"Your whip, my lord." A low servile fellow was cowering near to his heel, offering him the handle. He snatched it away and stood on his stirrups.
"We return to camp, gentlemen! Right now!"
In a different part of the forest, Ranulf shook his head as Edmund threw a stone at a rolled-up hedgehog. "Scarcely worthy quarry," he remarked. "I did say you could stay with the main chase."
Edmund pursed his lips, his habit when considering if he should speak.
"Out with it, lad."
"Your mount is moving well now, Sir." Edmund took a step closer, away from their following men. "You could leave him with one of the grooms." His thin, homely face suddenly glowed with inward fire. "I have a flower for my lady, if I might be permitted—"
His ready blush overcame him and he studied a patch of sagging wild garlic.
"For sure you can." Ranulf ran his hand over the courser's flank, glad that the good beast was no longer trembling. Edmund was most certainly right: he could safely leave the horse with a few of his men and ride to camp, perhaps catch Edith in her bath. He grinned at the thought.
A blackbird broke cover nearby and his men swung their horses toward the sound. Ranulf raised an arm.
"Those that wish to hunt, stay in the woodland. You, you, you, guide my horse back to camp: there will be extra rations for you. The rest, you will ride with me. We are for camp." There was silence but no grumbles: it was still early enough for other plans.
You could take another courser and hunt on, so why not admit it? The lamed horse is an excuse. You want to go back.
More than that, he wanted to go home, to the north. He wanted to start packing and stirring his folk, and to show Edith off to his parents.
I wonder what tale she will tell them about her hands?
First there was a steep, tree-covered hillside to go down. He and Giles had sped up this track but the smaller path to the left looked easier going for the courser, less sheer.
"This way." He gripped the chestnut's bridle and steered the horse. He would take the courser down this long bank and then hand him over to the grooms at the bottom.
He whistled, striding down the track, kicking and sweeping dead fallen branches out of the way so the horse need not work too hard. The limes and hornbeams thinned on their descent and now he could see a rough clearing further on, a tiny man-made meadow, filled with flowers.
I wonder if there are lilies here?
He would gather some, for Edith.
Chapter 36
Dragging the pail and with her head bowed, Edith trundled past the guards to Ranulf's tent, and breathed a huge sigh of relief once she was inside. No one had approached the bed to check on the parcel of sheets she had plumped together as a sleeping simulacrum of herself. She stripped off her make-shift clothes, hid her less than clean feet under a cushion, drew a sheet across her shoulders, and then she released her hair.
There was a scraping on the canvas and a maid she did not know put her head through the half-closed flaps.
"My lady! They just told me that another maid entered here, but a moment ago. I trust the chit did not disturb you?"
"Not a bit." Sitting on the edge of the pallet, Edith stretched and tried to yawn a little. "I think the guards must be mistaken, though. There is no one in this tent but us."
"But they said—"
Quickly, to prevent awkward questions, Edith shook her hair and stretched for a comb. As she expected, the maid hurried to retrieve it first, plucking it from the low stool with a small smile of victory.
"My lady." She proffered the wooden comb. "Unless—May I dress your hair for you?"
"You may!" Edith was most happy to have her hair crimped and combed: it was a pleasure she had scarcely known, or had time to indulge, in Warren Hemlet.
The maid came alongside her, lifting her long hair and combing it first with her fingers. Edith closed her eyes and relaxed.
He intended to be quick, but Ranulf found himself lingering in the small meadow. The signs of man where everywhere here, from the broken-down ditches and fences bordering the space, to the broken plough in one corner. A peasant family during the hunger times, he wagered, trying to eke a living on this poor land. Yes, there were flowers; poppies, corn cockle, fire-weed and more, but there were half-dug out tree roots and thin soil and smashed spades and rakes.
He was staring at the plough, wondering how it must have been, when Edmund shouted from further up the field.
"There is a dwelling here, my lord!"
The unspoken words and people hung in the air, in his squire's panicked voice.
Was this another den of pestilence? Ranulf stalked up the field, stumbling over the plough ridges, while his memory returned to the hamlet that he and Edith had found, where all had been dead save for the two little ones. And his little liar had matched him step for step, and faced the horrors unflinchingly, he thought, loving her afresh, but very glad now that she was safe away, snug in his bed.
"Are they sick, Ed—?"
Shock robbed him for the rest of the question, and his breath. Three strides away from him Edmund was gaunt and stark, suddenly looking years older. His other men had fallen silent: one, who had been gobbling seeds, spat out the mouthful as if it were poisoned.
A flock of black birds, crows perhaps, rose from the tall flowers, grasses and barley and skimmed like dark tears across the meadow, away from what was crawling from the sunken hovel hunkered in the dip of land.
Three figures, grim as the fates from ancient stories. He could not gauge their age or sex. They were in ragged, down-to-the-heel, undyed tunics, mud-splattered and green with moss. It was their faces, though, that seemed the work of devils.
These are accursed, the thought came, before sense kicked in again.
They had been branded, full across their noses and cheeks. In one the mark had healed to a puckered scar that lifted the corner of the poor wretch’s mouth so he looked to be leering. Another had been branded close to his right eye so that the eye constantly wept a mixture of blood and pus. These two Ranulf could look on with a sad but steady heart. It was the third, the woman, that made the hair down on his back bristle. She had been branded, too, full in the face. A huge, red and white scar ranged like a dragon's claw across her chin and cheeks. Her blue eyes were pretty and clear and the glimpse of hair he could see beneath her head-rail was a dazzling blonde.
This could have been Edith....
He clenched his jaw to stop his teeth clattering together. More than anything, for Giles to order the branding of a woman seemed a thing beyond nature. She had warned him, too, she had told him Giles was branding folk who quit their serf-bonds, and he had dismissed it, not even considered it, even after he had learnt what Giles had done to her and others at Warren Hemlet. Here, in front of him, was the reality.
Even had he wanted to, he could not pretend that Giles had not ordered it done. The burned, raw marks on these human faces were part of Giles's own escutcheon.
"Have we food for these people?" he demanded, stepping forward to show he was not afraid. He held out the flask of mead.
At once there was a busy ransacking of packs and tunics as his men, glad of some task, any task, fell to searching for victuals. The blue-eyed woman stretched out her hand and he placed the flask gently into her reaching fingers.
“Will you also break bread with us, lord?” she asked. Her voice was clear and sweet, holding no malice, for which he was grateful. Had he been branded he doubt if he could look upon knights without cursing.
“If you will tell me your story."
One of the men pointed at his own face, as if to say, is it not obvious? The woman shook her head at him and settled down amidst the flowers, tugging on the tunic of the fellow closest to her. Ranulf also sat down and Edmund came beside him.
One by one the rest crouched in a circle and the mead and flasks of ale were passed from hand to hand, followed by chunks of bread, dried meat and soft, squashed cheese. Ranulf took a little to show will
ing, though the sight of his guests meant he had no appetite.
"What village are you from?" he asked, as the man with the upturned, twisted mouth chewed raggedly on a piece of bread. The woman at least ate more daintily, wiping her lips after a mouthful of cheese.
He half-expected no answer, or a rough, "No business of yours," but the woman replied readily—with her own question.
"Are you the knight of the north? With the black armour?"
Ranulf nodded, handing the oldest of the three former runaways the mead again, before the fellow choked on a crumb.
"You are known to us as a just lord, so I shall tell you, Sir Ranulf."
The woman smiled so widely the mark of her branding almost vanished in a mesh of laughter lines. "Did you think only kings and knights have messengers and news-givers?” she went on. “Many of the peddlers on the roads are our kindred, so we hear enough."
“Tell him our tale, Agnes, and be done,” spat the man with the upturned mouth.
“Easy, Tom. We have no haste here.” Agnes nodded to the grey-headed man sitting with his back against a boulder. “Harkon is enjoying the cheese.”
Ranulf silently handed Harkon his small mound of cheese. “Have you been away from your village for long?”
"Twelve seasons or so. When the great death came few died in our place, but a great many perished in the hamlets closest to our lord's demesne and he was sore afflicted by lack of labour."
"He looked to you to supply it?"
"That and at the old rates of payment and every scrap of duty, with him unwilling to grant so much as a peppercorn of coins or rights."
Ranulf nodded. "I served for a time as a soldier in France," he observed, which was half a truth and half a lie. "My overlord was grudging with booty, so I quit his service and looked elsewhere."
Agnes sucked on the soft cheese as if it was the sweetest, freshest cream. "So easy for knights," she remarked. "Custom makes serfs worse than slaves, tied to the land no matter how poor the land or the lord. But when the great death came and we survived and labour so scarce, we found that lords looked to us for help. Those who looked at us directly and paid us a fair price, those we agreed to work for. We ran away from our old, poor lands and worse dues. We thought ourselves safe enough: our lord did not know one peasant from another."
Giles again, thought Ranulf, but he knew he was almost as bad. He knew the reeves of his villages but who else? Did he know the smiths and widows of the smiths, like Edith?
"How did your former lord discover you?" he asked.
"He had a former nurse, now an old woman, who was living in our village at the time of the great death. She had lived, as we had, and she fled with us to better terms. She was gleaning in another lord's great field when he saw her and recognized her." Agnes sighed and looked at her hands. "She gave the rest of us up with her, so we were all taken."
"And your new lord did nothing to protect you?" Ranulf was scandalized at the knight's poor showing.
Beside Agnes, Tom threw a meat bone into the long grass, shooed away a curious hound and leered anew with his blistered mouth. "Him? He let our old lord take us, paid us nothing and looked about for more runaways! It was naught to him if we were broken."
Agnes shook her head. "He thought us broken and enslaved, our old, bad lord. He mocked our pain and suffering as we were forced back to work on his lands with our brands still fresh. He dragged us to the tourney camp at Fitneyclare to show us to his other slaves, as a lesson to them."
Giles again, unable to resist showing off his spiteful victories. I wonder what he did outside the church at Warren Hemlet? I wonder what that bastard has shown to me, what triumphs he has considered won over me, and I have not read the tracks and signs correctly? "But you escaped."
"We slipped away as soon as the chance presented itself! The Holy Mother smiled on us, and hid our going from his guards.
"Now we live here," Agnes continued. "We came this morning, found this old, free place and decided to stay."
Good for you, my girl. Ranulf wondered at the timing: a few hours less, a day ago, and he would not have encountered these remarkable runaways, who proved Edith's words on Giles point by point. Mere chance, Edith would argue, but still he marvelled. "It will be hard for you, though. To till and plough and sow, all before next spring—hard."
They were old for such back-breaking work and would be more than likely to starve through winter, but he did not say so.
Agnes gave him her disconcerting sweet smile. "But we shall be free," she answered simply, as if that were all.
Ranulf motioned to a half-dozen of his men and set them to repairing the roof of the hovel—swift repairs only, but one less task. "For the flowers I will take," he explained to Agnes, "by your leave."
"For those, let us keep the flasks, too and food, and that fine knife on your belt, my lord," Agnes bargained, shrewd as any woman born free.
Ranulf chuckled at her cheek, but he threw his eating knife on the grass between them and held out his hand to her to seal the deal. "Done."
Chapter 37
With her hair properly dressed, and in her full costume and veil as the Lady of Lilies, Edith felt more ready to deal with Ranulf's captain, who scratched at the tent, begging to be admitted, while she, with the maid's help, was threading a necklace of small coins around her waist. Swiftly she finished and covered her favourite cream bodice and skirts with the light green silken cloth that she had used earlier in her costume as Lady Jade.
"Please enter," she called out, hoping for news of Ranulf.
The captain did so and while she sat on the made up bed he begged her indulgence afresh. A group of most ugly, most ungodly ruffians had attached themselves to her steward and were with him even now, whining to be seen.
"My steward and these people are outside this tent?" she queried.
"They are, my lady, and an uncouth mob they appear. Half are branded for some vile misdeeds. I did not want them in the camp at all, but your steward insisted and claimed you would wish to see them."
Edith gave the anxious captain a smile. "He and you both did well, sir," she told him. "In the lands of Cathay where I am from, it is accounted a great virtue to speak softly to beggars and to all who ask for aid." She straightened and patted the pallet for the maid to sit beside her. "If you will stay with me, sir, I know I shall be safe."
The captain scowled less fiercely and turned about to do her bidding. Edith waited, stock-still, hiding her ungloved hands in her long silken covering and reminding herself not to fidget.
"They will not harm us," she said to the maid, who was looking as if the tent was about to be filled with wolves. "They may look amiss, but if my steward vouches for them, I know they will be gentle, mild creatures."
As she spoke the captain, two of his men and Teodwin marched into the tent, followed by Lucy and the little ones and then a hunched group of men and women. Gawain, ever protective, was leading little Mary by one hand and a small, nervous-looking girl-child by the other.
"Welcome to you, good strangers." Edith boosted herself off the pallet and approached them, recognizing one or two from the riverbank that morning. Relieved they had come, she nodded to Teodwin and said to the servants now entering the tent, "Please, bring ale and food for our guests."
"Yes, she is my lord's Lady of Lilies and she always wears a veil," she heard Gawain explaining to the little girl, and she relaxed a little, sensing all would be well.
"Let us sit here." She indicated a clean spot on the rushes and sat down cross-legged, knowing that her guests would be easier settled in a circle on the floor of the tent, as they might have crouched in their own huts at home.
One after another, the group copied her while Teodwin, reluctant to spoil his purple robe, found the stool. Around them, the ordered carrying of pitchers, cups and trenchers into the tent flowed like a dance, but was rudely interrupted by a banging of tabors and a shrieking of pipes and whistles, just outside.
A harsh, discordant trump
et sounded, followed by the bear-like roar of a herald.
"My lords and ladies! My Lady of Lilies! I crave your attention! My lady Blanche invites you all this day to a joust and tourney of peace, to be held within the castle and bailey of castle Fitneyclare. There will be great sport and singing!"
"She must have heard rumours of our departure," the captain remarked, as the herald spoke of "many prizes" and "much gold".
"I am glad she is well again," Edith answered.
"Is she, though?" Teodwin had risen from the stool and crossed the tent floor to add his own observations. "Perhaps this is merely a clever device to tempt us to stay."
"And go up to the castle again," said the captain.
"What would you have me do, gentlemen?" Edith asked. "For the sake of good manners, I must make some reply, and quickly."
"Agree to go to the castle once our lord returns and can go with you," said Teodwin, an answer which, although reasonable, made her want to rebel. So soon had her steward become Ranulf's man, and no longer solely hers!
"What say you, sir?" she asked the captain, when she was sure she could speak without raging.
"I would—"
Whatever else the captain was about to say was cut short by new interruptions.
"Fetch water! We need pails and water!"
"Rakes! We need to rake it away!"
Horses began to stamp and scream outside.
"Make a line with buckets, before it all goes up!"
"What the devil?" The captain jerked round and strode for the entrance as Edith gave out new orders.
"Gather your things together, just what you can carry in a sling, and go out into the woods by the swing. Go as quick as you can."
"What is happening?" Lucy and Gawain asked, as the captain disappeared outside and began bawling orders to the grooms to get the horses shifted.
"Fire!" came the howl from the rest of the camp. "Fire! Help us! Help me!"
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 109