!’ This time her voice brought a gust of sobriety to him; his slack mouth snapped shut and he stood to bawl orders.

  ‘Stand back,’ said Janiva, getting up. ‘Give her air.’ Obediently they shuffled aside, just enough to let Lady Alienor through.

  Alienor grabbed Janiva’s shoulder. ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘It’s all right,’Janiva said quickly, seeing the fear in Alienor’s eyes. ‘It’s just the baby.’

  Richildis’ eyelids fluttered open and her eyes fixed on Janiva. With a weak sob she clutched her husband’s arm as he leaned over to raise her.

  ‘Don’t let that witch come near me,’
she said. She said it very clearly.

  Flushed avid faces stared at Janiva, eyes shifting uneasily aside as she turned away. Alienor and the other women were supporting Richildis to the stair, Roger flapping uselessly in their wake. Family and guests thronged at the foot of the stair passing the good news from mouth to mouth.

  ‘An heir!’

  ‘With child already!’

  ‘Well done! Good old Rodge!’

  Janiva stepped down from the dais and walked quickly out of the hall. Benet Finacre, following in the women’s wake, paused on the stair and watched her leave. Back in her cottage she lit the fire, the dry kindling flaring fast to throw her stooped shadow on the wall. Humped, black…

  Witch!

  She fed the bright little flames until the fire burned steadily, holding her shaking hands to the heat, spreading the fingers so they seemed edged with flame, clasping them together until the trembling stopped. Outside an owl hooted, answered by another farther away. A vixen yapped and a rabbit, dying, screamed. She shivered.

  Witch.

  It was only a word, a good word in the old days. It meant Wise One, whether man or woman. But now few used the name in the old way, as a term of respect and trust. Now, more and more, witch was a foul name, a term of abuse used in fear.

  It was the reason she’d given Straccan when she refused to marry him: ‘It will do you no good to have a wife whom folk call witch!’ That was true, but wasn’t there another truth? Wasn’t the deeper reason that she feared to hand herself over — heart, mind, and body — into another’s keeping?

  The precious time she needed to learn, to practise and grow in power and become more than a village spaewife, would instead be spent here, there and everywhere in diminishing ways, if she was wife, lover, mother…

  Her own mother had said it, that the wise grew strong in solitude, just as God’s holy hermits did, away from the distractions of human love. Power stretched thin when the mind must be divided between love and learning. Already she had not that single-minded devotion to her craft and skills which had always come naturally; her heart and mind were tugged two ways, off balance.

  Easier for a man, of course, she thought wryly. Wise men can wed. Wived and cared for they still have all the time they need to pursue their art.

  Her mother, villein-born, part of the manor livestock, had no choice — she wed and bred at her lord’s bidding — but Janiva, being free, was also free to choose. Power or love? It was not possible to have both. The chill suspicion she was afraid to face and kept pushing away now surged up and overwhelmed her. She could deny it no longer. Her powers were failing.

  Scrying, that simplest of her abilities, now brought only horrifying visions of burning. The spells she spoke over her medicines, charging them with energy to increase their healing properties, no longer worked. When she tended those on the manor who were sick or injured she no longer felt the glow that had always until now burned like cold fire, passing from her hands into the ailing or damaged body of the patient.

  She was losing her magic and felt suffocated by an unbearable sense of loss and despair. Close to tears, she clenched her hands until her nails dug into the flesh of her palms and the sharp pain focused her thoughts once more.

  She had thought to stay here all her life (but had not thought to grow old), here where she knew everyone and thought of all as friends. Would they still think of her a friend now that Richildis had called he witch?

  Why did Richildis dislike her so? Could she have learned that Roger had wanted to marry her, his foster-sister, and had only agreed to marry Richildis when reluctantly convinced that Janiva would never marry him? Was it jealousy that goaded her?

  'I must make the best of it, she thought. When she's here, I'll keep out of her way. There's no need to be upset because of a fainting girl's spite.

  To give Straccan the answer he wanted would mean leaving Shawl, her home, her work, Dame Alienor, all the people she knew and cared for. It would also take her away from Richildis and her malice. Yet for her foster-brother’s sake and for the girl’s own, she could not leave without trying to righten Richildis’ ill will.

  The quick fire had dwindled and gave no heat. Janiva shivered. It had never crossed her mind that she might not be safe in her own home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With everything else out of season hunting outlaws was a welcome pastime, having the double advantage of pleasure and profit for there was a shilling bounty on each man’s head, dead or alive, as for a wolf’s head; oudaws and wolves being in law one and the same.

  The hunting party assembled in the inner bailey of Ludlow castle, where the horses stamped and snorted and their dung was shovelled up as it fell. Hounds strained at the leashes, whining with eagerness. Friends of the constable, servants and hangers-on mingled, waiting for Cigony to join them, passing the time comparing oudaws’ reputations and damning their chances.

  Having left Alis in the care of Cigony’s wife — the leper had taken himself to the lazar house outside the town — Straccan came upon the constable on the stairs.

  ‘I won’t delay you, my lord. I just wondered if there was any news of Wulstan.’

  ‘Who?’ The constable looked no better. His nose was red and his eyes watering.

  ‘The man who lost his memory, my lord.’

  ‘Oh, him! God’s teeth, yes!’ Leaning through the window Cigony bellowed, ‘Hang on, you lot, I’ll not be long!’ As he turned back to Straccan one of his massive sneezes caught him unawares, making him stagger and lean against the wall. ‘Oh God!’ He mopped his nose. ‘Your man’s a bad lot, I’m afraid. He’s in prison.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Murder. And theft.’

  The victim’s widow had come to Ludlow to report the murder, and the coroner had gone back with her to examine the body of her husband and find the murderer. Suspicion pointed at the one man missing from the manor — Wulstan.

  ‘Wh is Wulstan, then, my lord?’

  ‘Real name’s Havloc. Steward at some little pisspot manor in the March. Killed his master.’ Cigony snapped his fingers irritably. ‘What was his name? Drogo, that’s it!’

  ‘Has Wul — Has Havloc got his memory back?’

  ‘Not a glimmer.’

  ‘What’s he supposed to have stolen?’

  ‘A gold cup, entrusted to him to sell.’

  A cup. There had been something about a cup. What was it? Of course — the scrap of vellum in the unconscious man’s hand. Cymbium Vulstani sum.

  ‘My lord,’ said Straccan urgendy, ‘who can tell me more about this accusation?’

  ‘See the coroner. He knows all about it.’ Cigony pulled a handful of tow from his pocket and blew his nose. It bugled like a hunting horn and in the bailey below the dogs raised eager heads and gave tongue.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I won’t detain you now, but may I speak with you when you get back?’

  ‘Sup with me tonight.’ Cigony hurried downstairs. Shouts and laughter rose to greet him and looking through the window Straccan watched the hunters clatter out of the gate.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Bane when Straccan found him in the hall. ‘Trouble.’

  ‘The king?’

  ‘No. Wulstan.’

  ‘What’s he been up to?’

  ‘Murder.’

  The coroner had other murders on his plate and had been called away, taking his clerk with him. In a small dark office Straccan found a sergeant-at-arms hunched, disconsolate, over a parchment, clutching his quill as if it was a dagger and shaping the letters with both tongue and pen. He looked up, grateful for any interruption.

  'Yes, sir? What can I do for you?’

  You have a prisoner called Havloc.’

  'That’s right. May I ask your name, sir?’

  ‘I’m Richard Straccan. What’s he charged with?’

  'Murder. Worse, petty treason, for it was his lord he killed, Drogo of Devilstone.’

  ‘Devilstone?’ That was where the girl on
the bridge came from: Alis of Devilstone. What had she to do with this?

  The sergeant was still talking. 'There’s a matter of theft too. Interesting, that. Bit of a problem for the justices. Should he be boiled for the killing or hanged for the theft? Can’t do both! Now the old constable, Lord William de Breos, that was,’ he went on chattily, 'he'd have said boil him. Always liked a good boiling, did Lord William. But this new constable…’ He sucked his teeth reflectively, musing on the differing tastes of men. ‘Well, who knows? We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  ‘Who accused him?’

  ‘The coroner, of course.’

  'When was Drogo killed?’

  ‘He disappeared when Havloc left Devilstone two weeks ago, but it was a while before they found the corpse.’

  ‘And where was that?’

  ‘In the forest, barely a mile from his hall.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Hard to say, sir. The face was black and hugely swole.’ He sniffed. ‘Crows’d been at him — one eye was gone.’

  ‘Why did the coroner accuse Havloc?’

  ‘His ring was found near the corpse. And he’d scarpered. With the cup.’

  I am Wulstan's cup. There must have been some sort of cup.

  ‘I want to see him.’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘Can’t do that, sir. He’s in the pit. More’n my job’s worth.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Straccan earnestly. ‘Havloc was attacked when he came to Ludlow. He was unconscious when I found him. He couldn’t remember anything when he came round, not who he is, or where he came from, nothing! The surgeon at the castle attended him, he’ll tell you the same. Look, I’ll pay all charges if you’ll have him taken out of the pit and housed in a cell instead.’

  The man looked doubtful ‘I dunno, sir. It’s not customary.’ Straccan laid a purse on the sergeant’s letter. His eyes brightened and the purse vanished into his pocket with a rapidity a conjuror might have admired.

  ‘Right you are, sir. I’ll see what I can do.’