“I felt an unaccountable sweat last night and my heart started racing.”
“Aye, that is part of it. It needs a knife taken to it to exude the pus and then you must pack it daily with moss to fill the cavity, keep it drained and make sure you do naught foolhardy.” Bleak words.
“Then lance it now,” he muttered, clenching his jaw. “And swiftly, I pray you.”
“Nay, I am loath to do it hastily and in such poor light, especially if you are like to get your shoulder sodden afore you get back to the castle. I will give you more padding though to keep your apparel from chafing it.”
“Good dame, I beg you!”
“No, lad. Charm little Johanna into playing your nursemaid. She could manage this.” As if she sensed his disbelief, she continued, “I had lief have her on my side in trouble than the rest of them at Conisthorpe.”
He shuddered as she began to cleanse his wound. “Why so?”
“Oh, the girl has a steady hand and a cool head and does not flinch at the sight of blood like other noble-born wenches. For one thing, ’twas she who stitched the gash in young Peter Weaver’s leg. I was living by the river then. They brought him to me but my fingers were too stiff to hold the needle. She did it though. Used to take alms to those as needed it, she did, and never turned her nose up neither.” She set a wad of folded linen across his shoulder. “What think you of the wench?”
Geraint grimaced, “A veritable basilisk, her glance is perilous.”
“Aye, well, but reserve your judgment a while yet. Did not King Alfred say, ‘Believe nothing of what you hear, and half of what you see’?”
“And the way folks talk, the same could be said of you.” He received a clout on the ear.
His exclamation drew a feeble sound from behind the curtain. Though awake, Sir Edmund was still horizontal, as Geraint expected, but from the small amount of failing daylight crawling in through the wall opening, he was relieved to see the young knight’s complexion had lost the frightening grey pallor that betokened death.
The heir to the noble house of Mortimer was overjoyed to see Geraint—as much as Edmund was capable of being joyous. His voice lacked a healthy vigour, but he had his wits back and Edmund had never been taciturn. Though his speech was gasping, the words still came in abundance.
“Where in Heaven have you been, you whoreson, leaving me in this dingy hovel, at the mercy of that old scold?”
“Be thankful to her, Edmund, she saved your life.”
“Well, that may be, but I wish to be quit of this place.”
“Bored are you, sir? Upon my soul, you would willingly hang on to such boredom if you knew one half of what I have been at.”
“I doubt it. The pain has been . . . unbearable.”
“I can believe it.” He hoped that the old woman still had a generous supply of poppy extract to dilute Edmund’s whingeing. “Dame Christiana assures me your bones are knitting well.”
“So she says, but they ache. Pain like Satan’s fire. When are you going to get me out of here?”
“When your legs can manage it and then, believe me, we shall be gone from this place as fast as a lightning bolt.”
“You liar, Geraint, you look as though you are living in Fortune’s lap. I have never seen such embroidery.” He poked feebly at the stitching around the pristine shirt cuff.
“Ah, that is my wife’s doing.” A small lie.
He was pleased to see Sir Edmund’s face resembled a fish with its gills stuffed.
“Wife! You had no permission to marry.”
“Calm yourself. I am not married, merely pretending to be married.”
Edmund’s brow creased censorily and he huffily looked away at the wall. “I cannot believe this. You are prancing around having garments sewn for you and enjoying the services of a woman while I am glued here, weak and ill, to this wretched pallet, with that old crone berating me as if I was a naughty infant. Where is your loyalty, man?”
His companion pulled up a stool. “I am actually doing it for your sake.”
“Mine, a fine lie!” The Mortimer blue eyes bore into his sullenly. “The old hag tells me it is several days past since you brought me here. Why here, you ribald? We can afford better than this. Is there no abbey hard by?”
“Do you remember the battle?”
“Vaguely, but . . .” he frowned. “The last I recall is that you said all was lost and—and our company had better flee but then . . . Where are the others, Geraint?”
His face betrayed the dire tidings. “What happened shall be told but not now, time is too precious.”
“Dead! Every one of them?”
“Be still and listen, Edmund! I came to warn you.” He unpeeled the lad’s fingers from his sleeve. “In God’s name, harken for your own good. You are safe here. Even though the lady of this demesne recognised you, she will say nothing. The king has offered a reward for all rebels, alive or dead, and there is a price on your head so—”
“How much?”
Geraint did not know, but he made a modest guess and Edmund’s nose wrinkled. “Is that all?”
“It is enough. After all, you were not one of the commanders.”
“Does the king know for sure that I was at Boroughbridge.”
“Oh, the high sheriff knows. But the crux of the matter is that the lady has vowed that if I do not dance to her piping, she will hand you over to the king—for lopping, no question.”
The sick youth’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. Although the Mortimer heir was not a coward, he was more careful of his own skin than his father. He was thinking matters over and, as usual, assuming that self-interest drove everyone else as it did him. “So although I need you here, you are. . . pleasuring this woman like a dog when she whistles for it to save my skin.”
“No, not her, her daughter, and it is not a pleasure.”
“So she is not in the least comely?” Edmund seemed to take some pleasure in that.
“One half of her face is pleasing enough, but her real husband has beaten her so hard that her other cheek is woefully bruised. She is spirited but has a tongue like a joiner’s file. And now there is another force to be reckoned with, if the husband gets wind of you, Edmund, uugh.” He drew a finger across the lad’s throat. “It is a fine old story, I can tell you, and right perilous, getting worse each day. This morning there I was, pretending to play the husband, when the deputy sheriff arrives and starts questioning me. I have fobbed him off for the time being, but that is why I am here to warn you. They are searching for rebels and outlaws.”
“Outlaws too!”
“Well, actually, I am the outlaw they are looking for,” Geraint informed him as if it was an everyday matter, “but there is a brigand called Black Nick out there somewhere. I doubt he would set foot in the chase though, and he would not dare harm Dame Christiana or else every man from here to Knaresborough would be after him with cudgels.”
Edmund would have no doubt cast his gaze despairingly to Heaven, but since he was prostrate already, he glared at the sooty roof.
“I do not believe this! Are your wits addled, Geraint? You are sitting there babbling about wretched outlaws and people’s husbands coming after you. In God’s name, man, I am . . . as feeble as a kitten still. What do I do if anyone comes searching for me? Can you not stay here to help? I cannot comprehend why you cannot move me somewhere where this Lady whatever-her-name-is and the husband cannot find us and then as soon as I am hale enough, we will make our escape.”
“Sir, I am doing my best. I would need a wain to move you any distance and struggling to do so on my own will weaken you again. You need to keep as still as possible. Be cheerful. Dame Christiana has a pit beneath the floor here that you can hide in if the need arises and her dogs will give plenty of warning.”
Edmund sniffed sulkily, his fingers plucking at the coarse blanket. “This is most unsatisfactory, you knave. Where is your sense of duty, man? You should be here defending me while I am incapacitated. Wife indeed!
And what about my wife, Elizabeth? Have you sent to her yet?”
“You think I do all this in jest, sir? No, I have not had the means but I will do so as soon as I can. I am watched on all sides. My lady is fearful of me abandoning her cause, her daughter’s husband is after my blood, and the deputy sheriff will come nosing again soon.” He stood up abruptly, needing air. The lad in good health was hard enough to take, but, ailing, was enough to drive any sane man out of his wits. “I must get back. Even coming here to check on your well-being was dangerous, save—God willing—they are hardly likely to be tracking me in such a foul downpour.”
Reading his scowling face, the youth sank back shaking his head miserably. “Is there any news of my father?” he muttered.
“Still in the Tower, as far as I know.” Geraint watched Edmund close his eyes in a thankful prayer.
“And Thomas of Lancaster?”
“Taken to Pomfret as a prisoner.”
“To be shut in his own new tower, doubtless.”
“Aye, the Saints defend him. We are leaderless at present, that is for sure.” He grabbed his still-dripping cloak from behind the curtain. “Fare you well, sir.”
“Geraint, for pity’s sake, must you go?”
“Yes, else I will be missed.” He leaned down and put a reassuring hand on the knight’s. “Try not to fret. I promise you I will return the instant it is safe to do so.” At the curtain he paused and swung round with a grin. “Did I mention the Earl of Lancaster’s jester is acting as my esquire?”
Predictably, Sir Edmund’s jaw dropped.
Dame Christiana escorted him to his horse, holding a leather cloth above her head against the rain, and waited in the shelter of the stall while he untethered the stallion.
“I listened to what you told the lad. Bad business this and the king worse than he should be.”
“Aye, certes, that is the crux of the matter.” He bent down and gave the dame a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for what you are doing there. Edmund is not normally so cheerful.”
Dame Christiana chuckled. “Doesn’t take after his sire, does he? His da’ would charm the birds out of their nests, even the two-legged ones.”
Geraint was amused at her lack of respect, but it was no laughing matter.
“His ‘da’ is in great danger, I fear. The king could hurdle him out to execution for high treason at any time if he so pleases.”
“True, poor devil.” She shivered as if a ghost had wandered over her grave and grimaced at the heavens. “More foul weather is on the way, mark my words. No men-at-arms will venture out tomorrow.”
“Aye, I hope so.”
She sniffed the air uneasily like an old doe sensing hunters. “No, truly, lad. Seeing as you are the lord here for the nonce, ride back by the river road and see the state of things. There is a feel to this rain that bodes right ill.”
THE FADING LIGHT in her bedchamber made Johanna lay aside Father Gilbert’s chasuble, which she had been mending as a self-inflicted penance for her impertinent interpretation of the Book of Genesis.
“Sir Geoffrey and the men will be truly sodden by the time they return,” muttered Agnes. “Shall I light the candles, my lady?”
Johanna shook her head and peered out into the misty wetness. Below the castle walls, the river sounded angry.
“Dear God! The weavers! Come and see! If this weather continues, they will be caught atwixt the river and the beck.”
Agnes joined her. “Evil looking, ain’t it, but they surely can fend for themselves, though their head man’s not got much sense. Ranulf’s a cursed, stubborn tyke!”
“Is he headman there now? Oh, Agnes, I would Sir Geoffrey were back. I had best ride down and warn them.”
“No, madam,” protested the maidservant, catching her arm as she turned. “’Twould be folly for you to leave the castle.”
While Johanna dreaded falling into Fulk’s clutches, she could not stand by as the danger of flood increased. “It would be greater folly to idle here while others perish. They are our people and must be ordered to safety. I shall leave at once.”
“Then, for Jesu’s sake, take Sir Gervase and his esquire with you. ’Tis their duty to protect you.”
“Ha!” But as it was, she had little choice. Her mother, anticipating trouble from Fulk’s men, had ridden out earlier with two of the reeves, Yolonya, and the grooms for escort to the villages north of the town to forewarn their villeins and collect overdue rents.
Johanna found the esquire Watkyn in the stable saddling the remaining horse, a shabby hackney. The man’s instant guilty colouring told her that some mischief was afoot; the stallion lent to Gervase was missing. “He has left, has he not?” she hissed, and cornered the fellow, surprised that his uneasy gaze kept sliding sideways to the variety of pitchforks angled against the wall. Sweet Jesu protect her, did the coward mean to threaten her with one of them?
Watkyn edged away from the implements, flapping his hands gently in the air as if to calm her. “Quietly, I b-beg you madam, the lady Edyth could come in at any moment.”
“And you are about to slink off too!”
He cowered. “N-no, my lady.”
“Liar! Where has he gone?”
“S-Sir Gervase?”
“Who else? My pig? Cease hedging, Watkyn. I am not a pea-brain. Has the coward run away?” Had it been her mother’s harsh words that morning or her own contrariness? God forgive them both for being so stupid.
“No, my lady. I-I . . .” He swallowed and glanced in the air, as if searching for a story that would appease her.
“Oh, a pox on this!” She was not deceived by the silly sheep expression. “Well, I shall have to make do with you. We have to warn the weavers and fisher folk. Strap on a pillion seat quickly, man. There is no time to be lost.”
Gervase’s man looked horrified as he took in her determined stance. “But you can’t, my lady,” he spluttered, unhooking the wooden seat from the wall. “If Sir Fulk—” He drew breath and tried again, “My lady, I beg you to remain here in safety and let me do your errand.”
Oh yes? Well, she would not believe that. Insolent jackanapes! As to his master, he could roast in Hell! And if the pair of them thought they could sidle away in the rain, Gervase de-cursed-Laval would rue the day. She would hurl the entire garrison after him. No, the Devil seize him, she could not! The public shame of her first husband being dragged back to her side after he had already abandoned her for two years would be too humiliating to bear and certainly lose her the case.
She drew the cered, hooded cloak tightly round her, and waited for Watkyn to help her onto the unpadded pillion.
“Hurry, Watkyn! Let us go! NOW! Take the high street down to Bridgegate!”
There was no occasion for further argument, even at the gatehouse, for the porter kept well within his shelter and did not even attempt to delay them with his chatter as he windlassed up the portcullis. But the weather was merciless, the rain cruelly slashing into them as they crossed the drawbridge.
Tucking her head behind Watkyn’s back, with her hood well down, Johanna was saved the brunt of it, but before they even passed the church the hems of her surcote and kirtle were dripping from the driven rain and the muddy spray kicked up from the puddles. Every jolt was a further assault on her already humiliated flesh.
Her companion wisely took the hackney at a careful pace down the steeper cobbles. Wiping away the drips that were tumbling off the tip of his nose with his sodden cuff, Watkyn muttered, “I just hope your true husband is not lurking around here.”
As they passed into the lower town, the wind grew wilder. No lights showed in the growing gloom outside any of the dwellings in the street or alleyways, for the gusty wind was fickle enough to rip a feeble lantern free and hurl it into thatch.
“Madam, look!”
She wiped the rain away from her eyes and peered where he was pointing. Gervase’s horse was tethered at the bottom end of Bridgegate outside the alehouse with the worst reputation in
the shire. Johanna sniffed balefully, disappointedly, her heart sinking. What more should she have expected of a common schoolmaster with silver to spend?
“Shall I go and fetch him out to you, my lady?”
Ignoring the proud shake of her head, the esquire patted her hand, slid out of the saddle and splashed across.
Dismounting, Johanna led the horse closer to the alehouse wall, seeking shelter, but the water was gushing from the overhang like some broad fall on the moors.
“Well, here’s a piece of luck.” She had not heard the man approach. For an instant she thought it was one of her mother’s tenants, but he was on horseback. It must be one of Sir Ralph’s men, she decided and then, cursing, recognised the red beard of Fulk’s man, Edgar de Laverton.
“Watkyn!” she shrieked. “A moi! A moi!”
Thirteen
IN PANIC JOHANNA clutched at the reins, trying to mount, but Edgar struck the hackney. It shied. Screaming, she let go the bridle to miss the crashing hooves. Pray God someone heard her! But the wind tossed the sound away and, above her, high on the cliff, the beautiful windows of the new hall mocked her with their brilliance.
Why did Watkyn not come? Watching her enemy, she edged along the daub wall but Edgar, kneeing his horse between her and the ale brewer’s door, laughed and lunged. She wriggled out of his grasp and slithered, falling onto the mud on her elbows and knees. With an oath he dismounted. It gave her time to draw her dagger.
“Sir Fulk will pay highly to have you back, lady,” he bawled.
“And I will pay you more to leave me be.”
Crouching, she rubbed the rain out of her eyes with her left cuff, cursing her clinging skirts. Protected by a haubergeon, he could easily overpower her if he managed to get past her blade.
“On your back, lady, that’s my price. I can give old Fulk the son he wants.”
The Knight And The Rose Page 18