The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  Twenty-eight

  GERAINT REMAINED A further week at Conishorpe, agreeable to escorting the ladies and their movables south as far as Ludlow and their demesne at Blessington FitzHenry. And there were welcome tidings. Edmund wrote that he was taking ship for France as soon as he might safely do so, which left Geraint a free lance, if the term could be applied to an unemployed esquire, until he fulfilled his promise to Hugh. Agnes experienced her monthly blood flux and cheered up. Finally, Dame Christiana decided she would accompany them south; Fulk was the kind of man to ignore her pious reputation and accuse her of witchcraft. She had no wish to be tossed into the river trussed like a spitfowl.

  His wife, he needs must call her so in truth now, had been trying to show a cheerful face. She had received the astonishing summons to attend the queen’s household and that had distracted her somewhat from their imminent parting, but clearly she had been hoping he would either remain with her at Blessington FitzHenry or let her share his travels. It was hard not to be honest with her, to tell her that her fears that he had a commitment to another woman were groundless, but he dared not let her loving spirit enmesh him further. She had a different future now. It was the best he could do for her.

  To be with him, Johanna, for her part, would cheerfully have thrown away her chance to serve Queen Isabella, despite the fact that her admiration for the royal lady was great.

  “Dedicate yourself to the queen’s service, Johanna,” Gervase lectured her on the long journey west to Manchester. “She will treasure someone who will understand how a wife can suffer.”

  “Ha!” She was not thinking merely of Fulk.

  “Johanna, I cannot provide for you. I have no land, no income and I have a sworn oath to fulfil. I am expected to serve in the Scots campaign, but until the autumn those who gave me shelter and employment when I fled from the monastery require my service.”

  “And after the Scots drive you shamefully home like a herd of swine?”

  “You grow too disrespectful. I will not rest until this kingdom is cleansed of poor government.”

  “How noble-hearted!” she snorted. “So you will take on the Despensers single-handed? I imagine an heiress’s fortune will strengthen your hand. That is what you intend.”

  “Johanna,” he framed her face in his large hands. “At court you will learn that your little world in Yorkshire was but a fraction of the kingdom. In time, you will understand.”

  She recoiled. “Perhaps the peace of Shaftesbury Abbey would please me better since you think me so small-minded.”

  “That is your decision.”

  She had too much time for thinking; since they stayed overnight at religious houses she was deprived of the comfort and distractions of his body. But by the time they reached Chester, she had decided that she must educate herself in the affairs of the royal court so that she might become his equal and his helpmate in this political crusade of his. And there must be some way of discovering who he was and what burr had been stuffed beneath his girth to drive him so. Some noble’s bastard, she suspected.

  By the time they reached the city of Shrewsbury, her courage left her and she retreated crablike into her shell, for it was but three days riding now to Ludlow.

  Geraint intended some business of his own at Sugwas outside Hereford with the man who had originally secured him a position in the Mortimer household—Adam Orleton, the Bishop of Hereford. It was in the morning at Church Stretton that he announced he would be leaving their company a few miles south of the town. Ludlow was Sir Roger Mortimer’s demesne and he might now be recognized. It was better if he took a more circuitous route.

  The news jolted Johanna. She thought that at least they might manage one last night together. Instead she suffered him to lead her palfrey’s reins aside from their half-dozen household wagons to listen, no doubt, to a practiced speech of farewell, and they dismounted and stood together beneath a freshly leaf-garbed oak, happily bereft of pig dung around its roots, looking out to the treeless western horizon that the local people called the Long Mynd. The slaty-hued clouds betokening a heavy shower were a portent to Johanna of the loveless years stretching ahead—despite its glory as it lit the hillside, there was no kindness in the sky.

  “I shall send you a white rose each Lammastide and by that you shall know I live.” It was a sop to Johanna’s appetite for love, but she wisely kept her own counsel.

  “A rose of charity and discretion.” With plenty of thorns. Her sarcasm clearly inconvenienced his sense of occasion.

  “No, do not speak so shrewishly, lady. I dare say you would prefer a blossom of carnality, red as blood, but I think that unwise.”

  Unwise! Such male conceit! So, he would not wish to mislead her. How very considerate. A husband from the hiring fair that now sought employment with a wealthier mistress. Was the talk of duty just a bluff? Sensibly, she did not goad him. “Why at Lammas?”

  “Because I have heard of a place in Ireland where at harvest feast marriages are made that last but a twelvemonth until the next Lammastide. Then the couple reconsider their vows and if they do not wish to continue, they stand back to back and walk away from each other.”

  “I will wager Holy Church has naught to do with it.”

  “True, it is a bard who blesses the handfasting. So, we shall have our own rite, you and I. A rose each Lammastide. A way to keep our hands in touch without commitment.” He turned her towards the west. “Look, a rainbow. God’s peace between us.”

  Perhaps the archer’s bow of colours, elusive above the green-gold land, was drawn to remind them that their destinies were preordained. It might be God’s peace; it was not hers.

  “You may not know where to find me.” Her voice had the edge of treason.

  “I shall, believe me. Now, practicalities. I will arrange for you eventually to be sent a letter with tidings of the death of Gervase de Laval. Should you desire to marry and wish instant widowing, send to me in London at the Old Swanne brewhouse in Thames Street west, Vintry, not far from London Bridge. I may not be in England so it could take time to find me, but I shall do what is within my means. And Johanna, if ever you are in hardship, likewise send a message there.”

  “And if I have need to write to you there, which of your many hats will you be wearing?”

  “Now do not be peevish, darling dear. Gervase de Laval shall suffice, believe me.”

  “I would I knew your true name,” she growled.

  “And be married to a named traitor.”

  “Ha, but you are not anymore, are you, Gervase? Some strange bargaining was done in dead of night at Richmond.”

  He held his hands at face level in surrender. “I was acquainted with someone there, yes, but I managed to talk my way out of that particular difficulty so that there is no danger to you or your family. Just be thankful that you do not know more. There are some secrets better kept locked. So I will leave you.” He took her fingers in his.

  “You have more speech rehearsed.”

  “Of course. Your fingers are cold.” He carried them to his lips, and breathed on them before he kissed the tips. The intimacy of it scalded her as if he had left her with words of abuse. She wanted to throw her arms about his neck and plead with him to stay, but it was kinder to make a clean cut if that was what he wished.

  His eyes were bereft of wizardry as he cleared his throat and grinning, began: “I wish you more happiness than ever it was in my power to give you, I wish you love of a worthy man and children, and a roof that does not leak—”

  “Stop, stop, I pray you, this begins to sound more like a Greek curse. I could end up a nursemaid.”

  “I warrant you shall end up better than that.” He turned her hand over and scuffed his calloused thumb sensuously across her palm. “See, here destiny crosses life and the crosses of fortune. You shall walk with the mighty, my Johanna.” He looked over his shoulder. “The rain comes.” And with a last kiss, he set her back in the saddle.

  Johanna travelled on to Ludlow, helped
her mother settle the poor incoherent, ailing creature that was her father in their castle at Blessington FitzHenry and gloomily prepared with Agnes to leave for London. Her father died three days before her planned departure. Guilty and saddened, Johanna would have stayed back after the funeral, but her mother, resilient as ever, insisted she must leave.

  “Go to Westminster,” she advised. “Rise high in the queen’s favour. Times change, the old leaders die, others rise up to take their place and those who share Gervase’s cause may gain power eventually.”

  “A gauche country creature like me to hold her own among the courtiers?”

  “You will find a way, my darling, believe me.”

  PART TWO

  1326

  Four Years Later

  Twenty-nine

  September 1st 1326, the Feast of St. Giles

  “DEAREST, YOU ARE not going!” Lady Constance set down the sheaf of daisies she had cut from their garden at Blessington FitzHenry to lay on Father Gilbert’s grave. “The roads will be unsafe if a war is in the offing and I truly doubt the queen stands any chance of overthrowing the Despensers.”

  Johanna scanned the royal letter again. Isabella had written from Hainault, or rather her secretary had, that she had promise of arms and men and would be sailing for Suffolk within the month.

  “But I owe her so much, Maman.”

  Indeed she did. Queen Isabella’s trust and need of her had helped her find new purpose. True, the first months with the queen’s constantly moving household had been an ordeal; not only had she mourned the loss of Gervase, but Edyth had swiftly smeared her reputation before she had even set foot in the royal presence and it had taken Isabella months to recognise Johanna’s true mettle. Her skills in embroidery and her ability to adjust a kirtle’s seam to add shape and interest slowly earned her the other noble ladies’ respect. In her scant leisure time, she had improved her reading and writing, becoming useful to Isabella as an amanuensis and pleasing her royal mistress by setting up a network of useful informers through the clothing guilds. Above all, she had proved a sympathetic friend to Isabella, a neglected, beautiful woman snared in a miserable marriage.

  “I know you miss the cut and thrust of being at the heart of the realm, so to speak,” muttered Lady Constance, “but it is two years now since the Despensers dismissed you from the royal household and I do not think you should risk returning until the peace is restored between King Edward and the queen.”

  “But, Maman, I had help from you and Gervase when I was desperately in need. Surely we cannot deny our sovereign lady our support when she is risking everything to free the kingdom? Please let me take her as many men as can be spared. The harvest is in now.”

  Her mother scowled. “It is not just the queen, is it? You are hoping this rebellion will bring him home. If he is bothered, he will seek you out when all the hurly-burly is over—that is if the queen succeeds—but I suppose she has Sir Roger Mortimer to help her. Oh, dearest, you promised me to keep away from the Despensers. I will send some men-at-arms to Suffolk, but you must stay here. Army camps are no place for a noblewoman.”

  Which was true, but in addition to a sense of duty, Johanna felt the pull of fate. And she certainly intended to keep as many leagues as possible between herself and the Despensers.

  I never want to set eyes on you again, the old earl had said to her. It had been the feast of St. Bartholomew, in a room adjoining the king’s painted chamber at Westminster Palace two years before.

  She could remember every detail of that meeting: Despenser the younger sprawled in a chair of estate reading a letter, his booted feet propped upon the table; the paraphernalia of correspondence missing; only a wooden coffer waisted with iron, the length of a man’s forearm, sitting upon the table’s demesne in ugly dominance.

  Having positioned Johanna before him, the guards stood back, banging the ends of their halberds down on the floor in vicious unison to jolt her. If the king’s favourite summoned you, God have mercy on your soul. Could this be some mischief of Gervase’s . . . but surely he was still in France?

  “Good morrow, my lord,” she exclaimed bravely and tried to behave as if he had invited her over to show her the exquisite tapestries. She knew he was not reading his letter.

  “Lady Johanna,” he cooed mockingly. The catlike stare slid up her slowly. He missed nothing—neither the scuffed patch where she had mopped fiercely at some spilt pottage nor the tiny rip where her veil had snared on someone else’s ring.

  He tossed the paper aside as if the entire world bored him. “You know I appointed you to the queen’s household?”

  “I-I found out eventually, my lord, I thank you.” She had never discovered why he had been so generous to her.

  “I am informed it made life difficult for you in the early months, but you finally became Queen Isabella’s confidante.” Icy fear streaked down Johanna’s spine. Had his spies uncovered her schemes to prosper the queen’s cause? Would he force her to give evidence against her royal mistress? All the world knew he wanted Isabella completely devoid of power. God protect her, this monster could order her limbs broken, one by one.

  “If you have summoned me to report on my liege lady, save your breath, my lord. I am not afraid of you.”

  The polished heels returned to the expensive pelt beneath his chair and he leaned forward upon the table, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “No? Upon my soul, I think I had best consult my mirror and change my face then, for you are the only person in England who does not fear me.” He lifted the bunch of keys that hung from his belt onto the table and spread them out.

  Have I entered an elfin tale? she wondered, looking at the arcs of lashes lowered over those almond eyes. If I choose the wrong key, must I spin a barnful of gold for him by evening?

  His gaze sprang up at her like a beast, claws out. “Why are you not terrified?”

  Recovering from her recoil, Johanna drew her lips together consideringly. “I have neither property you covet nor, truly, information to interest you.” Do not look away, her common sense told her, stare him down. She swallowed and added, “I respect that many of the changes you have made for the realm have been for its good, and some instinct tells me you mean me no harm.” That was a fist aimed in the dark.

  He seemed inexplicably moved by the scant praise and Johanna, not for the first time, regretted that so intelligent and capable a man should betray his nobler nature by greed and depravity.

  He regarded her uncertainly, his eyes narrowing. “Upon my soul, I am not sure whether I am talking to a cunning vixen or—Ah, come in, my lord.”

  She heard the door creak behind her and shivered, wondering incredibly if it was the King of England who stood observing her, but the athletic Edward did not breathe heavily from climbing stairs.

  “My lord father.” Hugh vacated his chair for the taller man, barrel-shaped from overfeasting, who halted panting beneath the lintel.

  “This is Johanna FitzHenry?” The Earl of Winchester’s voice held no overtone of menace as she gravely curtseyed to him.

  “Yes, my lord, I have been trying to terrify her.”

  With a grunt, the earl seated himself and set bare hands, large as Gervase’s, upon the baize. “Has he succeeded, my lady?” The older eyes were circumspect. “Have you shown her?”

  “Not yet.” Effete in comparison, his son leaned before him and threw back the lid of the coffer. Reposing on the crimson padding within were two rolls of unbleached cloth, one blotched with age. Hugh lifted out the roll nearest the lock with extraordinary care and set its contents before her upon their sides.

  An involuntary gasp burst from Johanna. Two grotesque waxen figures, the white of mistletoe berries, lay like hurdled victims with pins stuck through their heads, bellies and genitals. Tufts of human hair were fixed into the head of one and a fingernail paring was inserted into the chest of the other like a half-withdrawn sickle.

  She fought down her nausea, her fingers clutching for her necklet cross. Sur
ely they did not think . . . She could already smell the smouldering faggots they might light beneath her.

  “God in Heaven,” she whispered, crossing herself. “You believe I did this, my lords? I may be a woman but I am not a village idiot.”

  “You recognise them?” It was the earl who asked, his voice edged with fear. He did not look at the awful monstrosities.

  Johanna forced herself to examine them again. “Is one of them the king?” No, there was no flaxen hair. Her gaze rose to the few streaks of golden brown in the earl’s beard and passed beyond him to the nut brown hair delineating his son’s pointed jaw. She looked back at the other rotund image.

  “You, my lords? They are . . . re-repulsive.” She swallowed. Her practical curiosity bested her discretion—it could have been taken amiss. “Has . . . has any of it worked?”

  “No!” The old earl slapped the table.

  “Oh, that is wondrous to know,” she babbled swiftly, her fear rising sufficiently to almost choke her. “You . . . you really should tell everyone it is nonsense and then foolish people will not do such evil things.”

  “Tell everyone?” Hugh’s scorn turned into a hiss of bitter laughter and he moved round the table towards her.

  The old earl’s lip curled slightly. “We have already dealt with one instance of necromancy against us.” Yes, she knew—two men in Coventry, she had heard about that. The magicians had been tortured and dealt with.

  Her mind flicked fearfully through a whole book of possibilities before she raised her chin to Hugh. “Dear God, my lords, I hope you do not think the queen—”

  “No! Look!” The older man, his great fingers trembling, drew out the second roll and dragged it free of its burdens, revealing two similar figures save that one was clearly a woman—both with pins thrust through the ugly oversized genitalia. A lock of dark hair was embedded into the head of the female; the manikin, larger than the others, had tiny shavings of blond hair, which might have been wiped from a razor, blended into the wax.