by Prue Batten
Our horses jogged a little and conversation became difficult but my calf rubbed against Gisborne’s and our stirrups clinked. I pushed my mare apart although I would have been happy to be alongside for a while longer. I tried not to analyse what this man aroused in me and to merely enjoy our jousting. There was sharpness, as if a blade could sigh too close to my neck and the danger thrilled me.
As our horses settled, he commented. ‘Perhaps both your parents thought you would marry in Aquitaine and it would thus be time well spent.’
‘Marry any of those precious poets?’ My voice had lifted and I laughed again. ‘Jesu sir, songs and chivalry are all very well but I crave to marry a man.’
My mare had jogged ahead again and all I heard from behind was a very low, ‘Indeed.’
Thus we debated and discussed for three days on the road and as we talked, I felt I came to know the man a little more each day. The erudition of this mere steward surprised me. He talked of the Y Cynfeirdd of Wales and the Fomoire of Ireland, legends about people with strange names that I could barely wrap my tongue around. We talked of illuminated manuscripts and I told him of my admiration for the church scribes. In all, I was curious that he knew so much. He even quoted poetry written by Prince Richard during his times in Aquitaine. I was beyond grateful that he kept my grief at bay because I was afraid the weight of it would undo me.
During one of our nightly encampments, Marais and I sat under a canopy the escort had rigged for us. I watched Gisborne moving among the men with assurance and with an air of command that seemed to come naturally. It was not quite dark and being mild, he worked in a chemise, strapping his horse with wads of grass and chatting with the men. He towered over the escort and I could see the width of his shoulder as he dragged the twisted grass over the sweat marks on his mount. Marais muttered about her own saddle sores but I allowed her complaint to drift over me. And then Gisborne turned and our eyes met. His gaze held mine and I could not help my lips curving slightly before I lowered my head and flicked grass seeds from my hem.
But I knew as sure as the moon would rise that night that a thread existed between us. It might be fine and breakable but I still had six weeks left to encourage its strengthening, despite the fact that I mourned a mother. I thought on her and wished I could talk with her about men, about what I might expect and what they might desire. But it was too late and how I regretted it, because that spark as Gisborne and I parried our comment back and forth was a pleasure that had fast become a craving.
The next day I noticed Gisborne had changed the formation of our troupe. He placed two men at arms in the front, two on either side of Marais and myself and he and two others brought up the rear. I looked back at him but he avoided my glance as he gave the order to move out.
What had I done wrong the night before? Perhaps I really did need my mother’s aid and experience. I recalled smiling at him as it grew dark but I didn’t recollect that I was unladylike or false. And yet now he avoided me as if I were plague-ridden. And I couldn’t even see him as he rode behind. I knew he would be watching me, how could he not when our horses were practically nose to rump, but I did not behave in an unseemly fashion. I remained quiet and only spoke intermittently to Marais.
I could barely manage the next two days which proved long and tiresome; I was sick of my own company let alone that of Marais who whinged about her homesickness. How tantalising had been the brief foray into more refined conversation with my escort. Now I just had the whining of my maidservant in my ear like the drone of a mosquito in the middle of a hot summer’s night.
Our travelling pace was geared to Marais’ equestrian skills which were limited. She rode a wide-girthed and very seasoned mare but I chafed to make speed and Marais’ unhappy progress annoyed me. Without her, I would have encouraged the men to make haste and we would have been in Le Havre or Calais in half the time, ready to find a ship and some good weather.
I knew instantly that I must rid myself of her before we reached the coast. She belonged at Cazenay because she would moulder and wither in the dampness of the fens and the shade of the Moncrieff forests. As soon as was politic, I would ask Gisborne to arrange safe return for her and I would continue on un-chaperoned.
Occasionally what could have been dreary isolation was leavened by the travellers we encountered – merchants, nobility, men at arms, mercenaries and pilgrims. Travellers were always willing to pass the time and thus we heard that King Henry and Queen Eleanor were in marital dispute again. Henry’s amorous adventures with half the beauties of Christendom were assuming the scope of legend and it was the only time I heard Marais’ voice lighten as she seized on the libidinous facts.
In truth though, Henry was rumoured to be severely unwell and I privately questioned that he would live to a ripe age. His sons continued to battle around him, with each other and with him, and over it all hung the shadow of dark John and golden Richard. I remembered John as a child in Aquitaine and liked him not one bit. He reminded me of the kind of fiend that would pull the wings off flies. Richard on the other hand had Eleanor’s heart and the appearance of a hero. I had no doubt where some of the legend would lie after we were dead and gone.
I posed the question to Gisborne.
‘Prince John or Prince Richard? Who would you have as your liege lord?’
He started at my voice, as if he had been sure the new troupe formation should keep me quiet and away from his ears. I twisted around to look back at him and for a bare second he gazed at me and then away as if I smelled of something abhorrent. Lord knows why he should treat me thus and it had gone beyond confusing me to a simmering anger.
‘Well?’ I prompted, feeling the heat of battle begin to burn. ‘Are you afraid to answer? Have you no opinions of your own?’ I could be cutting when I was angry. It is not a merit of which I am proud.
He seemed to grow before me, his eyes raking me as good as a thrashing. He had a way of diminishing one by the every act of looking down a rather patrician nose from his excessive height upon the leggy rouncey.
‘A liege lord is one to whom I have pledged fealty. In my instance, either man has my loyalty. If Richard becomes king I shall swear allegiance to him. If I am a knight, it is what one does. If Prince John became king, I should do the same. But it is a rhetorical question, Lady Ysabel, as King Henry still lives, his sons are vital and one presumes there is a succession plan.’
Furious with his condescending manner, I kicked my mare into a canter and leaped ahead of the troupe causing Marais to be even more querulous, for Gisborne to swear roundly at which I lifted my lips, and for the troupe to hasten after me.
As before, a horse galloped up from behind, a hand grabbed the reins and that voice said, ‘You really are a wilful child, are you not?’
My horse stamped about, pulling away from the gauntleted fingers. ‘If you think so, Gisborne, you must be right.’
But inside I chuckled.
You see? Two can play at this game.
But by the time we entered Tours, some two weeks of us irritating each other had escalated to a seriously heated moment. I had walked off on my own through a woodland path to a stream without telling Marais and sat enjoying the pastoral views of fields and sheep and villeins working the land, their holdings little squares of tilled and sown ground like some patchworked cloth. It pleased me to be on my own for I had nothing of solitude these days in which to indulge my memories of my mother. The peace I now garnered was balm to the very roots of my being and I couldn’t help a disgruntled sigh when Gisborne strode into my presence.
‘If you weren’t the daughter of my employer, lady or no, I would lay you over my knee and thrash you for your wilful and ignorant behaviour.’ He didn’t shout but the words rolled out like stones from a trebuchet. The fury that gave impetus to the words was harnessed in hands that clenched as if round the throat of an assailant.
‘Are you my keeper?’ My voice began to lift. ‘Mary Mother, all I want is peace. Far from your sour moods and Mara
is’ carping. She clings like poison ivy and you glower like a perpetual thunderstorm. Go away, Gisborne. Leave me. I shall return at my leisure.’
‘I AM YOUR KEEPER,’ he shouted and then lowered his voice and ground the next words out as if he wanted his heel to crush them into the ground. ‘I am under orders to bring you home safely to Moncrieff. You will return to the rest of the group now. I will not have Marais weeping as though you are dead and the men searching. Christ, Ysabel, will you grow up?’
I was prepared to admit to a degree of guilt, if only to myself. I had not meant to hurt Marais or even to place the men under any sort of threat. I pushed past my father’s steward but could not avoid the last word.
‘Lady Ysabel, Gisborne. Lady Ysabel.’
But the point was his as the velvet voice rumbled behind me.
‘You spoiled little bitch.’
It was true. Spoiled indeed. There was no doubting the fact as Marais collapsed upon me like a falling tree and wept far more than the occasion demanded. Her own grief at loss of home and family had become a matter requiring tact and civility as soon as possible.
Marais and myself were settled in a small nunnery in Tours attached to the Abbaye de Saint Julien where it was quiet and befitted my status as a lady of rank. Gisborne turned to go but I placed my hand on his sleeve. He wore a leather tunic as we travelled and the worn hide felt soft and smooth under my fingers, as if it had been worn for many years under untold conditions. It moulded itself to his forearm leaving an impression of muscle and tendon beneath my touch.
‘I must ask for your time, sir.’ Oh, I was so polite. ‘I realise you wish to get to your own hostelry but I must talk with you about Marais. Please?’
He nodded his head and took me by the elbow to a bench near the gate.
‘Marais must return to Cazenay. No, please … hear me out. She weeps daily and will never settle in the fens. I think you know this as well as I.’
‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘She suffers pining sickness beyond what I would have hoped for your companion.’
‘Then you must see it is a kindness to return her forthwith. Now that we are in Tours, I am proposing we find a group of pilgrims or merchants heading south. If we cannot find that, then send some of the men back with her.’
His face barely moved and it crossed my mind briefly what a spy he might make, never betraying a single thing in his expression.
‘But,’ he replied. ‘It means you will not have a chaperone and your father…’
‘Oh please. You think someone like Marais will be able to protect my innocence between here and England? Guy,’ his name slipped out and he shifted as we sat together. ‘Guy, do not. Just return her to Aquitaine and me to Moncrieff. It is all I ask. I promise I shall be biddable if you do.’
His mouth quirked and because he appeared to soften, I thought to press my case.
‘May I ask you something? Did I offend you on that first day of our travels, that you should avoid talking to me or being near me while we ride?’
He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward, black hair falling over his collar.
‘No. I changed the way we rode for safety reasons. As to avoiding you, I felt it was unseemly for us to ride together. You are a lady and I am a mere steward.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous.’ I laughed. ‘If I know anything at all, it is that you are noble-born. As if it matters. You could be a villein and if I thought you were interesting I would talk to you.’
‘Perhaps. But I am your father’s employee and charged with your safety. If you remember anything of England, my lady, you will remember that status is everything.’
‘Status is nothing but being born on the right side of the blankets,’ I scoffed.
He said something then that I would reflect on later, something that was much bigger than I gave it credit for at the time. He stood and paced, his expression revealing deep-seated bitterness. His eyes darkened and in profile he resembled nothing so much as a bird of prey.
‘Status,’ he said, ‘is power.’
Chapter Two
‘You must let me come with you. If an escort is to be found for my maidservant, then I am surely entitled to have a say in who they might be.’
Gisborne shook his head. ‘It is not seemly…’
‘For a Lady to go about seeking pilgrims or merchants with her steward? Lord, Sir Gisborne, I think it is more than seemly. You can step two paces behind if it is more appropriate.’
He stood, muttering under his breath as he turned away and my words chased him.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, I did not hear what you said.’
‘I recall saying something about spoiled and thrashings. Your manner has not improved my mind.’
‘Yours is little better.’ I sighed. ‘All I am asking is the right to find the travellers who could best care for Marais. She has been my companion as much as a maidservant for the eight years I was at Cazenay. It is the least I can do for her. Please?’
He walked to the gate as he answered, his spurs jingling in the tranquil and dove-filled quiet of the forecourt.
‘Tomorrow, then. After you have broken your fast. Good day to you, my lady.’
I said nothing to Marais about sending her back to Aquitaine. I would not have her disillusioned if we could find no escort of any sort. The following morning after breaking our fast in the refectory with other guests, I told her that Guy of Gisborne would accompany me to the market and that she was to rest. She said something then which brought a smile to my face.
‘You watch that Gisborne, my lady. I can see you are smitten with him. But he has a dark streak which will muddy your own waters.’
‘Heavens, Marais, what can you mean?’
I turned away and looked out to the forecourt where I could see the man standing in the early morning sun. Sometimes I wondered if that stillness was merely a studied attempt at ease – to conceal the fact that he may be heartsore and tired beyond belief. He looked toward me and I hastily stepped behind a pillar as Marais continued.
‘He is a man laced with bitterness. You can see it in the back of his eyes and such bitterness can eat away at a man’s insides.’
‘Oh Marais.’ I laughed as if I had not a care in the world. ‘Do you think I wish to love him? Jesu, how wrong you are. He merely returns me to my father. Besides, he is too taciturn for me. I like light and life.’
But I lied. I wanted to know so much more about him. The fact that Gisborne’s form and face were striking mattered not one speck. Or so I told myself. He had a past of some sort and I wanted to know. Despite being my father’s steward, he was indubitably of the nobility and that made him acceptable. I chose to forget the mad, bad and indifferent nobles that littered the past history of the world in which we both moved.
The cobbled streets of Tours took on the semblance of a pilgrim’s way for us both. The sun beat down and each inn and church knew of no one heading south immediately. A group of pilgrims had left the day before our arrival, heading toward Marseille in order to find passage to the Holy Land where they planned to walk in the footsteps of Paul. A gathering of merchants was to leave the following week for Toulouse, but I could not leave Marais on her own for that length of time. I sighed and rubbed my aching feet against each other as we sat in the shade of vines at an inn.
‘We can’t wait a week.’ Guy grumbled. ‘We risk the closing down of the sailing season as it is. Once summer is over, the winds rise up and the seas become hazardous.’ He unlaced his leather surcoat and pulled it off, revealing a chemise that should have been whiter, and looking down at my own clothing I realised we both bore the marks of dusty travel.
Gisborne had walked by my side as we scoured the town for a group in which to safely place Marais. He was a dark presence with a hand at my elbow and I was aware of his effect on people as we moved through the alleys. Women stopped talking to watch him pass and men stepped out of his way. Not feeling remotely humble, I gloried in the attention.
‘I�
�m not afraid of a bit of rough sailing,’ I replied. ‘And call me Ysabel. This deference is ridiculous.’
‘That’s not the point,’ he said and I wondered if he meant my title or the journey. He signalled to the innkeeper. ‘A small flagon please. And two mugs.’ He turned back to me. ‘It is more to do with your safety than anything. Thank you.’ He acknowledged the maid who brought our refreshment and she simpered, her eyes a perfect ‘come to me’ flutter.
I snorted as if her behaviour were laughable, but as Gisborne poured the wine I noticed his hands and shivered. Strong but fine, as if he could as easily handle a rebec as a broadsword. He passed me a mug and our fingers brushed as I took it. The sensation burned my flesh and yet as I looked at him raising the mug to his own lips, I doubted he felt a thing.
This remove of his frustrated me. On the one hand he gave the impression of being so secure within himself, so confident, and on the other it implied a barrier, as if he were warning away anyone who might try to get close.
Sometimes his manner intimated calm and it was at those moments the fortress walls looked as if they could be breached but then he would move his head slightly or give a fraction of a glance and the hope of such a thing would die. Many would call him aloof, even arrogant. But in my kinder moments, I did not. I saw a river that was deep, a smooth swathe of shadowed water that on a cool day is so inviting. In my mind I could see myself wading in and then I could hear a roar as round the corner rushed a deadly current that could suck me under…
‘Lady Ysabel?’
His voice penetrated my thoughts and I put down my mug, a flush coming to my cheeks.
‘I’m sorry. You were saying?’
‘What do you wish to do with Marais. It seems she must come with us or stay here until the merchant train leaves for Toulouse.’
