[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  Barnabas found two pennies and slapped them in the steward’s palm, rounding on his laughing mates who began shoving each other playfully as they turned towards the door where old Avice sat crying on the beggar’s bench by the screens, waiting to be taken to the stocks.

  Above the hubbub raised voices were heard outside the screens and everyone stopped dead as Janiva pushed in past the agitated doorward, who had orders to keep her out.

  ‘Lady Richildis,’ she cried.

  ‘Court’s over,’ said the steward crossly. ‘Oh! Mistress Janiva!’ He got up and hurried across to her, flustered. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  Richildis paused at the back of the dais, one hand holding the door-curtain aside. She didn’t turn her head. ‘My orders were not to admit that woman,’ she said, clutching her belly protectively. She had dreamed last night again of Janiva; seen the slut lying in Roger’s embrace and both of them laughing at her.

  The dream came often and there were others. Sometimes Janiva smothered her with a pillow while Roger watched, smiling. Sometimes Richildis dreamed she lay in her open grave, unable to move, while Janiva and Roger together scattered handfuls of earth down on her; she felt small stones sting her face and in the morning when she woke there were small scratches, little scabs on her cheeks and brow. She knew it was witchery and Father Benet agreed, but there was no proof. Wait, Father Benet advised, give the witch enough rope to hang herself.

  ‘Put her out!’

  While the steward dithered, Janiva came to the foot of the dais and all around people moved back, not by very much, wanting to get out of the way of the new lady’s wrath but willing to risk it for the chance to be in on a really good row Janiva said, ‘Madame, I beg you, give me permission to care for the boy Alaric, who is sick.’

  Richildis scowled at the steward. ‘Alaric?’

  ‘The blacksmith’s son, my lady,’ Robert said hurriedly. ‘Four years old.’

  ‘What ails him?’

  ‘He has fits,’ Janiva said. ‘There are herbs in the still-room that will help him. Please, my lady, let me use them.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have good store of herbs and medicines there, my lady. Most of them I prepared myself. Dame Alienor gave them freely to any who needed them.’

  ‘Herbs grow wild. The people are free to gather them for their own use.’

  ‘But they don’t have the knowledge.’

  ‘You do, of course. That’s your lore, isn’t it? Potions, draughts, salves. Who knows what you put in them? Did you cause the boy’s fits, that you might be praised and rewarded for curing them? What foul brew did you give my lord’s mother before she died?’ The people were silent, listening avidly, but at this a murmur rippled through the crowd.

  Shocked, Janiva stared at Richildis. You can't think . . .’

  ‘Weren’t you told to keep out of my house?’

  ‘Yes, but my lady, the boy is so sick—’

  ‘Children are always sick; often they die. It is as God wills. You are not to give him anything.’ She dropped the door-curtain and came to the front of the dais. You people, listen! I forbid you, all of you, to take any medicine from this woman. That is my order. Anyone disobeying will be whipped. Pray for the boy, as I shall. If it is God’s will, he’ll get better.’

  Dismayed looks were exchanged but no one dared protest. Richildis turned her back on them and raised the door-curtain again.

  ‘My lady, in God’s name, have pity! You carry a child yourself.’ Richildis went white. ‘Are you threatening my child, witch?’

  ‘No, my lady! No, before God!’

  ‘Guard your tongue or I’ll have it cut out! Keep away from my people and don’t let me see your face again! Put her out!’

  No one moved. Janiva walked through the appalled crowd to the door. On the dais Richildis suddenly gasped, an animal-like grunting huff, and clasped her belly with both hands.

  ‘It hurts,’ she said, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  The steward’s wife, Sybilla, ran up the steps of the dais and clapped her hands on the girl’s belly, feeling the iron-hard muscles in spasm.

  ‘It’s started,’ she said. ‘It’s too soon. You’ve a month to go yet.’

  ‘It’s her doing,’ Richildis gasped through clenched teeth. ‘Keep her away from me!’

  Tugging back the door-curtain Sybilla bawled through to the chamber above, ‘Mavis! Lilliana! Come help your lady! Quickly!’ Richildis’ tire-women came pattering down the steps and with Sybilla’s help carried their mistress to her bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  More than thirty hours had passed since Lady Richildis’ labour started and it looked bad. Sybilla had put an old sword of Sir Guy’s under the mattress to cut the pain and every knot, buckle and fastening in the chamber had been undone, the women even laying aside their girdles and loosening their shoes, but although from the beginning the contractions had been unusually strong the water had not broken. The girl screamed and bore down with each grinding pain but there was no progress.

  The midwife had been there since being fetched from her cheese-making yesterday. She was tired and fearful that if the lady or the child, or both as seemed quite likely, died, she would be blamed. Between spasms Richildis slept briefly, exhausted, and whenever the girl’s hoarse cries abated the midwife dozed too.

  Held on the birthing-stool by her two women, Richildis hung like a sack from their grip. If they let go her arms she would fall to the floor.

  ‘How much longer?’ Sybilla asked.

  ‘Er’s gettin nowhere with it,’ said the midwife crossly. ‘Better break the water. Get us some lard, gal. Er’ll never last. Er’s buggered now.’

  Sybilla flapped a hand at one of the hovering servants. ‘Lard,’ she hissed. The woman ran from the room, the sound of her feet slapping the steps echoing in the stairwell.

  The midwife blotted her sweating face with her sleeve. ‘Give over, let er lie down fer a bit. We’ll ave another try presently, eh my duck?’

  They dragged Richildis to the bed and laid her on it, a flaccid unresisting doll. Her closed eyes were sunk in patches of bruise-coloured flesh. Her vast belly stuck up like a white hill, making her arms and legs seem disproportionately small. Only the belly seemed alive as the child shifted, and then another contraction dragged Richildis back to consciousness to groan and struggle in vain.

  The serving-woman hurried in with the lard. The midwife slathered her hands and pried the labouring girl’s thighs apart. Richildis screamed hoarsely. There was a gush of bloody water and a foul smell. The midwife wiped her greasy hands on her filthy apron and shook her head.

  ‘Ain’t no good. It’s lying wrong. That’s its backbone I felt. Er could shove ’til Doomsday and get nowhere.’

  ‘Can’t you shift it?’ Sybilla asked.

  The midwife backed away, shaking her head. ‘I dursn’t.’

  ‘She’ll die if you don’t.’

  ‘Er’ll die if I do, likely, and blame to me.’

  Sybilla went to find Janiva.

  ‘I can't help her,’Janiva said. ‘She won’t have me near her.’

  ‘I know. But can’t you tell us what to do?’

  ‘I’m no midwife. A straightforward birthing maybe, but not this.’

  ‘It’s stuck fast crossways,’ Sybilla said. ‘Dear God, it happens to ewes but I’ve never known it happen to a woman.’

  ‘Ewes,’ said Janiva. ‘Of course! Quick!’ She began running, Sybilla panting after, past the huts and garden plots to a rail-fenced pen where a strong sheepy smell and a lot of bleating proclaimed that Tyrrel the shepherd was doing something, probably unpleasant, to a bunch of sheep.

  He looked up from a clarty backside and waved his shears at the two women. ‘What you want?’ he asked rudely. ‘I’m busy!’

  As Janiva explained, Tyrrel became more and more uncooperative.

  ‘It’s lying crossways,’ she said urgently. ‘You can turn it!’

  ‘Garn,’ said the
shepherd, spitting. ‘I dunno nothin bout ladies’ babies.’ Nor did he. He assumed they appeared ready-made, clean and swaddled, on request.

  ‘You’ve turned lambs inside their mothers,’ said Janiva. ‘And your own daughter last year, when that boy of hers wouldn’t come.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, girl. They ain’t the same.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Sybilla. What d’you mean?’

  ‘Them, a course. Ladies. They ain’t like women?

  The two women stared at him and at each other.

  ‘Course they are, you old fool,’ said Sybilla. ‘How d’you think their kind get born, eh? They don’t bloody lay eggs!’

  ‘Never said they did. I ain’t daft! But stands to reason. Ladies ain’t like real folk. Birthin’s mucky work, all blood and shit and screamin. Great folks’ll ave a better way o’ doin it.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus give me patience,’ hissed Sybilla. ‘It’s the same for all of us! I helped Dame Alienor at her birthings and I’ve had four of my own. Am I a lady?’

  The shepherd snorted. ‘Not bloody likely! I knew your dad.’ He turned conversationally to Janiva. ‘E were a right old— Oy!’ Sybilla had hold of his sleeve and jerked him to his feet. ‘Get off your arse and come with me!’

  Janiva watched her push and propel him to the house. As they reached the open door she called ‘Sybilla! Make him wash!’

  The baby was small and a bit floppy, but a boy and breathing, which was more than anyone expected. He lay swaddled and limp in the cradle that his father had shared with Janiva seventeen years before.

  Richildis slept.

  Thank God, thought Sybilla, it worked! She had lugged Tyrrel, reeking of sheep and almost speechless with indignation at having been made to wash, into the chamber. But his hands were as soft as a woman’s, and once he stooped to the job he did it superbly. The lady, luckily, was too far gone to know what was happening and as soon as the baby slid into the cloth that the midwife held to receive it Sybilla hustled Tyrrel from the chamber before Richildis could see him.

  ‘Ere,’ he said truculendy in the doorway. ‘Don’t I get a drink even?’

  ‘God save you, Tyrrel, get out o’ here, do! I’ll see to you tomorrow.’

  In the cradle the baby mewed feebly. Well be lucky if we raise this one, Sybilla thought as she lifted him and took him to his mother.

  ‘Wake up, my lady,’ she said heartily. ‘Your new little son is hungry!’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The reek of burning carried on the wind for miles.

  Llangrwys was — had been — a wool town, busy and prosperous, cupped like an egg in its nest in a hollow of the Monmouthshire hills and a fair sight yesterday for anyone looking down on its houses, shops and churches. Today it was a blackened ruin, deep in ash and smoking cinders.

  The wool went up like, well, like wool; the torch barely touched it and flames were running like water, licking over the bales, pale in sunlight but fiercely hot. As the barns burned and their roofs fell in, the oily flames roared up, and now and then rags and tatters of flame would break loose and go flapping and cracking skywards.

  The fire spread swiftly; soon the town was ablaze: houses, shops, inns and stables, storehouses, even churches. The noise of its destruction, the crash of falling stones, the screams of people and horses and the roar of burning could be heard far off.

  Lord William had offered to let the churchmen go unharmed — providing they handed over their treasures, candlesticks, chalices, coins, anything of gold or silver — before the burning began, but the townsfolk, who had already given up their money and valuables in the hope that he would spare their town, were left to fend for themselves. Those who survived — and many died, foolishly resisting or trying to save their homes and families — must turn beggar now or face starvation.

  Breos called his men to heel and rode on. If it was his town no more, no one else should have it.

  Later in the day they came upon a small church set at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere, a place where travellers might thank God for their safe journey thus far and ask His protection for the miles that lay ahead. Priest’s hut, pigsty and yard stood alongside, and the priest himself was milking his goat at the church door. Rising in terror when he saw the armed men and oversetting his bucket, he ran, tripped and fell sprawling before Lord William’s horse.

  Breos got down, pulled off his gauntlets and lifted the priest to his feet. ‘Get up. I want you to say Mass for me.’ Gripping the frightened man by an elbow he marched him into the church. His men waited outside and let their horses crop the priest’s vegetable garden.

  In the nave of the tiny church Lord William in his mail seemed three times the size of an ordinary man. The terrified priest who had at sword point and in violation of the Pope’s ruling just said Mass for him shrank against the altar when he’d finished his Latin and trembled, but his son who served at Mass was hoping for a penny from the great lord, and smiled at him.

  It was a long time since anyone had smiled at William de Breos.

  ‘God be with you, son,’ he said.

  ‘God be with you too, my lord.’

  It was the habit of a lifetime. Always he gave God’s greeting to the young and innocent so that they would return the blessing to him. God heard the prayers of children. Both Lord William and Mahaut his wife scooped up such blessings like trawling seabirds. Every letter Lord William had ever sent ended with a prayer for God’s grace — he tipped his scribes extra to be sure they would never omit it — and nearly every time he opened his mouth God’s name fell out of it.

  ‘If God wills…’

  ‘In the name of God…’

  ‘If it please God…’

  ‘By the Grace of God…’

  He’d got out of the habit lately, what with one thing and another, but now he felt more himself. Action had scoured melancholy and doubt from his mind. Reiving was filling his coffers and paying his men. The lady Julitta promised his restoration to power and, at last, in this Interdict-benighted land he’d managed to hear Mass, even such a bastard gabbled version as this uneducated illiterate fool of a priest was capable of. He’d confessed and been absolved, the child’s blessing hallowed him and he had no doubt that the God he had honoured all his life, whose goodwill he had bought with churches and shrines and convents, whose man he was, would stand by him, just as he himself stood by the knights who served him. After all, that was a seigneur’s duty.

  He dropped a handful of silver before the altar and strode out of the church into the hot sunlight of the morning. Ahead, the thin mist not yet burned off them, rose a line of dark hills, with more hills, higher still, at their backs.

  ‘Where are we going, my lord?’ asked his squire.

  ‘The abbey at Maesyronen,’ said Lord William. The abbot there owed everything to him; he had supported the place for years. ‘We’ll stay there for the time being. Send four men back to escort the lady Julitta. Tell them if any harm comes to her, they will pay with their eyes and their hands.’ Maesyronen had guested kings since Harold’s day, before the Norman bastard reived the kingdom from its rightful lord. Queens had slept in the bed where Julitta de Beauris would lie tonight.

  Abbot Hyacinth greeted Lord William with outward courtesy and inward despair. Dear God in heaven, why did You let him come here? If I turn him away he will destroy us. If I give him shelter the king will destroy me! But the king was far away in Ireland and Lord William, his knights behind him, was on the doorstep sword in hand.

  The abbot privately commended his soul to God and with a smile like the rictus of a corpse welcomed his unwelcome guests. His long tempering in the fires of diplomacy even helped him conceal his dismay at having to welcome also Lord William’s whore, but the guestmaster who showed Julitta to her chamber quivered with affronted modesty and made his disapproval all too clear. She thanked him prettily at the door and he had no idea how he came to stumble on the stairs on his way back to his cell, falling from top to bottom and snapping both ankles li
ke dry sticks.

  Julitta regarded her face in her silver mirror while waiting for Lord William’s summons; not, as all his men believed, to lie with him, but to demand that she read the stars for him again, seeing past the veils that hid the future to tell him what lay ahead.

  She was still beautiful. She laid the mirror down, satisfied, and chose a gown of cream silk with an overmande of blue wool. With her golden tresses loose over her shoulders beneath a blue silk veil she looked like the Blessed Virgin herself, and knew it.

  To her girdle she attached a chain from which hung an egg-shaped casket, cunningly wrought of black and silver metal strands, as closely woven as threads. By day this never left her body and at night she slept with it under her pillow. She had stolen it from the Breton sorcerer Benoic, court astrologer to the Duchess Alix; fortunately he had died before he could accuse her.

  There was a knock at the door. A young monk gaped, dazzled, at the fair vision, stammering, ‘M-my lady, Lord W-William requires your p-p-presence.’

  She inclined her head. ‘Lead on, brother.’

  Once more she would pretend to read the future in the stars and tell the great fool what he wanted to hear, what he already believed. Some of it was even true. He would find the Banner, her demon had told her so; and when he did he would expect Brittany to show its gratitude.

  She smiled. He was in for a shock there.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was that brief dark time between candlelight and daylight when Straccan and his unwanted companions led their horses up Ludlow’s Broad Street. Bane had departed even earlier, by the town’s other gate, on his way north to Shawl. So far Master Wace hadn’t commented on his absence, but Straccan had no doubt it would go in his next report.

  Yawning, Havloc wished he’d had time to break his fast and wondered if Alis was awake yet or still asleep, rosy and warm in her bed. She’d said they were lovers. My God, you’d think a man would remember that! He felt very lonely and sorry for himself, and Sir Richard, plodding morosely ahead, seemed to have a bad case of early morning ill temper. Ever since this man Wace had turned up Straccan had been unusually short-tempered.