“It were best you had kept out of this, Father. Now I shall have to kill you,” he growled, but the thin little wafer of a man came closer still.
“Kill me?” A wry smile twisted his lips. “I have bested you already, I recall.” The priest’s glance fell meaningfully upon his wounded shoulder. “You do not have the mien of a murderer, my son, and my lady will unleash her hunting pack to track you down. Here is better work for me.” Not waiting for an answer, the older man crouched beside Edmund, reaching out a compassionate hand, tributaried with veins, to feel his forehead.
Even as he cursed inwardly, Geraint was glad of the comfort of another human being. If Edmund was dying, at least his soul would not be sundered from his body unshriven.
Shifting round, the cleric set back the cloak and inspected the bloodied shirt beneath. He frowned, not liking what he saw, and swiftly covered him again.
“There is a healer, a holy widow, dwelling on my lady’s demesne west of here. We have presently come from there. Your friend will not last long without her skills.”
“How far?”
Brushing the leaves from his habit, the priest clambered to his feet.
“We can have him there by nightfall if we sling him on a litter with my ass and another beast aft and back. I will fetch them hither as fast as I may. Keep him as warm as you can and say your prayers.” He lifted his face to the sky, assessing the clouds, and then returned his glance to Geraint’s hesitant face and the blade still naked in his hand. “Or would you rather he die?”
“Could you not fetch her here?” Surely the woman could not disobey the priest’s summons?
“Her? Not Christiana.” The cleric studied his face, adding, “You fear I will be indiscreet? Is that what concerns you? I know battle wounds when I see them, master scholar. And I heard that a rebel army was on the march from the Trent with King Edward harrying them.”
Geraint averted his gaze. Dear God, the man knew too much for his own good. “And these are the Mortimer lions unless I am mistaken.” The priest stooped and fingered the embroidery on the edge of Edmund’s shirt collar showing where the cloak ties had slackened.
“You are mighty omniscient,” Geraint answered coldly, grasping the weapon more firmly. Certes, he would need to use it; the man had just written his own death warrant. Yet his curiosity was whetted. “We are dangerous company. Why should you wish to help us?”
“Because . . .” The churchman’s blue stare rose from the lad’s face to gravely examine Geraint’s. “Because King Edward has broken the laws of God.” He took another interested glance at the prostrate knight. “Edmund, I heard you say, eh? Not quite so comely as his father. Yes, I think I can guess whose son this is.
Trust me. You have little choice.” As if he read suspicion rampant still on Geraint’s face, he continued, “Oh, I know a Mortimer when I see one. Three of Sir Roger Mortimer’s brothers are priests, and Walter, rector at Radnor, is a good friend of mine. Was not Sir Roger arrested down in Shrewsbury in January on the king’s orders?”
Geraint stared at him, further amazed that he was so well informed. “Aye, arrested after being promised a safe conduct to King Edward at Westminster.”
“Is Sir Roger still alive?”
“For the nonce. The king has him mewed up in the Tower of London.”
“Then I suggest we do everything we can to ensure his heir lives.” He stood tensely waiting for Geraint’s decision, as if he faced a snarling dog with its hackles up.
It was necessary to be pragmatic. Geraint’s grip on the haft eased and he slowly sheathed the knife. “We rode out to rescue Sir Roger on the road from Shrewsbury to London, but there were too many soldiers for us. That was two months since.”
The priest took a deep breath, as if in relief that his life was no longer in peril, and answered, “Fortunate, I would say, otherwise you and Sir Edmund also might be in the Tower or hanged from Shrewsbury gibbet by now. We have heard some rumour of a skirmish north of York. Is that where you have come from?”
“Skirmish!” So they knew little as yet. “Bloody slaughter, more like. My lord of Hereford is slain and Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, is claiming sanctuary in Boroughbridge church.”
“God protect him!” The priest fervently crossed himself. Even though the weapon was put away, he raised his eyes to Geraint with new respect and a great deal more apprehension. “Do you know who else led the rebel lords, my son? Was Sir Roger Clifford among them?”
Of course, down the road lies Skipton. Geraint realised he was hard by the demesne of the Cliffords, the great lords in these parts. Surely then the king’s men would search all the harder in these dales. Clifford and his men—any of the fortunate wretches who survived—might flee this way.
“Clifford is a man of massive height, taller even than yourself, married to my lord of Hereford’s daughter,” the priest was saying.
“I believe he was with my lord of Hereford, but whether he escaped. . .” Geraint swallowed painfully. “I fear the king will wreak sore vengeance on all those taken prisoner. God’s mercy, we only escaped by the skin of our teeth and then our company was set upon by bounty hunters just east of Ripon. If Edmund is caught and accused of treason, it will go ill for his father in the Tower.”
“Then better he lie low at the healer’s . . . if he lives out the night. You also, young man, you look as though a sparrow could topple you, big as you are.” Or an ancient priest might!
“This holy widow, can she be trusted?”
“As God is my witness, yes. And if any mortal can mend him, she can.” The cleric’s heavily lidded eyes glittered with sagacity now. “You will have to trust us, won’t you?”
Three
THREE DOGS IN a variety of sizes harangued him and sniffed suspiciously at his heels as Geraint warily followed the priest Gilbert into the dwelling of the woman Christiana. The inevitable smoky smell that met him surprisingly carried no obnoxious tallow vapours and it was reassuring to see that the earth floor was clean. The only extravagance was the costly beeswax candle, no doubt a gift from the faithful, squatting stolidly on a small table. Vellum and quills were neatly set out around the candle holder.
Before he had a chance for further observations a scrap of a woman stepped out from behind the door. Grey braids on either side of her head, neatly coiled like a noblewoman’s, showed beneath the folds of a blue headdress as clean as those in any painting of Our Lady, and her kirtle, dark as yew needles, hung in sober folds. A simple silver cross, the length of a finger, rose and fell upon her bosom.
“How is a body to write her revelations with continual interruptions?” she demanded, brown eyes, round and shining like wet river pebbles, glaring at her visitors. Geraint’s jaw slackened. Revelations! This Christiana must rate herself immodestly high to have the temerity to set herself such a task. A literate woman!
As if she sensed him judging her, the old dame sucked in her cheeks and lifted her chin in challenge.
“Why are you back, Gilbert? Come to see if I practise the black arts by night, have you?” And as if to add a macabre quality to her humour, a black bird flapped from the rafters, startling Geraint into crossing himself. “Ha, this is Jack. You have frightened the handsome young man, Jackie.” The jackdaw fixed one eye speculatively on Geraint as it settled on her shoulder and then scratched its grey nape thoughtfully.
Father Gilbert chuckled. “Well, you have familiars in plenty if ever I want to petition the archbishop,” he countered, firmly stopping her from latching the door. “I am here because this scholar needs your healing and we also have a wounded man out there slung between our horses.”
“Excellent,” muttered the widow shrewishly. “That must have done his hurts a power of good. Special, is he?” She took up the candle. “Did my lady bid you come?”
The men followed her out. “She knows of this, yes.” The priest instantly sensed Geraint’s angry reaction and swiftly set a reassuring hand on his good shoulder, adding, “But we require your discret
ion, Christiana.”
“Do you now?” She marched across to the pole stretcher where they had lain it on the ground. “He is not her leman, is he?” The priest gave a grunt of disapproval but Christiana continued undeterred. “No?” She surveyed Edmund by the candle’s light. He was swaddled tight as a fly in a spider’s web. “Hmm, too green a codling, from the look of him. Well, do not stand there like drones, the pair of you. Fetch him in.”
Once they had laid Edmund on her palliasse, she gave Gilbert the candle and ran gnarled hands exploratively over the young man. “Hunting accident? Or has there been a battle?” Her gaze, thick with curiosity, swung from the priest’s face to the stranger’s.
Geraint met her piercing inquisition. Given the light, feeble though it was, it was necessary to try for an honest expression. “I would prefer not to have to lie to you, good dame.”
“Can you save him?” Father Gilbert interrupted. “My lady would be pleased if you would care for him and the lad here.”
Christiana’s antennae must have sensed Geraint’s irritation at being referred to as a lad. “Hunting accident for you too, boy?” she asked, her harsh voice larded with sarcasm, and, not bothering for his answer, pressed her fingers against the side of Edmund’s throat. “Hold the candle here for me.” Then her eyes flickered over Geraint once more. “Care for the pair of ’em? Oh, no, of course not,” she added waspishly. “Let her magnificence send the king and his court as well. What matter if it pleases me not one whit. I request to be left alone yet every stray dog, two-legged and otherwise, comes whining. Bring the poxy light closer!”
“ ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath,’ ” snarled Father Gilbert. “Have done with this prattle.”
“Do not dare quote at me, sir priest! Have I broomed these boys from my threshold? No, I have not.” She pulled down the skin beneath one of Edmund’s eyes and inspected its colouring.
“Well?” asked the priest as she finally straightened up.
“I will do what I can.” She swung round on Geraint. “You, get your shirt off! What are you gawking at, lad? Over there, move the skull off the stool.”
Geraint lifted what had probably been the inside scaffolding of a badger’s head and set it beside the hearth next to two other skulls. Did she grind them for potions, he wondered, as he sat down with a weary sigh.
“Well, uncover yourself, scholar, or are you expecting me to play your nursemaid?” He felt the blood heating his cheeks and fumbled at his belt. The effort of freeing himself from his tunic made him swear and Father Gilbert came to his aid.
“You should minister to my companion’s wounds first, dame.”
“Nay, boy, let me see what mischief you have suffered. I want you to gather wood and stoke the fire. We shall need hot water to cleanse the pair of you.”
“I shall do that.” Father Gilbert lit a taper from the candle, grabbed a wicker basket which stood by the hearth and went out.
“My eyes are not so good by candlelight, but I will do what I can.”
Geraint surrendered to Christiana’s skilful prodding like a tired child, relieved to have someone else make the decisions for a little space.
“When did this happen?”
“Two days ago, I think.” Was that all?
“Like that, is it, my handsome? Well, a good night’s sleep will sort you out and cleanse your memory. I am sure you will think up a good tale to tell me in the morning.” Her voice lost its levity. “What was it damaged your shoulder? You can lie through your fine white teeth but see sense; if I know what I am dealing with, I might be able to heal you faster.”
Geraint hesitated. “The gash on my arm is from a pitchfork.”
“And your other wound?”
“A flail,” he answered softly.
Christiana gave an unladylike whistle. “Sits the wind in that quarter, eh? Plenty of enemies out there, have you?”
“No, that was done by one of my own side.” He trapped her hands, forcing her to look him in the face. “Will my companion live?”
She wriggled her fingers free from his grasp.
“No,” she answered. “I very much doubt it.”
BEFURRED AGAINST THE chill dame, his collar raised like a demon’s hood, Fulk signalled for the portcullis to be raised and handed Johanna into the litter that was waiting in the courtyard. He made no effort to tuck the coney fur rug about her thighs as if he was a dotard besotted with a young wife, but gave his hand to his youngest sister, Edyth, who, with her usual smug expression, seated herself beside Johanna.
“You never told me she was coming,” Johanna blurted out. It would be a journey planned by the Devil; her sister-in-law’s collared pet squirrel was already scrambling up its mistress’s shoulder, cowering from Johanna’s dog.
“Edyth will remind you of your duty, madam. And do not stay away long. I want you back the moment your father has agreed to dispatch the remainder of the money he owes me. Make sure my sister witnesses his consent.” Johanna made no answer, ignoring him as she turned her little dog’s attention from the squirrel and made Cob cosy upon her lap.
Fulk looked across her at his sister. “Remember what I told you, Edyth! Have others there besides. We may need them to give testimony.”
“I am not a fool, brother,” Edyth answered sharply, her glance directing Fulk’s attention meaningfully to the dog.
“This creature stays.” The tiny hound yelped in pain as her husband violently snatched him from Johanna’s hands and flung him to the wet cobblestones where he cowered whimpering.
Johanna clenched her fists futilely and swallowed back the tears. Were there no depths that Fulk would not sink to? Last night and this morning had been further humiliations. She would have given the throne of England to scour his face with her fingernails in front of his servants, but Agnes was sitting pillion behind one of the escort ready to leave, and she did not dare risk losing her as well.
“Do try to behave decorously, Johanna,” Fulk admonished, pinching her cheek with a nasty leer. “But you will not have much choice, will you?”
“God rot you, Fulk!” she whispered. It was all she dared.
He laughed and let fall the litter curtain.
“Lead on, Edgar.” Another scourge to her back but one of which Fulk was probably unaware. Ever since she had arrived at Enderby, Edgar de Laverton, one of his knights, had been wickedly eyeing her like a polecat watching a squirrel. Damn Fulk! He was sending half her problems with her, but at least she would be free of him.
The litter swayed uncomfortably as the horses were whipped forwards and the squirrel, caught unawares, snagged her veil, landed unwelcome on her lap and bit her gloved thumb. It could have been a portent, thought Johanna gloomily, but as she heard the hooves of the packhorses clop behind them across the drawbridge, her spirits started to soar. It was like leaving Hell.
No one ever leaves Hell, her intellect reminded her. If your father recovers, he will send you back. Only Fulk’s death or yours will free you from this bondage. You are no better off than a villein. No! Johanna protested silently. There has to be a way. Men make the laws, persisted the practical voice, adding pettily: Besides, Fulk has your dog.
Johanna lifted her chin resolutely as the wooden planks of the drawbridge were winched up behind them. Whatever it takes, she vowed, I am never going back.
GERAINT RAISED SURLY eyes heavenwards before schooling his gaze into a proper semblance of gratitude and humility at the arrival of the Lady of Conisthorpe next morning. He turned towards her, his arms spiky with kindling wood, feeling unkempt in her elegant presence.
Smiling, she set back her fur-lined hood with a hand gloved in Moorish leather and let her horse prance round towards him, delicately picking its hooves across the spangled grass. The sun glittered on the gemmed caul which held her hair close to the nape of her neck. A few strands of silvery hair glinted among the mass of auburn pulled severely back into the snowy linen which framed her high-boned cheeks and wilful chin.
“I sai
d how is your companion?” she repeated, gazing down at him from the saddle with all the grandeur of a formidable goddess of plenty. “Is he mending?”
Geraint sighed, temporarily unloaded his armful into the lee of the cottage wall and returned dutifully to take her palfrey’s bridle. “No, my lady, but he lives yet.”
The lady made no answer but swung herself out of the saddle and briskly strode towards the cottage, leaving him to play the groom. He tethered the horse reluctantly, his mind bristling with anxiety. Did she ride unaccompanied? he wondered, glancing uneasily round for her servants. How many knew of his presence?
He hastened after her, determined to have some answers and found her giving Edmund a cursory inspection.
“So, you have kept him alive,” she exclaimed, studying the youth’s face while giving the old dame’s crinkled cheek a peck of a kiss as if she was an ancient aunt. Perhaps she was.
“Just, God be praised,” muttered the old woman, unmoved by the perfumed embrace.
“I take it, if he recovers, he will not be fit to travel for a while.”
“No, child.”
“Excellent.”
“Madam?” Geraint clenched his jaw.
She looked around the cottage as if making an inventory, but her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. “I may have some work for you, Gervase,” she exclaimed, tapping her riding crop impatiently against her silken surcote, as if anxious to be gone. “I will return tomorrow. Have you everything you require, Christiana?”
“Ha, apart from peace and solitude, you mean? More clean linen for the dressings would be a blessing and healing moss too.”
“Yes, of course, Christiana, I shall send a manservant for it and you shall have your supplies by Father Gilbert’s good grace after noon.”
“Madam.” Geraint hastened out after her into the sunshine. She was waiting for him to untie her horse for her. “I . . .” He wanted to plead that she keep a still tongue.
“Yes?”
“Sure . . . surely it is perilous for you to ride without an escort, my lady. That outlaw who—”
The Knight And The Rose Page 3