The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  “Dame Christiana is out herb-gathering, madam. Do you want me to give her a message?”

  The lady prowled, glancing at the parchment he had been working on earlier and prying into a stoneware pitcher but her gaze eventually returned to him. She studied him thoughtfully and then declared, “I mentioned yesterday that I had work for you. Is he any better?” She lifted her jaw indicating Edmund.

  “No, madam.” How much did she know? Had Father Gilbert told her of Edmund’s parentage?

  “Come, let us go outside. All these skulls, ughh. Oh, Dame Christiana, you are back.” She helped the old lady free her arms from a basket laden with nettles and hedge parsley. “How can you possibly tolerate all these bones? What is that? A sloughed snakeskin?”

  “Vipers are no worse than some as is living.”

  “I hope you are not including me, you old besom, for I will not be sending you some of the latest batch of cheeses nor a firkin of ale if you are. Come, Gervase, we have matters to discuss.”

  “Do not go inviting the lad to your bed,” cackled Christiana, “he will wear you as thin as a poor man’s soles. Bah, go and be secretive, see if I care.”

  Geraint reddened as he followed Lady Constance out. The bawdy exchange at his expense was disconcerting. Dame Christiana’s protectress was sufficient in years to be his mother and she certainly eyed him with an older woman’s brazen freedom.

  The lady led him beyond eavesdropping distance of the old dame who fetched out a stool and plonked herself down on it in the sunshine, watching as if to chaperone them.

  “That tunic fits you better.” The lady’s green eyes teased him. He might have known she would ask more than gratitude.

  “So, how may I serve you?” he asked brusquely, hoping his tone might dampen any ardour on her part.

  “Oh, not me,” she answered softly. “I have a daughter. Four, in fact.” Geraint groaned inwardly. Not more women. It was bad enow dealing with a scolding mystic and this capricious lady of the manor without further mischief.

  “My youngest daughter has a problem.”

  Do we not all? he thought, witheringly. “Is or has, madam?”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “Well, it used to be is, but she is now wed to a stonyflint who abuses her right cruelly.”

  Already unstabled by Christiana’s bawdy jesting, Geraint’s thoughts galloped to an unwelcome conclusion. “I hope . . . I trust you are not . . .”

  “Suggesting that you amuse her, master scholar? Oh no, more desperate than that.” Her voice lost a little of its humour.

  “Desperate?” It was necessary to make his position plain. “I do not hire myself out like a stallion, Lady Constance.”

  To his relief, she laughed. “Climb off your high horse, master. I thought you a humble bookworm and here you are making far too many assumptions.” She held a cautioning forefinger up to silence him. “Do not premeditate me further. As I said, her husband, Sir Fulk, is very cruel to her. I love Johanna dearly and I cannot bear to see her suffer. I want to sever these marital fetters and to do this I require a man who is, like yourself, unwed.” He felt like hiding his hands but she had already observed he wore no betrothal ring. “To come to the point, Gervase de Laval, I want you to swear before an ecclesiastic court that you plighted your troth to my daughter before she married Sir Fulk.”

  Geraint was rarely short of an answer, but she had winded him. “Perjure myself, you mean?” he spluttered finally.

  Why did this have to happen? He was in trouble enow without this added complexity.

  She smiled. “I require merely words not deeds, young man. Are a few extra weeks in Purgatory too costly? Not only will you be freeing another soul from a present torment but you will emerge with your celibacy intact.”

  He would be saying no, of course, but it did not hurt to prolong the conversation or sate his curiosity. Besides, he might have heard of the husband. It would give him some inkling as to where the danger might lie in this shire. “Tell me more about this Sir Fulk.”

  “Sir Fulk de Enderby. His demesne lies a day’s journey on an ambling horse from here. Not as wealthy as our family. His castle is older than Conisthorpe. Round keep, you know the sort, built around the time of the first Henry. He is older than my Johanna by some thirty years. He was a companion of my lord’s in the wars against Scotland yet a dissembler. I thought him amiable but . . .” Her voice dropped, “Johanna always was wilful but he beats her daily.”

  “I feel sorry for her but it is not against the law for husbands to chastise their wives.”

  “Do you doubt my judgment?” He read the steel will in her eyes; she did not like to be thwarted.

  Geraint shook his head, wary at her sudden change of tone, but he would be damned if he became embroiled in her scheme. God protect him! The High Sheriff of Yorkshire, not to mention every bailiff and bounty hunter between Berwick and Bristol, was scouring every cranny that might hide a rebel from Boroughbridge. No! If she shot at this target from every angle, the arrow would not stick.

  “What would you have me do, madam? Walk into this Fulk’s hall and say, ‘I am a poor scholar who took your wife’s maidenhead before you married her and I have just remembered I want her back’?”

  “Something like that, but far easier. She has just returned to Conisthorpe.”

  “With her husband?”

  “No.” She raised a hopeful eyebrow.

  “No, my lady, I am sorry but it will not wash. Dear God, madam, I am just a scholar. The husband will skewer me like a fish before the matter even reaches the nearest bishop’s ears.”

  “A few days of dissembling is all I ask. The archdeacon’s court is due in Conisthorpe within a week.”

  He gazed at her in horror. “You cannot be serious, lady. It is a case for the bishop. No archdeacon would dare touch a marriage dispute between the nobility.” He ran a hand through his hair. “By all the Saints, madam, your whole notion is incredible. As if your daughter would mire herself to wed a schoolmaster with no prospects.”

  She tried again. “It could work. You are a stranger, that is crucial, and of pleasing appearance—enough to turn a young woman’s heart. And I am sure you are learned enough to plead your case. There is no one else I can think upon and if I do not use this chance that God has sent me . . .” She shook her head sadly, pacing away from him. Then she turned. “Johanna threatens to take her life if I send her back. You are our only hope. God has sent you for this purpose, I know it.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, her mouth twisted beseechingly.

  “Well, the Almighty never consulted me,” muttered Geraint. “And my answer is no.”

  Lady Constance took an angry breath and he braced himself. Now that the cajoling had failed, he expected her to have an arsenal of threats ready to catapult. God in Heaven! If this cursed woman only knew who he really was, she would not have the audacity to rattle on.

  “My lady, there are matters you do not understand. I would help you if I could, but . . .”

  “You would leave the shire afterwards, of course. Johanna would not expect you to remain. All we need is for the church to dissolve this marriage. A week and an oath is all we ask of you.”

  “If it were within my power . . .”

  The face she turned to him was adamantine. “I know who he is.” She jerked her head towards the dwelling. “And you, whoever you are, why, you are no more a scholar than I am a fisherwife. Let me be plain, young man, unless you do as I ask, I will send a messenger posthaste to the king. I believe he stays at York. It is not very far.”

  Geraint took a deep breath. “I have a knife, my lady. I will kill to keep the heir of Sir Roger Mortimer safe and I shall not hesitate to take your life and the old woman’s.”

  “You will not travel far with a dying man and my palfrey will be recognised.”

  “I will have to risk both.”

  “Oh dear,” she said gently. “But what if he dies before tomorrow? Will you change your mind? You shall be paid handsomely. Costly t
astes, hmm?” Her glance provocatively slid over his boots.

  He regarded her unhappily. Women were supposed to know their place; they were supposed to be ineffectual, gentle creatures, bearers of babes and, well, chattels that must be protected. The last thing he wanted was to have to kill this lady and the healer in cold blood. By Christ, if he did, every man within the shire would be hunting him before sunrise.

  “What is the penalty for treason against the king?” she prompted softly. “They will half-hang you, then they will cut you down and draw out your entrails—”

  “Exactly. And what is more, if they catch me, they will take Edmund. If they convict him, they will take his father outside to Tower Hill and—Dear God, my lady, would you have the hanging of so great a man as Sir Roger Mortimer on your conscience?”

  “Would you have my daughter’s death on yours?” He turned away from her, his arms folded sternly. “Please,” she pleaded, all pride and menace emptied from her voice.

  Geraint swallowed. A pity Edmund was not close to recovery. He needed time. If only he could get the lad safely away.

  “I will think upon’t, my lady. Give me a day to consider. I cannot run far with a dying man.”

  “But you can run far on your own.” Her voice sank to a whisper, “If you abandon him, I swear I will turn him over to the high sheriff, alive or dead.” Her expression grew more adamant with every heartbeat. “You have no choice! You have to do it!”

  Five

  “MOTHER, ARE YOU out of your wits?” Johanna sank onto the linen chest in her mother’s chamber after midday dinner, her thoughts whirling like blown windmill sails. She regarded Lady Constance scathingly. “Am I to understand that you opportuned some man of unknown origin in the wild wood this morning and offered him money to be my husband! Jesu, madam, the knave might be blabbing the tale out to half the shire by now if he has sufficient ale to make his tongue gallop. What possessed you?”

  “Your wellbeing for a start,” muttered her mother reproachfully, “and I did not opportune him. We first met a few days ago when he tried to rob Father Gilbert.”

  Johanna’s eyes widened further. For an instant, she could not find words to clothe her feelings. “Only tried!” she exclaimed. “Jesu preserve me, now you are admitting he is not only an outlaw but a stupid one as well.”

  Her parent sniffed defensively. “He is a poor scholar and he was desperately hungry.” Was that supposed to make her feel more comfortable about the fellow?

  “And a failed one, by the smell of it.” Johanna rose and paced between the bed and door. Lady Constance of Conisthorpe was not usually so reckless. Certainly she ordered the demesne as skilfully as Lord Alan ever had and for the most part she chose her servants well. But had this outlaw a silvery tongue and a cheerful eye? She would wager he had cajoled his way into her mother’s goodwill.

  “And another thing.” Johanna swung round. “Why is this scholar of yours not tutoring some rich man’s sons or employed honestly as a schoolmaster? What was he doing apart from trying to rob old churchmen? Poaching our deer?”

  Catching Johanna’s hands in hers, her mother exclaimed, “I am not such a fool as you think me. This man will serve our purpose, trust me. Where else can I find a stranger so swiftly, one who is willing to swear that he married you before Fulk did?”

  Johanna tugged her fingers away. “Do you truly realise the enormity of what you are saying? You have asked some incompetent trickster to come and pose as my husband. Think about it, madam. Why would a woman of my status have espoused myself to a poor scholar?”

  “You could swear you fell in love. Besides, you have yet to meet him. You are judging the wine before you taste it.”

  “Of course I am.” Johanna flung up her hands like birds panicked into flight. “I would not even buy this vinegary wine in the first place.” She gave an angry sigh and gathered up her sewing and silks.

  “Supposing I were to arrange for you to meet him, Johanna?” Her mother reached out a staying hand. “No, listen, go and bathe your face at St. Robert’s spring early tomorrow morning. This young man can meet you there. Then tell me yea or nay.”

  “What, go to the wood to be assaulted? Out of one cooking pot into another.”

  Her mother met Johanna’s outraged glare undeterred. “Father Gilbert can accompany you. He knows the scholar already.”

  “The chaplain is embroiled in this?” That reined in Johanna’s galloping indignation. She folded her lips, pensively gathering the embroidery to her breast. What harm might it do? The old courage in her struggled for air. “I was thinking of visiting the holy spring anyway. It may help my bruises heal faster.” Then she sighed, “But it will not do. Edyth will insist on accompanying me like a shadow.”

  “I will warn the man.” Lady Constance began to unpin her veil. “I had better make haste if I am to let him know this afternoon. I hope he will agree to this. To be honest, he is not exactly enthralled by my plan any more than you are.” That was scant relief.

  “But the jingle of gold, of course, is loosening the straps that bind his conscience.”

  “You are probably right, lambkin. Where is my cap?” She searched though the untidy pile of garments on her bed. “I am thankful you are being co-operative at last. This man will be perfect for our purpose, and let us face the facts, Johanna, we are beggars and must ride whatever horse we can in this matter.”

  “Mother, he is a beggar and will ride us if we let him.”

  THE FIRST THINGS Geraint noticed about the man who had suddenly materialised out of the forest to annoy Dame Christiana were that the span between his shoulders and head could be hardly called a neck and that his skin was the hue of a brown egg. In fact one could suspect God of having pressed his thumb on the fellow’s head to stop him growing an extra span before dropping him into a dyer’s vat.

  The knave was almost dancing before the old dame as she sought to circumnavigate him and reach the peace of her hut. Geraint could have easily made his presence felt and sent the wretch sprawling on his way with a cuff on the ear, but he was curious to see who would best whom in this encounter. As well, a strong instinct told him that he had seen the fellow before in some market place, probably seducing housewives into buying lotions that would mend anything from sore breasts to styes. The rogue’s maturity—he must have seen some thirty winters to judge by his thinning brown hair and the ploughlines of his brow as he removed his beaked hat—not to mention his tenacity and particularly good clothes were sufficient to proclaim his character, and such a charlatan was the last kind of traveller Geraint wanted to see straying over the holy widow’s doorstep or poking his nose into others’ business.

  “Give me employment, sweet madam,” the man was pleading. “I chop wood exquisitely, herd cows according to the laws of Pythagoras, discuss metaphysics with sheep, juggle, tumble, recite scurrilous ballads and I have an uncommon hand.” He waggled it, and then as if it were an embarrassment, hid it behind his back with an apologetic shrug.

  Christiana’s glance could have scythed him. “Can you tie knots in your tongue?” Like partners in a dance, they reached the dwelling’s threshold together.

  “No, good dame.”

  “Pity.” Christiana closed the door fiercely on his piked toe.

  “Ow! For shame, mistress, a crust of bread and I will be gone in a trice.”

  “Nay, feed you and you will hang like a bad smell in the air for days.” She tried to push the door closed but the man kept his foot in place.

  “Sweet mistress, surely, living here on your own, you lack for company and those hands would be fairer for another’s labour. Ouch!”

  The woman now had the rogue by the ear but he was wriggling hard and Geraint moved into view, reluctant to reveal his presence, but he could not chance the dame receiving any hurt.

  His large and sudden appearance stifled the fellow’s bravado, but only momentarily. “For pity, master, bid your wife let me go. My mother said my ears were long enough.”

 
“Wife!” exclaimed Geraint and Christiana in unison.

  “Is she not your wife, sir? For I never saw such a fair and comely wench. Desist, my lovely one. Ow!” Another clout caught the knave’s ear.

  Geraint started laughing as the man sank to the ground with legs crossed, his hands cradling his head to ward off further blows.

  “What are you, besides a good-for-nothing?” Geraint asked as he set his arm protectively round the old dame’s shoulders. He was appreciative of the man’s wit. Give the creature his due, nothing else had made him smile since Boroughbridge.

  “I would be flattered if you thought me a fool but alas, sir, as you say, I am good-for-nothing, a vagabond.”

  “So what can you truly do besides let your tongue run amok?” Christiana folded her arms and inspected him.

  “Do?” exclaimed the fellow, falling onto his knees with a hopeful doglike expression. “I grovel, I plead, I say prayers that God will send generous, charitable folk to succour me and keep me from the Devil.”

  “Where are you from?” Geraint asked, his curiosity aroused. The man’s dialect was southern, Kentish perhaps.

  “I was born in the shadow of the Conqueror’s tower, master, and have truly walked in shadows ever since, aping my betters.”

  “Ah, send him on his way, lad,” muttered Christiana to Geraint, tossing her hands in the air. “You will never get an answer out of this one that is not tarnished with falsehood. You worm, be gone!” She disappeared into her cottage. The door closed emphatically.

  The man climbed to his feet, fastidiously brushing the dags of dirt from hose that betrayed no mending. The gesture stirred a memory. Had he said “fool?”

  “By Heaven, now I know who you are,” exclaimed Geraint. “You are my lord of Lancaster’s jester!”