Knight's Acre

by Norah Lofts

  He had succeeded in watering six horses when he was aware of the sound of vomiting. He turned and there, at the foot of the ladder, was Lord Robert. When he straightened up his pallor was almost phosphorescent in the gloom. ‘Better now,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his velvet sleeve. ‘Able to… lend a hand.’

  During the earlier, pleasanter part of the voyage, Lord Robert had been one of the younger men who did not observe, more or less, the gap between the young and the older. Second son of the extremely wealthy Earl of Thorsdale, he had come aboard well-provided with his own wine and every kind of delicacy in the way of food; and often enough he would break away from the rather sycophantic group by which he was always surrounded and invite Sir Godfrey and his cronies—‘Do us the favour of joining us.’ Or he would join them. ‘May I sit with you? I find Sir Ralph’s tales so entrancing.’ Entrancing, but now and again somewhat questionable and the boy did not listen with the apathy or full acceptance of the others. Immensely courteous, always, he would sometimes say ‘But Sir Ralph, I always understood…’ He was, what? Between eighteen and nineteen, with girlish complexion, extremely long eyelashes and the fashionable long hair, chestnut coloured and curly; he appeared to have brought a lot of clothes—all most unsuitable; he was, in fact, a type which older, harder men tended to despise. But he was extremely well-informed and once Sir Ralph, corrected twice in an hour—and with wine in him—showed irritation. ‘My lord, you are so well-informed. Were you intended for the Church?’

  ‘No. What I know, I owe entirely to my grandmother. A most remarkable woman. German by birth and a woman of the people.’

  What an admission to make!

  ‘Her father made stained glass and she travelled with him acting as assistant, so many processes being secret. She spoke four languages and was fluent in all. Her father died, somewhat suddenly, and she was stranded. Rescued by my grandfather. In return, she made his fortune. She knew coal when she saw it and recognised its possibilities.’

  That was strictly true and no more than her due. Coal was a fuel that gave, weight for weight, bulk for bulk, more heat than any other, logs or turf. And under the thin skin of sheep-nibbled, rabbit-gnawed surface of Lord Thorsdale’s many acres it lay there, just waiting to be scooped out. People were slow to change but coal was making its way; smiths and armourers and bakers had begun to use it because it gave a more equable heat and there were cities, London, Norwich, Lynn where year by year the distance between the hearths where wood burned and the trees from which the wood was brought increased, every mile adding to the cost of every log. The coal, just under the surface, easily hacked out, easily transportable by sea—it was known as sea-coal—was becoming increasingly popular.

  As a rule Sir Godfrey, whenever possible, avoided Lord Robert, the living reminder of something he preferred to forget, but this terrible evening, in this hideous place, he felt differently, glad of that helping hand and after a while respectful of the resolute temper the boy displayed. He was sick three or four times before every horse was watered and fed but he kept on, tottering and slopping about and from time to time essaying a mild joke.

  They worked alone for the next two days and by then the term “beardless boy” had completely lost its sting; for this was no ordinary boy. Sir Godfrey developed for him a feeling which he thought was paternal.

  The Four Fleeces, battered, filthy and stinking, staggered in to Mondereno, a small, sheltered place on Spain’s north coast. It was comparatively sophisticated for a place of its size; seaborne pilgrims to the shrine of St. James of Compostella used it—chiefly in summer—and it was accustomed to and equipped for the reception of ships which the Bay had battered; many of them in far worse case than The Four Fleeces. It boasted three taverns, two acknowledged brothels, a Dominican house, several men skilled in ship repairs and even more men skilled in the making of fake relics.

  The ship was to be cleared. Arcol, last in, was first out, led by the donkey and giving no trouble at all. In this sheltered corner pasture was available even at this late time of the year. Men and horses, cleansed and freed, were disposed to enjoy this respite for the four days which Captain Briggs deemed necessary.

  Lord Robert, now on such terms with Sir Godfrey as he had despaired of, settling a sky-blue tunic tricked with silver over hose the colour of ripe mulberries, said, ‘Sir Godfrey, you intend to sample the wares?’

  ‘No.’ In the past, a time infinitely remote, when he was this boy’s age he had taken a sample or two and found them… well, disappointing to say the least. Nothing to it, in fact, until he met Sybilla.

  The boy said, blushing his ready blush, ‘If it is a question of cost… I could accommodate you, Sir Godfrey, without the slightest inconvenience to myself.’

  ‘I could buy myself a harlot for half an hour, if I wanted one,’ Sir Godfrey said, harshly, ‘but I am a married man.’

  ‘But… but so are many others…’

  ‘And I have something to do. Run along, enjoy yourself. And keep an eye on your purse.’

  A whore in Westminster had made away with his once, when he was about this boy’s age.

  ‘My wife,’ Sir Godfrey said to Father Andreas, having finally tracked him down, ‘can read. I cannot write. But I would like to send her a letter.’

  ‘I will write it for you, Sir Godfrey. With great pleasure.’

  Father Andreas was capable of changing his mind. This man, not amongst the most eligible, nearing forty and lame, had seemed, at the end of a long and disappointing recruiting campaign, rather like the scrapings of the barrel. But, much less lame, much less old, he had kept his word, shown sound good sense about the donkey; never missed Mass and recently, when almost everybody else lay prone, wishing to die, had kept about. And now, when all the others had gone off to eat and drink and fornicate—let’s not mince words—he was here wanting a letter to be written to his wife. A man in a thousand, ten thousand.

  ‘Yes,’ Father Andreas said, dipping the quill’s point.

  ‘Tell her, please, that I am safe and well and that the worst is over now.’ He changed his rather tentative dictating voice to ordinary speech.’ Captain Briggs said so—fairly plain sailing from here.’

  ‘That is a general experience. Yes?…’ Pen poised, the single word and asking the question what’s next?

  ‘Tell her I am well—no, I said that before… say that I hope she is well. And all the children. And Walter.’ He paused and the quill squeaked.

  ‘And that is all, Sir Godfrey?’

  It was not; But he realised that the man wielding the pain was a man vowed to celibacy. How to put it?

  ‘Would you write that I regret the waste of time… In the summer… When we were together. She will understand.’

  Father Andreas thought he understood too.

  ‘So Godfrey, can you sign it?’

  ‘Oh yes, I can write my name.’

  He wrote it, bearing down so hard, as people unaccustomed to writing did, that the nib of the quill splayed out and the ink sprayed.

  ‘Could you so arrange it that the next ship to put in here, bound for England, could take it? I was told there was traffic…’

  ‘There is. Even in winter. Rest assured. One of my Order will be watchful. No, no, Sir Godfrey, there will be no charge.’

  Soft-footed and saying little, Father Andreas had been observant. Sir Godfrey never gambled, had brought no extra provisions of his own and when asked to share others’ either excused himself or partook most abstemiously. Plainly a poor man. A man who had behaved most admirably during the difficult days. And now, when all the rest have gone hurrying off to satisfy this appetite or the other, he had come to dictate a letter to his wife.

  Father Andreas took out the little black book in which every knight’s name was listed and against Sir Godfrey’s he made a cryptic little mark. Then he looked at the letter and thought about how far it must travel and the many hands needed to get it to its destination. It should be made worthwhile. He took up a pen again an
d before the signature wrote—Your loving husband and faithful knight.

  They spent five days while the ship was repaired and cleansed in exercising the horses and practising their skills against one another. To the boy, whom he now looked upon as a son, Sir Godfrey said, ‘Your eye is clean out, Lord Robert. And will be if you go a-whoring.’

  It was a generally accepted belief that sexual exercise detracted from performance; and certainly some of the most redoubtable knights in the world were vowed to celibacy.

  ‘I shall have time to recover before we reach Escalona,’ Lord Robert said.

  Also generally accepted was the convention that whereas women of one’s own kind must never be discussed, prostitutes could be talked about freely. Sir Thomas Drury could remark that the girl who had fallen to his lot was very young, very small, very dark and very expert.

  ‘In all probability a Moor,’ So Ralph said, always ready to air his knowledge. He informed his somewhat indifferent audience of all he knew about the Moors; how they had overrun and held the whole of Spain until the re-Conquest when the Castilians had won it back, city by city, province by province, until only the south-eastern corner remained in their hands. ‘Escalona,’ he said, ‘was the last area to be retaken. The present Count’s grandfather took it and thus gained his title—and his wealth. Escalona said that his grandfather would have gone further but for the mountains. As it is, when we reach Escalona we shall be at the very edge of Christendom.’

  ‘And the Moors are kin to the Turks,’ said Lord Robert who had unobtrusively joined the group.

  Nobody much relished the mention of the Turks who had overrun much of western Asia and were now threatening Constantinople, the centre of the Byzantine Empire. And Sir Ralph, when he was talking, did not welcome interjections. ‘You could, I suppose, say kin to. Much as all Infidels would call English, Scots and Irish akin. They look at Christendom as one and we look on Islam as one…’

  So with water casks filled, with fresh onions, some very bad wine and some very good dried grapes, with every man and every horse in good health—no mean achievement—the Four Fleeces made her way out of the sea into the mouth of the Great River, the Guadalquivir, where there was nothing to fight but the current. Easy now.

  Father Andreas said, ‘To the right—you call it to starboard—there is a landing stage and a tower. Put it in there. Then go on to Seville.’

  EIGHT

  One bright October morning a painted card arrived bearing the gifts which Sir Simon Randall had promised; six well-grown rose trees, young bushes of lavender, rosemary and southernwood, many other plants in baskets and bundles, all labelled, ‘Here be lily bulbs,’ ‘Roots of Columbine.’ Lady Randolph loved her plants and was anxious that they should be treated properly in their new home, so she had sent the cart in charge of an experienced gardener who proceeded to instruct Walter. Walter hated being told what to do and the Cressacre man resented the lack of hospitality in this place—no cakes or ale. They managed to quarrel in the time it took to unload and for Sybilla to write an appreciative letter. She also wished to be civil and send some small gift in return and she had it handy, for amongst the things which Dame Marjorie had packed was a sizeable bag of pot-pourri. It should have been opened and its contents stood about in wide-mouthed bowls but at Knights Acre every bowl was needed for more utilitarian purpose; so all the sweetness was still sealed within the waxed cloth bags. Sybilla wrote that she had helped to make this pot-pourri from flowers and shrubs grown at Beauclaire and that next year, thanks to her Ladyship’s great kindness, she hoped to make her own from her own garden. (That was another thing the Abbess had taught her—the turning of a pretty phrase).

  One thing the Cressacre man had said was that the roses should be planted at once and that they liked muck. Walter was slightly torn between his farmer’s common sense—there was more to do in October than plant roses; and other things than roses liked muck—and his wish that the lady should have everything suitable. Sentiment won and, having ascertained where Sybilla wished the roses to be, he fetched manure in pails—when he had time he must make a barrow—took his spade and told Henry and Richard to bring the miniature ones which he had made for them.

  They all set to work in the mellow autumn afternoon. Walter did the real work, breaking the soil and leaving the boys to widen and deepen the hole. John stamped about, fell into a hole, fell over something, picked himself up with invincible good humour and Margaret kept, as always, within reach of Sybilla.

  Sybilla was holding the fourth rose tree straight while Walter stamped its carefully spread roots down to the muck it would thrive upon when the quarrel between Henry and Richard broke out, unexpectedly because it was usually allowed to lapse when they were fully employed and more violent than ever before. Ordinarily they punched and kicked; this afternoon they were armed, hacking away at one another with their small spades, using them like battleaxes. Sybilla cried, ‘Boys! Stop it!’ Walter took action. He strode over, seized each by the scruff of the neck and pulled them apart, holding them at arm’s-length, kicking and struggling, and then threw Henry to the left, Richard to the right and said, ‘That’s enough of that!’ Sybilla was finishing the stamping-in from which Walter had been disturbed and he said, ‘Leave it, my lady, you’ll foul your shoes,’ when the incredible happened. Both boys, yelling and still armed with their spades, closed in on Walter.

  Sybilla said, ‘Let go, Margaret,’ and shook off the clutching hand. She took Henry, nearest to her, about the waist and when he struck out at her wrestled the spade from him. Walter, with only Richard to deal with, did much the same. It was all over in a few seconds. She said, ‘You are very naughty, naughty boys. You will go to bed at once and have no supper.’ Nor comfort for the wounds they had inflicted on one another.

  They slouched off, defeated, but just at the doorway before which next year roses should bloom, they put their arms around one another; comrades in distress. Margaret stood rigid with fright and needed to be reassured and John to be pulled out from the muck-filled hole over which his brothers had quarrelled. And Walter was bleeding.

  ‘It’s nothing, my lady,’ he said, dabbing at the gashes. ‘These should be got in. There’ll be frost tonight.’

  ‘I do apologise,’ Sybilla said.’ And so shall they, or go without breakfast. Also—I don’t know, Walter, whether Sir Godfrey told you—he did tell me you have leave to chastise them.’

  Walter had his own ideas about that. Boys should be hammered. But a clout on the ear, a kick on the backside, three or four cuts with a stick or a strap, administered at the time of the offence or because somebody was in a bad temper differed, somehow, from the formal flogging performed at a later date. That savoured too much of the army or of the law.

  ‘I have been thinking about this my lady. They get worse, not better. Apart they’re all right but together they’re more than anybody can handle.’

  ‘It will not be for much longer. Henry goes to Beauclaire at Easter.’

  That meant five months to get through. And for Walter it was in the wrong order. Of the two boys he preferred Henry, nicer natured than Richard who was sly and inclined to be cheeky.

  In the evening Walter gave his mind to finding some method of driving a wedge between the two, something that would give him a hold over Henry and put Richard down a peg or two. How about making Henry a bow of the right size and teaching him to use it?

  Sybilla was also thinking and the result of her thought was a letter to Alys at Astallon, asking could Henry possibly go to Beauclaire at Christmas instead of Easter. She wrote it unwillingly for although she had always acted with impartiality and loved both boys, Henry was her favourite, too. He more closely resembled his father, both in looks and in nature; he had the same extremely candid blue eyes, the same lack of guile.

  Lady Astallon seemed to share Walter’s opinion; one of the boys would be tolerable while together they were unbearable. And of course poor Sybilla, left alone for so long, was finding them difficult to
manage. One of the Beauclaire ladies wrote a cordial letter; Henry would be welcome for Christmas; and if he could be got to Chelmsford by December 12th, he would be met there.

  ‘But Mother, I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you—and Walter.’

  Hundred of boys in the same situation had doubtless said the same thing. She set out to coax and persuade, using the Christmas festivities as a lure.

  ‘You have no idea of the merrymaking, darling. Last year we missed it altogether and the year before you were too young. This time…’

  ‘Why do I have to go?’

  Sybilla explained the custom which she and everybody else accepted as they accepted night following day. Boys of good family left home, joined other households, became pages, squires and knights.

  ‘But I don’t want to be a knight. I want to be a bowman like Walter.’

  She realised that he had no conception of what knighthood meant.

  Because I must have a house of my own! Had I stayed at Beauclaire, Henry would by now have been admitted to one end of the Ladies Gallery; seen knights in full panoply going into action. As it was, the only knight he knew was an irritable lame man, then a man preoccupied with preparations and then riding off in plain, serviceable clothes.

  In fact, Henry knew more about knights than his mother guessed. Wittingly or unwittingly, during the archery lessons and the talk about archers, Walter had imparted his own opinion of knights, which was not high. They wore armour which was not as impervious to an iron-tipped, six-foot shaft as they liked to think; and once they were unhorsed were at a positive disadvantage. ‘Once they’re down they’re as helpless as beetles on their backs. Can’t even run.’ Walter said. The longbow had proved its superiority again and again. It was the weapon of the future. Archers were capable of swift, secret movements, they could operate anywhere there was a foothold and a bit of elbow room. And they were cheap; look at what a horse needed in the way of food to keep it going and the time needed for the feeding and the watering. Bowmen could eat as they moved, sleep in their clothes, get up and be ready at a moment’s notice, whereas it took the handiest squire at least ten minutes to get a knight into armour.