by Alys Clare
He moved on, making his slow, painful way along the well-used road that passed to the eastern side of the busy centre of town and the market square. He’d set himself a challenging target this morning, for he was going to walk to Gaspard Picot’s brash new house, which was some way beyond St Bene’t’s Church. By the time he reached the church, he was wondering if he’d been too ambitious. He was sweating heavily, in a great deal of pain and feeling dizzy. And I still have the walk back, he reminded himself miserably.
Cambridge was overflowing with priests, but just when he could have done with some kindly and charitable cleric asking if they could help and hurrying to fetch him a restorative mug of cool water, none appeared. After a while, Jack thought he felt sufficiently recovered to proceed.
Finally, reaching his destination, Jack stood beneath the shadow of a ruined wall – presumably all that remained of a row of former dwellings – and looked out at what Gaspard Picot had made for himself. He recalled what his fellow lawman Ranald had said about the sheriff’s nephew having caused such animosity by building his grand new house so close to the meagre dwellings of the poor. Now that he was there, seeing for himself, Jack thought that Gaspard Picot’s brutish offence was even worse, for it was quite clear he’d in fact destroyed quite a lot of lowly little houses to make room for his. The tendency to help himself to what he wanted without any consideration of the rights of others was clearly a trait that ran in the family; Jack remembered how Sheriff Picot had infuriated the burgesses of the town by taking over the common pastures for his own use. The monks had some choice names for the sheriff, of which hungry lion, filthy swine and dog without shame were some of the mildest.
Gaspard Picot’s house was in the form of a long hall, with a private area for the family’s use at the far end. Enclosed by a stout wooden fence containing a single gate, the edifice stood up high and proud, raised above ground level to accommodate the capacious cellars beneath, where, no doubt, Gaspard’s vast supplies of goods were stored. A short flight of stone steps led up to the entrance, and the paired oak doors, heavily studded with iron, were firmly closed.
Noticing a narrow wooden bench set into the wall a short way off, beneath the sweeping branches of a willow tree, Jack went along to it and, with huge relief, sat down. The sweat cooled on his skin, and he shivered. He was just coming to the conclusion that it would be unwise to stay there much longer when, over to his right, he noticed a dark figure standing under a trio of apple trees. The man must have moved very slightly, for Jack had already studied the area quite carefully and had seen nobody. And, even though he now knew the man was there, he couldn’t see him any more …
He leaned back against the wall. So someone else was watching the late Gaspard Picot’s house. That had to be the object of the dark-robed man’s interest, for there wasn’t anything else here. The ruins of the destroyed hovels formed a cordon in the immediate vicinity of the big new hall, but nobody lived in them any more. The nearest alleys of inhabited dwellings were some distance back towards the town centre, and the dark figure had his back to them.
So, Jack thought, two of us watch and wait.
All thoughts of starting on his return journey having flown, he turned his attention back to the house. And just then, one of the great doors was opened and a small group of people emerged. Two men came first, one getting on in years and stout, the second younger and fitter-looking – servants, by their demeanour – followed by a woman, fussing and worrying at someone close behind her. Two more women brought up the rear. The serving men stood back as they reached the foot of the steps and Jack had a clear sight of the woman at the centre of the group.
He knew immediately that this was Gaspard Picot’s widow. She wore a heavy veil in a sombre shade; black or perhaps dark grey. So voluminous were its folds that, unable to see properly, she almost missed her footing and, with an impatient gesture, flung the veil back over her shoulders. She was just as Jack’s man Ranald had described, down to the pale, rabbity eyes and the skinny, flat-chested figure. Head in the air, and an expression on her lean face that suggested she knew the whole world was beneath her.
The little party made its way across the courtyard before the hall and out onto the road, where more servants appeared, falling in before and behind their mistress. The lady Elwytha, Jack reflected, proceeded like a queen on a royal progress.
But then, ashamed, he arrested the critical thought. She was a veiled widow because Jack had killed her husband, and that was something he wasn’t going to let himself forget.
He waited until the lady and her escort had reached a bend in the road, then gathered his strength and prepared to stand up. But then, once again, movement from over to the right caught his eye. He leaned back against the wall, concealing himself behind the sweeping branches, and watched.
The secretive figure was hurrying away, following the road taken by the widow Picot and her servants. He was intent on trailing them without being noticed, moving forward in short bursts of speed then pausing again to make sure nobody had turned round and observed him. He had little spare attention for anything else, and he was going to pass quite close to Jack on his bench.
As he approached, Jack studied him. He was of average height, and apparently not overly large, although because of the dark, enfolding garments it was hard to tell. The cloak had a deep hood, drawn forward so that the man’s face was shadowed. He had arranged a fold of cloth across his mouth and chin. Jack had an impression of intensely dark eyes, narrowed in concentration.
The man was very near now. Some instinct told Jack that he must not be seen, and he sat totally immobile. The dark figure passed within perhaps ten paces of him, but he didn’t once look in Jack’s direction.
When he had gone – breaking into a run, for the sheriff’s widow and her servants had now disappeared from view – Jack was quite surprised at how relieved he felt.
SIX
Rollo and I rode northwards. We were on what looked like a fine, well-kept and regularly maintained road that I thought at first must be the most important and greatest-used one, although Rollo told me it was one of several and there were others of even better quality. It made me realize how unsophisticated I must seem, in his worldly eyes.
As the day began to draw to a close, I hoped Rollo was thinking about where we’d stay for the night. I was in pain and wanted very much to stop riding, dismount, eat and sleep. I should have been able to say this to him, but I couldn’t. He seemed to have withdrawn himself from me. I guessed he was deep in his own mind, working out his plans, and, while fully understanding the peril he was in, nevertheless it irked that he was so uncommunicative. I had, I reminded myself, come along with him at his urgent request and purely in order to help him escape from whoever was hunting him. It surely wouldn’t have hurt him to address a remark or two my way from time to time. He hadn’t even told me who he was running from and why he was being hunted. He’d simply told me he was in danger, and needed my help, and that appeared to be all the explanation he was going to give.
As these resentful thoughts were running provocatively through my mind, he turned and, with a smile, said, ‘I’m sorry, Lassair, for being so silent. I’ve been working out what to do, and I forgot to include you. I’m far too used to travelling alone,’ he added.
It was reasonable, I supposed. ‘I understand,’ I said briefly.
His smile widened, and I guessed he wasn’t fooled by my frosty reply. ‘I need to find out what King William is doing and where he is,’ he went on. ‘I have given him loyal service, and that entitles me to his protection. It’s usually the way with kings and great lords that they reward—’
‘I don’t want to hear a lecture on the ways of the powerful and mighty,’ I interrupted irritably. ‘What I would like to hear, however, is a brief summary of who you’re running from, why they wish to harm you and what you’ve done to annoy them, although on reflection the last two may amount to the same thing.’ He began to answer but I was angry now and didn’t le
t him. ‘Presumably, since you’re hoping for the king’s protection, the person you’ve upset is his enemy, for otherwise there would be no certainty that King William would take your side over this other man’s. Since I recall from our previous encounters that you act as an agent of some sort for the king, then I would further venture to suggest that whatever caused this person to set off in pursuit of you was in some way connected with the king’s business. Since you’ve put yourself in danger through acting for King William, you’re planning on asking him to protect you from the consequences, which seems only right and fair, although of course I can’t speak for how kings see such matters and he may very well say that he pays you to take risks and isn’t responsible when the taking of them puts you in peril.’ I realized I’d run out of words and abruptly stopped.
He said after a moment, ‘In essence, you have it, although there are one or two little details that aren’t quite accurate. If I may, though, I will explain later, once we’re – well, later.’
‘Very well.’ I didn’t think there was any point in trying to persuade him. ‘So, the king is in the north?’
‘Possibly,’ Rollo replied.
‘Possibly? But if you’re not sure, why are we heading that way?’
He grinned. ‘That’s what I was thinking about so exclusively and impolitely just now. Or, to be precise, I was wondering how to turn a supposition into a certainty.’
‘And did your lengthy introspection come up with an answer?’
‘Of sorts. I know a man in the village up ahead.’ He nodded towards a collection of various-sized buildings huddled around a small church, just coming into sight around a gentle bend in the road. There was a fair-sized farm, a dilapidated manor house and perhaps fifteen or twenty single-roomed dwellings. ‘This place is very close to the most frequented of the roads leading north, and the man of whom I speak – he’s a priest, in fact – keeps his eyes open for movements up and down it, in particular, those of large bodies of men.’
‘Such as armies, and kings at the head of great processions?’
‘Precisely.’
We rode on for a few moments. Then I said, ‘Rollo, will your priest also be able to offer us accommodation for the night?’
‘Not personally, no, since what little space he has is always full of starving vagrants, but I’m planning to ask him about that, too. Don’t worry,’ he added encouragingly, ‘without a doubt there will be households in the vicinity which will be willing to put up Lord Odo and Lady Sybil. And I bet you a coin to a kiss that we’ll be more comfortable than we were last night.’
He put heels to the brown gelding’s sides, kicking him to a canter, and set off up the road towards the church.
By the time I’d ridden at a more sedate pace to join him, he was already in conversation with his priest. The man was young, red-haired and bearded, broad in the shoulder and tall. As he turned to look up at me, the bright blue eyes confirmed his ancestry. ‘My lady, welcome to Elsby,’ he said with a smile. Holding out a hand, he added, ‘I’m Father Oswald. May I help you to dismount?’
Once I was standing beside him, I realized he was even taller than I’d thought.
Rollo, clearly impatient with the priest’s social manners, said, ‘Please, Father, go on with what you were telling me.’ Intercepting the priest’s swift glance at me, he muttered, ‘It’s all right, you can speak in front of her.’
‘Very well. As I was just saying, I’ve not noticed any large-scale movements on the road these past days and weeks. Nor any small-scale ones, come to that, other than local traffic, and usually I recognize people who go to and fro on a regular basis. There are the farmers, of course, and the merchants, naturally, and—’
Rather pointedly, Rollo cleared his throat.
‘Yes, well, you don’t want to hear about that.’ He leaned closer to Rollo and, lowering his voice, said, ‘But there was one particular party who’ll interest you, or, rather, what they had to say. There’s talk of a big row between the king and Malcolm of Scotland, and the word was that the Scottish king’s done something to annoy King William, King William’s reaction has angered Malcolm and he – Malcolm – has gone off in a cold fury to plan his retaliation.’
Rollo nodded. ‘And where did this intelligence come from?’
‘It was a party heading for Landsay. They stopped here briefly to water the horses. That’s Landsay Castle, my lady’ – courteously he turned to me – ‘the home of our Lord Edwin, and, he being a loyal king’s man, no doubt the party of which I speak were heading to Landsay to discuss what sort of threat is posed by the Scottish king’s intransigence.’
Father Oswald, I reflected, could also describe himself as a loyal king’s man, since, without apparently knowing more than the bare bones of this dispute between the two kings, he had come to the instant conclusion that it was Malcolm who was being unreasonable.
‘When was this?’ Rollo asked.
‘Three days ago – no, four.’
‘And did anyone in this party happen to mention whether the king was on his way north?’
‘Not that I can recall. You’d be best advised to do as they did and head for Landsay Castle, since Lord Edwin is likely to be better informed. You know the way?’
Slowly Rollo nodded. Then, reaching into the purse suspended from his belt, he took out coins. ‘Thank you, Father.’ The priest held out his hand and there was a clink as Rollo dropped the coins into his palm. ‘For the poor box.’
‘The poor will be grateful, as am I,’ Father Oswald said.
He was bestowing his blessing upon us even as we mounted up and rode away.
It was only some six or eight miles to Landsay, but our route took us north-east, towards the Wash. The ground became steadily more waterlogged. After a while, the rain intensified. At times now the track was under water, sometimes reaching halfway up our horses’ legs.
Whoever had built Landsay must have understood the locality and its particular problems and threats, for the castle – small, unassuming and isolated – stood on the only piece of raised ground for miles. The rise overlooked a waterway that wound its way off north-east towards the marsh and, eventually, the Wash. The stream would normally have been narrow and insignificant, but the overnight rain and the day-long misty drizzle had widened it. In places, it had burst its banks.
The castle was enclosed by a paling fence, in good repair, and the stout gate was watched over by a simple tower from which a couple of guards were looking out. Rollo gave our names and the gate opened. Life was easy when you had money and a lord’s title, I reflected; wealth obviously trusted wealth, for this Lord Edwin had clearly instructed his men to admit anyone of his own station who came asking for shelter.
But I was cold, wet, tired, hungry and in pain, and I certainly wasn’t going to complain about the injustice of the world when it was working in my favour. It would only be temporary, I was well aware, so I intended to make the very most of it.
Perhaps Lord Edwin really did know a man called Odo who looked a little like Rollo; perhaps he was merely being polite, or even pretending to recognize someone who in truth he couldn’t remember at all purely so as not to appear dim; either way, he claimed to have a memory of meeting ‘Lord Odo’ at some wild-sounding festivity some time in the vague past, and greeted Rollo like an old friend. I was afforded the same warm welcome, and in my case, Lord Edwin included an embrace and a kiss on the cheek.
He also tried to include a surreptitious fondle of my breast, which I managed to foil by pretending to cough and swiftly putting my hand to my mouth, knocking his arm aside. Quite firmly.
I might not have had very much to do with the civilized and mannered world of lords and ladies, but I knew a lecher when I encountered one.
‘Now you are wet and weary, so we shall offer you the chance to restore yourselves before we reconvene for our evening!’ Lord Edwin said brightly. We were standing in his hall, on the lowest floor of the castle, and an archway behind us led away into the darkness
of a passage. Lord Edwin turned in the direction of the arch and yelled out a command, and almost instantly two servants appeared: a tall, spare man clad in black and a sharp-eyed, skinny woman whose dark gown was covered by a clean white apron. ‘Take Lord Odo and his lady up to the guest chamber,’ he commanded. The tall man nodded and the skinny woman bobbed a curtsey, then, beckoning to us with a muttered ‘My lord? My lady?’ the man led the way out of the hall, along the passage and up a narrow, steep wooden stair.
The chamber was stunning.
A fire was laid ready in the hearth, and the woman knelt to put a flame to it. As the kindling caught, she went round the chamber lighting a couple of torches set in sconces on the wall, as well as lamps and some candles. Beeswax candles: the sweet scent was unmistakable. There was not a great deal of furniture in the room – bed, a chest or two, a bench and a chair beside the hearth – but everything was of excellent quality. The walls were hung with woollen hangings.
As was the wide, sumptuously dressed bed.
Lord Edwin, clearly, was a very wealthy man.
The tall man had gone off to fetch hot water and the skinny woman was spreading out our damp cloaks beside the rapidly growing fire. I felt Rollo’s eyes on me. Spinning round, I saw that he was standing beside the bed.
Deep within me, I felt as if a gentle but strong fist had slowly clenched.
There was barely time to wash our hands and our mud- and rain-splashed faces, and for me to re-dress my hair and arrange a small veil, before we were summoned back down to the hall.
Lord Edwin kept a board that more than adequately fulfilled the promise of his wealthy abode. We were served wine in silver goblets, soft, fresh bread, meats, a wonderfully rich beef stew cooked with fruits – apples, raisins and dates – seafood in little dumplings, honey-glazed carrots, baked apples and a sweet, spicy custard. While we ate, Lord Edwin asked us where we were bound, and we told him our story. Then, clearly eager to impress us with his awareness of royal matters, he told us all that he knew about the king’s present whereabouts, his plans for the immediate future and his state of mind. I guessed that much, if not most, of it was conjecture, for how could a rural lord living miles from any centres of civilization and government know so much?
