Gwil shrugged. It was a hereditary post; Ben’s grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather had held it before him; therefore, infuriating though he was, Maud would no more deprive him of it than she would uproot herself. Gwil knew that; Father Nimbus knew that; the fact that the priest was bothering to raise a much-discussed issue was because he was postponing bad news – Gwil recognized the anxiety in his face.
‘Come to the buttery for some ale and then a meal,’ he suggested, but Father Nimbus shook his head.
‘Let us take a walk before Lady Maud finds us.’
They went to the ramparts, where the priest looked back the way he had come. He and his fellow confessor, the estimable Father Sandford of Godstow, still met regularly, but they did it at a halfway point between Kenniford and Godstow, using the river so that Stephen’s garrison at Oxford should not see Father Sandford giving information to a priest who would be considered the King’s enemy.
How Nimbus’s puny arms managed the long pull up the Thames, Gwil never knew, but the little man said he enjoyed the drift back and that it was safer to be midstream in a boat than walking along the banks which were roamed by gangs of robbers desperate enough to steal anything, even the ragged robe off a priest’s back. The belief that God would keep His clergy safe from predation had been exploded now that altars were rifled on an almost daily basis and their keepers killed if they tried to intervene.
‘The King is consolidating his plans to make Thancmar Archbishop of Canterbury or York,’ Father Nimbus said finally when he was certain they were out of earshot.
‘Archbishop,’ Gwil said quietly, the colour draining from his face. And then: ‘Seemed to me only the Pope could confirm an archbishop.’
‘That used to be true; but it looks as if Stephen is reverting to the old custom before Anselm wrested the right of investiture solely for the Pope. He needs an archbishop who will anoint Eustace and secure his throne for the boy. Bishop Henry has summoned a meeting that he hopes will agree to Eustace’s crowning, though the Pope has forbidden it.’ He sighed. ‘If he succeeds, we might yet see a rapist and killer at Canterbury or York.’
Gwil had never told anyone, not even Father Nimbus, about what had happened to Penda. A raped woman was too often adjudged culpable in the crime against her, and certainly shamed by it, and now that Penda had become a respected member of Kenniford’s household, he wasn’t going to do anything to change that. Yet somehow, Father Nimbus knew. He took Gwil’s hands in his own and gripped them tightly.
‘You must take her away from here,’ he said. Gwil nodded.
When Father Nimbus left, Gwil went looking for Pen and found her in the bailey, where she and the other archers were doing some target practice.
She was easy to spot among the men, incongruous in her long, colourful skirts and with her thick red hair, which, now it was no longer cut, fell in abundant scarlet curls around her shoulders.
‘Stick out like a sore thumb, you do,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you wear one of them wimples or a veil or something like Lady Maud?’ For her own safety he wanted her to look as unremarkable as possible, just in case …
But Penda shook her head. ‘Ain’t doing that! Too hot for one thing,’ she said. ‘Means I can’t shoot straight for another.’ She cocked her head and grinned at him. ‘You’d suit one, though,’ she said, jumping backwards smartly to avoid a cuff around the ear. ‘A nice pretty yellow one,’ he heard her call over her shoulder as she ran off laughing, hotly pursued by the small entourage she had collected, consisting of the lurcher she had befriended, which she had named Spider, and William, who was even more enamoured of her now that she was a girl and a pretty one at that.
They sped past Maud, who turned to watch as they laughed and jostled their way through the crowds.
She had become fond of Penda, no doubt about it, admired her even; and was eternally indebted to her, but there was no getting away from the fact that the girl was still peculiar, which meant that Maud had to question whether or not it was good for William to spend so much time in her company.
He was getting older after all and ought to start his training for knighthood, not chase around the castle on Penda’s skirt tails. And yet, as Milburga so wisely pointed out, if it wasn’t for Penda he would doubtless be wandering off somewhere getting up to mischief or, worse still, cooped up in the turret with Sir John and Kigva. It had been a hard decision to make but, all things considered and after much agonizing, she had come to the conclusion that the boy must leave Kenniford. To that end she had finalized arrangements to send him to Sir Robert Halesowen’s household near Bristol, from whom she was expecting an envoy any day.
Besides, his father’s health had taken a turn for the worse recently; he had had another seizure and the limited speech he had regained after his first collapse, even the ‘uck-oos’ and ‘uck-offs’, had been lost entirely along with all movement of his limbs.
Only a couple of days ago William had come rushing into the solar in a panic. ‘Please come, please come,’ he’d begged, grabbing Maud’s hand and dragging her towards the door. ‘It’s Father; something’s happened to him again. You must come quickly!’
When they arrived at the turret Sir John was lying motionless on his cot; the only signs of life the erratic rise and fall of his chest and the fearful expression blazing in his eyes.
Maud stood in the middle of the room unsure what to do while William rushed to his father’s bedside. At his touch Sir John made a peculiar grunting sound, a muscle twitched in his cheek and a rheumy blood-shot eye blinked feebly; he was trying to speak.
On the other side of the bed Kigva rocked back and forth on her haunches, her face buried in her knees.
‘Him need the priest,’ she hissed. Maud nodded, speechless, transfixed by the living corpse in front of her.
‘I’ll send for the physician,’ she said when she had collected herself, ‘and Father Nimbus of course.’
Suddenly Kigva shrieked, leaping to her feet. ‘Not him!’ she said, rounding on Maud, her pale eyes flashing venomously. ‘The other one! That other priest.’
Maud shook her head. She didn’t understand. ‘But there isn’t another one,’ she said, frowning. ‘Father Nimbus is the only priest we have here.’
At the mention of his name something peculiar happened to Kigva and she threw back her head, howling with such ferocity that Maud found herself shrinking towards the door.
‘Time to leave, I think, William,’ she said, trying to sound calm. But the boy did not move.
‘William!’ she called again, more sharply this time. She had reached the door, her hands fumbling nervously behind her for the latch. ‘William, please!’ There was an unusual urgency in her tone which made him rise automatically this time. The moment he was within reach Maud grabbed him and pulled him through the door behind her.
Once outside, Maud closed her eyes, let out the breath she had been holding and rested against the wall until her heart had stopped pounding. She did not understand the scene she had just witnessed or the reason for Kigva’s anger but its mystery was as frightening as its passion and she was keen to forget it.
Inside the room, as soon as the door closed and Maud had vanished, a rare smile spread across Kigva’s face and she turned calmly to her patient. ‘Him’ll come,’ she said, pressing her mouth to Sir John’s ear as she whispered softly to him. ‘Don’t you worry, my lover. Him’ll come, you’ll see.’
At the bottom of the stairs, Maud sent William in search of Milburga while she made her way to the chapel to find Father Nimbus.
For the boy’s sake and his alone she would keep Sir John alive as long as she could but there was nothing more anyone at Kenniford could do for him; what he needed now was a doctor or infirmarian. The trouble was that all those who had previously attended him had left as quickly as they had come vowing never to return.
Father Nimbus looked stricken when she told him the latest news. ‘Poor, poor soul,’ he said, shaking his head sorrowf
ully.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, spare your pity!’ Maud spat; there really were times when she wished he wasn’t quite so indulgent of everybody. ‘He absolutely refuses to have you anywhere near him, or at least Kigva does. He doesn’t need pity, doesn’t deserve it. He needs a doctor or an infirmarian or something but I’ve run out of them.’
‘Then we will send to Godstow,’ Father Nimbus replied unabashed. ‘The infirmarian there is very good. I will send for him at once.’
‘What do you suppose she meant by “the other one”?’ Maud asked Milburga as she prepared her for bed that evening.
‘I told you an’ told you,’ Milburga said, shaking out Maud’s discarded bliaut and hanging it on the hook beside her bed. ‘Woman’s mad. Lord only knows what she means half the time!’ Then she stopped and thought for a moment before adding: ‘Less’n she means that other bugger … remember? The one who came before the siege?’
‘Oh,’ Maud replied as the memory dawned. ‘The one Payn let in? The one that smelt funny? Well done, Milly! Well, I’m damned if we’re having him back.’
Chapter Thirty-one
THE MAN IN question had other ideas.
News of Kenniford’s female marksman with the astonishing red hair had reached the garrison at Oxford long since and spread quickly among the King’s men, bringing shame to those who bore the scars of her arrows. It rose, like smoke, ever upwards to the men of power, seeping into the court and finally the ear of the Bishop of St Albans.
Other news had reached him too, of a mercenary called Gwilherm de Vannes, who had been knighted by the Empress before she fled and was now military commander of the castle.
He shook his head and smiled wryly when he heard that.
‘Well, well, Gwil,’ he chuckled to himself. So she was close. There would be no mistake this time.
Not that he regretted his mistakes, not at all. The killing fuelled him, sated him – if only briefly – and drove him ever onwards in his inexorable rise to greatness; and greatness, in the form of the archbishopric, was within his grasp now. Canterbury or York? That was the only question left.
Only one obstacle remains and although he is almost beyond its power now, the inconvenience its revelation might cause would be irritating indeed. Far better to wrest it back and destroy it along with all those who knew its secret.
He speaks to the King, bewitching him with his serpent’s tongue as he spills his poison against Kenniford, reminding him of its perfidy, its position of value on the Thames. Its women! It should be ours, my lord, he says. It was once yours, remember?
But Stephen, though hating Kenniford as he does, has no stomach, no time, no money for another siege; besides Matilda is elsewhere now, and what with the Anarchy, the warring barons and the damned bishops – present company excepted of course – he has enough to think about.
But my lord, he persists. Supposing there was to be no further siege? Supposing we had access directly to the castle? What say you then?
Then I might think about it, says Stephen.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘WILLIAM!’ MILBURGA’S VOICE rang through the bailey like a herald’s trumpet, assaulting the ears of all it reached. Her regular pursuit of the boy had become something of a joke at Kenniford and cries of ‘Wiw-yam!’ echoed frequently around the castle in mimicry of her.
‘Wake the nuns at Godstow, that could,’ Gwil said, shuddering. ‘What’s the poor little bugger done now?’
Penda shrugged. She hadn’t seen him all morning and, like Milburga, had no idea where he was. She stood up straight, grimacing as she flexed her shoulders.
Her wound had healed almost completely now but she was still stiff across her chest and arm and today she had been helping Gwil de-rust the hauberks: a process which involved bundling them into large leather sacks filled with vinegar and rolling them around the bailey until they were rubbed clean. It was heavy work and she was paying for it.
‘Phew!’ She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand.
‘Tired, Pen?’ Gwil shoved his sack hard with the toe of his boot, sending it bumping over the cobblestones. Then he too stretched, arching his back to relieve the habitual ache in that. ‘Me an’ all,’ he said. ‘Let’s stop for a bit.’
They sat together on the stone wall around the pond enjoying the sun’s warmth on their backs, chatting idly and watching the bubbles from the fish blistering the surface of the water.
Milburga, who until a few moments ago was merely a disembodied voice on the other side of the bailey, came scurrying up to them now, puffing hard, her face red and beaded with sweat. ‘You seen William, Pen?’ she gasped.
Penda shook her head.
‘God and His saints!’ Milburga said to no one in particular as her eyes cast anxiously around the bailey. ‘Lady Maud wants un and ’e’s nowhere to be seen again!’
They watched amused as she picked up her skirts and hurried off in a brisk waddle towards the gatehouse.
Ben hadn’t seen him either. ‘Ain’t been through here,’ he told her, shaking his head solemnly. ‘More’n me life’s worth to let ’im an’ all. Lady Maud says on no account ’e gets through ’ere less’n ’e’s got company.’
Ever since the first siege, when he had been taken hostage, it was considered too dangerous to allow William to roam outside the castle any more; an edict which was unlikely ever to be lifted.
‘He’ll wish he was more’n missing when I’ve done with ’im,’ Milburga growled through gritted teeth as she set off back whence she had come to break the news of the boy’s latest disappearance to her mistress.
Maud, however, wasn’t thinking about William just for the moment; instead she was sitting beside Sir Bernard, who was doing his best to quell an excitable rabble in the hall packed to the rafters for the monthly manorial court.
On the dais beside them a hen squawked raucously, flapping its wings in panic and sending clouds of feathers into the air as an elderly man tried to encourage it to jump on to a stool.
‘What, pray, is that man doing to that bird?’ Maud whispered to Sir Bernard, who was watching the spectacle with interest.
‘It’s a tithe hen, madam,’ Sir Bernard replied solemnly without taking his eyes off the bird. ‘I say it’s sickly but he says it is not. I say if it has the strength and wherewithal to jump on that stool – as any healthy bird should – then I will accept it, if not I won’t.’
Eventually, harried almost to death, the hen half jumped, half scrambled on to the stool where it slumped to the accompaniment of a great cheer from the crowd. Sir Bernard looked disappointed.
‘Oyez! Oyez!’ he shouted to no avail, trying to make himself heard above the clamour. But it wasn’t until he rose from his stool and slammed the side of his fist on to the table that the room fell silent at last.
Glaring into the crowd of Kenniford’s villeins and squinting menacingly at anyone who met his eye, he took a deep breath and announced: ‘Let the court of Kenniford commence and let every soul tell the truth as it stands in the fear of God.’
‘And any bugger who speaks out of turn gets hanged,’ Maud muttered for her own amusement and to no one in particular.
‘Rents!’ called Sir Bernard, heralding the next item of business. A long litany of rents and debts to be collected was read out as Sir Bernard ran his finger down the notches of his tally and each person stepped forward to slap their coins on the table in front of him. When all dues had been received the business moved on.
‘Appeals!’ he shouted but this time nobody moved. ‘Be quick,’ he insisted. Still no one came forward.
The siege had introduced a certain solidarity among the people of Kenniford and nobody, or so it would appear, had offended anybody since the last court. Nobody’s animals had broken a hedge or trampled a neighbour’s crops and nobody had been assaulted.
Maud looked around the room, a sceptical eyebrow raised; it wouldn’t do for her people to think she could have the wool pulled over her eyes eve
n if, deep down, she was relieved not to have to sit in judgement on them today. After all, they had probably suffered enough for the time being.
Sir Bernard, however, was disappointed. Maud had long suspected that he rather enjoyed playing Solomon. ‘Boons!’ he called out, moving with obvious reluctance to the next item on the agenda.
Once again there was no response and nobody came forward.
Out of the corner of her eye Maud could see, by the way he bristled and shifted on his stool, that her steward was becoming irritable. He scratched his head, took a deep breath and bent forward to consult his ledger again. Such was the hiatus that the crowd grew restless and before long the hall began to fill with the sounds of shuffling feet, low murmurs and ostentatious coughing.
Maud leaped up from her stool. ‘Silence!’ she shouted.
A hush fell. Sir Bernard looked up at last, surveyed the room with abject disappointment and reluctantly dismissed the court, at which point the hubbub resumed as a hundred people gathered their things and prepared to leave.
‘Madam!’ a voice called out to her from the other side of the hall and Maud looked up to see Milburga advancing on her in full cry, complaining bitterly about William’s latest vanishing.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I was hoping to see him this morning. There is something I must tell him. Not with his father, I suppose?’
Milburga shook her head.
‘Penda?’
She shook her head again.
‘Where in God’s name does he get to?’
Wal the cowherd knew.
He happened to be sitting by the riverbank, not far from where William was fishing, enjoying the spring sunshine. Wal was watching over his cattle, up to their hocks in rich pasture, chomping on the grass and giving suck to their calves, while his own son, a couple of years younger than the boy, ran along the balks scaring away the devouring corn buntings.
‘Caught anything yet, Master William?’ he called out as he always did when he saw him.
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