The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  “There she is. Arrest her!” yelled the men-at-arms, bursting into the room.

  Strong arms seized her by the waist and jerked her flailing from the door. “She is crazed. Find a rope!”

  Johanna fought. Her shift tore in the man’s hand and she broke away almost naked. Evading the tentacles that tried to seize her, she wrenched a cloak from one of the beds and ran out the side door that took her back down the staircase. At least she knew the way to the bishop’s rooms.

  Orleton! He would save Geraint. But they must think her lunatic. A noblewoman with straw in her hair and no kirtle.

  In the hall, the bishop’s secretary caught her by the forearms.

  “Lady Johanna, God ha’ mercy, what is amiss?” He held up a hand to stay the men-at-arms.

  “Father, the rabble, they have my husband. Geraint, Gervase. He’s the bishop’s man.”

  “Yes, I know him. But my lord bishop is attending mass in the cathedral and so I told the other demoiselle.”

  “Then, I pray you, any of his officers will do.”

  “They are all at Prime. Come, let us go there, my daughter. Wait here! I shall look into this,” he exclaimed to the soldiers, but—Heaven protect her—there were one of Fulk’s men, three Mortimer retainers and four men-at-arms with halberds following them as they ran across the cobbled yard to the cathedral.

  “They think I am mad.”

  “My lord is in the chancel. We cannot interrupt the Eucharist. Wait out here,” ordered his secretary. “I will see what can be done.”

  She could hear the shouting in Broad Street. “My husband will die.”

  “God must be served. Have faith!” He left her shivering in the portal.

  “Seize her now!” yelled one of the Mortimer men-at-arms. They had ventured across the yard. There was no alternative but to take refuge in the cathedral. Inside, the nearest faithful hissed at her.

  “Is this a whore for penitence?” One of the sergeants-at-law at the back of the congregation seized her by the shoulder. “She’s ’sposed to have a taper.”

  “I am lady-in-waiting to the queen. My husband’s life is in—”

  “Oh aye, woman, and I am the Holy Roman Emperor and this here is his holiness the pope. Take her—oh strike me dumb! Here’s trouble!”

  A trio of Mortimer retainers had entered the cathedral and were dutifully sheathing their swords.

  “That crazed woman tried to force her way into the queen’s bedchamber!” one exclaimed.

  “Crazed, eh? Help yourself!”

  She managed a scream of protest that cut across the Latin and echoed up the Norman nave. “Someone, save my husband!” For only a heart beat, the priest’s voice faltered.

  “Aye, if she has one. Yesterday must have unhinged her mind.” The tallest soldier stooped, sticking his face into hers as if she were a child. “Who has your husband, lady?”

  “Fulk—Fulk de Enderby. They will kill him.”

  “Who, Fulk?”

  “No, you fool. Ger—”

  A hand from behind came down across her mouth and before she could protest, he pulled down her jaw and forced a rag into her mouth. “No more screamin’, darlin’. Slide the rope round her easy like ’fore she does ’erself a mischief.”

  “Shall we take her straightway to the city madhouse?”

  “Aye, and then best talk to his lordship.” They hustled her out. Without her hands free, she could not keep herself covered as she struggled.

  “Aye, she’s frenzied,” muttered one of the men admiringly, pulling the cloak further aside, exposing her body to the foggy air and the others’ leers. “We might have some pleasure afore we deliver her.”

  Johanna slammed his shin with the sole of her foot. Cursing her foully, he drove his boot into her calves. She collapsed to her knees, and he grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back.

  “Behave, darlin’!”

  “Let her go!”

  Agnes flew like a fury at the man, scratching at his eyes, and suddenly there were people everywhere.

  HE HAD EXPECTED retribution from Fulk but this fulfilled his bloodiest nightmares. They were set on dragging him towards where they had hanged his brother. Town shutters were drawn back at the furore. Geraint yelled for help to a couple of men he knew in Leicester’s livery and struggled so hard that it took a dozen of the whoresons to hold him. They had him above their heads by the end of Broad Street like debris upon a human river.

  Geraint was saying his prayers as a pole above a shop came his way, and instinctively he grabbed it. The momentum helped him swing himself up and he gripped the nearest casement and found himself above the astonished mob. Within an instant they were ramming the front door, and bawling for ladders. If he could just stall them until some help arrived. Pray God Leicester’s men would come back with reinforcements.

  “I have no quarrel with any of you save him!” He thrust a finger at Fulk. “This is a private quarrel and I will fight him in combat.”

  “He is a Despenser! Deny it on the Rood!” bawled Fulk.

  Boards shook behind Geraint’s back. They were trying to force the shutters open.

  “I serve the Mortimers.”

  “A spy in their household.”

  “Send for Sir Roger Mortimer and ask him.”

  He could see three horsemen and a score of men-at-arms running up Broad Street.

  “Shoot him down!” snarled Fulk and the man-at-arms beside him primed his crossbow.

  “Geraint!”

  Jankyn had appeared at the edge of the crowd and sent a knife spinning through the air into the shutter. Geraint prised it out and edged to one side of the casement. They were driving a blade between the flats to force him off the wooden sill into the mob.

  “Get him!” As Fulk swung round to order his men to grab Jankyn, Geraint threw himself on the older man’s shoulders and sent him smashing back onto the cobbles. There was a risk they would drag him off before help came, but the crowd was groggy-witted from the night’s carousing. They stumbled back as the two men went rolling towards the central gutter.

  Fulk had pulled free his dagger. Despite his age, he was not only fit but strengthened by hate and anger. He spat into Geraint’s eyes, and tried to strike home while he was blinded. Cobbles bit into Geraint’s back through the thin lawn and Fulk’s sabaton kicked into his shin, but inch by inch he forced the armed man over onto his back and plunged the knife down.

  Leaderless, the crowd hesitated and then it was too late to drag him to a hanging. Henry, Lord of Leicester drew rein, and his men dispersed the mob.

  Geraint caught Jankyn to his breast, his eyes awash.

  “I expected it, but not the manner. Is Johanna safe?”

  A VELVET CLOAK, its folds redolent with musk, enveloped Johanna and Elizabeth’s fingers freed her from the gag.

  “Agnes, where is my husband?”

  “Hush, my lady, let us untie you first.”

  Johanna stared at the circle growing around her. Orleton, mitred and resplendent, had emerged from the cathedral with a half-dozen clerics at his heels. The queen, a fur cloak cast over her silk wrap, was hastening across from the bishop’s palace. Behind her, Roger Mortimer was striding after her as best he might in slippers.

  People were pouring in from Broad Street. Soldiers in Richmond’s livery were carrying in a body, heavy and tall, slung on some mired canvas.

  “No!” Johanna broke free and ran across. They set it down and she sank to her knees in horror, tears blinding her as she reached out a hand to disclose the face of the man she loved. But it was Fulk de Enderby’s corpse that stared, open mouthed, at Heaven, fresh blood welling from the blade wound in his throat.

  “Johanna.”

  Geraint stood upon the path, flanked by Miles and Jankyn, and held out his arms to her. For an instant, she was transfixed as if it was beyond belief that he was safe and alive, then with a sob she ran across to him and he lifted her high within his arms and swung her round.

  “It
is all right, my love. It is all over.” Tucking her against his shoulder, he flung his other arm round Jankyn’s shoulders and hugged him anew.

  “Geraint, what in God’s Name are you about now?” Sir Edmund Mortimer arrived out of breath, gazing in astonishment at the notables gathered around his one-time esquire.

  “Shall you tell them, my lord bishop?”

  Orleton nodded and Geraint, not letting go of Johanna, moved across to his protective arm.

  “Most gracious sovereign lady, I present to you by his true name your most loyal servant, Geraint Despenser, the youngest son to the late traitor styling himself Earl of Winchester.”

  A buzz of consternation greeted Geraint as he knelt. Johanna tumbled to her knees beside him.

  “You are a Despenser?” The queen’s lips parted in astonishment.

  “Yes, madam, although I have fought against my kinsmen oft enough as my lord bishop will bear witness.”

  “I shall require more explanation of this, sir,” exclaimed Isabella stiffly. “Could you not trust us with the truth?”

  “My liege lady, forgive me for deceiving you. I barely escaped a hanging this morning because of my despised name.”

  The queen’s gaze fell thoughtfully upon her lady in waiting. “And you acknowledge the lady Johanna as your wife?”

  “Yes, madam, and there is yet more I would say. Have I your leave to address Sir Roger?” Given permission, he rose to face the man in whose household he had served. The earl was looking as taken aback as Edmund. “So, my lord Mortimer, will you now bury your kin’s feud against my blood or will you see me hanged for this?” He gestured to the body and then glanced round at all the onlookers. “Is it over now? Have you great Marcher lords been satiated or is this to continue until the next generation too? Must Hugh’s son be at war with you, Edmund? Must my children be at war with yours until the umpteenth generation?”

  Johanna tugged at him warningly. His imperious manner was dangerous in challenging these barons, yet she loved him all the more for it.

  Edmund, at least, had the grace to look abashed and shake his head, but the earl his father was clearly annoyed at the deception.

  “Do not think to gain anything from your kinsmen’s lands. Your father’s and brother’s estates are forfeit,” Mortimer snarled.

  “No, my good lord, I shall make no claims of you. Am I exonerated from this slaying?”

  “He saved my life, Father,” Edmund intervened, “and yours too, helping you escape from the Tower. Surely there has been enough killing?”

  “I will stand surance for him,” declared the bishop. “He has always been to me as a son.”

  John, Lord of Richmond coughed and stooped to cover Fulk’s face. “Mea culpa, madam, God forgive me but I believe I precipitated this slaying. Sir Fulk’s wife, Maud, warned me that he was no longer always in his right mind and I deemed it best to replace him as Constable of Conisthorpe. He wanted Sir Gervase, your pardon, Sir Geraint Despenser, dead for many reasons. May his soul be at rest.”

  The queen sneezed. “Amen to that! Dis-donc! Are we fools to be standing round in the November wind? Have the body coffined and carted to his widow at Enderby. See to it, my lord!” The new Lord of Conisthorpe bowed, hand on heart, and the royal entourage hurried off to warm its hands before the bishop’s hearth.

  Geraint watched his wife draw breath and touched her lips with his fingers to silence her.

  “Yes, I know. It was a close thing.”

  “Aye,” exclaimed Jankyn. “There are fools and more fools, taradiddle.”

  “Oh, Jankyn,” exclaimed Johanna, holding out her arms to him. “Forget the taradiddles.”

  He chortled and drew her hand to his lips. “It is the taradiddles that make the world go on. Go to, my lord, you let your lady’s feet become the colour of woad.” Which was why, a short time later, Johanna found herself back in the hired bed with a bowl of hot pottage sitting on a broad platter in front of her.

  Beside her, Geraint yawned, his hands clasped behind his head upon the pillow. “I do not think I shall be able to manage to survive as Lord of Conisthorpe, not to mention, owning those manors you have gained in the Marches, since I am used to deception and being a natural born rebel.”

  “Fie, you are telling me a fairytale,” Johanna argued but she licked the spoon thoughtfully. He had spent his life rebelling—against his family, against Holy Church and against the king.

  “That could be.” Geraint lifted the empty bowl from her hands and set the platter upon the floor. “Though I tell you this, my lady wife, I need an heir. Shall we test the illustrious Hildegard of Bingen’s hypothesis that two loving parents can beget a worthy son?”

  “Being a rebel, you would not agree with her.”

  “Johanna, I hate to admit it, but I could be wrong.” His loving gaze embraced her. “Would you care to find out?”

  Postscript

  SOME OF THE historical characters in this story did not survive long afterwards. Edward II was forced to abdicate and in February 1327 the Prince of Wales was crowned as King Edward III. During the boy’s minority, the kingdom was ruled by a council of regency under Henry of Leicester. The deposed king died at Berkeley Castle. It is not known whether he was actually murdered with a heated poker by the orders of Isabella and Mortimer.

  Because of his intimacy with the queen (the young king’s guardian), Roger Mortimer enjoyed great power but became increasingly disliked for his greed and ostentation. An ignominious campaign followed by a treaty which recognised the independence of Scotland brought him further unpopularity. His insubordination and opposition to the royal council finally forced Edward III, by then eighteen years old and a father, to arrest his mother’s lover secretly. The earl was brought before Parliament, declared guilty of treason and hanged. Banned from the court, Queen Isabella lived comfortably at Castle Rising, Norfolk, until her death in 1358.

  Geraint’s friend, Sir Edmund Mortimer, died in 1331 but his son by Elizabeth Baddlesmere retrieved the family honour and was one of the first knights of the Order of the Garter.

  Research for this novel took me to Yorkshire where Richmond Castle, Bolton Priory, Knaresborough, Boroughbridge and the moor above Conistone provided much inspiration. At Boroughbridge you can turn off the old Great North Road at the town bridge and stroll along by the River Ure to the site of the ford where Lancaster’s men were driven back in 1322. At Richmond Castle, Scolland’s hall is a silent ruined casing but the view from the walls is lovely and the great keep still stands. Up on the moor near Conistone, above the narrow lanes where small cushions of moss grow luxuriantly upon the limestone walls around the living churches, it is not hard to imagine horsemen outlined against the sky.

  Of course, the voices in Yorkshire are different now. In 1322 Johanna’s family would have conversed in Norman French. Most people of noble class could speak English as well but it was not until later in the century that English began to replace French completely. Queen Isabella would have spoken Parisian French rather than anglicised French, so in the story in order to emphasis that she is of a different nationality, I have peppered her speech with the occasional French phrase.

  As for the use of surnames in 1322, most nobles were generally called after the place they were born. King Edward II, for example, was also known as Edward of Caernarvon. Tradesmen, however, would have been tagged with a name that showed their calling, for example, Peter Weaver. Hugh Despenser was more correctly known as Hugh Le Despenser, but to avoid situations like “the Le Despensers” I have, pardon the pun, dispensed with “Le.”

  In many of the records written in anglicised French, “de” does not have an apostrophe so in this story Sir Fulk de Enderby’s name is written as “de Enderby.” Married women did not take their husband’s name; the wife of Hugh Despenser was often referred to by her unmarried name, Eleanor de Clare.

  Anyone wishing to read a much more authentic version of the song “Unter der Linden” by Walther von der Vogelweide will find it i
n the anthology Medieval Song edited by James J. Wilhelm (Allen & Unwin, 1971). The other songs, “An Unfortunate Lover” and “Four Wise Men on Edward II’s Reign,” are loosely based on poems in The Oxford Book of Medieval Verse (Oxford University Press, 1970) but Jankyn wrote his own verse.

  Acknowledgments

  THE INSPIRATION FOR this “Medieval Green Card” arose out of a conversation with University of Sydney lecturer Carol Cusack. We were discussing the status of women and she was telling me about a particular medieval divorce case. The court case in The Knight and the Rose has metamorphosed a long way from the original example, but, Carol, here it is and thank you.

  The burgeoning of social history and women’s history studies since the 1970s has provided a wealth of information in books and journals which has made the research into medieval divorce far easier than it might have been some thirty years ago. I should particularly like to thank historians R. H. Helmholz, University of Chicago, and Jeremy Goldberg, University of York, for replying so promptly to my questions on medieval marriage disputes.

  It made a lot of difference visiting the battlefield of Boroughbridge, and discussing where to set Conisthorpe. Alison Hodgson, a fellow history student from undergraduate days, and her husband, Bill, not only provided wonderful hospitality but took us to Durham and Richmond and on a wonderful walk up the Swale valley. Then there was Pam Robbins, the kind curator at Pontefract, who unlocked the exhibition hall in the castle grounds on that bleak, cold day; and Yorkshire-born Jill Fulford who lent me all her books on the county.

  As always, my fellow writers have been very supportive, especially Elizabeth Lhuede for her welcome comments on the completed manuscript; Chris Stinson who always kindly checks the French in my novels and en route offers other pertinent advice; and Delamere Usher for her astounding advice on breaking locks. Romance Writers of Australia have provided much helpful advice over the years and I am proud to be among their ranks.

  Thanks to: Anne Phillips and Angela Iliff for the use of their “libraries” and for being there when discussion was needed; Michael Spencer of Berowra, Sydney, consultant in heraldry, for inventing coats of arms for Geraint, Johanna and Fulk; Peter Davies MD for enthusiastically sharing information on abscesses, strokes and cracked ribs; John Chappell for his advice on Yorkshire dialect; Paul West of St. Albans (UK) and Emma Tolhurst of Bristol for chasing up queries; to my father for suggesting Yorkshire as the best place to set the story and to my mother and daughter for their constructive comments. Thanks also to copy editor Amanda O’Connell. Again, my gratitude to the Transworld Division of Random House Australia, and especially to Christine Zika, my editor at Berkley, who believes that Johanna’s story is worth the telling.