‘I should like that, too. But first I have to go to Breteuil and see my Comtesse. She is wonderful.’
‘Take care of yourself, little brother bastard. I am sure we shall meet again. At least I shall know where to find you.’
He embraced me warmly. I swung up into the saddle, gave Blackberry a little prod with my heels, and we were off. As I left the square and took the street at the end to the right (or should I have gone left?), I turned and waved, and the magician, walking away from me, seemed to know what I had done for he too paused, and turned as if I had tapped him on the shoulder, and waved back.
VIII
After a grey start, the sun came out as I left the town and it turned out to be another fine spring day. There’s something about spring, isn’t there? Horace has it somewhere: Diffugere nives and all that … When you are young and in good health, every day seems like an excitement, and as I rode out on little Blackberry, my palfrey, I felt like a knight riding forth on high commission, and Blackberry a great destrier, a true knight’s steed.
Verneuil straddled the main route to Paris from the west, but the road to Breteuil was only used regularly by farmers and peasants. Doubtless there would sometimes be other comings and goings – knights and castle folk, messengers on the Duke’s business or that of his enemies, strolling players – but there were none that day. Indeed, even the farmers and peasants were in short supply. There were sheep in the fields, deer and pigs foraging in the woods, and on the lakes and ponds I passed – for this was a country full of rivers and streams – there were duck, geese and swans for company.
I have always been fond of swans. It is said they only sing once in their lives, before they die. How useful it would be if we were only allowed to speak – once – at such a crucial time, and how pregnant our message to our friends and family would be. A lifetime of experience expressed in a sudden, brief outpouring of sense and melody. I made a mental note to tell Eliphas next time I saw him.
As I rode on my solitary way, I occupied my mind with these fancies, and with the thought of my lady Juliana, whose pretended favour – a sprig of cherry blossom – I wore now with the pride of one entering a tournament. The result was that I crossed a bridge and came upon Breteuil sooner than I had anticipated, while the sun was still high and only just beginning to decline towards the west. Breteuil appeared to be an undistinguished little town with an air of neglect about it that spoke of an indifferent lord or castellan. It was said you could always tell a town by its lord. Mortagne, for instance, was well maintained, its burgesses kept up to the mark by my father who, though I thought him decrepit and coarse, had old-fashioned views on keeping things in order, like the old soldier he was, which he transmitted to his tenants and leaseholders.
Little touches betrayed the neglect in this place. Grass or moss on too many roofs, doors and gates hung athwart, a gutter clogged in the middle of the street…
I needed no directions on the way to the castle because it stood on an eminence above a lake just beyond the little town, and was plain to see from five miles away. This was water country. The river Iton had split into two a couple of miles back, it bifurcated and the land within it became what was almost a huge island. The town was built on the northern side of this divided Iton, and all around were ponds and lakes, and streams that fed into the river.
On closer inspection, the château was a larger and newer building than many so-called castles of the time, which were little more than towers on an earthen mound with a wall around a bailey below. This was a modern stone castle such as ours at Mortagne with a moat and a drawbridge, a gatehouse, and an extensive curtain wall suggesting a substantial keep inside it. The Comtes de Breteuil – the FitzOsberns, and indeed the Comtes de Perche – had been important figures for more than a century and required the latest castles for the protection of their families and followers – which was why the King of England and Duke of Normandy had allowed his daughters to marry them. It may be said that Eustace, the current Comte de Breteuil, was a bastard too, though it was a black mark and a kicking at Breteuil for anyone who raised the little matter of the back stairs and the bar sinister. It was all right for him to be a bastard, apparently, because his father, William of Breteuil, was a bigwig, and his grandfather was a famous warrior and right-hand man of the Conqueror.
The fact is, the Comte de Breteuil was a true bastard in the broadest sense of the word, but the Duke did not care about that. All he cared for was keeping the barons on a tight rein, and establishing his line, or so it seemed to me.
The Duke wouldn’t allow his sons-in-law to put his daughters in a duff castle with a wooden tower planted on an earthwork, because all Normandy was watching. Prestige, power, publicity – the three Ps that guided much of what Duke Henry was about. Not for nothing did they nickname him Beauclerc: the man who gets things done. You could dislike him, you could hate him, you could fear him; but you had to respect him.
New though it was, even this castle of Breteuil, rather like the little town, seemed to me to show signs of inattention. Not more than thirty years old, it already had patches of weed on the outer curtain walls, and the roof of a barn which showed above the wall had lost some of its tiles. There was more weed than there should have been in the moat which was deep and wide – the bailiffs should have had that cleared every month.
Blackberry and I walked round the castle giving it our inspection before finally crossing the drawbridge and addressing ourselves to the gatehouse. Well, I addressed it; Blackberry simply munched the grass and had a piss, but I felt she would like to be included. It was a new place for both of us.
There was no sign that anyone had noticed our arrival, so after waiting five minutes or so for some kind of hospitable gesture such as a salutation or the opening of the gate, or even the barking of a slavering mastiff, I dismounted and knocked on the small postern door some way from the great gate itself. I realised that all this knocking involved a certain loss of dignity, but Blackberry didn’t seem to mind, and contentedly munched more grass, and pissed again. Getting no response from this door either, (I later discovered that it was a false door, merely wood laid upon stone, a stupid ruse to deceive even more stupid besiegers on whom to pour boiling oil) I returned to the main gate and beat on it anew, indignation lending force to application.
‘Hello,’ I shouted, and then ‘Oi.’
This went on for several minutes and I was growing increasingly conscious of the spectacle I must be making. What was wrong with this place? And then I remembered. Of course: it was dinner-time. At last I heard bolts slowly sliding back, and then the door opened an arrow’s breadth.
‘What do you want?’
It was an irritable voice, thick with mutton stew, not at all apologetic.
‘I want you to bloody well open the door and let me in. What do you think I want?’
‘Ooh. Hark at him. Who might you be, young master? The Duke’s court jester? We don’t let anyone in here unless we’re expecting them.’
‘But you are expecting me.’
‘No we’re not.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘No we’re not.’
I could tell he was going to play this game all day. It was his way of jousting.
‘This is ridiculous. I am the Comtesse’s nephew,’ I told him. ‘She is going to give you such stick if you don’t let me in.’
That seemed to loosen him a little.
The door opened, revealing an ill-favoured little man in a chain-mail shirt over a leather tunic; any smaller and you would have called him diminutive. He had rotten teeth, little brown stumps, and his breath smelt bad enough to repel an army of invaders.
‘They said nothing about a nephew,’ he told me.
‘She is expecting me. I have come with a message from my stepmother, the Comtesse de Perche.’
‘Comtesse this and Comtesse that,’ he grumbled. ‘Nobody tells me anything.’
‘Now open the gate and let me bring my horse in.’
He could think of no reason for not doing what I asked – I could see he racked his brains for one, but he wasn’t up to it – and soon enough Blackberry and I were inside the castle grounds and making towards the stables and marshalsea, which lay over to the right part of the curtain wall. At least I could make Blackberry comfortable, even if my own reception might be frosty. I handed her over to a stable boy who seemed unexpectedly helpful, and I gave him a little silver coin to encourage him to be kind to her which cheered him up no end. I said goodbye to my little horse and promised to be back later to see how she was, and then I set my steps to the central tower of the castle itself around which a varied array of wooden buildings had been erected. It was in fact less a tower than a massive square building, six floors high with a watch-tower at each corner. I had to cross a substantial moat, deep and wide, over a small drawbridge to reach the front entrance which was guarded by a stout portcullis.
This time my approach was monitored through a grille, and before I could knock, the portcullis was raised and I walked through to the guardroom where I was interviewed by a whiskery sergeant – or some kind of official – in a leather jerkin beneath a surcoat with the raven of Breteuil embroidered upon it.
‘Here to see the Comtesse, are you?’ he asked when I had explained myself.
Somehow I had been expecting everyone to know about me.
‘Yes. I shall be tutoring her daughters.’
‘Tutoring the young ladies, are you?’
At least someone had got the message.
‘Yes. I shall be staying here.’
‘Staying in the castle, then?’
He was repeating everything I had told him as if it were school Latin. He had hairs sprouting out of every orifice except his mouth, although maybe some were in there too. His voice was curiously muffled as if he were speaking through his cheek not his lips, like a bad travelling player.
‘Where shall I go to find the Comtesse?’
‘She is not at home.’
‘Not at home?’
What was this? I had come all this way to find a new life and my benefactress was not even here to greet me or introduce me to my charges.
‘When shall she be back?’
‘I dunno when she’ll be back.’
‘So what shall I do?’
‘You can go and fuck yourself for all I care,’ said the sergeant, suddenly galvanising himself out of repetitive mode. ‘Piss off and talk to the nurse up yonder. She’ll know where the young ladies are.’
He jerked his head in the direction of a door behind him so I took the hint and opened it. A short, covered way led to a flight of broad steps which ended in a substantial door in the side of the castle wall. I climbed, knocked on the door and, receiving no answer, flung it open.
The smell that hit me was of unwashed bodies, dirty platters, old food, fouled rushes, stale beer and wine, sweet marjoram and other herbs (too few and too old), woodsmoke, and an overlying tincture of unhappiness and animosity. It was not the best introduction.
I saw a great hall full of noise in which some knights were discussing jousting and other knightly matters and wrestling with one another. They took no notice of me, and there was no sign of herald or harker who could announce me to the temporary castellan, in charge of the castle while the lord was away. Eventually, I spied a stairway which looked promising. Mounting it, I found myself at last in a smaller hall or solar where several ladies were seated, sewing and gossiping and discussing the matters of the day. They all shrieked with laughter when I arrived clearing my throat noisily in case they were contemplating anything indiscreet.
‘You can’t come up here,’ said one red-headed matron. ‘What do you want?’
This woman’s hair was very dark red-gold, unlike Juliana’s golden-blonde. Normandy is full of this colour hair, and I know it. It has a particular fragrance, the way red earth does. It is the quality of redness that infuses the matter. I suppose blueness would have a quality you could smell too but we don’t see blue girls in Normandy, except perhaps in winter. It is a cool smell, I daresay.
‘I would like some water if you have any,’ I said.
A little, fair woman ran to a closet and poured me a cupful. I drained it gratefully. The ride had not been as long as the day before, but it had been long enough on a hot day.
‘I am looking for the Comtesse,’ I told them.
That set them twittering like starlings.
‘Ooo, the Comtesse …’
‘Fancy that …’ and so on.
‘What do you want her for?’ the redhead asked. She seemed to be the interrogator of the group – they called her Angeline.
‘She has asked me to tutor her daughters,’ I told them.
Again there was more twittering.
‘She and the Comte are away at the moment. They return in two days. You should be talking to the Chamberlain downstairs about this. Men are not allowed here. If the Comte knew there would be a terrible scene; you would probably be castrated,’ said Angeline, pleasantly.
That made them laugh as though they would piss themselves.
‘Don’t worry,’ said a lovely, dark-haired girl, coming forward – I noted that the others seemed to defer to her – ‘he usually only blinds people and cuts off their hands.’
More laughter; quite hysterical, really.
‘Hush,’ someone said. ‘You’ll make the poor man nervous.’
‘They told me to come up,’ I said, reddening.
‘Well they would, wouldn’t they?’ said the dark-haired girl.
She smelt very slightly of fresh coriander and almond milk. I wondered whether she rubbed herself with it. It was a charming thought, but one not to be pursued.
‘Can you tell me where I can find the little ones?’
‘They are in the nursery upstairs.’
‘Do they not come down and talk with you?’
‘It is not allowed.’
‘Who by?’
‘The Comte. He says children should be kept upstairs, out of the way. The world is a dangerous place, the Comte says. He would like the women to be kept upstairs too, but Madame the Comtesse drew the line at that. There was a terrible row, but she won that time. So they can come down when the Comtesse is at home.’
‘I am glad to hear it. How old are the girls?’
‘Marie is eight and Philippine is six.’
‘I will go and see them now.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘What is your name?’ I asked her.
‘Alice. What is yours?’
‘Bertold FitzRotrou.’
‘You are the Comte de Perche’s son?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But you are not his heir?’
‘Not that it is your business, but no I am not. I am here to teach Madame’s daughters Latin, Alice. I must go to them.’
‘It is unheard of to teach girls Latin,’ broke in the redhead. ‘What use is it to a girl? Teach them to sing. Teach them embroidery. But for Jesu’s sake don’t teach them Latin. No one will want to marry them if they speak Latin. Leave that to the priests.’
‘They will be able to read the great writers of the past. They will be able to see beyond the walls of a castle. There is life beyond embroidery, Angeline. And marriage, for that matter. I shall also teach them the art of medicinal herbs, so they can cure you of piles.’
All the women laughed, and the red-headed woman’s cheeks burned as red as her hair at my indelicacy. Perhaps she was a martyr to them.
‘Take the second door and go up the stairs,’ said dark-haired Alice, pointing towards the corner of the room and the rounded wall where the south tower lay. ‘We are pleased you are here. I think it is good for the girls to learn Latin. Take no notice of Angeline. She means well.’
I left the women chattering and squeaking like a nest of field-mice, and followed the stairs upwards to the nursery. A stout door at the top barred the way. I knocked at it firmly.
‘Who’s there?’ asked a
gruff voice whose sex was not evident.
‘The new tutor for the girls. My name is Bertold.’
‘I don’t know nothing about a new tutor,’ said the voice, as the door opened an inch or two, revealing its owner to be a little, portly old woman with a substantial moustache. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Bertold.’
‘Is that a Christian name? I never heard of a Bertold.’
‘It is a Christian name because where I come from the town priest is called Bertold. What is your name?’
‘I am called Catrine. That is a Christian name. Saint Catrine was put on the wheel and is the patron saint of aches and pains, which is funny because that’s what I got. You’d better come in, Master Bertold. I looked after the girls’ father when he was a lad. A right handful, I can tell you. Little demon, he was. Not much better now, but I had to wallop him sometimes, and these girls take after him. Little demons. Where are you, girls? Marie … Philippine…’
She clapped her hands, and two of the prettiest little, blonde girls you ever saw appeared from an inner room.
‘This is your new tutor, girls. He is going to teach you … What are you going to teach them?’ she asked, turning to me.
‘The language of the birds … what the bees say … how to cure a boil and charm an apple tree,’ I said. ‘How to put a fairy back in his foxglove. Things like that. What do you say, girls?’
They giggled together a little and said ‘Yes!’
‘I am going to teach them a little Latin so they will become wise and be able to speak to wise and clever men. I will teach them a little medicine so that they can look after themselves and other people. I will teach them how to sing. I will teach them a little calculation, so they can understand the nature of the universe and the movement of the stars around the world. I will teach them about nothing which can always become something …’
‘Nothing?’
‘Well maybe not nothing …’
I thought perhaps Saul’s concept might be too abstruse for little girls.
‘I want to know about nothing,’ said little Philippine.
The White Ship Page 5
