Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘I can’t, Mike. I can’t, I’m married, that shouldn’t have happened.’

  She broke the contact between them and rushed back to the bar, her thoughts and feelings in such a whirl she didn’t see Helen standing against the wall, watching.

  Chapter 21

  ‘I don’t get this scene,’ Dan said.

  Helen sighed, paused a moment, then explained again. ‘We’re covering the major incidents between Henry II and Becket to understand how such a close friendship ended so brutally.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but you keep talking about Clarendon – what the hell is Clarendon?’

  ‘A palace near Salisbury,’ Helen said, her teeth gritted. She took another breath to calm her irritation – she had explained this three times already, and her fears over Dan’s mood and attitude were becoming reality. He was rude and surly to everyone – not just Sarah and Mike.

  Helen just stopped herself from glancing at the pair of them – they were giggling like teenagers. She kept her attention on Dan. Thank God I cast him as FitzUrse, she thought – not for the first time – at least this attitude suits The Bear perfectly.

  ‘Henry has called a council to meet at Clarendon Palace. He wants Becket and the bishops to make an oath that Henry has final authority in all things – including the sentencing of crimonious clerics.’

  ‘Crimonious clerics?’

  ‘Priests and monks who have broken the law.’

  ‘But what’s all the fuss about, surely the Church can sort them out?’

  ‘No – they can only fine and defrock. Not a fitting punishment for robbery, rape or murder.’

  ‘Huh. Fair enough. So what’s Becket’s problem?’

  ‘Becket isn’t popular with the English clergy – he wasn’t even an ordained priest when Henry made him archbishop, remember – they don’t trust him and he’s trying to prove he’s on their side. Henry is simply asking for too much.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it to me,’ Dan said.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Dan,’ Paul said, his patience running out. ‘Can we just get on with the scene?’

  ‘I don’t understand why I’m in it,’ Dan replied. ‘How do we know it was our knights who were there?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Helen said, all attempts at relaxed conversation now abandoned. ‘We know Morville was there, the rest is dramatic licence.’

  Dan opened his mouth but Paul interrupted before he could speak. ‘Enough of this nonsense.’ He paused in the shock of silence – Paul was usually mild mannered. ‘Sorry guys, but seriously, we’re here to rehearse. Let’s just run through the scene, then we can talk it through later in the pub.’

  ‘Okay everybody, positions please,’ Helen called.

  ‘Charlie, you as Becket centre stage. Ed and Sarah join him, you’re bishops for this scene – Ed you’re the Archbishop of York Roger de Pont l’Évêque, Sarah you’re taking the role of Bishop Gilbert Foliot. Dan and Mike, I need you in the wings, with Paul as Henry behind you,’ Helen instructed. ‘From the top,’ she said when everybody was in place.

  *

  Henry’s voice reverberated from offstage. ‘Get in there and force those damnable priests to submit. I’ll castrate or execute any damned cleric who defies me!’

  The bishops glanced at each other, clearly terrified.

  ‘Calm thyselves,’ Becket said. ‘The King can be . . . dramatic at times. ’Tis an idle threat, purely for show.’

  The bishops relaxed, though only a little – they had been locked in this room for the past two days. But their archbishop knew their king better than any other man in Christendom. They had to trust him. To be fair, they had no other choice. The oath that King Henry demanded of them was too great; they were more than happy to leave the awkward and potentially life-threatening negotiations to the unwanted primary legate the King had forced upon them.

  As one, they shrieked and retreated as Morville and FitzUrse burst through the door, flung away their cloaks to reveal their coats of mail, and unsheathed their broadswords.

  ‘Definitely dramatic,’ squeaked Roger de Pont l’Évêque, cowering away from the armed knights and clutching the arm of Gilbert Foliot.

  ‘Submit in the name of the King,’ Morville shouted.

  ‘He has had enough of vacillating!’ FitzUrse yelled into the face of Becket. The Archbishop stood his ground, but words failed him, for the moment at least.

  ‘This is unacceptable.’ L’Évêque stepped forward, only to retreat as Morville and FitzUrse turned their attention to him.

  ‘Put down thy swords,’ Becket quietly commanded. ‘We are men of God and unarmed. Should the King wish to talk, we shall converse, but there is no need for this.’

  ‘The King,’ FitzUrse shouted, ‘wishes agreement to his demands. Refusal of such is treason. And we do not countenance traitors.’

  ‘My Lord, please, we are no traitors here – merely servants of God and the Church.’

  ‘And the King!’ FitzUrse shouted, brandishing his sword at Becket.

  Becket studied the faces of the two men threatening him and realised he had no choice. ‘Very well, I consent to the demand of my king. Please, sheathe your arms and allow the King and myself to discuss my oath.’

  *

  ‘Fabulous,’ Helen cried. ‘Even without costumes, it felt like the characters speaking. Well done!’

  ‘Pub?’ Mike said.

  Chapter 22

  29th March 1171

  ‘It is good to be outside the curtain walls again,’ said Richard le Brett, turning his face up to the sun.

  ‘And out of the chapel,’ FitzUrse growled.

  The four knights had spent a particularly pious Lent, hearing Mass twice daily. On Easter Sunday – yesterday – they had donated the best cuts of meat in Morville’s kitchen for the townsfolk to enjoy. Today was their first opportunity to hunt since Lent had begun, and the knights of Cnaresburg Castle intended to make the most of it.

  Nigel de Plumton had joined them at the behest of Sir William de Stoteville, but William de Percy was once again absent, as were Sir John de Goldesburgh and Gamellor. Helwise had also elected to abstain from the day’s activities.

  Despite their reduced numbers, the men were determined to enjoy themselves and had elected boar as their quarry. The kill would not be as prestigious as the white hart they had brought down on their last outing, but it promised to be better sport. Boar could be dangerous and would test all of their wits, and hopefully lift their spirits. Relations between the men were tense after their confinement and the constant fights.

  ‘I had the pleasure of dining with William de Percy at Spofford yesterday, William,’ Nigel de Plumton said at length, while they waited for Morville and the others.

  ‘Easter Sunday?’ William de Stoteville asked.

  Plumton nodded. ‘It was a prestigious affair. Hamlin Plantagenet was in attendance, as well as William de Courcy, Lord of Harewood.’

  ‘King Henry?’

  Plumton shook his head. ‘No, he dare not leave Normandy until he has heard from Pope Alexander.’

  ‘He dare not? That does not sound like the King.’

  ‘There is a great fear of excommunication.’

  ‘I see. Is that why Percy did not invite us to Spofford for Easter?’

  ‘Yes, I fear it is true. If Henry’s messenger did not meet the Pope first, your brother-in-law and his cronies may be facing great trials ahead.’

  ‘And my sister,’ William muttered, watching an argument develop between Morville and FitzUrse over the courser The Bear had been given to ride. ‘What was the tone of your dinner?’

  ‘Sombre,’ Plumton said. ‘I owe you much, William, and must warn you. If the Church condemns them,’ he nodded towards Morville and the other knights, ‘they will find no support amongst the barons.’

  Excommunication was the harshest punishment the Church could inflict on a man, and William nodded at the implications of Plumton’s statement.

  ‘That puts you in a delica
te position, William.’

  ‘Yes, it does indeed. I have no love for Morville, but I cannot abandon my sister to whatever fate befalls him.’

  The men paused to watch Tracy and Brett physically restrain FitzUrse, whilst Morville, with his newly bruised jaw, was attended to by Mauclerk and Thomas de Screven.

  ‘There may yet be no problem,’ William said, his disdain evident on his face. ‘They are likely to kill each other before Pope Alexander’s judgement reaches their ears.’

  Morville shook off his man and rushed FitzUrse. Tracy stepped forward, receiving a violent shove for his trouble and Morville and The Bear rolled in the mud like street urchins, whilst Brett backed up out of their way. Neither Plumton nor Stoteville made any move to intervene, and Henry Goodricke, Cnaresburg’s bailiff, walked up to join them.

  ‘I like the idea of this hunt less and less,’ he said. The other two nodded.

  ‘We need to make our allegiance plain,’ Plumton said. ‘William de Courcy is holding a tournament at Harewood Castle next week. We should attend, and fight under the red and gold of King Henry, make sure they know whose side we are on.’

  William and Henry nodded their agreement, but before either could say more, Richard le Brett spoke.

  ‘A tournament at Harewood? God’s blood, that’s just what we need – we’ve been cooped up in this damned place for too long.’

  The three lesser nobles looked at each other in dismay as Brett strode over to the squabbling knights.

  ‘Stop that, save it for the tournament next week – at Harewood Castle!’

  ‘What’s that?’ FitzUrse got to his feet and gave Morville a withering glare that stopped his next attack before it began. ‘A tournament? Hugh, William, did you hear young Richard? A tournament, by God, there couldn’t be better news. I for one am sick of the rain, the sights and the smells of this damnable town. A knights’ tourney at Harewood? A hundred marks to the best placed of us. Who shall take the bet?’

  All three took him up on it, their dispute forgotten.

  Plumton, Goodricke and Stoteville stared at each other.

  ‘They were not supposed to know about it,’ Plumton whispered.

  ‘Don’t fret, Nigel, they were likely to hear a loose word from a groom or serving girl. But we shall make our own way there, we shall not travel with Morville and the other assassins.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Plumton and Goodricke said. ‘Agreed.’

  *

  Morville led the hunting party into the marketplace, glancing warily around him as he did so. A complement of men-at-arms accompanied the nobles – a larger quota than Morville had ever needed before in Cnaresburg, but the townsfolk offered no threat. They simply and silently turned their backs as the knights rode past.

  ‘Hugh,’ Stoteville said, pointing down a narrow alley as they emerged on to the muddy high street.

  Morville peered into the gloom, then quickly drew back his head as the smell of the rotting heap of meat struck him. It was the Easter meat the knights had foregone and given to the peasants and villeins.

  ‘Even the bloody dogs don’t want our food,’ Morville growled, both angry and hurt at the dishonour shown him. The other knights were close behind and grumbled at the waste.

  ‘Á Morville,’ FitzUrse shouted, the battle cry a warning to all present. Then he laughed. Loudly.

  ‘Shut up, you fool,’ Stoteville said, pulling his courser up and turning to face the man.

  FitzUrse’s colour rose until his face was nearly as red as the cloak he wore.

  ‘You do not speak to me like that, boy.’

  ‘Then do no more to antagonise this town,’ Stoteville replied, equally angry. ‘These are my people. My family has lived amongst them since they arrived on these shores with King William.’

  FitzUrse made to reply, but Morville intervened. ‘Stop it, both of you.’ He glanced behind FitzUrse at Tracy and Brett, then beyond them. The knights turned in their saddles to see the way behind blocked. Judging by the tools the men carried, peasants, villeins, butchers and more had gathered together to stand against the man they called lord.

  The knights and men-at-arms positioned themselves to meet an attack, riding abreast boot-to-boot, and brought their boar spears to bear.

  As one the townsfolk dropped the tools of their trades and turned their backs.

  ‘They’re pretending to be Becket,’ Stoteville said with a glance at Morville. ‘Non-threatening and unarmed.’

  Morville ignored him, stared at the wall of backs before him, then yanked his courser’s head around, kicked, and galloped towards Haya Park.

  The other nobles glanced at each other, then followed. William de Stoteville brought up the rear with Plumton and Goodricke, at a walk, noticing how worried both Tracy and Brett looked as they continually glanced behind.

  The three local men said nothing as they walked their mounts on, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

  Chapter 23

  April 1171

  ‘Harewood Castle is at the top of this hill,’ Morville said for the benefit of FitzUrse, Tracy and Brett, ‘the other side of that wood.’

  Nobody acknowledged him. They were all exhausted by the early start and seven-league trek, although it was the palfreys they rode that had done all the work.

  Morville glanced behind him and grimaced at the state of his fellow knights; too much indulgence the night before a tournament never boded well, but there was no stopping Tracy and FitzUrse when they had the taste of wine in their gullets. And Brett was just as bad, as was Morville himself. Morville laughed out loud at the truth of it, to the consternation of his mount, which shied at the sudden noise. But it was no surprise that they took to the table and their cups quicker and more enthusiastically these days.

  There had been no further word from King Henry since Hamelin Plantagenet’s ‘welcome’ at Cnaresburg in January, and it was becoming apparent that his favourites – not only Plantagenet, but Courcy and Percy in particular – were keeping their distance. Even Goldesburgh, Plumton and Goodricke were more often staying away, and he was well aware of Stoteville’s view. Though the two of them had never been friends, they had tolerated each other since Morville’s marriage to Helwise; the marriage which had brought Morville a castle, the Stoteville’s titles, and was an excellent match.

  Morville glanced back again, this time at the destriers, the warhorses the knights would ride at the tournament. A risk to bring such fine beasts, but Morville at least recognised they were sorely in need of friends, and if the sacrifice of a destrier in ransom bought them a friend or two, it would be well worth the loss of horseflesh. That was relatively easy to replace.

  The cart with their armour and weapons lagged behind, the two packhorses barely able to drag it up the steep hill, but Thomas de Screven and Hugh Mauclerk were in attendance and would ensure that their belongings did not fall too far behind.

  *

  ‘Ah, it feels like civilisation again,’ Tracy said with a broad grin at the sight of knightly entourages approaching the gates of Harewood Castle from three separate directions. ‘It is good to be in the company of knights rather than peasants.’

  ‘And what in God’s name do you think we are?’ FitzUrse demanded.

  ‘Calm yourself, Reginald, I was including you in my observation. Is it not good to gaze on colour and riches rather than dirt and poverty?’

  FitzUrse grunted, his temper calming, and a rare smile was just discernible behind the hair of his full beard. ‘Is that not Stoteville and Plumton?’

  ‘Yes, it is indeed,’ Morville said. ‘Goldesburgh too, even Gamellor.’

  ‘Why did they not ride with us?’ Tracy asked, his voice petulant.

  ‘There’s far more prestige in accompanying William de Percy, it appears,’ Morville said nodding at the blue and yellow livery of the men-at-arms.

  ‘More prestige?’ FitzUrse growled. ‘Shame on them. We’re the only men with enough courage to have cut out the canker of England!’

 
Morville said nothing, and noticed that Tracy looked worried. Very worried. Maybe the drunken sot had some sense in his head after all, not that it would do him much good if he persisted in toadying to Reginald FitzUrse.

  It escaped none of the knights’ attention that not a single greeting was passed their way, but as one they all chose to ignore the fact.

  *

  ‘William,’ Morville greeted his brother-in-law. ‘I did not know you would be attending.’

  ‘Hugh! What are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s a fine way to greet your sister’s husband, why would I not be here?’ Morville said, knowing full well that Stoteville had been aware of his intentions to attend.

  ‘Well, with the Church’s attitude to tournaments, I assumed you would not risk antagonising them further.’

  ‘I do not answer to the Church, William, only the King.’

  William de Stoteville nodded. ‘Begging your pardon, My Lord.’

  Morville changed the subject. ‘It seems Courcy has attracted a good turnout.’

  ‘Yes, Henry is more confident in the Church’s favour after events just past – it has been a very quiet few months, more than time enough to tourney.’

  ‘Most of the barons and knights of England have made the journey,’ Morville remarked, glancing around at the garish colours declaring the wealth and status of their wearers; or their wearers’ masters.

  ‘There has been scant opportunity to win coin or settle old scores this year,’ Stoteville said then added sotto voce, ‘Mandeville is here. Beware him, Hugh, he was furious that you reached Becket before him and has been disclaiming your name to anyone with an ear.’

  ‘What? Because he was tardy and we accomplished the task in his stead?’

  Stoteville grimaced but stilled the retort ready on his tongue.

  ‘He will have to beware me should I spot him in the mêlée,’ Morville continued, oblivious to Stoteville’s reaction.

  ‘There will be no mêlée, Hugh, it is a joust of peace – the quintain and ring.’