A King's Betrayal

by Sole, Linda

  He was not the lord of this manor. She thought he must have brought news with him – perhaps connected with the news that the priest was even now telling the people of the village. Beth had seen the men gathering outside the church to listen to his words and wondered what was so important that the priest must announce it this way – and why strangers had come to the castle.

  The knight had a pennant of white with a black motif. She was not sure but she thought it bore the sign of a raven – a bird many thought of ill omen. She had seen something at his shoulder, a shadow or dark cloud that seemed to follow him and was shaped like a reaper’s hook. People were superstitious about such things and lived in dread of the fearful signs and portents that showed themselves as fire in the sky or other miraculous things. Beth had heard the tale of two dogs once found when a vast rock was split; one died but the Bishop of Winchester fondled the other for some days. In a different quarry a rock was found inside another rock and in the centre of that inner rock was a toad wearing a gold chain. In the chronicles of Matthew Parish, so Mistress Soames had told her, there were tales of knights richly clothed coming out of the earth and then disappearing into it again as if by magic. Strange cloud formations and the odd appearance of four suns in the sky were said to herald either great things or terrible disasters.

  Was what she had just witnessed a sign that something terrible had occurred? When she had gathered her herbs she would stop by the church and read the proclamation that had been nailed to the door. Some of the words might baffle her but if she took her time and read slowly she would understand its meaning.

  Thirteen

  ‘So Henry is ill again, God curse him and all his house,’ William, Lord de Burgh spat on the ground before his keep. ‘What say his physicians be the cause of this mercy?’

  ‘Have some respect for your King, sir,’ the knight said giving him a hard look. ‘He hath been ill for several years with a foul disease that some say might be leprosy, though I do not think it. I believe it to be a malady of the skin that comes and goes but gradually grows worse. The affliction has bothered him for months and his son is all but King, though his father lives.’

  ‘Henry deserves to die a cruel death. He was the usurper – the murderer of Richard, the true King of England. His illness is a curse from God.’

  ‘’Tis true that Henry Bolingbroke took the crown by force and many learned to regret it bitterly, but he has been a good king in his way and his son is a better man. He will be a just and fair ruler when he comes to the throne – and he has said in private that he will have Richard’s body reburied with honour. He is a patron of the arts and will rule more wisely than his father I think. Henry took the crown by force and by force has kept it. Despite all the rebellions against him he holds it still. ‘Tis due in large part to his son that the war with Wales is all but done. I honour him for what he is, a brave soldier and a fair man.’

  ‘Owain Glyn Dwr is still at large, though none has seen him for months.’ William frowned. ‘He remains a danger while he lives.’

  ‘I think not. He is nothing more than a marauder now, able to strike here and there but with no real strength. He remains a legend to his people, but a legend without teeth. I do not think he will cause trouble again, if he even lives.’

  ‘’Tis a matter of opinion, but I’ll not quarrel with you, D’Avignon. What now for England?’

  ‘I see no reason for anxiety. Henry’s son has the kingdom in his palm. I doubt we shall see much unrest when Henry dies, though he may rally again, as he has before,’ Raoul D’Avignon said. His hood of mail thrown back, he looked a striking man, standing six inches taller than the older knight, with dark blond hair that framed his lean face in a short straight cut. ‘I have served in the struggle against the Welsh, but I think it will be from France that future threats may come. Charles of France is mad and though he surely has not long to live we may have war once more before we know it.’

  ‘England lies beneath a shadow,’ de Burgh muttered bleakly. ‘When Henry of Bolingbroke seized the throne and murdered Richard he brought a curse upon us all and there has been naught but turmoil since. Bloody murder, vengeance and superstition have stalked this land from that day to this.’

  ‘It was the treachery of the Lord Appellants that changed the shape and nature of England for they set loose the dark force that brought malicious greed, murder and bloody revenge in their wake. The loss of Richard’s throne was a part of all that went before and despite what you claim, much of what happened was his own fault.’

  ‘He but did what he had to do. Henry Bolingbroke took advantage of the barons’ discontent, though I think that many have wished for Richard back again since.’

  ‘That too is a matter of opinion. Why did you fight for Henry in Wales if you bear him so much ill will?’

  ‘I fought for my pay. My father was one of those who rebelled against Bolingbroke when he took the throne. He was pardoned but fined three hundred pounds. We could not pay such a sum and had to borrow.’ William scowled at the memory. ‘It beggared us for years and I had no choice but to make my fortune as a mercenary. It did not make me love Henry nor can I condone what he has done. If another claimant seized the throne I would not stand in his way, though I would not rise unless I believed he was like to win. There has been enough of waste and war. We need to conserve what we have.’

  ‘I do not deny that this lingers in the minds of men who cannot forgive what happened to Richard 11 or the bloody vengeance that followed the troubles in Wales,’ Raoul agreed but there was nothing in his expression that gave a clue to his true allegiance. ‘I was bidden to bring you the news and am but a messenger. If the King dies, you will be expected to attend his funeral when the time comes.’

  The scowl on de Burgh’s face deepened. ‘You may do as you please, D’Avignon, but I shall not pay homage in death to a King I did not honour in life. Besides, he may rally again, as you said.’

  ‘Well, I have brought you the news and must be on my way – but do not make an enemy of the King, my friend. We fought together against Glyn Dwr and I would not see you fall foul of Henry’s wrath for no good reason.’

  William looked at him in surprise. ‘You are leaving? Will you not stay at least to dine or rest this night beneath my roof? We have killed a deer and there is some good venison roasting over the spit.’

  ‘I have others to see,’ Raoul hesitated, then, ‘As we rode here I noticed a girl by the wayside. She was a peasant yet there was something about her – she had hair like spun silk and ‘twas the colour of ripe corn, not red or gold but something between. Her clothes were poor but her bearing was as proud as a queen’s.’

  William frowned and then nodded. ‘I think you speak of the witch’s daughter. She and her mother live in the woods somewhere at the edge of my demesne. I have heard of her beauty but cannot say I’ve noticed her of late. When she was a child I saw her gathering herbs with her mother – the woman makes cures and is rumoured to be a whore, but I know nothing of her. She hath caused me no trouble and I allow them to live as they please. I am but recently returned from the war, as you know. My father was sickly and sent for me, God rest his soul.’

  ‘I heard he died some six months gone,’ Raoul said. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘There was no love lost between us. He was a brute and the villagers went in terror of him. The women and children flee from me when they see me, though as yet I’ve done little to cause them grief but they think me like him, and perhaps they are right.’ He frowned. ‘What of the girl? Did she offer you some insult?’

  ‘None. She has done nothing to harm or offend me. It was simply her looks that caught my notice. Excuse me, I must leave you. Consider what I have said, Sir William.’

  ‘Farewell and God speed, sir.’

  William watched as the knight turned away to mount his horse. His expression became a scowl as Sir Raoul rode out of the bailey. They had met when they were both fighting against Glyn Dwr and been comrades, friends o
f a sort, yet he had never quite trusted the man. D’Avignon was of mixed blood, part French, and part English, with estates on both sides of the Channel. No one was certain of his own loyalty, though he appeared to uphold the English King and fought for him in Wales. William too had fought but for glory and gain, biding his time. He had no love for the usurper but was not fool enough to show his hand until the moment was right. One day he would with God’s help seek vengeance for Richard, England’s rightful king. It was a tragedy that Richard had no children to follow him, for there were many who might have risen in support of such a claimant. Yet there was nothing to be gained from an uprising that failed but disgrace and a terrible death.

  He frowned as his mind turned to the witch’s daughter.

  William had lied to D’Avignon when he denied all knowledge of the girl. She’d been but a child when he left to fight as a mercenary, wanting to prove himself and get away from his father’s dominance, but since his return, he’d noticed her as she came and went about her business. She visited one particular house in the village more than any other. He’d asked his steward who lived there and been told it was a woman who had once been renowned for her skill with the needle, but was now sickly. The witch’s girl was nursing her.

  William knew that his castle had been neglected in the years of his absence. His mother had died when he was but a lad, of a broken heart he believed, and his father had contented himself with his leman. William’s first action on his return was to send the woman packing. She’d hoped to climb into his bed but he wanted none of her. His fancy lay in another direction and he was biding his time, waiting for the right moment. The girl’s mother was undoubtedly a whore but she was fresh and lovely and he was determined to have her.

  Raoul looked for the girl he’d noticed earlier as he rode away from de Burgh’s castle. There was no sign of her and he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. Had she still been there at her work he would have stopped to speak to her, but he had no time to search for a girl, however striking she might be.

  Despite what he had said to de Burgh, Raoul knew that there might still be trouble amongst the barons if Henry died. Too many still recalled that Bolingbroke had taken the throne by force and there were others that might press an equal claim to rule if they chose. Henry 1V had thrown off many attempts in his lifetime and even now the crown did not rest easy on his head. Some said that he was a haunted man, cursed because of the evil he had done in murdering his anointed King. It was rumoured that Henry believed his illness was a curse from God. Yet Richard 11 had died without a son and the claim of Lancaster was as good as any other. Henry’s son would need to have his wits about him for if he turned his back to deal with the hereditary enemy of France, the barons might stab him between the shoulders.

  Raoul’s mind turned to his personal quest. He had a score that must be settled, an old wound that festered inside him and would not let him rest.

  ‘God forgive me that I have not yet avenged you, Father,’ he murmured. ‘I swear that I will bring your murderer to justice.’

  His enemy had powerful friends. Only by staying close to the court and watching for his chance might he be able to break down Arnaud’s guard. The priest was a member of the prince’s household, at times his trusted chaplain and scribe. Henry believed him to be a pious chaste man. How little he knew of the serpent he harboured amongst his followers. Arnaud had broken his vows of chastity, stealing another man’s wife, lying with her and combining with the cheating bitch to murder her husband.

  She had already paid the price for her betrayal, but Arnaud had thus far escaped justice. He would not do so forever. Raoul had laid his plans but the time was not yet right. For now he must watch and wait and show allegiance to the King and his son.

  His pace quickened. Already he had forgotten the girl picking herbs in the meadow and the haunting beauty of her face.

  Fourteen

  Beth knelt to pick some herbs that she had discovered on the other side of the incline. Glancing round, she saw the dark knight and his party ride away. They did not glance in her direction nor would they have seen her, for the land curved away from her, sheltering her from their gaze had they turned. She experienced a strange suffocating feeling of anger and pain, not her own but another’s, so strong that it had communicated itself to her. It was as she rose to her feet that she heard the rushing sound, like wind and in the wind was music, a strange haunting melody that she had not heard before.

  Her head started to whirl filling with pictures of violence and bloody murder. She saw a woman with black hair and eyes like midnight. Her lips were a red slash against the whiteness of her skin and she was beautiful. She was laughing at a man and then her laughter turned to a look of horror as he seized her by the throat, his powerful hands closing like a vice until the delicate bones of her neck snapped.

  Beth cried out, falling to the ground and beginning to shake and jerk, a drizzle of spittle on her lips. Now she saw pictures of war, men in battle, riding their horses against each other as their swords slashed to left and right and the blood flowed. She heard the cries of the injured and dying as they were trampled into the mud and trembled in fear.

  ‘No…please help me,’ Beth whispered as the pictures changed once more and now she saw a man in the robes of a priest on his knees begging for his life. ‘No more – please, no more.’

  The pictures had faded, but she was left with a sensation of being drained, as if the vision had taken all her strength. She had witnessed one terrible murder and seen another still to come – but why? Nothing like that had ever happened to Beth before. She knew that Marthe had the Sight. Sometimes she would sit before the flames and stare into them and then she would get up and begin to prepare a cure – before the day was done someone would come and ask for the cure Marthe had made.

  ‘I have a gift,’ she’d once told Beth. ‘It is not powerful nor do I see visions of great things like some of the seers – but I always know when someone is coming and sometimes I know that bad things will happen.’

  Did she also have the Sight? Beth wondered. If it was always so fearful she did not wish to be given such a gift. Shivering and cold despite the sunshine, she picked up the basket she had dropped and the herbs she had spilled. If a murder was to happen she could do nothing to prevent it and ‘twas foolish to let it disturb her. She had a cure to make and then she must get home.

  Beth stopped to read the proclamation that was now nailed to the church door. It said that King Henry 1V was very ill and perhaps close to death, asking that prayers be said for him. As she lingered, reading the letters slowly, the priest came to the door and looked at her, his gaze narrowed and fixed, as if he disliked or disapproved of what he saw. Perhaps he was angry because she did not attend church, as the other villagers did, but Marthe had forbidden it. Beth would have liked to go on Sunday mornings, because she liked the sound of the people singing and sometimes lingered outside to listen.

  She frowned as she turned away and walked back towards the village. The news of the King’s illness was momentous but it would make little difference to the lives of the people here. Wars, a drought that caused the crops to fail, disease and famine were the things that changed lives. Beth could not truly remember her life before she came to this place with Marthe and did not imagine that she would ever go to London or see the King.

  As she made her way towards Mistress Soames’s cottage, Beth saw that the villagers had returned to their work. The blacksmith was hammering an iron band for the wheel of a cart and another man was repairing a thatched roof. The blacksmith paused for a moment to look at her. Beth nodded but did not smile for there was a look in his eyes that disturbed her.

  Most of the cottages were built either of wood or stone, the walls plastered with wattle and daub made from straw and cow dung. Some had a lean-to at the side or back, which housed a pig or a goat in winter, though at the moment the beasts were grazing the common land, watched over by children. A flock of geese was wandering throug
h the village, honking and terrorising a dog unwise enough to bare its teeth at them. As she watched the goose reared up and flew at the dog, which turned tail and ran for the safety of its home. Beth laughed, pausing for a moment longer in the sunshine before going inside the cottage.

  The smell was still strong. Mistress Soames had emptied her bowels again. Beth would wash her and change her bedding once more before she left, but the sooner her cure was made the better. If Mistress Soames continued this way she would surely die. Beth could only hope that her mixture would help so that her friend could keep her food and the drink she needed inside her for a while.

  Watching the girl pass, John Blacksmith felt himself harden with need. He had been aware of Beth for some months now and each time he saw her, his hunger grew more fierce. He turned aside to spit, for the work made his mouth dry. The heat from his furnace was fearful and his skin suffered from the burns and scorching he received as he plied his trade. Sometimes he went to the hut in the woods to buy a potion from Marthe, and sometimes he bought more than the jar of soothing balm. For a time lying with the mother had eased his itch in more than one way, but now he lusted after the girl. She was beautiful, but it was more than that – her pride set her apart.

  The cunning bitch thought herself too good for the rest of them! John scowled as he took an iron bar from the heat of the fire and began to hammer it into the shape of a plough shear. His big arms bulged with muscles and his skin prickled with sweat, but it was the nagging in his groin that drove him near bad.

  He wanted the girl and one of these days he would have her!