‘According to our local priest,’ said Ralph, ‘disease, war, famine and death. Most of your disgraceful prisoners were just trying to stay alive.’ The Clerk gave him a shocked, pained glance as though he were a dog Ralph had kicked. ‘Where is the man Cild now?’ demanded Ralph.
‘On his way to Winchester with the other overflow cases. There were a number. They went off this morning to make the best use of the daylight. They’ll stay there till the Justices get back, which won’t be for two years at the soonest.’
Winchester after all, but at least there was time in hand. He made another cold, difficult ride, using forest trails overhung with trees because here the snow was not so deep. At last he found himself crossing a turnkey’s palm with silver and being led down into the underground regions of Winchester Castle. There, housed with half a dozen others in the half-light of a cell under the keep, he found Cild. Cild was not shackled, and walked to meet him, holding himself erect. ‘My lord!’ he said, and knelt. ‘How I hoped you would come.’
‘You took a lot of finding. You idiot, what do you mean by getting caught?’
‘They were waiting for us. They must have been on the watch for a long time.’ Cild’s manner was coldly calm but his next words revealed a different state of mind beneath it. ‘If they mutilate me I shall kill myself. Can you leave me the means of doing it before they spoil me?’
‘You’re in no immediate danger. The court won’t sit again for at least two years.’
‘Two years? Here?’ Cild’s gesture at the cell, at the low ceiling of vaulted stone, the damp walls and smelly dimness, was full of disbelief and hopelessness. His face was as appalled as though guards had come to drag him to execution that moment.
Even Sybil weighed light, Ralph thought, against this man’s danger. He would never like Cild. He knew by instinct the tendency to cruelty that Sybil had experienced. But from this, he would have tried to save even the Devil, if he were of the Tun. ‘Take my knife. But don’t use it yet. I’m trying to get you released. Give me a chance.’
Cild was still kneeling. In the Wood, Ralph’s followers always knelt to him and kissed his feet too. But none of them had ever kissed his hand before.
‘With what is the man charged?’ Rufus asked from the dais. ‘He took a deer but…‘Then there’s no clemency,’ said Rufus, cutting him short. ‘That crime’s too common. Let men think they can do that and go free and there’ll be no end to it.’
It was an official audience and therefore most of the court were present. It was embarrassing to plead in the presence of Meulan and Gilbert Clare, of Count Henry and Richie.
‘He and his family were hungry, my lord. I am fed while I’m on duty here. Those I leave at the Tun aren’t. Is a deer worth more than a man’s life? I mean life. Mutilation can kill.’
On Rufus’ face there appeared his wicked, small-boy grin. ‘Well, Sir Ralph. How much value do you put on a man’s life? In other words, how much are you offering?’
Meulan laughed. ‘My lord, I…’
‘Where shall I start the bidding, Sir Ralph? Three marks of silver?’
‘I haven’t even one,’ said Ralph. ‘My Knight Huntsman’s pay is eight pence a day. I spend most of what I earn in feeding the people of the Tun and…’
‘When I gave you the Tun, Sir Ralph, the idea was that it and its villeins should feed you. If you can’t manage your affairs better, or insist on turning yourself into a charitable institution, the consequences are your own responsibility.’
‘I left home,’ said Ralph, ‘with all the silver I and the man Cild’s friends could put together.’ He looked straight at Rufus, for the first time not accepting his dismissal from favour, trying to reach through to the Rufus whose lover he had been. ‘Most of it has gone already, on bribes, trying to find out where Cild was…’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Amazing,’ observed Meulan audibly. ‘We are supposed to take comforts to our villeins when they turn criminal, are we?’
‘…and to obtain access, my lord, to you. I have nothing left with which to buy Cild’s freedom. I am dependent on your mercy and goodwill.’
‘You mean you want something for nothing.’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then what are you offering if you have no money?’
‘My gratitude and lifelong loyalty and that of every soul in Chenna’s Tun.’
Rufus, and then the entire court, burst out laughing. Ralph stared at Rufus’ feet, understanding the laughter. Ralph and his Tun! Gratitude and loyalty from a pack of rustics! What’s that worth? What next?
‘The answer,’ said Rufus, still shaking with mirth, ‘is no. We would advise you, Sir Ralph, if you care so much for your villeins, to warn them away from my deer henceforth.’ He made himself become grave again. ‘If this Cild becomes an example, it could benefit the rest. By the Face, if we let our deer be taken and did nothing, soon there’d be none left. The court’s adjourned. Well, Sir Ralph? You want to say something else?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘All right, get on with it.’
‘I have a responsibility towards this man. He was taken at Candlemas. At that time, my wife was near death in process of bearing a son. I believe that Cild went out that day to bring a gift of meat to his lord’s wife, to help her to live. I have never known you condemn a man for speaking his mind honestly. I ask leave now to speak freely, without danger.’
‘I have an odd feeling, Sir Ralph, that you intend to speak your mind even without safe conduct, as it were.’ He wasn’t stammering, Ralph noticed. Which meant that he felt nothing. All this amused him, nothing more. There was a tale that Rufus had once, with an outrageousness that was extreme even for him, taken a bribe from the father of a Jewish-born convert to Christianity and attempted to persuade the boy to return to the faith of his ancestors. It had failed, and the youth had indignantly condemned Rufus’ own lack of Christianity. And got away with it. Rufus had chosen to find him funny. ‘Regard yourself as having leave.’
He should be made to care.
‘My wife would have been in less peril if she had had enough to eat during the winter. I am sorry that I have no power to imprison you and keep you hungry till you understand why it is that men take deer.’
Into the silence which followed this, while Rufus slowly turned an alarming shade of purple, Henry said enquiringly: ‘Your wife had a son at Candlemas, Sir Ralph? Did she come through safely in the end?’
‘She was still alive when I left the Tun, my lord. But that was the very day the child was born.’
Rufus had himself under control now though he was still angry, his eyes small and hard. ‘We gave you licence to speak, and a promise made between knights is sacrosanct. We will keep our word. Go freely, Sir Ralph. But go. Don’t let us see or hear you for seven days at least. In other words, get out.’ As he left the hall he was to his surprise accosted by Count Henry. ‘This won’t help your man Cild but it’s a gift for your son. I hope you find your wife safe and well when you go home,’ said Henry, and slipped a pound bag of silver into Ralph’s hand.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Revelations of St John and Others
February-March 1100
The next day the snow, which had been for a long time hovering on the edge of a thaw, went over the cliff with a rush. The forest tinkled with dripping boughs; fields turned to lakes, paths and ditches to swift rivers. Rivers became torrents of black and ice-green water, bursting banks, making quagmires out of meadows, sweeping away yet more sheep and cattle. And sickness again broke out.
One of its first victims was Ralph. It was a cough and fever like the one he had had at Fallowdene. He took to his bed. Eventually someone called a physician on whose recommendation he was carried to the infirmary attached to Winchester Cathedral. The Infirmarian monks knew their work and he began to recover. He was among the fortunate, but not among the grateful. For to what, he wondered, had he come back?
Meanwhile, Father Ilger of Minste
ad was far from being the only priest in the land who had to paddle to reach his church; nor was he alone in drawing ominous comparisons between the present dismal conditions and those described in the Revelations of John as foreshadowing the end of the world.
And Count Henry seethed, for there was no getting through the twenty miles of floods between Winchester and Chenna’s Tun. Where, despite the existence of Edith, he now greatly wished to go.
The sea, surprisingly, was calm. Richard of Fallowdene’s ship, the St. Edith, was taking a risk in plying the English Channel so early in the year but Richard was generally regarded as lucky and sometimes he and his skipper leant on that luck. Sailing from the mouth of the Loire, the St. Edith put into Southampton to drop a few passengers before going safely on to Chichester. It was not the sea, but the last leg of the journey, from Southampton to Winchester, by barge up a swollen and ill-defined river, which almost succeeded in drowning the embassy from Aquitaine and the courier from that knight errant Duke of Normandy, Robert Curthose.
They were not quite drowned, but arrived drenched and half-frozen, the barge having run aground twice on what should rightly have been fields instead of river bed, so that they had to wade for it to lighten the load before the vessel could float again.
The embassy retired straight to its quarters to thaw out but Curthose’s courier, once dried, fortified with mead and clad in clean woollens, presented himself to Rufus in the hall without more delay, to announce the glad tidings that Duke Curthose, tired of his crusading fervour, was on his way home.
Having paused in Sicily on the way, in order to get married.
‘He’s coming back!’ Henry thundered. His current squire, a quiet young man by the name of Godfrey, busied himself with cleaning his master’s weapons. He unobtrusively collected up one or two daggers from a table, and put them out of sight. He also moved to the far side of the table. Henry was a generous master in some ways but when he was angry, the man who had thrown Conan from the tower at Rouen would suddenly appear and wise servants were wary of that man. Henry in one of his black furies was incalculable.
‘Why the bloody hell,’ roared Henry now, ‘couldn’t he die in the Holy Land like our grandfather did? The place is hot, enemy-infested, disease-ridden, full of snakes, and do any of them get him? No, by God! What gets him instead?’ demanded Henry rhetorically of the air. ‘A woman! He goes and gets married! ’
‘It’s natural, sir,’ ventured Godfrey.
‘I know it’s bloody natural! I’d like to marry, too!’ Henry informed him. Godfrey, who knew about Edith, looked sympathetic.
Curthose’s wife, according to the courier, was the daughter of one of the great Norman houses which had taken root in the Mediterranean lands. She was well- dowered enough to redeem Normandy – Rufus hadn’t been entirely pleased with the news either – and she was beautiful, young and nubile.
Curthose could reasonably expect an heir quite soon. And where, after all, would that leave Henry?
Henry had sunk onto a bench, jamming his clenched hands between his knees. It had only needed Curthose to die abroad, leaving Rufus as his heir. He would then himself have been next in line and even while Rufus lived, could have become, say, governor of Normandy. And as he had once said to Rufus, that rise in status would have brought him Edith. He could have insisted. The barons would have backed him because he was all the succession there was. The thought of Edith, lost now perhaps forever, turned him sick. It was like poison on a sword-edge. Curthose coming home, with a legitimate son a likelihood!
He lurched to his feet. He must have action, must give himself something different to think about or burst. Or let out his savage thoughts into words which someone might report to Rufus. ‘Godfrey, are the floods down enough yet to make getting to somewhere in the Brockenhurst direction possible?’
‘Only just, I should say, sir.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Henry.
Odd, he thought sourly as his horse floundered, splashed and slithered to the Tun, that it should in a sense have been Edith who finally sent him there. He was fortunate in finding Sybil not among the other women, but on her own side of the stream, alone and out of doors, dragging hay from the byre. He dismounted, recognising her instantly but startled to see how blue her eyes were. The firelit forest hadn’t shown him that.
Sybil, straightening up quickly, had recognised him too. She opened her mouth and closed it again. She did not know what to say.
‘I heard you had been ill. You are Sybil, wife of Ralph des Aix, aren’t you?’
‘I… yes, my lord.’ What she had recognised, in one dizzy instant, was the face of the Stranger in the Wood.
But she could see from his clothes and his horse that he was someone of note.
Henry had never been in the habit of hiding his identity. ‘I am Count Henry, brother of the king.’ She began to sink into a curtsey but he put out a hand to stop her. ‘Last time we met, you were not so formal. No need for formality now, either.’
There was an awkward moment while they studied each other. Sybil was shaken by the exalted nature of the lover who had materialised out of the dance in the forest. Henry was thinking: yes, she’s thin and careworn and dirty. None of these peasants wash themselves or their clothes in winter, though I can understand why they don’t wash clothes; they’ve nowhere to dry them. I’ve been in that position myself, living hard in Normandy. But this filthy hovel! The magic’s gone. There’s no challenge here to Edith. Yet there’s beauty under that skinny scared look. Suppose it were brought out again? I’ll never be without women on the side, not even for Edith. Besides…
‘You had a son at Candlemas?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He’s to be called Gervase. My husband had a cousin of that name, who did something to give him a start in life.’
‘Ralph wasn’t home much in April and May last year, said Henry bluntly. ‘I know that. So is Gervase mine? Or don’t you know?’
‘I… he’s yours, sir,’ Sybil whispered and then looked frightened.
‘I haven’t come to take him from you. But I want to see him. He’s thriving?’
‘Yes. I was the one who nearly died. In here.’ She led him into the dreadful place which was her house. The baby lay in a cradle, rather beautifully carved, a contrast to his shabby surroundings. She lifted him out. He promptly began to roar. There was a dark fuzz on his head.
‘Feed him if he’s hungry,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve seen more of you than that, remember?’
Sybil silently did as he said. ‘Who carved the cradle? Henry asked, seating himself on a stool.
‘A man here at the Tun, called Oswin. He’s clever at such things. My lord…’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you truly one of us? You? As much for her peace of mind as anything else, he said: ‘Yes. But I keep it very secret. You must never tell anyone. Think of the scandal.’
‘I’ll keep the secret.’ Sybil was visibly trying to put Count Henry, brother of the king, into the same skin as a member of her familiar peasant cult. ‘Why have you come?’ she asked. ‘To see Gervase?’
‘Not entirely.’ They examined each other as they sat in domestic fashion on either side of this humble fire, like a married pair. Despite the difference in their backgrounds, they were linked through the baby; there was an intimacy. ‘You’re having hard times here,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve given your husband a gift of silver – in congratulation for the birth of his son.’ They both smiled. ‘But I want to ask you again what I asked you in the Forest. If you wish to leave this place and live under my protection, I will take care of you. You can come with me now. But the choice is yours.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said Sybil. ‘But…’ She found it hard to explain herself but Wulfhild would have understood. Sybil’s wildness had been only the mental equivalent of a foal’s fluffy coat. Her true nature had emerged at last and she was the daughter of Wulfhild, who liked familiar earth beneath her feet and familiar people around her. Even Chenna’s Tun, though it was not F
allowdene, and certainly Ralph, who had brought her here in the first place out of kindness, felt safer than an unknown future with an unknown Count Henry.
‘I’d be only a kind of secret in your life,’ she said. You’ll marry one day, some great lady. Then where would I be? And there’s Ralph…’
Who had forced her to go to the Wood against her will. ‘He matters to you?’
‘He’d break in pieces if I left him. Anyway, I don’t want to leave him. I ... oh, Ralph!’
Taking him completely by surprise, Sybil burst into ears. Her flow of milk evidently ceased, for Gervase began to bawl in unison. ‘I can’t bear it!’ Sybil wailed, and rocked back and forth, half as if to soothe the howling baby, but half in the age old fashion of those in the depths of grief.
‘What can’t you bear?’ He came to her side and put his arms round her. ‘Quietly. What’s the matter? Tell me.’
‘He’s going to die!’ Sybil sobbed. ‘Ralph’s going to die and I can’t bear it. You don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand? What do you mean, Ralph’s going to die? He’s been ill this winter but I hear he’s recovering.’
‘I know. I don’t mean that. But you said did he matter. He’s my husband! She meant: I have rejoiced in the shape and warmth of his body. To Henry she could not say those words but he picked up her meaning. He longed thus to rejoice in Edith’s body. ‘I follow. Go on,’ he said.
‘I can’t bear thinking of him wounded, or frightened, or ... or ... dead. I want to hide my eyes from thinking of it. I know he’s been ill and he’s getting better but it’s still going to happen, I know it is. Oh, Ralph! Henry rose, removed what was after all his own son from Sybil’s grasp, deposited the screaming, crimsonfaced infant in its cradle and carried the cradle outside. Had he had any doubts about Gervase’s parentage, he thought, the brat’s temper would be evidence enough. He came back and sat down beside Sybil again. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Tell me what this is all about. If I can do anything, I will.’
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