[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  Havloc and Alis were talking, and as Straccan mounted they came hand in hand to his side.

  ‘We’re going back to Devilstone when we’ve seen Thibaut to safety,’ Havloc said. ‘Sir Richard, I remember everything: I didn’t kill Alis’s father. I was afraid; I didn’t know if I had. Even after the Hearing I was still afraid. But I didn’t kill Sir Drogo.’

  ‘I never thought you did.’

  Alis took the gold cup from her purse. ‘Sir Richard, will you take this and sell it for me? Whatever you get for it I’ll share with my sisters.’

  Straccan took the cup. ‘I’ll do that, Mistress Alis. Tell Thibaut I’ll not forget my promise. God go with you both.’

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  As they rode in through the castle gate they had to huddle up sideways to make room for a group of riders spurring towards them, half a dozen knights led by a square heavy man on a black stallion who rode head-down as if charging an enemy force. The riders thundered past, causing shrieks of alarm as people scrambled out of the way. Straccan, seeing their pennants in the flaring torchlight, said, ‘That was the Earl of Derby. Breos’s nephew.’

  ‘I vonder vy he’s here.’

  They soon found out. The castle was buzzing with the news. The earl had brought a letter from Lord William, what it said no one knew, and the king had agreed to meet Breos on the morrow.

  ‘I must see the king at once,’ Straccan demanded. But the king had gone to bed, they were told, and short of a French invasion nothing would wrench him from his bedmate’s arms until morning.

  Castle and town were crowded. Earls and barons back from Ireland had the best beds and lesser lights were forced to sleep on the rushes like mere esquires, who in turn were banished to draughty corridors and chilly stairs where other folk stepped over them all night.

  Straccan slept badly and dreamed worse.

  ‘Wake up!’

  Straccan cursed the hand that shook him, none too gently, and opened his eyes upon Bruno’s clean-shaven, freshly washed countenance.

  ‘God, is it morning already?’

  ‘]a. Come. You must report to the king.’

  Straccan sluiced his face and hands in last night’s scummy washing water; he had slept in his clothes and felt scruffy. Bruno was enviously clean and smelled of soap.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Can you lend me a razor?’

  ‘No time. You vill haf to tell the king your cock and hen story chust as you are.’

  ‘Bull.’

  ‘Vat?’

  ‘Cock and bull. And what do you mean by that?’ he asked indignandy. You were there.’

  The German looked at him suspiciously. ‘Bull? That is stupid. Vat has bull to do vith cock?’

  ‘Oh, never mind!’

  It was five in the morning and the king was still in his bedchamber, for none dared intrude upon him until the lady had left. A guard stood at each side of the door, pike in hand, and from time to time the king’s valet, Petit, pressed an ear to the door and the knights of the bedchamber, waiting with the king’s clothes in their arms, tensed expectantly only to slump again when Petit shook his head. A gaggle of sleepy-eyed pageboys, unnaturally silent under the grim eye of the chamberlain, waited to begin their morning duties and two clerks, writing desks hung round their necks, passed the time in sharpening their quills. On a charcoal stove in a corner a jug of water steamed gently, ready for the king’s ablutions.

  Outside the ante-room, in the passage and on the stairs, the morning’s petitioners had been waiting since before dawn. Unlike the knights and pages, they at least could sit on the floor, and although subdued by their surroundings and the intimidating nearness of the king, they gossiped quietly and shared what food they’d brought.

  Petit applied his ear to the door again and raised a warning finger. The knights poised to move and a ripple of excitement ran from the bedroom door through the waiting room to the passage and stairs beyond, where folk stuffed the last of their breakfasts in their mouths or back in their scrips, gathered their arguments and began to edge forward.

  The door opened and the lucky lady of the night, wrapped in a furred silk mantle and blushing becomingly, slipped shyly through the gap, snatching the purse Petit proffered, before scampering away to boast of her night’s adventure.

  The valet entered first, the knights surging after him, followed by the clerks and pages, one bearing the king’s hot water. Straccan brought up the rear and waited for the king to notice him.

  The September day promised fine and the king was in good spirits as his knights washed and dressed him. While his drawers and tunic, surcote, belt and shoes were put on, the king fed titbits to his dogs and dictated letters, using Latin and French with equal ease. The two clerks wrote as one, and as fast as each letter was finished the king started on another.

  ‘Ah! Straccan.’ He interrupted his dictation. ‘Why have you come before us empty-handed?’

  ‘I haven’t, sire.’ All eyes followed Straccan as he crossed the room and knelt before the king. ‘My lord, will you read this?’ He held out Sulien’s wallet.

  The king ignored it and turned away, leaving Straccan on his knees while he greeted the petitioners. The first half-dozen were dealt with and dismissed, and the rest turned away and told to try again tomorrow. As they departed disappointed, the Bishop of Winchester came striding in, abrim with news.

  ‘God save your grace!’ He fell to one knee, kissed the ringed hand and bounced up again. ‘My lord, William de Breos is in the bailey with the earl of Derby.’

  ‘There’s two dogs that run together.’ John scowled. ‘Put them both under guard.’ He turned back to Straccan, still on his knees. ‘We wonder that you dare show your face here, having failed in all we asked of you. Where is our Banner?’

  ‘I haven’t got it, my lord.’

  ‘Really? What a surprise. You were told to find it and you did, but instead of bringing it to me you let Breos have it!’

  ‘Not willingly, sire.’

  ‘No? We shall see. He has come to make his peace with me. I had a letter from him.’ He snapped his fingers and a clerk produced the letter from his desk. The king unrolled it and began to read aloud. ‘“William de Breos to his liege lord John, king of England, greeting.”’ The king looked up, bright-eyed. ‘Isn’t that nice? He begs to see me, sues for mercy, promises to pay his debts, blah blah blah, and offers to give me the Pendragon Banner.’ He let the letter roll up with a snap and pointed it at Straccan like a dagger. ‘Has he got it?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Explain!’

  ‘I challenged him, my lord; we fought. I would have killed him, but… he was too clever for me.’ He held up Sulien’s wallet again. ‘My lord, don’t see him before you’ve read this.’

  Again the king ignored it. ‘Where is Captain von Koln?’

  ‘Here, sire.’

  ‘You were there. What happened?’

  ‘Breos took a hostage, my lord, a young gentlevoman; he threatened to cut her throat. Ve had to let him pass.’ He recounted the chase, the finding of Alis and Thibaut, and learning that Breos was bound not for Brittany after all but for Bristol and the king.

  ‘So you let him go.’

  ‘We let him come to you, my lord, to face your justice. Please, sire, read this!’ Straccan offered the wallet again.

  John snatched it impatiently. ‘Get up, man, do. What is it?’ He cut the ties and tipped the ring into his palm.

  For a moment he just looked at it. Under its tan his face paled. ‘Body of God! Where did you get this?’

  ‘Sulien’s letter tells all,’ Straccan said.

  ‘Leave us, all of you,’ said the king, and as everyone trooped to the door, ‘you stay, Straccan; you too, bishop.’

  John took the letter to the window and broke the seal with trembling hands. When he’d read it he was quiet for what seemed like a long time, staring unseeing out of the window. When at last he turned back to them Straccan didn’t like the feve
rish glitter in his eyes nor the bone-white knuckles of the hand that crushed Sulien’s letter.

  ‘You know what’s written here?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  You saw him? His b-body?’ He cursed himself for stuttering.

  Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Traitors!’John slammed his clenched fist against the stone wall, breaking the skin. ‘The worst that ever were! It beggars belief! God’s feet, God’s body! Read that, bishop!’ He threw the crumpled letter at des Roches. ‘That bitch wife of his; it was all her idea?’

  Yes, my lord,’ said Straccan, wishing he was anywhere but here.

  The bishop looked up from the letter. ‘Oh my God. Is this true?’

  John’s voice had a hysterical edge. ‘God’s feet, I might have known. God’s holy body, I should have known! They made a fool of me, those two. They were laughing behind my back while I stuffed their purses with my silver. Never was there such treachery, not since Judas kissed the Lord Christ!’

  Straccan saw the king’s face darkening with congested blood, the veins in his forehead swelling like worms and the whites of his eyes reddening. John began to bang his head against the wall, hard, making sounds like a dog in pain.

  ‘Go,’ said the bishop urgendy to Straccan. ‘I can deal with this. Go!’ He gave Straccan a shove. ‘Now! Wait outside.’

  Closing the door he turned back to the king. John stood as if turned to stone. The flush had left his face, he was clay-coloured, grey as a corpse. Blood trickled down his brow and he didn’t even seem to be breathing.

  ‘My lord… John…’

  John sucked in a shuddering breath and threw up his arms like a man drowning. ‘God! Lord God!’ Colour came back to his face patchily and he trembled.

  Des Roches reached out a tentative hand. ‘My lord king,’ he began, and stopped, then tried again. ‘John,’ he said gently. ‘Come, sit down, you are much shaken.’

  John stared at him as if he was a stranger. So softly that the bishop could barely hear he muttered, ‘I didn’t do it! God’s feet, all these years I believed…’ Another deep breath. His face hardened. ‘Laughing at me… all these years… I’ll kill them with my own hands, I swear I will. They made me the fool of Christendom! So drunk, so stupid, so easily deceived. God’s face, if this gets out!’ He stopped ranting and looked at the door through which Straccan had gone. ‘And what do I do about him? He knows!’

  Des Roches sighed. ‘For that matter, so do I.’

  ‘Ah, but you’re my bishop, Peter, the only one loyal to me. If you vow before God and His Son to keep silent, I might even believe you.’

  The bishop smiled wryly. ‘Sire, my enemies call me a worldly man. I don’t deny it. I was a poor knight; when I turned to God I became a poor cleric. You raised me, gave me Winchester, made me a power in the realm. I’ve nothing I don’t owe to you. Believe me or not, my lord. I’ll stick to you through thick and thin, come hell or high water. And I’m not the only one.’

  ‘You’re the only bloody bishop.’ John grinned crookedly. He seemed calmer now. ‘Don’t you feel conspicuous, Peter? All the rest have run off like rats. There’s just you left, sticking your mitre up over the parapet.’

  ‘No one will gain by shooting me down.’

  ‘That you’re my friend is reason enough. God’s body,’ he growled through his teeth. ‘What punishment is fit for such treachery?’ The veins in his forehead and neck darkened and swelled again as the Angevin rage threatened to overwhelm him, but he controlled it. Des Roches wasn’t encouraged. John in a rage was one thing, but John holding himself in check and planning something nasty was quite another. ‘I sent Mahaut de Breos to Windsor,’ the king said thoughtfully. ‘Gerard d’Athee commands there. Tell him… No, never mind, I’ll write to him myself.’

  ‘My lord king.’

  ‘Careful, Peter.’ John held up a warning hand. ‘I don’t want to hear their names from your lips again.’

  You’ll sleep no better for my silence, John.’

  ‘Maybe not. Can I trust it?’

  ‘Will you eye me with doubt for the rest of your life?’

  John shot him a hard look. ‘Well, we both know, don’t we, bishop, that no promise to an excommunicate need be kept?’

  ‘John,’ said des Roches impatiently, ‘I can promise you silence ’til I’m blue in the face and you still won’t trust me. Nevertheless you have my promise, not as bishop to excommunicate but as friend to friend. And as your friend I must remind you, “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I will repay”’

  John regarded him with bleak, unforgiving eyes. ‘I warn you, don’t plead for them, bishop.’

  Des Roches bowed. ‘As you command, sire.’

  ‘I’ll see Breos in the hall. Tell them to bring him up, but keep him outside until I’m ready and don’t let him see Straccan.’ He laughed; it almost sounded natural. ‘I’ve a few surprises for him.’

  Lord William had insisted that witnesses be present at the meeting, one of them another William, his nephew the earl of Derby. ‘Don’t leave my side, Will,’ he ordered. ‘Stick to me like shit to a blanket and I might just come out of this with my head still on.’ Of course, if the king ordered his arrest and had the guards drag him down to a dungeon there was nothing he could do about it, but at least the witnesses would know he was there, that he had come in peace seeking reconciliation, and what had happened to him. He wouldn’t simply disappear, like Arthur.

  There were high-ranking witnesses aplenty. Besides his nephew he saw the earls of Chester and Salisbury, and the Justiciar, Geoffrey fitzPeter, in the throng that packed the hall to gloat at his humiliation. He didn’t notice the shocked buzz, swiftly hushed, when the crowd saw the once-great Lord William so changed — an old man, white-haired and haggard with a habit of darting nervous glances over his shoulder all the time, as if there was someone at his heels.

  The king lounged on his cushions with one of his dogs in his lap, a cup of wine in his hand and a bishop at his elbow. Breos was glad to see Peter des Roches; he was, within reason, known for a godly man.

  John kept him waiting on his knees long enough to get uncomfortable before looking up with a smile, which wasn’t necessarily reassuring.

  ‘Well, William. It’s a sorry thing when friends fall out.’

  ‘No one regrets it more than I, your grace.’ Lord William shuffled his knees a bit.

  ‘You’ve been busy while I was away.’

  Here we go, thought Breos. He knew the routine. ‘My lord, I humbly ask your pardon for all my offences, I beg to be restored to your favour and I offer full payment of all my debts to the Crown.’ There.

  ‘How much is it now? I’ve lost count.’

  ‘Twenty thousand marks, my lord.’

  ‘Indeed?’ John arched his eyebrows and gave a small whistle of surprise. ‘Do you have so much?’

  ‘In coinsilver and in precious goods, sire, yes.’ That and more. With luck he might manage to keep the rest, a foundation on which the house of Breos could rise again.

  ‘How nice. Where?’

  ‘In a place of safety, my lord. It can be brought to you at once. I have only to send the password and my seal.’

  ‘Send, then. But not twenty, William. Forty thousand.’

  Breos turned pale. At his side his nephew twitched. That was it almost to the penny. How did the king know? He swallowed. ‘My lord, do I have your forgiveness?’

  ‘You’re asking a lot. What value do you set upon the town of Leominster, which you burned? And what about all the damage you’ve done this summer? You’ve offended a lot of people. I’ve had complaints from every county. Brigandage, arson, murder—’

  ‘I’ve murdered no one, my lord!’ He shot a look behind him as once again the tail of his eye caught some movement, some small scuttling thing… But there was nothing there.

  ‘Come off it. Don’t tell me your hands are clean.’ The king beckoned to a clerk, a small pale man clutching a sheaf of documents.

  ‘See t
hese? They’re claims for damage, pleas for restitution, complaints against your men and you.’ The king took the documents. ‘Thank you, Robert. You remember Robert Wace, don’t you, William? My clerk. You left your knife in his belly.’

  ‘Sire—’ Sweat stood in blisters on his forehead.

  ‘By some miracle he lived to tell the tale. Well, where’s the hoard? It’s mine anyway, not yours; you reived it from my towns, my abbeys, my merchants and citizens, and you’ll give it back, every penny, before we talk of pardon. Captain von Koln! William will tell you where my treasure is. Go and get it.’ John leaned back in his chair and stroked his dog’s head. The bishop bent down and whispered at his ear; the king laughed and nodded, and waved to someone in the throng as if he’d forgotten the man on his knees before him.

  As Bruno bore down on him Breos looked desperately around and seeing no friendly face hissed at his nephew, ‘Speak for me. What d’you think you’re here for?’ But the earl, having come this far, was not willing to go the extra mile and kept his mouth shut. Sullenly Breos told the king’s captain where the hoard lay and grudgingly handed over his seal. Surely the king would let him get up now? His knees hurt so much he was afraid when he did try to get up he wouldn’t be able to, and that would give them all something to laugh at.

  ‘You still here? Was there anything else?’ asked the king.

  Breos ground his teeth. John was playing with him; he should have expected it, he’d seen it done a hundred times and smirked at the victims’ discomfort. ‘The pardon, my lord?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Sire, my wife.’

  ‘Lady Mahaut? What about her?’

  ‘Will you release her, my lord? And my son? I beg—’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Sire, I can ransom them. I have the Pendragon Banner.’

  ‘So you wrote in your letter. I don’t believe it. He didn’t find it on the island, did he, Robert?’ The clerk shook his head. ‘A knight in my service, what’s his name, Straccan, he found it.’

  ‘My squire took it from him, my lord. I have it.’