Beck: a fairy tale

by Nina Clare

  “The death of the queen was very shocking,” said Lady Beck. “Is it true that it is said that he poisoned her?” she asked, dropping her voice very low.

  “Those are the rumours,” said Lord Amando. “Such a thing would have been considered unthinkable in times past, but after the disappearance of the young princes, I fear the people consider the king is quite capable of killing his wife if he can dispatch his own nephews.”

  “And the poor queen was said to be a good and gracious lady.”

  “I met her on many occasions,” said Lord Amando. “She seemed pious and sincere. This sad event has made the king yet more enemies. It is seen as a great and terrible sign, her death being so marked by the heavens. There is great foreboding and apprehension of what it all means. I see that my brother-in-law is still very loyal to the king,” he observed.

  “He is,” said Lady Beck. “Though I believe Lord Orlan is disturbed by the king’s means of gaining the crown.”

  “I hope for his sake that he keeps his thoughts well hidden. These are treacherous times. But let us speak of something cheerful – where is my godson!”

  Felix thoughtfully considered the man who was bent down on one knee before him with a smile that stretched across his lightly bearded face. He considered the black velvet cap with the white, quivering feather; the dark wavy hair falling to the strange man’s shoulders; the black eyes, large and ringed with long lashes that looked very like his mother’s. He pondered the slashed doublet, the wide leather belt, the fur-lined jerkin, the leather riding-boots. He looked to his mother who was also smiling.

  “Greet your Uncle Lopo, Felix!”

  She was laughing; if she was smiling and laughing then the appearance of this strange person must be good. And Felix very much liked the quivering cap feather, which he reached one plump little hand out to touch. The man bent down his head and tickled Felix under the chin with the feather, and Felix gave a full-bellied chuckle.

  And so it came to pass that he and Uncle Lopo became friends for life.

  “How is it that Bellchior is confined to the stables?” Lord Amando asked his sister as he prepared to leave next morning. “I have never seen him beyond them, neither here nor in the city.”

  “The marquess does not like to have black persons about him,” said Lady Beck. “He will not have him in the house.”

  “Does he not realise Bellchior’s worth?”

  She shrugged. “I have tried to tell him.”

  “He is wasted out there. I know he has a way with horses, but a man as highly trained as Bellchior ought to be at the side of his master – I warrant he’s more skilled than any of his Anglianese men-at-arms.”

  “Indeed he is,” said Lady Beck. “That is why I always insist on him being with us whenever we travel. I would not feel safe without him.”

  “A waste of a good man,” said Lord Amando, arranging his cap, which was now featherless, his nephew and namesake having acquired it as a seal of their new friendship.

  “You will come again soon?” said Lady Beck hopefully.

  “I will come whenever I can steal away for a day or two,” promised her brother. He bowed and gave her another of his handsome smiles, bent down and gave Felix one last tickle, then he strode away to mount his horse.

  Lady Beck sighed as she watched him leave, and Felix waved his feather in farewell.

  Battle of the Kings

  Percy and Cicely Rose stood at the window of the marquess’s chamber looking down at the courtyard below. They watched the fourteen men, fully armed and clad in armour, sitting astride their caparisoned warhorses. When the marquess had mounted and taken up his lance the party fell into rank file and trooped down towards the gatehouse, the marquess at the head of the formation.

  Lady Beck stood by watching the departure. As the last of the knights rode out of view she turned back towards the manor; Madame Labelle put an arm about her, as though to comfort her, then they moved out of Percy and Cicely’s view.

  “They looked so brave and strong,” said Cicely.

  “I’ll be a knight one day,” said Percy, his mind made up for certain, now that he had heard Cicely call them brave and strong.

  “My father will be riding out with his men,” said Cicely. “Oh, Percy, what if they die?” She turned her light blue eyes to him, suddenly looking very afraid. Percy had not thought of his father, or any of the knights that had just left, dying. It did not seem possible; they looked unconquerable. They looked fearsome in their full armour astride their warhorses, with their swords and their lances. What enemy would not turn in fear at the sight of them? He knew he would.

  He put an arm round Cicely, the same way he had just seen Madame Labelle putting an arm around his stepmother.

  “They won’t die,” was all he could say. “They’re fighting for the king. The king always wins.”

  Cicely nodded and seemed a little comforted, and Percy was filled with happiness that she had let him put his arm round her to make her feel better.

  “Any news?” the question was asked repeatedly in the days since the marquess had left to fight for the king – to fight against the rebel army that had come from Franca with the young Anglianese lord at their head.

  Red Harry shook his head. He had just come from the town market. “Town crier had no news,” he said to Cook and the butler who met him coming in.

  “Any news?” called Kat, passing the doorway and seeing him.

  “No news,” Red Harry repeated.

  “I shall have to tell milady,” said Kat. “She wanted to know as soon as you came in if there was any word.”

  “There’s rumours aplenty,” he said, sitting down to eat the dinner Cook had put aside for him.

  “Tell us, lad,” urged the butler.

  “Some say the battle was so fierce that not a soul made it out alive,” said Red Harry, he took a gulp of small beer. “And some say the rebels were outnumbered ten to one and were wiped out just like the last rebellion.” He took a bite of bread. “And some say,” he said chewing noisily, “that the king is dead and his head was cut off, crown and all, and stuck on the banner of the rebels.” He swigged back more beer and swallowed his large mouthful.

  Kat wrinkled her nose at the sight of Harry’s eating manner as much as at the gruesome image of the king’s head being paraded through the battlefield.

  “There surely must be news soon,” she said. “The mistress is beside herself with waiting.”

  “The master has come! They are coming!” The shouts passed from the gatehouse to the stables to the manor. Red Harry charged through the kitchens, through the hall shouting out as he went – “The master is come!”

  Lady Beck’s needle froze mid-air at the sound of the cries. Cicely dropped her embroidery work into her lap and made a little exclamation of relief. If the master had returned, then there was hope that her father would also return safely home.

  Penny heard the shouts and paused in her work of changing Felix’s gown yet again. The little rascal had managed to get hold of the tin cup of buttermilk that sat upon the table ready for his dinner. He had pulled the cupful over himself, and after a gasp of surprise, had chuckled loudly and plopped back down into a sitting position, sucking the milk from his chubby fist.

  Of all the babies Penny had seen in the abbey she was quite certain she had never known a child so active and busy as young Lord Felix; he never stayed still for a moment and was always into mischief.

  “Your father has returned!” she said to him, his clean gown stretched over her hands ready to place over his head. Felix gave her a blank look with his large, dark eyes. Father was not a word that aroused any excitement in Felix. Father was a word that signified the craggy, angry face and loud voice of the man who never spoke to Felix, never picked Felix up, never played with him. He got up and tottered speedily away from the approaching gown.

  Penny heard the footsteps hurrying up the servants’ stairs and saw Kat’s flushed face appear at the top.

  “Is al
l well?” said Penny, seeing the strange look on her sister’s face.

  Kat shook her head, too breathless from her hurry to speak. She ran past Penny, into the hallway and down to Lady Beck’s chamber, where she was giving Cicely Rose her embroidery lesson.

  Penny, the gown still on her hands, went to the nursery door to listen. She heard Kat’s voice saying something very fast, then Lady Cicely flew out of the chamber, lifting her skirts to run as fast as she could down the stairs to the hall. Lady Beck came out also, her face wearing a tight, strange look. Kat followed.

  “What’s wrong, Kat?” said Penny. “Is it the master? Has he come back injured?” Kat shook her head, “He hasn’t come back at all. Only Lord Orlan has come.”

  Lady Beck had dropped down onto the wooden settle in the hall feeling unable to stand after what she had just heard. She stared up at Lord Orlan who stood looking dishevelled from his long ride, and weary from the recent battle he had not long returned from. Cicely Rose had greeted him ecstatically, but had been soon after sent away so her father could speak privately to her mistress.

  Lady Beck gazed at Lord Orlan, but she did not see him, she looked through him in a wild stare, her mind struggling to understand what he was telling her.

  He was telling her that her husband and all his men had perished in the battle – he was telling her that the king was dead – that many of the king’s men had turned against him at a crucial point in the battle and had fought for the new king. The new king had already reached the royal city and been welcomed by the people and accepted by parliament. The new king had declared himself the rightful king the day before the battle, and had decreed that anyone who fought against him would be counted as a traitor and would forfeit their estates and titles in consequence.

  “And who did you fight for?” Lady Beck asked Lord Orlan, as the words he had spoken began to sink in.

  “I fought for the new king,” said Lord Orlan gravely. “I never agreed with the duke’s manner of seizing the throne. I never believed it lawful or right.”

  “So you will not lose your life or your lands as a traitor,” said Lady Beck.

  “No.”

  “But...my...late husband...his lands are forfeit. We are ruined.”

  “No, my lady, it is not so bad as it may have been. I have met with the new king; he is keen to secure the loyalty of the kingdom. He will honour the betrothal between my daughter and Arthur, and has granted me the wardship of Arthur. As long as Arthur swears fealty to the king when he is of age, and as long as the union of our families comes to pass, Arthur will still succeed as heir to his father’s estate and title. And your own dower, the inheritance of Beck House, and the income agreed to you at the time of your marriage, as well as your own jewels, will still be yours. There were debts, however,” he continued. “Debts at court for dice, cards, and horses. But I will see they are all settled. It is imperative that accounts are tightened, there will be some loss of income until the debts are paid.”

  Lady Beck sat very still, her hands gripped tightly together.

  “It is largely good news, my lady,” said Madame Labelle encouragingly.

  Lady Beck looked at her. “Good news that three children now have no father? Good news that I must run the estates alone until Arthur comes of age?”

  “You will not be expected to undertake the running of the estates. That responsibility has been placed in my hands,” Lord Orlan assured her. “I have brought an excellent man of mine to be head steward. He is highly competent, he will serve Lord Arthur well until he is of age.”

  Lord Orlan turned and gestured to someone to come forward. A hardy looking man of about Lord Orlan’s age, that of about thirty years, advanced, his cap in hand.

  “Lady Beck, I present Master Digby.”

  The stalwart looking man with the well-trimmed brown beard bowed to the marchioness.

  She slowly raised her eyes to him. “Welcome,” was all she could say.

  “I thank you, my lady,” said Master Digby with another bow, and he stepped back again.

  “May I have your permission to arrange for Master Digby to have the empty cottage on the estate made fit for him and his family to dwell in?” asked Lord Orlan.

  “It seems to me that as Arthur’s guardian you may do exactly as you see fit, Lord Orlan,” said Lady Beck resignedly.

  “I will do nothing that displeases you,” said Lord Orlan, stepping closer to her and looking her in the eye so she could see his sincerity.

  She smiled weakly. “You are a true knight of honour, Lord Orlan,” she said quietly. “And I thank you for your help to me and my fatherless sons at this time. All I can give in return is my promise that I will be the best mother and tutor to Cicely Rose as I can be.”

  “I could hardly ask for anything that would please me more.”

  Myles

  The new steward was just as Lord Orlan had described – a highly competent man. In less than three weeks he had taken the measure of every field and meadow, and calculated exactly how much yield each crop ought to give. He subsequently disciplined the bailiff, threatening to report him to Lord Orlan if he did not alter his ways immediately, for he had failed to spot the under sowing of crops and thus make the hayward account for the missing grain. He likewise threatened the reeve for his shoddy account keeping, and brought the head swineherd to the manorial court and fined him for failing to prevent two sows from being stolen. He also warned Tall Harry in the stables that he would lose his position if he were once more caught loitering round the maids in the dairy instead of being about his business.

  All the household and estate workers felt the impact of this new efficiency, and only at that time realised the slackness of their late marquess, who trusted that all his managers were doing their work, and did not enquire to closely into details. As long as his dinner was plain and plentiful and his horse well-groomed, the late marquess, it now seemed, had had a loose grasp on the goings on of his estate.

  The new steward’s wife was rarely to be seen outside of her cottage, which had been as efficiently repaired and improved as the estate, but the steward’s young son was often seen about the grounds, helping his father or fetching water and wood for his mother. Percy and Cicely Rose were most intrigued by this new arrival; they were peering at him from behind the thatched hen house as he chopped wood one late-summer morning.

  “What’s his name?” said Cicely, as she peeped round at the boy.

  “I don’t know,” said Percy, his sandy-coloured thatch of hair bobbing above Cicely’s fair head as they spied on the newcomer.

  “Go and ask him,” said Cicely.

  “You ask him,” said Percy, a little intimidated by the boy being both taller than him and looking somewhat dangerous at that moment with his wood axe raised high. Percy had never been allowed to handle a wood axe.

  “He’s very good at chopping,” commented Cicely.

  Percy bristled at this stray compliment.

  “I will go and ask him if you are scared to,” said Cicely.

  Percy bristled more deeply and stood up straight.

  “I’ll ask him,” he said. But he hesitated.

  “Go on then,” Cicely urged.

  Percy lifted his head and puffed out his chest and stepped out from behind the hen house.

  He sauntered over to the boy and stood near to the wood block, tucking his thumbs into his britches, mimicking one of Arthur’s poses.

  The boy did not pause from his work. He picked up another log and placed it on the block and lifted high the axe. Percy sidled closer, certain that the boy could not fail to see him. But still the boy just carried on with his work.

  Cicely crept up beside Percy and nudged him to say something. The boy had split his log and now reached for another one.

  Cicely grew impatient of Percy’s reticence and stepped directly in front of the wood block, forcing the boy to cease. He looked up at her questioningly with a steady gaze, but saying nothing.

  “I am Lady Cicely Rose,�
�� said Cicely in a voice higher and crisper in tone than she usually spoke in.

  The boy gave a curt bow. He put the log he was holding down onto the block, but as Cicely did not move away, he was unable to resume chopping. He lowered his axe.

  “This is Percy,” said Cicely, gesturing behind her.

  “Lord Percival,” corrected Percy gruffly, stepping forward. The boy gave another perfunctory bow.

  Cicely frowned, her light blue eyes darkening as she realised that the boy had no intention of engaging with them.

  “Are not you going to tell us your name?” she said, in the high voice that she only spoke in when she was being Lady Cicely Rose and not just Cicely.

  “Myles Digby,” said the boy. “Milady,” he added as an afterthought.

  “How old are you, Myles Digby?” asked Cicely.

  The boy looked a little vexed. “If you please, milady, I must get the wood chopped.” When she did not move away he gave a little wrinkle of his nose. “Ten years, milady.”

  “Same as Arty,” said Percy, finding courage to speak. “Arty’s my brother,” he added. “He’s training to be a knight at Lord Orlan’s manor.”

  “I know,” said Myles without enthusiasm. “I have met Lord Arthur.”

  “Oh, you were at Foversham, before you came here!” said Cicely, dropping her Lady’s voice and speaking in her usual girlish manner. “Father told me. Lord Orlan is my father,” she added. “But you were not at Foversham when I was there.”

  “No, milady.”

  “I am of nine years,” said Cicely, “and so is Percy, though I am six weeks older than him.” Percy frowned.

  “That’s a fine axe,” said Percy. “Did your father teach you to chop wood? Wish my father had taught me, but only Red Harry’s allowed to do it.” He looked disconsolately at the forbidden manly tool.