The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  Jankyn’s lugubrious face shone with gravity. “Warble for forgiveness to the raven-haired Johanna then. Music stills the soul. Oh alack, your pardon, worthy bishop, I stray within your cloister.”

  The older man stared down his patrician nose at Jankyn but his answer was friendly. “The fool is right. Give them a song to sober them for the morrow, Geraint. You will do it?”

  So he must face his demons and give his values some utterance. “Have I ever ignored your advice, my lord?” He stared across at the man who had directed his life ever since the sergeants-at-law had dragged him before the bishop as a recalcitrant runaway novice. He owed this man everything. It had been Adam Orleton who had requested Sir Roger Mortimer to take him on as an esquire all those years ago. It had been Orleton who had supported him through his exile in France and in return he had given the bishop information and the loyalty of a loving son. They understood each other well.

  The hooded eyes swept over them both and perused the jester. “I should have liked to have seen you as an esquire, Master Jankyn, but I hear you proved incompetent at robbing ladies.”

  Geraint watched the fool’s jaw slacken.

  “And who was the gossip pedlar?” retorted Jankyn, recovering to scowl at his large friend. “You, you braggart, or does the lithe Johanna now make confession to bishops? Ha! Guilty!” He shook the bauble of his trade accusingly.

  A shriek of laughter assailed them—the Earl of Kent in full whinny.

  “Songs can pierce stone walls better than Greek fire,” Adam Orleton mused and began striding back, his white vestments flapping like ghostly draperies.

  Jankyn capered after him, “Aye, it was Blondel’s song that found Richard Coeur de Lion.”

  The bishop paused, half-irritated. “That, my dear fool,” he declared over his shoulder, “was not necessarily a good thing.”

  Jankyn grinned after him and then turned. “Geraint, is it? Dare I ask again what your true name is? A Marcher, are you, or did your fair-haired mother fall in love with some thieving Welshman?”

  “I was baptised Geraint, and born east of the Welsh Marches. Be content with that.” He unhooked the bottle from his belt. “Here, you finish this and, upon your oath, do not go gossiping to Lady Johanna. Let her think Gervase de Laval is the greatest whoreson in Christendom. She may be grateful one day.”

  THE VERMILION SILK bubble, fetid with the odour of melting candle wax and the vinegary smell of the men-at-arms’ tunics timbred by musk and ambergris, was peopled with mellow, rebellious nobility, high as London kites on Bordeaux and local ale. Queen Isabella, her feet on a tasselled footstool, a jewel-encrusted goblet between her fingers, held out her hand for Geraint’s homage and he was briefly tangled in the wondrous blue of the forget-me-not eyes. Beside the queen, secure behind the costly French velvet and saffron taffeta sleeves cascading from the royal elbows, he sensed his wife stirring with irritation on her cushion like a glittering asp.

  Praise of her had beset him on all sides—the most intelligent of the queen’s ladies, the woman who had cajoled guildsmen all over England to write gossip between the humdrum lists of goods available so she might keep her liege lady informed of their enemies’ activities; the lady who had risked the Despensers’ wrath and constantly counselled the queen to be stalwart and patient until the time of opposition was ripe.

  Queen Isabella broke his reverie.

  “I have missed your enchanted voice, dear Geraint. Sing for us now.”

  He forced himself to smile at the queen, but Johanna’s pained intake of breath whipped out at him like a claw.

  “I fear I am melancholy, my gracious lady.”

  “Nonsense, such modesty in one so large,” exclaimed Johanna mercilessly, rising like a phoenix from beside the royal skirts. She held out a psaltery to him. “The queen desires you to play, sir.”

  Then play he would, and make her weep.

  One of the queen’s pages set a folding stool for him. He clowned, assessing its sturdiness, and earned guffaws from his audience. Making himself comfortable, he angled it so he could observe his wife’s face. Then he stretched out one crimson-hosed leg before him and positioned the broad triangular instrument with its short side lowest.

  “This,” he began, tuning the strings as he spoke, and the queen clapped her hands for silence, “this is dedicated to a lady. . .” Here, he let his gaze slide over the female faces, “a lady who has doubts about herself and her lover.”

  “Is she real, this lady?” It was Edmund, still sober and smirking, damn him, who asked. “For do we not all know how fair ladies need our reassurance that we value them.”

  “I assume so, Sir Edmund. It is a song to tell such a lady that if she frowns, she hides her beautiful soul from men’s eyes.”

  Little does any man know

  How secret love may pain,

  Unless a lady he follow

  Who knows where love has lain.

  And her love for him will not last long,

  She asks too much and blames him long.

  Ever and ever, is he in woe aloft

  When he thinks on her that he sees not oft.

  Some of the lords and ladies joined him in the chorus with that half-hearted drone of people who are not quite sure of the words. His mouth twisted in a tight half-smile towards Johanna, but she was not deigning to look at him. He drew back the bow of music further and let go at her.

  He would name her today

  If he dared at all,

  A maid as fair as May

  Peerless withal.

  But unless she loves him, she does him ill.

  He loves her true who loves her still.

  Ever and ever, is he in woe aloft

  When he thinks on her that he sees not oft.

  Oh, he had her attention now. Her lips were parted in sadness and her brow was clouded. His handling of her had been graceless and he feared it was too late, the windlass had been cranked. The voices sharing the chorus with him faded and for a moment there was a gentle silence and then the queen led the applause, leaning across to give him her hand. On the other side of her, Johanna’s face was unreadable. He had hoped she might understand.

  “You sound as though you sing from unrequited love,” Isabella teased.

  “Of course, my liege lady, dozens of them.” His mouth was a wry twist of humour.

  Mortimer snared the queen’s other hand. “Ah, but he does, doesn’t he, Edmund, my son? What of the tale Sir Geraint told you in his cups about pretending to have a precontract with a young wife so she might dispose of her ancient husband?”

  Damn Edmund to blazing Hell! The wretch had promised never to divulge that. He dared not look at Johanna, but he sensed if she had kept a catapult at hand she would be loading it with a rock the size of Conisthorpe keep.

  He set down the psaltery with unnecessary care. “No, my lord, it was just a tale that I heard.”

  “Tell us again, Sir Geraint,” Johanna breezed into the argument, “for I have heard such a jest also and would know if it is the same tale.”

  May a thousand demons carry her writhing to do the Devil’s pleasure!

  “I think mine would be different.” He gave his one-time mistress a look of appraisal that was meant to silence her—it had at Conisthorpe—but his little waif’s hide had hardened.

  “Then what is so special about yours?” she purred, with a little shake of her shoulders that drew attention to her low-cut neckline and was calculated to reduce him to silent fury. It worked. He did not like her behaving like a wanton. Only a visor of amusement kept his feelings hidden.

  “Pretty siren, I keep one version for private telling.”

  “Woohoooooo,” whooped their audience, enjoying the joust.

  Mortimer, predictably, entered the lists on the lady’s side. “Yes, because it happened to you, sirrah. You were the knave in the tale. Deny it if you can. Edmund says you were cavorting with someone else’s wife and made a right cuckold of the old Menelaus.”

  Gera
int shrugged, thanking the saints that dear old hoary Fulk had not yet arrived to skewer him through the entrails, and grinned at the Mortimers. “I actually esteemed my Helen’s virtue.”

  “Ahhhhh,” chorused his listeners.

  “What and never laid her?” guffawed the Earl of Norfolk.

  “Oh yes, I laid her.” He lowered his gaze with studied complacence.

  “Then you did not esteem her.” Elizabeth Baddlesmere coloured as he looked up; she had not expected the remark to carry.

  “And left a cuckoo egg in her nest?” chortled Mortimer.

  Geraint stood, shaking his head, but Queen Isabella rose and folded her arms, facing him, her fingers tapping aggressively on her blue velvet sleeve. “In the tale which Lady Johanna and I heard, Holy Church approved the marriage of the lovers. What became of them in your story?”

  “I never heard the ending.” God protect him! Had Johanna confided in the queen? How many more gossips knew the story? “Acquit me, if you please, gracious lady.”

  The royal mouth twitched playfully. She circled her victim frowning, then she stopped in front of him consideringly, patting her fingertips.

  “I see the mote within my own eye reflected, sir. I cannot judge you, and since your song pleased us right well, sing again and you shall go unfettered.” She held a hand out imperiously behind her for the instrument. Johanna stubbornly made no move and it was Elizabeth who set it in the royal hands. “Here, play for her whom you wronged.”

  “Very well, for her. May wisdom and forgiveness be her bedfellows.”

  “And not you, sir?” Johanna quipped, but behind the challenging glint of fire in her eyes, he glimpsed the aching.

  “Not if she is wise, sweetheart.”

  At that parry, she faced him for an instant, drawing breath, beauty armoured in scarlet, poised to demolish and destroy. Keep silent, he subtly warned, and his dangerous glance, so swift and for none but her, disarmed her answer and forced her down.

  Barred from taking what was his, he turned calculatingly towards his other amassed prey, cooped and waiting. They expected more lovesick warbling, easy to digest. He sensed Adam Orleton’s blessing touch him and knew this would have to be good, nay, the best he could offer.

  Softly his fingers plucked out a cadence which usually betokened a verse of unrequited love, but beneath his agile fingers the melody marched into a song that had only been heard where all were sworn friends; King Edward had hanged the writer for sedition.

  He observed the interest heightening in the men who recognised the forbidden chords.

  Listen to a sermon by four wise men

  Why England is brought low.

  Standing not far from his mother, the king’s perceptive son frowned, anticipating the dangerous, subversive words. Yes, lad, thought Geraint, it is a song against your father and a lesson for your mother and her lover. Let them listen!

  The first sage said “I understand

  No King has ruled well in this land Under God Almighty,

  Save that a king is not a fool

  If he can rule

  Each man with justice.

  But might is right,

  Night is light,

  And fight is flight.

  Since might is right, the land is lawless,

  Since night is light, the land is loreless,

  Since fight is flight, our land is shamed.”

  His palm slapped against the resonant wood. Hear the harness! See the pennons! March behind the silver crosses!

  The second man said these words full good:

  “Whoever rows against the flood,

  Of sorrow he shall drink,

  Also as misfortune bade

  A man will have but little aid

  In his struggle,

  Now one is two

  And happiness woe

  And friend is foe.

  Since one is two, this land is weak,

  Since happiness is woe, the land lacks mercy,

  Since friend is foe, the land is loveless.”

  That third man said “It is no wonder

  When they inherit land, these lords go under;

  Proud and haughty, they start to boast

  And help not those who deserve the most

  And give nothing to them.

  Now Lust has licence

  Thieves are made reeves

  And Pride wears sleeves.

  Since Lust has licence, this land lacks truth,

  Since thieves are made reeves, this land is penniless,

  Since Pride wears sleeves, the land knows not charity.”

  The fourth man said that “Anyone’s mad

  Who lives to meddle in the flood

  For gold or aught,

  For gold or silver or any treasure,

  Hunger or thirst or any pleasure,

  All shall go to naught.

  Now Will is rule,

  Wisdom’s called fool

  And all good is dead.

  Since Will is rule, the land is in misery,

  Since Wisdom’s called fool, the land is in wrong,

  Since all good is dead, the land is sinful.”

  The chords faded, his palm thudded a slow funeral rhythm and faltered to a telling silence. There was no happy ending. Like the war against the king, it lacked conclusion. Appeased at having declared through music the bitter words that it was not politic to speak, Geraint looked up in surprise as a counter tenor pierced the silence.

  And then spake a child

  With strength of heart,

  “By God’s mercy mild

  I shall play my part.

  Right shall be might,

  The Wise shall go free,

  The Light is the sonne.

  Right shall be might, England shall have law,

  The Wise shall go free, England shall have good,

  The Light is the sonne and the two become one.”

  Not a breath was heard. In his element, Jankyn met Geraint’s mouthed congratulations with a swift exultant glance. The fool held every one of them now like feathered seeds in the palm of his hand. Curious, spellbound, they saw him cap his right hand down walnutlike upon his left. His magician’s eyes fixed upon his hands, and they all watched with him, transfixed, as he drew his treasure towards him. Mysteriously he took his right hand away and slowly lifted his remaining upturned palm to his lips. Then suddenly, with one swift violent breath, he blew the invisible seeds away and with an anarchic whoop somersaulted through the tent to land in a neat ball at the startled Prince of Wales’s feet and spring up with a deep bow of obeisance.

  The silence was like the still air before a thunderstorm. Then Adam Orleton began to clap, and turning, smiled across at Geraint as the rest of the throng applauded.

  The folding stool fell away behind Geraint as he rose, shocked. The flashing armoured breastplates, the jewelled flesh, swirled in a great rainbow maelstrom round him and he almost reeled as he realised the sinful enormity of what had just occurred. Set the prince up as king and force Edward of Caernarvon to abdicate? No, surely Orleton would not dare! There was no precedent. Had Jankyn intended this?

  It seemed he had. The jester, kneeling at the dazed prince’s feet, stretched forward and kissed the beak of his right shoe. Then before the disarmed boy could praise or curse him, the fool agilely thrust himself backwards, hands first, and tumbled like an acrobat, head over hands, to land neatly before Queen Isabella’s furred hem. He bestowed a kiss on her shoes too, pulled a forelock at his new master, Leicester, and arched his eyebrows in disdainful astonishment at Geraint, still standing with the psaltery in his hands.

  “Jankyn!” chuckled Earl Henry, stepping forward to buffet him on the shoulder.

  “Have my secretary take down every verse,” the queen declared huskily, her eyes seeking out her son. “I want them sung now throughout this kingdom.”

  Orleton, his arm around the prince’s shoulders, walked him to her. And Roger Mortimer, not to be outdone, stepped forward to flank the boy up
on the right. Church and State smiled at each other in mutual understanding.

  You cannot hold back the tide. Thrusting the psaltery into the lady Elizabeth’s arms, Geraint set his hands beneath Jankyn’s underarms and hoisted him to straddle his shoulders to further cheers.

  “Well done!” The long ecclesiastical fingers plucked at Jankyn’s sleeve, bidding him stoop. It was safe, given the hubbub, for Orleton to murmur, “I think we have just changed the course of England’s history.”

  The queen bussed her son on either cheek, and beaming, straightened, joining in the continuing applause, but her look was distrait as she stared up in puzzlement at Jankyn.

  It was a mistake then for Geraint, in his confusion, to look for and stare, alienated and despairing, at his severed wife. And Johanna, misty-eyed from unleashed emotion like everyone else, was struggling to arrange her features simultaneously in a heart-given smile at Jankyn and a look of angry bewilderment at him. The circle was joined and the queen saw.

  “THIS,” SHE SAID to Johanna next morning, jabbing her signet into the orange seal ribboned to the deed, “is in thanks for your loyalty.”

  Mortimer, who had barged into the privacy between them and stayed like an unwanted smell, sniffed.

  The queen looked up. “You disapprove, my lord?”

  “Aye, madam, it is unwise to go making promises of lands you do not hold.”

  “These are Despenser manors and if God is good they shall be within our gift right soon. You had rather we gave them to you, my lord?”

  “God forbid, madam, there will be plenty for all of us. No offence to this lady but you have an army at your back, madam, lords who have journeyed miles to follow you and more nobles are on their way. Are you not being hasty with this?” He whisked the deed from the cloth. “One of the men out there may have held these manors and, besides, this lady lacks a husband to properly defend her lands. Believe me, Lady Johanna, I do not question your honesty”—the suspicion was loaded for the discerning—“but I think you have been gulled by some philanderer. I have never heard of this Gervase de Laval.”