[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘A fake.’

  ‘No, sire!’

  ‘Show it to my clerk, then. He’ll know true from false. The true one saved his life, he says. A miracle.’

  ‘Sire, take the Banner, please, and let them go!’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I have it here, sire, under my mantle. May I get up?’

  ‘No. My lord of Derby, divest your uncle of the Banner, will you?’

  Stone-faced, the earl stripped Breos of his mantle and took the satchel from his back.

  ‘Robert?’ said John gently. Wace took the bag, opened it, and drew out a long deerskin-wrapped coil. With unsteady hands he undid the ties and shook off the wrappings. There was a collective gasp of admiration and wonder as the Banner unrolled and the red dragon rippled as if alive. Garnets glittered, goldwork glittered, the king’s eyes glittered.

  ‘Is it the real thing?’

  Wace’s eyes brimmed with tears; they ran over and down his cheeks. ‘Oh yes, my lord. This is the true Pendragon Banner.’

  ‘Sire,’ cried Breos, toppling forward on both hands to ease the agony in his knees. ‘Take it, and let my wife go! My son—’

  ‘They remain in our custody, at our pleasure,’ John said, getting up briskly and setting the dog down on the floor. It trotted over to the man grovelling on hands and knees, and pissed against his boot. ‘But I will be merciful to you, William, for old times’ sake. You may go, unharmed.’

  ‘My liege, please, does all my past loyal service count for nothing? You were glad of it once!’

  ‘You speak of loyalty? You? No fouler traitor breathes! I know what you’ve done, you and that sow you married.’ He held out his hand. Those near enough saw the great ruby ring and wondered at it.

  Breos hid his face in his hands and wept.

  ‘You have two weeks to take yourself out of our realm of England. Set foot in it again and I’ll have you disembowelled. Guards! Get this traitor out of my sight!’

  After supper the king played with his dogs in the castle garden, with just a handful of attendants, and sent for Straccan.

  ‘There you are, Sir Richard! You remember Master Wace?’ Straccan couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘My God, you’re alive!’ He grasped the little clerk’s hand.

  Wace coloured with pleasure. ‘Thanks to you, Sir Richard, and the Banner.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You touched it to my lips, remember? I was dying. It was a miracle.’

  ‘Robert has told me all about it,’ the king said, taking Straccan’s arm and walking through the rose beds out of his attendants’ hearing. A small four-legged mop, something like a hairy ferret, darted across the grass at high speed, making the king change feet smartly so as not to fall over it.

  ‘Damn thing,’ he said, glaring at the corner round which the animal had prudently vanished. ‘Some sort of German dog. My nephew Otto gave it to me. It pisses everywhere. And I always thought he liked me. Well, Straccan, I have the Banner, and from what Wace and Captain von Koln have told me it seems I may have judged you too hastily.’

  Coming from the king that amounted to a handsome apology, and Straccan wisely bowed and said nothing.

  ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘Want?’ Straccan asked, taken aback. ‘Nothing, my lord.’

  ‘Nothing?’ The king looked amused. You’re a widower, aren’t you? What about an heiress, young and pretty and with a manor near… Where is it you live? Near Dieulacresse? Or a grant of lands to march with your own?’

  While the king spoke Straccan had done some swift thinking. ‘Not for myself; I have all I need. But there is something—’

  ‘Ha! I knew it! What?’

  ‘Sulien’s hospital, my lord. Breos gave him the valley but never confirmed the gift. The new lord of Brecknock wants it back. Sire, your generosity to lepers and the sick is known throughout the realm; will you give Sulien his valley?’ He held his breath, awaiting the answer.

  None came. As the king walked on between the flower beds an elderly wolfhound rose stiffly from its sunny patch and padded gravely at his side.

  ‘I like dogs,’ said John. ‘People you can’t be sure about, but you know where you are with dogs. This is Nazar.’ He pulled gently on the hound’s soft ears. ‘My father had a bear, once. Took it everywhere with him. Really loved it. It bit him, I remember. Most things he loved bit him, sooner or later, people especially. What happened to Julitta de Beauris? Let her go, did you?’

  Straccan exhaled. At least he’d tried. ‘No, my lord, but she is beyond your vengeance, or mine.’

  ‘Dead? How?’

  ‘Not dead. In worse case.’

  The green eyes glinted dangerously. ‘Don’t speak in riddles to me! Where is she?’

  Straccan told him. As he left the garden the king’s laughter followed him through the roses.

  Straccan and Bane left Bristol an hour later, heading for Worcester, where Bane would turn north-east towards Derby and the convent of Holystone, to get Gilla and take her home, while Straccan made for Shawl. It was a hundred and fifty miles, more or less. If he rode hard he could be there in three days.

  Watching them leave from his solar window, John beckoned the bishop of Winchester to his side. ‘What do you think, Peter? Will he keep his mouth shut?’

  ‘He’d be a damned fool not to, and he doesn’t strike me as any sort of fool.’

  ‘He interests me,’ mused John. ‘They all want something. They jump and yap like a pack of hounds. Not him. He’s content with his small estate. I offered him a rich wife and he didn’t want her. As for money, he has enough.’

  ‘A happy man,’ said des Roches.

  ‘There’s an old story I had from Hodierna, my nurse, about a king who was bowed down with troubles. Probably had barons! Anyway, he was in despair when a wise man told him there was only one cure for his misery. He must sleep one night in the shirt of a happy man. Heard it, have you?’

  ‘No, sire. Did the king recover?’

  ‘He turned the realm upside down to find a happy man. Sent riders the length and breadth of his kingdom. At last — and years had gone by, mind — his searchers brought a man to him.’

  ‘Was he happy?’

  ‘Oh yes. Not a care in the world. Sang. Whistled. Danced.’ John performed a small caper.

  The bishop nodded. ‘So the king got his shirt, and they all lived happily ever after.’

  ‘Not quite. You see, the man was a beggar. He didn’t have a shirt.’

  Des Riches coughed. ‘My lord, about the lady Mahaut—’

  The king bent his head over the wolfhound. His hand sliced up, palm out, cutting off the bishop’s words. ‘He’s picked up a tick again, look!’ He tackled it with his thumbnail. ‘There, that’s better.’ He smiled.

  Des Roches dared try once more. ‘Sire, the lady and her son—’ The hand slashed down again. The smile was still there but the eyes were cold as ice. ‘Take care, bishop. No more on this matter. It is forgotten!’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  There was no need to spur Zingiber, the great horse responded to the slightest pressure of its rider’s heels, but no matter how fast the miles fleeted by they went too slowly. What would he find when he got to Shawl? Dreadful possibilities crowded Straccan’s imagination but dwelling on them was useless; he clamped his mind shut against them and worried about Gilla instead.

  She was safe, thank God, but it had shaken him to the marrow to realise how vulnerable they were. The king could take Gilla as a hostage whenever he chose, to force her father’s hand. It might never happen again but the bare threat would be enough. Unless…

  Unless she was married.

  He’d known it would happen one day. For knights’ daughters there were only two destinies, marriage or Religion. Gilla was certainly old enough to be married; she’d be twelve on Saint Brice’s day. Most girls of her age were betrothed, many already wed. When the king married his beautiful queen, Isabelle of Angouleme, she was no more than twelve yea
rs old.

  Straccan was a rich man. His daughter’s dowry might tempt those who would normally look to the higher ranks for their brides, and she was already beautiful. But she also had a liability — her father.

  He’d overheard the comments when his peers discussed the unmarried and widowed with an eye to matchmaking.

  ‘Who's that?

  ‘Straccan. Sir Richard Straccan.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘The feller’s in trade, dear boy!’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘Got money, though, and a manor. His wife’s dead?

  ‘Yes, but would you let your daughter marry him?’

  He must do something, and soon. But dawn of the third morning was colouring the sky with a gaudy brush when he reached the edge of Shawl village and turned Zingiber towards Janiva’s cottage, still having made no decision.

  Sir Roger of Shawl, safely and expensively confirmed in possession of the manor by the king, arrived home in the dark hour before dawn, weary from his long ride and — if truth be told — relieved to find his wife not there, although he’d been looking forward to seeing his new son.

  Dogs barked as Roger’s servant — he didn’t yet run to a squire — hurried ahead to wake the household. Duty and affection took Roger first to the church, to pray for his parents, and he was astonished and angry not to find the coffins there. He stamped into his hall in a bad temper, flung himself down in the great chair at the high table and demanded something to eat.

  The steward roused the cook and chivvied him into producing bread and meat, which he bore, with a jug of ale, to the hall and set before Roger.

  ‘Ah, Robert. Where’s my wife?’

  ‘At Shaxoe, sir.’

  ‘Send and tell her I’m home. Bid her come to Shawl at once and bring the boy.’

  Robert bowed. ‘I’ll tell Father Finacre, sir.’

  ‘Finacre? What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s in charge when Lady Richildis is away.’

  ‘Why, where’s Father Osric?’

  ‘Sick abed, sir, all summer.’

  Roger ate and drank, questioning the steward between mouthfuls. ‘My parents’ coffins, where are they?’

  ‘In the mews, sir.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Father Finacre said—’

  ‘Get him. And get them out of there. Now!’

  ‘Shall we put them in the ditch then, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Interdict—’

  ‘Bugger the Interdict! No, they’re not going in any bloody ditch! I want them in the church where they belong. It’s all right, there’ll be no lawbreaking, no Mass, but at least they will lie in peace until this bloody Interdict’s over.’

  ‘That cannot be. Sir Roger.’ The chaplain came forward into the torchlight and bowed. Roger looked at him with distaste; he’d never understood his wife’s liking for the fellow.

  ‘What’s that you said?’ Roger had changed, Finacre saw. The boyish, rather plump and cheerful face had hardened and he’d started a beard, perhaps to cover the new scar, still red and bright, along his jawline.

  ‘Your noble mother and father cannot rest in peace, my lord, until their murderer is brought to justice.’

  ‘Murderer?’

  Sir Roger’s shout rang back from the walls as he sprang to his feet, toppling the heavy chair with an echoing bang. The empty ale jug tipped over, rolled, fell to the floor and smashed.

  ‘I grieve to give you such tidings, Sir Roger. Your wife and child nearly lost their lives and Dame Alienor was poisoned!’

  ‘God’s breath, poison? Who did it?’

  ‘The woman Janiva, my lord.’

  Roger was too shocked to speak. His mouth opened but no sound came out. The hard-faced young veteran was suddenly transformed back into an uncertain eighteen-year-old boy. He looked around helplessly. ‘This is madness. Where is Janiva?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know.’ No one had seen Straccan come in. He stood by the beggars’ bench, a tall man in a travel-stained cloak under which the jutting line of the sword proclaimed him a knight.

  Roger’s hand settled on his sword hilt. He straightened. ‘Who are you, sir? What do you want here?’

  ‘Straccan’s my name. I’ve come for Janiva.’

  Roger bristled. ‘What’s she to you?’

  ‘My wife to be.’ There was a general gasp of astonishment, not least from Roger. ‘I’ve come from her house; it’s gone. Burned. Nothing left. Where is she?’

  Events were moving too fast for Roger; he floundered, fumbling for a grip on any fixed fact.

  ‘How burned? God’s mercy, is she dead?’

  ‘I ordered it done,’ Finacre said boldly. ‘The woman was a witch. She lay with demons, she brewed poisons and all manner of evil. Sir Roger, she cast spells to bring on your lady’s labour too soon, to kill your unborn son!’

  A voice rose in protest from amid the throng. ‘Cods! E wouldna bin born at all but for er!’

  ‘Who said that?’ Roger demanded. ‘Tyrrel, is it? Come here!’ The shepherd shuffled forward. ‘Speak up!’

  Tyrrel sucked his teeth, an essential preliminary to speech, and almost spat on the floor but remembered where he was just in time.

  ‘Come an got me, dint she,’ he said. ‘Tole me to turn the brat inside his dam. I said I couldn’t, but she would ave it. An I did,’ he finished with a snort of triumph. ‘I did an all! E’d never ave breathed else!’

  ‘Where is she, Finacre?’ Roger snapped.

  ‘The devil spirited her away,’ the chaplain said. ‘She was locked in the undercroft until the Ordeal—’

  ‘Ordeal?’ Roger stared. ‘God’s breath and bones, what’s been going on here?’

  A dozen or more voices tried to tell him at once, but Finacre shouted them down.

  ‘She knew I had smelt her out; she sent evil dreams to frighten me off. There were devilish things in her house: a mandrake, that devil’s root, all pierced with wicked nails, a mannikin of your wife, Sir Roger.’

  ‘Mind your tongue or I’ll have it out, priest or no! Where’s my sister?’

  ‘The Devil himself carried her off! There’s no other way she could have got out. The door was locked, the man on guard saw nothing—’

  ‘Twasn’t no Devil, my lord!’ Sybilla pushed forward to stand beside her husband. ‘Twas me.’ She felt a tremor shake Robert’s body and reached for his hand, clasping it so hard that he winced. ‘I got her out of there and Tostig Forester took her away. Robert here knowed nothing about it, nobody did, just me and Tostig.’

  A wave of astonished babbble surged across the hall.

  ‘Send for Tostig,’ Roger ordered. ‘Sir Richard, come up here. We’ll get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Mistress Sybilla,’ Straccan said, weak with relief, ‘I thank you with all my heart for your courage and kindness to my lady. Where did Tostig take her?’

  Sybilla gazed wretchedly at him, tears gathering to roll down her cheeks. ‘He wouldn’t tell me. Said it was safer that way. Said he’d tell you when you came for her. But, oh sir, something must’ve happened to him. He never came back!’

  ‘Get off my manor before I have you flogged,’ Roger ordered when he’d heard what everyone had to say — a long job that took the rest of the morning, with accusations flying, all pointing to Finacre who not only didn’t deny them but seemed to think he deserved reward. ‘And if I hear of you creeping about any of my manors,’ said Roger viciously, ‘I’ll have your lying tongue out of your head, understand? Keep off my lands and keep away from my wife and son. Get out!’

  By the time he’d packed his bag the news of the chaplain’s dismissal had reached workers in the farthest fields and they had all come running to see if it was true and, if it was, to give him a suitable send-off.

  He saw them waiting at the end of the village and hefted the bag on his shoulder. In it were his spare gown, and wrapped in
that his chalice and paten and several small articles of silver which he was pretty sure wouldn’t be missed before he was well away from Shawl.

  ‘Let me pass,’ he cried. ‘Anyone who lays hands on a priest of God will burn in Hell! Remember Becket’ Despite himself his voice quavered.

  ‘Ain’t gonna lay a hand on you,’ someone called.

  ‘Wouldn’t touch im with a ten-foot pole,’ said another, amid laughter.

  For a few more steps he thought they were going to let him pass unhurt, but then the first stone hit him. He squealed, dropped his bag and ran.

  ‘Cur!’

  ‘Liar!’

  The next stone hit his ear, numbing it instantly, although he felt the heat of his blood running down his neck and the scalding urine on his thighs.

  ‘No, don’t! You can’t! You mustn’t! No, please!’ This couldn’t be happening, not to him. He screamed like a rabbit when the fox’s teeth close on it.

  The third stone smashed his lips, breaking teeth, and his mouth filled with blood. After that stones flew thick and fast and couldn’t be counted. Then he was past them and out of the village; they weren’t following. Sobbing, praying, cursing, he stumbled on, blood splotching his trail. The road rose and dipped, taking the village out of sight behind him. He staggered on, unaware of the thunder of hooves behind him until dust choked him as the knight from the hall, Straccan, swept by.

  The villagers shunned the crossroads, they said it was haunted, but no ghost bothered Benet Finacre as he sank down by the spring to splash his ruined face. Blood stained the water and he spat out bits of teeth, whining at the pain.

  This was all the witch’s doing. She had got away but he would track her down. He would write to the bishop; even in exile in France, the bishop would take notice of such an accusation and stir up the Church authorities in England to act. Wherever she was, they would find her.

  But now, where could he go? Which road should he take? That one, he knew, led to Shaxoe. If he followed it, sooner or later he would meet Lady Richildis on her way to Shawl. She would give him some money and he was certain he could persuade her to recommend him to some other household. Whimpering, bleeding, he stumbled on.