The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  There was a pause before he replied, clearly trying not to give her further offence. “I think Stephen de Norwood may be more open with me if I am alone.”

  That was probably true. “But I need advice too.”

  “That is understood,” Geraint answered gently, halting at the foot of the stairs which led to her quarters. “Tell me your questions, my lady, and I shall put them to him.”

  “I only have one for the nonce.” He was not prepared for the sharp simplicity of it but it cut to the quick of the matter.

  “Ask him,” said Johanna, “who I am married to while the case is being heard.”

  Sixteen

  WAS THAT NOT the heart of the matter? Geraint pondered as he rode out of the castle with Jankyn and two of the castle men-at-arms as escort, but he set aside the issue, giving his mind release and enjoying the sheer pleasure of being in the saddle.

  The town, sunlit and puddled on the eve of Lady Day, was making ready for the new year and there was a joyful cheer about the place, despite the roofs that needed mending, or maybe it reflected the fleeting freedom he was feeling in himself at being saluted and smiled upon.

  At a gallop, save where a fallen tree forced them off the track, it took little time before Bainham, about two miles up the dale from Conisthorpe, lay within their view. The flooded river, curled in a wide sweep around the priory, now lapped hungrily at its foundations, and the meadows, flooded, shone in the sunlight like a rich lady’s mirror.

  An anthem rose from the hidden chancel of the abbey, disconcerting Geraint, stirring the past up from a deep pool of loathsome memories yet thrilling him too with its perfection. The harmony, the interweaving of gorgeous cadences, rose against the perverse bleat of the priory’s ewes and the rhythmless descant from the March lambs as they scampered out of the path of the visitors’ horses.

  Like many an Augustine house, Bainham Priory lay cheek by jowl with a village that had matured beside it like a fungus, feeding on the respectability and employment that was offered. The canons provided board and bed to travellers, but the tavern keeper in the village was nevertheless prosperous. Geraint, entering its taproom, found it spacious. Although the windows were but wicker lattice, there was little draught. Clean rushes carpeted the flagstones and a generous fire burned hot as lust in a hooded grate beneath a stone chimney so that the rafters were not grimed with soot nor was the air unbreathable with smoke. One wall was painted with the story of St. Robert the hermit and his persecution by Sir William de Stuteville, while the other depicted the cowherd Caedmon, albeit looking too lackwit to herd a hen let alone wax lyrical. The benches were all manned and gusty with conversation though it lessened somewhat as Geraint found himself observed.

  Stephen de Norwood rose respectfully from the scrubbed board, wiped his fingers on his haunches and offered his hand in greeting. Two drinkers at the proctor’s trestle swiftly stood up to make space and Geraint sat down graciously, enjoying the fact that the others at the board had shuffled along respectfully to leave him elbow room.

  His escort was easily housed. A glower from Sir Geoffrey’s men freed them another table as two journeymen and a lanky apprentice sluggishly gave them precedence and slunk back to their trades. One of the Conisthorpe men produced a dice and they happily settled into a game with Jankyn who raised his eyebrows to Geraint with a wicked gleam.

  “A jack of ale, sir?” The ale-maid’s fingers meaningfully resettled the low neck of her kirtle as her pretty almond-shaped eyes swiftly rated Geraint’s capacity to appreciate her other services. Some other man’s blue ribbon already suppressed her abundant golden hair and a glass lozenge rose and fell on a leather thong between her generous breasts.

  Oh, it was very fine to be in the world again with money in his purse.

  “Aye, my darling.” He grinned, adding loudly to the proctor to make himself heard, “We shall need to discuss our business somewhere more peaceful.”

  The proctor nodded and both men admired the waggle of the girl’s hips as she departed for the taps.

  “She is clean and consequently expensive,” Stephen leaned across to shout in his ear, “and I do not advise you to indulge yourself while your case is being heard.” The warning was presumptuous but the proctor would have been slack in his duty to leave it unspoken.

  “Of course not,” Geraint agreed smoothly, stretching his long legs out, his affability only checked when another horseman, known to the Conisthorpe men, entered and joined the dicers. The newcomer exclaimed that he had been stranded in the town earlier with a lame horse—a cursed old creature that should be put out to graze—and had naught to amuse him until the river fell and he could join Sir Ralph’s company again. An ass would swallow such a bag of lies but . . . Jankyn, meeting his master’s narrowing glance, was safely primed like a crossbow against indiscretion.

  “Sir,” chirruped a cheerful voice. The maidservant set the leather jack before him and made pretence of stumbling delightfully over his feet so that she fell frothily upon his lap.

  “Not now, sweetheart.” He lifted her off him and gave her a gentle pat. She left them with a pout that would have burst the seams of many a man’s hose and it was an effort to redirect his thoughts to the service of the female bundle of contradictions who was stabbing her needle in and out of his velvet jupon back at Conisthorpe. “I want this hearing settled as fast as I may, proctor. How long is it likely to take?”

  “We have allotted you six months. Now that Sir Fulk is bringing a countercase, it may take longer. I know of one which took three years.”

  “Six months!” Geraint’s hand slammed down so hard that the men at the other end of the board went silent at the judder and a slumbering shepherd dog beneath sprang out barking. Jankyn’s die flew halfway across the floor where they had to be coaxed, spittle-covered, from a hound’s mouth.

  Geraint swiftly thrust himself forward, doubling with laughter as if his companion had told a princely joke. The hubbub rapidly resumed around him and, with a silent prayer, he straightened up and pretended to wipe his eyes. Across at the other table, he sensed that Jankyn’s mind was not on the game.

  “I see it bothers you,” observed the proctor dryly. He would have won prizes if making understatements had been a popular pastime.

  “Oh not at all,” muttered Geraint caustically and took a deep draught of ale. How many more marvels were hidden away in the legal head opposite, to be brought out, one by one, each costly and custom made? “But I came for the counsel not the ale.”

  “Is everything to your liking, sir?” The alehouse owner, with judicious timing, must have counted several heartbeats before he came across to investigate.

  “Yes, landlord, most excellent, but I have to go.” With feigned nonchalance Geraint downed the contents of his alecup and made payment into the waiting palm. To his liking? It was a lie; the earth beneath his feet was trying to toss him down on his knees again. Yes, I must be going, he decided.

  “Sir.” Jankyn half-rose from the bench with a shade too much alacrity for an esquire and came across at his master’s beckoning. Outside Geraint pressed a coin into his hand. “We are leaving Conisthorpe,” he declared decisively and met Jankyn’s astonishment. “Get your friends soused as pickled herrings and be up behind yonder parish church with the horses in half an hour. Can you do it?”

  “Trust me, I have more drinking games in my repertorium than Holy Church has saints’ days. But we shall talk of this further, friend, be sure of that!”

  “Go to it then.”

  He must dissemble a little longer but he was impatient to leave. There had been occasions before in his life when it had been necessary to cut loose swiftly, to yell “Enough!” at Heaven. Six months playing a lovesick bridegroom! He needed to be away from here—he and Edmund. Better to seize this afternoon’s opportunity and make a run for it. If he could reach Ludlow, he could send word to Edmund’s wife and maybe seek advice from his mentor, Bishop Adam Orleton of Hereford, the man who had placed him in the Mortim
er household. Assuming, of course, that the king had not hauled the bishop to the Tower as well.

  A few paces behind his client in the sunlit doorway, Stephen de Norwood put his hands on his belt and stretched his back like a lazy cat waking. “A true caress of spring in the air, sir.”

  “You reckon so?” If there was, it was competing with the sea-coal smoke issuing from the priory’s cooking fires or the dead dog’s carcase that was lying in the ditch.

  The two men picked their way across the balding sward of grass with its worm knots, avoiding the miry cart tracks that ribboned it on either side, and made their way up the road.

  “A pox on it!” muttered Geraint. “Is there nothing can be done to make this cursed millstone grind faster? Six months!”

  “You could outbid Sir Fulk with the archbishop. A rose window for the west transept perhaps?” the proctor jabbed good humouredly, adding, “Of course, you and your lady do not have to be present at the hearing except for the first two days, and possibly when your depositions are being examined, but given the circumstances and the nature of Sir Fulk, you would be ill-advised to do otherwise.”

  Geraint chewed the cud of that, striding on in silence as the road took an angle like a joiner’s set square at a stone cross and ascended towards the church. The village had seen as much damage as Conisthorpe and not a few dwellings needed roof repairs. The churchyard had suffered; the gale had seized the lychgate roof and raided the trees to strew a plethora of twigs and branches untidily across the graves. The proctor sauntered to a standstill in a patch of weakening sunlight, avoiding the shadows cast by the yew trees hemming the graveyard, and leaned his elbows back upon the thickly mossed wall. They were alone save for two sextons whistling cheerfully as they tossed spadefuls of earth out of a fresh grave over on the far side.

  “Tell me, sir, are you and the lady Johanna living together as man and wife?”

  Geraint paused in his attempt to dislodge a fist-sized boulder from its nest of grass with his bootcap, and lifted his face in surprise. Mayhap Johanna’s question would be answered without the asking, save he would not be the one to share it with her.

  “We are living together under my lady’s mother’s roof.”

  “Not quite the same is it, Sir Gervase? Let me rephrase the question. Are you and the lady indulging in delectatio?”

  “Your pardon?”

  “Carnal knowledge! Are you sharing a bed? Is the lady willing and dutiful? You must be prepared for such questions, Sir Gervase. They will come at you like heavy bolts from bombards.”

  “All right,” snarled Geraint. “No!”

  “Now that, sir, is a mistake. Is there any logic behind your decision?”

  “I, my lady . . . well, we thought it best to stay celibate while we await the court’s judgment. If Lady Johanna were to . . . if we . . . were to share a bed . . . and . . .” he sensed the proctor’s amusement at his stumbling, “and if the court was to declare our marriage invalid then living with me would compound her sin. I . . . well . . . she is a virtuous woman. She does not wish the world to condemn her for living in adultery.”

  Stephen de Norwood clucked disapprovingly. “That is no way to talk, sir, as if you are ready to surrender.” He paced away and turned, thrusting his fist into the air. “Unfurl your banner! Point your lance! Make your marriage as sound as a saint’s honour. To put it in a nutshell, I think you should take your wife to bed as soon as possible.”

  Geraint gulped, sure that he was blushing like a virgin. Take Johanna to bed! Oh yes and he would be given a coronation in Westminster Abbey next morning.

  “Sir Gervase,” prompted Stephen sympathetically. “Think of your wife as a house.”

  “A house?” A loose and battered cannon running amok perhaps, but . . .

  “Yes, a pretty, covetable house. If it stands empty and the owner is away, any passerby can move in and say, ‘This is my house now.’ If, however, you, sir, are living in the house, no one will be able to evict you easily. Your enemies will have to prove ownership to remove you. Possession, Sir Gervase!”

  They were in shadow now. The plump lawyer moved, following the sunlight.

  “Wait, proctor, are you saying the court might see our case in a better light if we were . . . in delectatio?”

  “Yes, sir, well done!” Stephen turned and beamed at him like a tutor. “Holy Church wishes merely to give its blessing to the intimate relations between a man and a woman. When a couple wishes to bind themselves eternally to each other and consummate their relationship, the church is there to help them give their vows public utterance and to sanctify that relationship.”

  “But Johanna publically married Sir Fulk whereas she and I . . .”

  “If you have witnesses, said the right words and consummated the match, then all will be well. And if you live in intimacy for the duration of the hearing and beget a child on your lady, there should be no problem at all about the verdict. These matters lie within the hands of God. . . but an able man like yourself, sir, should be able to set a babe within her womb in a minimum of six months.”

  His head was spinning. Geraint clapped his hands to his temples and leaned back against the wall.

  “Did Lady Johanna conceive at all while living with Sir Fulk?” Geraint must have looked at him blankly for the lawyer pursed his lips at such ignorance. “Hmm, so the lady could be barren. Has this Fulk children by any earlier marriages?”

  “I cannot say. Not that I know of.” He watched Stephen steeple his fingers and pensively tread out a circle as if he was chanting a spell.

  “The circumstances of conception are still much debated. One school of thought holds that a woman only conceives if she derives pleasure from the coupling which is one of the reasons, I suppose, why our stewhouses are full of barren women. If the Lady Johanna loves and honours you . . .” He chuckled and shrugged. “You can only try.”

  Geraint wondered if the moon was affecting him. He wanted to roar with mirth at the folly of it all. He could imagine returning to Conisthorpe. The expressions on the noble ladies’ faces would be worth all the gold in Christendom. Laughter welled out of him unbidden, pure exhausting laughter which opened the windows of his soul and cleared his heart and head.

  “But what if . . . What I am trying to say is that Lady Johanna is virtuous and she has been ill-treated by Fulk.”

  The proctor grabbed his meaning. “And is a trifle wary, is she?” Bless the man for his intelligence. It was a relief to discuss the matter openly. “Come, Sir Gervase, I do not need to tell a handsome knight like you how to proceed. Woo her or command her, what you will. Virtue is highly commendable in any wife, but the essence of the argument is surely that if she prefers you to Sir Fulk, then she must do her duty by you. She is definitely married to one of you. The lady must choose.”

  “SO WHO PUT where he should notT?” Jankyn jibed as Geraint set his foot in the stirrup at their meeting place later than he intended. Receiving a stony look, the jester continued unabashed, “And more fuel was added. I will wager all my winnings that yonder priest asked you for a new roof for the lychgate.”

  “Yes!” fumed Geraint, with a backward scowl at the importuning churchman who had materialised, as welcome as a cockroach on a pie, after Stephen de Norwood had left him. “I have just lit a candle to St. Jude. Now in that saint’s name, let us get out of here!”

  If the angels used celestial carrier pigeons to wing the prayers up, the patron saint of hopeless causes must be covered in feathers and the busiest in Heaven, Geraint thought, as he gave spur up the laneway.

  “I take it you have given this decision your usual hayload of thought.”

  “Later, Jankyn!”

  “Clever proctor, eh, to set fire to your conscience. Do you know where we are going?”

  “No. Yes, to Dame Christiana’s, I hope. There should be a bridle path north of Conisthorpe linking to the packhorse track which leads to the park. Are you sure you left those fellows useless, Jankyn?”

 
“Our escorts? Aye, as teats on my grandsire.”

  Geraint spurred his horse to a gallop, thinking about the third man who had diced with Jankyn. If the deputy sheriff had set the man as watch on him, he needed to leave Conisthorpe while the river was high and before the hearing began. It was not pleasant feeling guilty at leaving. The thought of abandoning Johanna’s cause tore at him as if he truly wore her favours.

  “Do not take it so hard, great one!” muttered Jankyn, absolving him for his impatience when, having been lost, they finally nosed out the paling and ditch of the park and followed it round to the gate.

  “If we cannot take Edmund with us, I will call the bitch’s bluff,” thundered Geraint, as he slid the bolt home behind them.

  “So sits the wind in that quarter, eh? I think you owe me an explanation. What said the merry proctor? Why must my lusty dicers lie snoring under the table?”

  “Lawyers! The knave reckoned the hearing would take at least six months—if not years—and urged me to beget a child on Lady Johanna as soon as possible. If you laugh, I will unhorse you into the dirtiest stream I can find.”

  Jankyn kept so sober a face that Geraint, in slightly better humour, clouted him lightly anyway as they reached Dame Christiana’s dwelling and dismounted at a wary distance.

  An unpleasant herbal sort of stink that would have thrilled the nearest coven of witches infected the air. Jankyn gave the usual signal whistle and from behind the brushwood wall came the answering clang as Dame Christiana whammed the small shovel against an iron pot.

  “They have taken him, lad,” she exclaimed, hurrying forth, waving her arms like wind-buffeted streamers.

  Geraint ran past her into the hovel. “Who have?” he demanded. Edmund’s pallet was indeed unoccupied.

  “I was out gathering, but see, lad, naught has been thieved or o’er-turned. Like as not, it is the Lady Constance meddling again for there has not been a whiff of the high sheriff’s men nor any other strangers.”

  “There are cart tracks,” Jankyn joined them. “If it had been an arrest, they would have flung him over a horse heedless of his wounds.”