“A voice came to me, and told me that I was a soldier, and that I must not yet put up my sword. I must find a worthy cause, and fight for it.”
At that Alaric did raise a brow. “Edward?”
Wilmot flushed a little. “It wasn’t Edward exactly. It was Robert.” He met Alaric’s eyes squarely. “Robert saved our lives after Ruad. Robert was English. So I came to England and offered my sword to the king.” He refilled his cup and drank deeply, and set it down again with an explosive thump. “Well, God’s bones, Alaric. You’ve been to Chartres. You’ve seen the cathedral. If anyone was ever going to hear voices, that would be the place.”
They both laughed.
“And you?” Wilmot said.
Alaric glanced at the other table. “I went home, and I was not made welcome, so I returned to the East and offered my services to a much less exalted personage, but he paid well and on time.” He gestured. “That’s where I met my friends.”
Wilmot looked at the circle of interested faces. He blinked at Alma and Hayat, indisputably women but dressed and, God above, armed like men. Hari with his thin, ascetic face and his yellow robe. Firas, unmistakably a warrior, if most certainly not a Christian one. Shasha, with her foreign features set in such a bland expression that one could express no surprise or aversion. Johanna, who earned an appreciative look. Tiphaine, an urchin with curly black hair who had no place at this table. His gaze came to rest on Jaufre, who made no effort to hide his curiosity. Wilmot’s eyes widened, and Johanna saw his hand tighten on his cup.
“No, Wilmot,” Alaric said. “Your eyes do not deceive you. This is Jaufre. Robert’s son.”
Wilmot stumbled to his feet, staring. Jaufre, not knowing what else to do, stood up, too.
“I knew your father, boy,” Wilmot said.
“I know,” Jaufre said. “I’ve heard the story.”
A wintry smile. “All of it?”
Jaufre glanced at Alaric. “I’ve met Gilbert, too.”
“Ah.” Wilmot took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh, and sat down again. His eyes saw something over Jaufre’s shoulder. “By the great good lord, boy, is that your father’s sword?”
The great sword was leaning against the wall, since it was so long Jaufre couldn’t sit properly with it. “It is.”
“He gave it to you?”
“He—” Jaufre hesitated. “He died in the East. He left it to me.”
“Damn,” Wilmot said, with feeling. “I’m sorry to hear that, boy.”
“Jaufre,” Jaufre said. It had been a long time since he’d let anyone call him boy.
A trace of amusement crossed Wilmot’s face. He jerked his chin at the sword. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Yes,” Jaufre said. “Not very well, though.”
Wilmot shook his head and exchanged a glance with Alaric. “Do you know who gave it to your father?”
“No,” Jaufre said. “Who?”
“Wilmot—” Alaric said.
“Your grandfather,” Wilmot said. “Before he sent your father off to join the Templars.”
“Oh.” Jaufre thought of the story that Tregloyne had told him of his paternal relatives. They hadn’t sounded like the kind to give a disposable son so costly a gift. “That was kind of him.”
Wilmot gave a crack of laughter. “Aye, that it was, boy. And if you’re not very good at using it, you should get better.” His face set in grim lines. “As soon as possible.”
“I’m not a soldier,” Jaufre said, meeting his eyes steadily. “I’m a trader. I’m about to go into wool.”
“Then give up that sword to someone who can use it,” Wilmot said, frowning.
“No,” Jaufre said. “It’s all I have left of my father. It stays with me. If I have to use it, I will.“
Wilmot refilled his mug and sat back. “Is that what you’ve been doing, Alaric? Setting up as a wool merchant with this—this—”
“We are Wu Company,” Tiphaine said. She thrust a thumb beneath her badge and pushed it out. “As you can plainly see by our badge.”
Wilmot, nonplussed, stared at the Chinese character. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Plainly.”
“Furthermore,” Tiphaine said, nose in the air, “we are also minstrels. We have performed in some of the highest houses in the west of England, and all of the villages and towns.” She thought. “And most of the fairs, too.”
“I see.” Wilmot stroked his chin. “Are you any good?”
Tiphaine bristled. “We are very good indeed, sir.”
“Well. In that case, you had better come and perform before the king after his evening meal.”
Everyone sat up with a jerk. “I don’t think—” Jaufre said.
“We’re not really—” Johanna said.
“It’s a great honor, of course, but—”
Wilmot stood up. “Excellent. His majesty’s troubles are many. He could use a little distraction. I’ll send for you this evening, then.”
18
England, Fall, 1326
They had no occasion to see Bristol Castle on their way north other than as a menacing outline against the sky. It was perched on a hill on the edge of the river Avon, with a moat fed by the river. A formidable curtain wall ran inside the moat and was interrupted by towers. Inside the curtain wall was a massive keep guarded by two sets of doors which had to be challenged and opened sequentially and the entrants inspected by a host of nervous guards in various liveries who looked as if they’d rather not admit anyone at all. They were ushered into a great hall, a large, rectangular room with tapestry-covered walls and tables and benches ranging around three sides. The longest table stood on a platform at the far end of the room.
Wilmot came forward to meet them. “Excellent,” he said. “His Majesty was most pleased to hear of the evening’s entertainment. The past few days have been an anxious time for him.” He gestured and a few stools were brought and set far too close to the king’s table for Wu Company’s comfort.
Close up, the king was seen to be tall and spare, with blue eyes and thinning fair hair, and looked oddly familiar to Jaufre, although he couldn’t think why. His gaze was a little vague, and Jaufre wondered if he were shortsighted. He had deep pouches beneath those eyes, due to worry or drink or both. Probably more of the latter, Jaufre thought, as the royal nose was a little swollen and red-veined. Well, he was about to lose his throne, or so it seemed. Reason enough to drink.
His attendant lords and retainers looked collectively strained, edgy, almost on tiptoe, as if the next loud noise would have them either reaching for their swords or bolting for the stables. From their demeanor, Johanna thought that the stables would be the preference for most of them.
“You have his majesty’s permission to sit in his presence,” Wilmot said, and retired to lean his shoulders against an ill-executed tapestry depicting Vincent at work with his pickaxe digging the Bristol Channel while his brother Goram slept in his chair.
The king condescended to address them directly. “Yes, indeed, sit and play something…” He hesitated. “Play something lively for us.”
They arranged themselves before him, Johanna on a stool with Félicien’s gitar, Jaufre standing behind her with a tambour, Alma next to her with a flute, Hari with a lap harp he had learned to play that summer from a Welsh harper they had encountered in Oswestry. Shasha, Firas, Hayat and Alaric stood behind them and Tiphaine, who was developing a rather nice alto, stood next to Hari. Johanna struck the opening chords without consulting her fellow minstrels but they had all known what their first song would be from the moment the king had spoken.
O wandering clerks
You learn the arts
Medicine and magic
O wandering clerks
Nowhere learn
Manners or morals
O wandering clerks!
After a summer of command performances, they had learned to meld their voices together into a mellifluous whole in which the lyrics were clear and understandable
to the farthest ear, accompanied by music that intensified the rich emotion they brought to each song. They had learned to stay in a chord that suited their collective reach. They had learned that they had a gift for comedy, as manifested now. Even the king was chuckling when they came to the last line, and before the last note died away Johanna launched into the drinking song they had sung at L’Arête, and again in Glynnow, the one Tregloyne had so enjoyed the night they landed in England.
When I see wine into the clear glass slip
How I long to be matched with it;
My heart sings gay at the thought of it:
This song wants drink!
I thirst for a sup; come circle the cup:
This song wants drink!
The king laughed outright at the end of the song and thumped the table with his tankard. They followed this with half a dozen more songs, and by then the tension that had been so clearly felt on their arrival had as clearly eased. The king leaned forward and said, “Our good Wilmot has said that some of you are from the East. Is this so?”
Jaufre looked around and saw that he had been chosen as spokesman. He rose and bowed low. “It is, sire. I am Jaufre, the foster son of Wu Li of Cambaluc of Cathay. This is Johanna, daughter to Wu Li, and Shasha, his foster daughter. Hari is a chughi from the Hindu Kush. Firas—” probably best not to say the word “assassin” in this company “—is a Saracen warrior of Alamut. Alma and Hayat are Persian scholars.” Because, well, they were, or Alma was, and he didn’t want to go into the whole harem topic in this company of men who were used to getting anything they wanted by just reaching for it. “Alaric—”
Unexpectedly, Alaric stepped forward and made obeisance. “Sire, I am Alaric de Claret. My father was Regnault de Claret. We were presented to your father in Marseille in 1270 by Blaise of Agnois, who was our liege lord.”
The king looked a little appalled. “A nobleman’s son, and a sworn man? How came you to be a member of this company?”
Alaric, amazingly, did not blush for shame. “I was a member of the Knights Templar, sire. When they…ended, I was still in the East and had to make my way home. I met my friends in Kabul, and we have traveled together ever since.”
The king shook his head disapprovingly. “It has ever been our thought that our brother, Philip the Fair, by God’s grace the ruler of France while he still lived, was, er, over-enthusiastic in his persecution of the Templars. Our sympathies are with you, Alaric de Claret.”
Alaric bent his head. “I thank you, sire,” he said. “May I also make known to you the son of a fellow Templar, Jaufre de Beauville.”
“De Beauville?” The king frowned. “I thought he said his name was Camelot.”
Jaufre, ears burning, inwardly forming the intention to kill Alaric stone dead at his very first opportunity, rose to his feet, tried to hide the tambour, and executed a clumsy bow. “Cambaluc—” he sounded out the syllables “— is where I spent my formative years, your majesty.”
“Your father was a Templar, too?”
“He was, my lord. He died in the East some years ago.”
“De Beauville,” the king said ruminatively. “De Beauville. There is something familiar about the name.” He waved a hand. “It will come to me. Now, one more song, I pray you, and then we should all seek our beds this night.” He smiled wanly at the man sitting next to him, a stocky, dark-browed man younger than he was. “I doubt few easy nights will be vouchsafed any of us in future.”
None of the men in the king’s party looked appreciative of this reminder that the king’s wife’s forces were even now bearing down on them from the east.
“The dawn song,” Johanna said, trying to relax the spine that had gone rigid at Alaric’s introduction. Royalty was notorious for bestowing favor or blame at its slightest whim. It was much better and far healthier to avoid either. She was furious with Alaric. She plucked a string with fingers she willed not to shake, and sang alone, accompanied only by instruments. There was a moment of silence when she finished, and then the king led the applause. “You have a lovely voice, my dear,” he said.
Johanna bent her head. “Thank you, your majesty.”
The king sighed, his eyes wandering around the room. “I only wish there were more of mine to hear it, but alas, I believe Isabella landed with so few men because all the support she needed was already here.”
That was awkward however you looked at it, and no one knew quite how to reply.
The king smiled. “But that is melancholy talk, after such wonderful entertainment as you have lightened our cares with this evening. I thank you. Wilmot! A purse for, er, Wu Company.”
This surprised them all, but they bowed their thanks and backed out of the great hall. As they left, Johanna thought that Edward’s eyes followed Jaufre, but it might have been her imagination. She fervently hoped it was.
Firas tossed the purse to Shasha, who weighed it appreciatively in one hand. “Generous of the gentleman. I wouldn’t have thought he had coin to spare, especially in his situation.”
“Who was that black-browed man sitting next to him, who scowled at us so ferociously?” Hayat unconsciously reaching for the short sword that usually hung at her side. It was forbidden to carry arms into the presence of the king.
“Not a music lover, I fear,” Hari said.
“The current favorite, the younger Despenser, I would imagine,” Alaric said. “The eldest did not seem to be in evidence.”
Johanna managed to fall a little behind with Alaric on the way back to their inn. “Did you mean that to happen?” she said.
“What to happen?” he said.
“All of it,” she said. “You have been pushing us north ever since Avignon. Did you always mean to meet with the king? And to bring Jaufre to his notice?”
“It doesn’t seem to have harmed him any,” he said.
“Kings and princes are omnipotent and capricious,” she said. “It’s a bad combination, and it’s never wise to draw their attention. Don’t do it again, Alaric.”
Wilmot met them at the inn a little later, and he and Alaric took a seat by the hearth in the common room, talking well into the night.
The next morning they woke before dawn, packed, saddled their horses and led them down to the south gate. There had been some apprehension that with Edward in residence and hostile forces approaching that the gates would remain locked, but they opened at dawn as usual. Wu Company was first out and proceeded south at a fast trot. At the top of the first hill, Alaric reined in and looked back at the castle, the royal standard flying defiantly from the tallest tower. “‘The sins of my youth and my ignorances do not remember,’” he said. “‘According to thy mercy remember thou me: for thy goodness’ sake, O Lord.’”
He crossed himself and sat with his head bent for a moment, and then with a grim expression kicked his mount back into a trot and caught up with the others.
They clattered south as fast as they could without damage to the horses, and the first week of October were welcomed by Tregloyne with open arms, and, a few days later with more restrained enthusiasm by Captain Angelique. “It will be my last trip for a while,” she said. “The Channel becomes even more unfriendly than usual at this time of year.”
They sat down to a council of war. Jaufre recounted all the information he had gathered from the graziers he had spoken with and the interest he had received in an alternative method of shipping and selling their fleeces. Enough were willing to take a chance on the unknown—and the possibly illegal—to fill the Faucon’s hold many times over.
“This is what I propose,” Jaufre said at last, looking at Tregloyne. “I would build a house and a warehouse here on your property, for the purpose of running a summer caravan between Glynnow and the Shropshires. We would keep to the smaller villages. This can be done, as the villages are never very far off the main roads. There would still be fees and taxes, of course, but much lower fees and taxes than if we went city fair to city fair as the other merchants do. We would transpo
rt the fleeces here, and ship them to Harfleur on the Faucon.”
He looked at Angelique. “I will write to Captain Gradenigo. When last we spoke, he had the intention of trying to establish a route by sea between England and Venice. They have a new kind of ship they call a merchant galley. It will sail farther in rougher weather with larger cargoes.”
“Why Harfleur?” Tregloyne said. “Why not Calais? It’s much closer.”
“From everything I have heard so far, every power in this part of the world spends all their time either invading the Low Countries or planning to. Harfleur would be a much more peaceful port to cultivate. And they just started their own merchants association, which you should join immediately, captain.”
She shook her head. “They won’t let a woman join, ship-owner or not.” She looked at Tregloyne.
He laughed, his great belly shaking. “It seems young Jaufre here is going to solve all our problems.”
“Problems?”
Tregloyne leaned forward, his broad face intent. “Do you intend to settle here in Cornwall, Jaufre?”
Taken aback, Jaufre said, “I mean to start a business here, certainly.”
Tregloyne shook his head. “Not what I asked you. Come with me.”
He led the company down to the rock pier where the Faucon was docked, but turned left before the pier and followed a path around an outcropping. At first it looked as if they were heading straight into the rocky cliff, and then they saw that the cliff was made of two immense slabs of granite, one in front of the other. The path led around the first slab and between it and the second. There they halted and stood, gaping.
It was an enormous cavern, well above the tide line and remarkably dry. Over the years rows and rows of shelves had been laboriously chipped out the walls. In the center of the cavern, bundles, bags and boxes were stacked in orderly fashion, including, Jaufre noticed, a few bundles of fleeces. He rubbed one of them between his fingers. While not as fine or as well cured as those he had seen in Shropshire, they would still fetch a good price across the Channel. Tregloyne noticed what he was doing and said, “Yes, we farm a few sheep ourselves down here in Cornwall. If my people knew there was a market for more, they might improve their breeds.”
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