by Olga Daniels
“Well done!” The King, at her side, bellowed encouragement. They were all his knights. He had no side to take. But he understood the niceties of the sport in a way that Meg did not.
“This man’s worth watching,” Henry said to her. “He’s one of the best. An acknowledged expert—though I unseated him easily a few years back. That was a day, that was! You should have seen me then!”
She tried to understand what was happening, but could not. She was grateful when Richard did well and as far as she could see had escaped injury. She was even more grateful when the jousting was over. Prizes and accolades were bestowed upon the winners, among whom were both Richard and Gervase. There was much trumpeting and playing of fanfares as the ceremony ended in its time-honoured way.
“An excellent performance by almost all the knights,” the King commented. “Did you find that enjoyable, little Meg?”
“Most certainly it was exciting,” she replied. “I am not sure if I enjoyed it—I was so afraid someone would be seriously hurt.”
“You are a kind and gentle young lady.” Henry smiled. “And you are right. Sometimes there are serious injuries, but that is no longer the object. The knights have perfected skills which allow them to avoid such happenings.”
“I know little about jousting,” she admitted. “But the courage of everyone was clear, even to me.”
“We shall watch more jousts together in the future,” said Henry. “It has been a pleasure to have your company, sweet Meg.”
With that he prepared to depart, again accompanied by the trumpeters and surrounded by officials and soldiers. Meg rose to her feet and curtsied low.
“It is merely adieu, my sweetheart. We shall meet again ere long.”
The Earl and Nancy escorted Meg back to the house. Their excitement was, if possible, even greater than on the previous occasion. Meg said little. She was preoccupied with her plans to escape the following day. She saw Richard distantly, but turned her head away and clenched her fists, determined to forget.
As she had predicted, that evening the feast was even more sumptuous than usual. She took care to avoid moving in Richard’s direction, though her wanton body desired it. She formed the impression that he wished to speak to her, but she would have none of it. When he came near to her, she moved away, and would not exchange even a smile with him.
Her heart was breaking to think she would never see him again. She despised herself that it should be so, for she ought to be glad to be leaving him. He had deceived her most shamefully. She would never understand how he could have been so loving to her, yet leave her to this fate, which to her seemed a living death.
Chapter Eleven
Long before daybreak Meg and Sarah were up and dressing in the unfamiliar male garments. They handled them fastidiously, for none of them were new and some not very clean.
“I’m sorry about that, my lady,” Sarah said. “I’d have washed ’em, but those thick things’d never get dried in time.”
“Just as the stableboys wear them,” commented Meg.
“That’s right. It’ll make us look more the part.” Sarah wrinkled her nose as she shook straw and dust from a jerkin.
Nervousness made their fingers clumsy. Meg was grateful that the fashion was for padded shoulders, which gave her a false appearance of manliness, and she bloused the tunic out over the wide leather belt. Fortunately it was long enough to cover her rounded hips, though her legs still looked decidedly feminine encased in thick knitted stockings. She looked Sarah over critically. They had cut each other’s hair the night before. Meg’s short curls gave her a cheeky look, whilst Sarah’s, dark, straight and plain, reached to just below her ears. With a good stretch of imagination it was possible that she could pass as a boy.
“How do I look?” asked Meg.
Sarah grinned. “You know what, my lady? I reckon we both look too clean.”
“Even in these clothes?”
“Hands in particular,” Sarah said. “Takes years to get that ingrained look, but we’d better have a try.” She knelt on the floor and scuffed her hands about in the rushes. “Good thing they haven’t been changed for a few weeks.”
Meg followed Sarah’s example. Even after rubbing them in dust and broken reeds her hands looked small and distinctly feminine. She’d keep them out of sight as much as possible.
“Now rub your face, my lady,” Sarah instructed, and Meg obeyed. With dirty faces they stood and regarded each other seriously, for this was no laughing matter. Giving a wrong impression could mean capture and a fate that did not bear thinking about.
“You’ll pass now, my lady.”
“You must stop calling me that,” Meg said. “We’re a couple of stable lads. Equals, too. We need boys’ names.”
“I thought of mine last night,” Sarah said. “I’m going to be Septimus.”
“So you shall be, dear Septimus,” Meg said. “I’m going to be Matt.”
“Yes, my—” Sarah began, then stopped herself. “Yes, Matt.”
Meg stood for a moment, looking around the room, checking items in her mind. Money was hidden in the belts they wore. She had kept back a few jewels, and these had been sewn into the linings of her ragged garments. She had bundled up the everyday clothes she had brought with her from the nunnery, taking not even one thing which had been paid for by her uncle.
Sarah packed her favourite skirt and some shoes. “That’ll do for me,” she said. “Food’s more important.” She had secretly taken some victuals from the kitchens and carried these in a rush bag.
Together they pushed things under the bedclothes, so that if anyone peeped into the chamber it would appear that the bed was occupied. Sarah put a chamber-pot on the pillow and pulled the bedspread up over it.
“That’ll surprise ’em, if they start pokin’ about,” she grinned.
Meg was not sorry to be leaving either the room or the house, but her heart was heavy at the thought that she would never again see Richard. If only he had agreed to come with her! If they could have run away together, she would not have minded if they’d had to live in a hovel. She’d never been afraid of hard work. She had often assisted the nuns with household tasks at the nunnery, the baking and cleaning, even the growing of vegetables and herbs.
Angry tears started into her eyes. She found it impossible to understand how Richard could have acted so lovingly towards her, kissed and caressed her so tenderly, whispered that she meant more to him than anyone in the world—and then refused to marry her.
She could have faced anything if they had been setting out to seek a new life together. As a married woman, she would have been protected from the King’s advances. They would have risked the wrath of Thurton and Nancy, but surely they could have found somewhere to live, made a home together far, far away? Yet even as that dream entered her mind she knew her uncle’s rage would have been quite terrible. He might have been so enraged at having his plans thwarted that he would have hunted them down. That could be the case even now. She trembled as she recalled Sarah’s words—“You’ll be caught. All you’ll get for your pains is a beating.” With an effort she pushed all those fears to the back of her head.
“Are you ready, Septimus?” she whispered.
“Aye, Matt. God go with us,” Sarah prayed softly.
“Amen to that,” agreed Meg.
The sound of snoring came from the Earl’s room as they crept along the passageway. A glance into the Great Hall revealed bodies sprawled over and under the tables, a general mess of overturned flagons and leaking barrel bungs, the rancid smell of stale food and ale. One dog lifted its head, but it only yawned, as replete as its master, having fed well on scraps and spillages.
The stables were at the back of the mansion. Not only had Sarah managed to get clothes from one of the stablehands, she had bribed him to have horses ready.
“Dugald,” she called softly.
They waited anxiously.
“He promised to be here, waiting for us,” she muttered. A horse scraped its foot.
“Dugald,” she called again. “It’s me, Sarah.”
Then a lad stepped forward, leading two horses saddled and ready. He grinned at the sight of them. “Didn’t recognise you, Sarah.”
Meg was heartened to hear him say that. It meant that their disguise was passable—at least in the half-light of dawn.
They wasted no more time, mounted quickly, and with a brief word of thanks rode out of the stableyard. To Meg’s ears the clatter of hooves sounded loud enough to waken the entire household as they rode through the wide gateway and out into the street.
Even at that early hour there were people about: workmen carting away rubbish, beggars sleeping in corners, scavengers looking for scraps. The stench was worse than during the day.
Meg recalled the direction from which they had arrived, and knew they needed to head north-eastwards. They walked the horses at first, then trotted on a little faster. She breathed a sigh of relief when they passed through Bishopgate without being challenged. Some time later, when they reached wider tracks and the city had been left behind, they spurred the horses into a canter.
“Are you sure we’re on the right road, my lady?” asked Sarah.
“Matt, if you please, Septimus,” Meg corrected her.
“Sorry, Matt. It just don’t sound right,” Sarah protested.
“It doesn’t matter how it sounds; it’s a matter of safety,” Meg reminded her sternly. “You’ll get used to it, Septimus. As to whether we are going in the right direction, I confess I cannot be absolutely sure, but I think this is the way we came.”
Right or wrong, there could be no turning back. By mid-morning they were well away from the city of London, following rough and rutted tracks through open countryside. They dismounted by a small stream to rest and water the horses. Sarah delved into the rush basket and produced bread and cheese and a leather flask of ale. They sat beside the gurgling water to share their meal, whilst the horses cropped the grass.
The short break had been welcome, but they dared not tarry. Then they were in the saddle again, riding as fast as their mounts could take them, mindful that they must try and reach the shelter of a hostelry or monastery before nightfall. Robbers lurked in the woods and would be more likely to strike after dark, though one had to take care at all times. Two lads would be easy targets for attack.
Peasants were at work in the open fields, oxen pulling ploughs and carts. They passed through hamlets that were no more than a cluster of seven or eight clay-lump thatched hovels. On and on, until the sun was dipping low in the west and casting a golden red light over the landscape.
“Matt—it’s time we found somewhere for the night,” Sarah said.
“I agree, Septimus.” Meg had been thinking that for some time. It was more than an hour since they had passed any place where they could have stayed, and that had been a particularly disreputable-looking ale-house. She would rather sleep under a hedge than there!
Again they stopped, this time at a crossroads, beside which was a pond where the horses could drink. They had ridden hard and were all in need of a rest. Sarah opened her rush bag and brought out the bread and cheese and ale.
“Better keep some for later,” she said. “In case we don’t find nowhere to stay.”
Meg agreed. She looked around. There was no habitation within sight. A milestone had the word “WARE” engraved on it, and below it “XX miles”. Meg sighed.
“We’re on the right road, anyways,” commented Sarah.
“But it’s twenty miles to Ware,” Meg said despondently. “We’ll never get there before dark.”
“Someone a-comin’,” said Sarah.
Two monks were walking towards them. Meg stood up, pulled her hat lower on her forehead to hide her face and hoped their disguise would not be broken. The monks’ cowled heads were bent. They wore black habits—Dominicans, she assumed. As was customary, they had Bibles tucked inside the folds of their dark woollen clothes. This left their hands free to carry staffs.
“God be with you, young men,” said one of the monks.
“And with you, Brother,” said Meg. She spoke gruffly, but something in the timbre of her voice must have struck him for he peered closer into her face. She drew back, and as he did so she recognised him. He was one of the brothers who had in the past sometimes visited the nunnery.
“Will you spare a crust for a Religious?” he asked.
The whining voice confirmed her suspicions; she had heard it before. She glanced at Sarah and saw horror on her maid’s face, fear in her eyes. She too had recognised the man. Father Bernard had been cast out of the order in Norwich because of his lewd ways and because he had fathered a child, taking advantage of a girl who had been ill-treated at home and had sought sanctuary in the nunnery.
“Give bread to the holy man, Septimus,” said Meg.
She hoped that would satisfy the mendicant, but he ignored Sarah’s offering, continuing to stare at her. Meanwhile the second man had his eyes fixed on the horses. Meg moved in that direction, but he moved faster. Before she could reach them, he took the reins into his own hands. He fielded her off. He was strong—he pushed her away. She managed to dodge the worst of the blows he threw at her.
“Nice animals, Bernard,” he said. “We’ve walked far enough for one day.”
“Too good for these louts,” the other monk agreed. “The good Lord must’ve sent these specially for us.”
“Don’t touch those horses,” Meg snapped. She tried to grab the reins.
The man laughed at her and caught her hand in his. His grip was powerful; it felt strong enough to crush her bones. Then suddenly he opened his fingers. She tried to draw her hand away, but he caught her by the wrist.
“Hey, Bernard—look at this.”
He held out Meg’s hand and at the same time tore open her jerkin. The shape of her breasts was clearly visible beneath the fine linen shirt. She kicked and fought. She tried to bring her knee up into the assassin’s groin. But he held her at arm’s length. Suddenly Meg was grasped from behind.
“Well, well!” Bernard’s voice was gloating. “A couple of wenches! And would you believe it, Marcus? I think I know who they are.”
“Good for a night’s fun, anyway.” Marcus grinned. His expression made his evil intent revoltingly clear. He released his hold on Meg’s wrist and stepped back. No remnants of the holiness they had once professed remained with them.
Whilst they were both occupied with Meg, Sarah seized the opportunity and leapt up into the saddle of her horse. She wheeled it sharply and with a hard kick rode straight at Marcus. He turned to run away, but fell over and was struck by the horse’s hoof. There was a loud crack. He cried out in pain. Sarah ignored him. She turned her horse, preparing to ride back.
“Let her go,” she yelled to Bernard. “Or I’ll ride you down as well.”
“Try it. Just you try it.” Bernard grabbed Meg round the waist and pulled her in front of him, making her into a human shield.
Meg struggled, kicked and tried to turn her head to bite her attacker, but he held her in a vice-like grip. She was furious, but powerless. Sarah reined in her horse; she turned it to face towards Marcus. He was lying on the ground where he had fallen, moaning but undoubtedly alive.
“Let her go, or I’ll ride over him again,” she shouted.
“No. No, stop her!” screamed Marcus. “My leg’s broken.”
“You can trample him to death for all I care,” Bernard challenged her.
“Help me—Bernard, you’ve got to help me.” Marcus yelled and screamed.
“Stop snivelling, man,” commanded Bernard. Then to Sarah he shouted, “I remember you, Sarah Wilgress. You told tales on me when I stayed at the nunnery.”
“Only the truth,” Sarah said coldly. “I’ll inform on you again, if you—”
“What can you do?” he jeered. “I know who this is too! This tasty morsel I’m holding in my arms is Lady Margaret Thurton.” He sneered as he spoke her name.
Sarah’
s horse danced about. She was having difficulty in holding it. “Let my lady go,” she yelled.
“Never,” he said scornfully. “She’s far too valuable a property. Her uncle will be exceedingly grateful to have her returned to him. I’ll make a fortune out of this!”
He was so pleased with himself that he relaxed his hold—only slightly, but it was enough for Meg. She threw back her head, her teeth closed on his ear and she bit with all her might. His yell rang through the still summer air. He jerked his head aside and raised one hand to the bleeding lobe. Meg struggled harder; she twisted and pulled, but it was useless. He did not let go of her for a moment—his grip tightened.
His determination to hold her increased. With his blood-stained hand he pulled her hat forward, covering her eyes, and entwined his other hand in her hair. He forced her down to her knees and held her there, kneeling and helpless, under his control. Any movement was excruciatingly painful. Sarah could do nothing, for he made sure Meg was always between him and that snorting animal she was mounted upon.
“Get up,” he growled, jerking at her hair. The pain brought tears streaming from her eyes. She reached up and tried to move his hands, but it was a useless gesture. She had no option but to do as he said. He pulled her over to where her horse was contentedly cropping the grass. He grabbed its reins.
“Mount,” he commanded.
Hope flared momentarily in Meg’s heart. She obeyed with a false show of humility, but as she settled in the saddle she kicked out. She aimed her foot at Bernard’s head, but he had anticipated trouble and easily dodged away.
“You’ll pay for that,” he threatened.
The horse, aware that all was not well, whinnied and wheeled and threw up its head.
“Whoa, you devil.” He pulled it down roughly, and hit it hard. The horse bared its teeth, but submitted.
Bernard brought a length of rope from the folds of his habit. He flung it round Meg, and before she realised what was happening her arms were pinioned to her sides. Bernard heaved himself up into the saddle, pushed her forward and settled in behind her. A kick sent the restive animal charging away.