Knight of Betrayal

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Come on, Brute, fight back damn you!’ FitzUrse roared above the noise of the children’s insulting encouragements to both birds.

  Scraggled was remorseless. A veteran of many cockfights, as Morville had rightly assessed, he knew well the only way to avoid pain and injury was to inflict pain and injury. And he did so, remorselessly and unflinchingly. Within minutes, Brute lay near dead and bleeding in the fighting circle, the victor strutting and preening even fewer feathers.

  ‘Well done, Hugh.’ FitzUrse made an exaggerated bow to the victor, and Tracy passed the two quarter-pennies to Morville, who in turn flicked them both to the boy who had gathered his prize cock in his arms.

  ‘Well done, boy, you breed them well.’

  ‘Thank you, My Lord,’ the boy said, his embarrassment at being addressed by the controversial Lord of the Manor of Cnaresburg evident in his red cheeks.

  Morville glanced at the boy staring at his unmoving prize cock. ‘Here, lad,’ he said, and flicked another quarter-penny in his direction. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, the quality of the warrior is not evident in his armour, but in his strength of heart and his will to win. Look for those qualities in the next cock you bring to fight.’

  ‘Thank you, My Lord,’ the boy squeaked, scrabbling in the dirt for his piece of coin. ‘I surely will.’

  ‘Percy,’ Brett said, interrupting them. The other three knights looked up to see William de Percy striding towards them.

  ‘He doesn’t look happy,’ Tracy said. ‘And why is he on his own?’

  Morville and FitzUrse glanced at each other, both aware that this did not augur good tidings.

  ‘Greetings, My Lord Percy,’ Morville said. The formality of his welcome was not lost on anybody present and even the cocks seem to hush their squawking.

  ‘Greetings,’ Percy replied, but gave no smile. ‘What were you thinking, Hugh?’

  ‘In what regard, William?’ Morville replied, incensed at being called into question within the hearing of the children and citizens of Cnaresburg.

  ‘A joust of war? Really? You are in need of King Henry’s favour, so why flout his ban?’

  ‘Ban?’ Morville asked, his heart sinking.

  ‘Yes, ban. Jousts of war are banned in England, and have been for some time.’

  ‘But . . . Harewood? And Riche Mont?’

  ‘Special dispensation from the King and jousts of peace for the practice at the quintain and ring,’ Percy said.

  ‘I, uh, we were not aware,’ Morville said.

  ‘I told you it was a bad idea,’ Tracy said, and FitzUrse elbowed him so hard he staggered to keep his feet.

  ‘You know you are out of favour, why did you not ascertain the current state of affairs before sending your invitations?’

  ‘Why did you not advise us when you received yours?’ FitzUrse said. ‘It was a fortnight since, yet you only advise us now.’

  Percy turned and stared at The Bear. ‘I have only last night returned from Normandy. Enjoy your fair, My Lords, but there shall be no tournament. When Henry hears of this, and no doubt he has by now, you will be even further in disgrace. Good day to you, and good fortune, you are all in dire need of it.’ Percy turned and strode away. The four knights stood, rooted to the spot in shock, unable to voice a sound.

  *

  ‘I told you it was a bad idea,’ Tracy said again. ‘I told you. We were making good progress, and now look, we’ve defied the King. Ruined, we are all ruined.’

  ‘Hush, William!’ FitzUrse shouted, his face red and fists clenched. ‘Stop your whining, or by God I will stop it for you!’

  Tracy stepped back, partly in surprise at FitzUrse’s reaction, partly in fear.

  ‘Calm yourself, Reginald,’ Morville said. ‘This is a time for clear heads.’

  ‘Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve endured, and now we’ve gone against the express wishes of the King,’ FitzUrse shouted. ‘He shall not forgive this easily.’

  ‘He will understand,’ Brett said. ‘We were ignorant of his ban, he will understand that.’

  ‘Understand? What the devil makes you think King Henry is understanding? Do you know nothing? He is a man who does not need to understand, he is King! Events are as he decrees, no matter the truth of them. He sent us to silence Becket, which we did, and look how we’ve been treated since. Has he taken responsibility for his part? No. It has fallen on us, his loyal servants.’

  ‘If his character is as you say, then why has he left us here to live? Surely it would serve him better to have us dead!’ Tracy said.

  ‘Care what you say, William. He may well yet decide on that course of action.’

  ‘But, but, we were acting at his behest!’ Tracy protested.

  ‘What does that matter? A year ago Becket was a troublemaker, an impious archbishop intent on sedition. Now he is a martyr and will no doubt be canonised. We killed him in his cathedral, before his altar. When his body was prepared they found his hair shirt, so he is no longer impious. Now he is a devout man whom we killed in God’s sanctuary. When we dealt with him he was hated. Now he is loved. Where we were loved, now we are hated.’ FitzUrse stopped, overcome by his passion and words.

  Tracy gaped at him. Morville and Brett looked on, both silenced by FitzUrse’s analysis of their situation.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Brett whispered, his querulous tone betraying his youth. Morville felt sorry for him: he had not yet seen his twenties, but had dealt the killing blow and Morville could see no future worth the pain of living ahead of him.

  Silence, then: ‘We go to the Pope. We throw ourselves on his mercy and take what punishment he decrees,’ Tracy said.

  ‘By God, no,’ FitzUrse shouted. ‘It is Henry we need to appease, not the Church.’

  ‘We are excommunicated. Our souls are damned for eternity,’ Tracy said. ‘By your very admission, King Henry does not need to understand, he will do what is most propitious for himself. If we are pardoned by Pope Alexander, we will be pardoned by King Henry.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ Morville said. ‘From what I have learned of our king these past months, I feel he would consider himself injured if we put the approval of the Pope over his own.’

  ‘Yes, you speak well, Hugh,’ FitzUrse said. ‘I am in agreement.’

  ‘I am not.’ Tracy drew himself up to his full height. ‘And I will no longer follow your lead, Reginald. You led us here. I will leave for Rome to prostrate myself before His Holiness Pope Alexander. I will prepare Pomperi and the babes, escort them to Bovey Tracy, then take my leave of England. Will any of you accompany me?’

  Morville said nothing, Brett would not meet Tracy’s eyes. FitzUrse was the only one to speak, once again holding the fate of his companions in his hairy fist. ‘You are on your own, William. We shall take all necessary steps to regain King Henry’s favour before we attend to Pope Alexander.’

  Tracy drew in a sharp breath. ‘Very well. I bid you good fortune and hope our paths shall once again cross.’ He walked away, slowly but deliberately, having finally chosen his own path, at the age of thirty seven.

  Chapter 40

  30th July 2015

  Paul stood stage left, spotlighted and dressed in purple tunic, hose and crown, a short cloak slung about his shoulders. Helen smiled – that faux fur had been a wonderful find in the charity shop, and Paul looked every inch the medieval king, strutting in his leather boots.

  She looked up as Donna sat in the seat next to her. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Not at all. Thanks for coming. We’re just building up to the final scene.’

  ‘Ah, England’s fine shores,’ King Henry proclaimed. ‘ ’Tis good to be treading her fertile soil once more. Come, Henry,’ he called offstage to his son. ‘This will all be yours one day, ’tis time to claim your rights as my heir.’

  The light on Paul doused, and a new spotlight shone on Charlie, sitting stage right, dressed in a brown monk’s habit and with a table of papers before him.

  ‘
Ah, Henry, my old friend, you test me so,’ Becket said, reading a scroll. ‘You insist on insulting my Church and my Pope – not to mention my good self. What to do with you? How to bring you to heel?’

  The lights switched once more, illuminating Henry standing, legs apart and arms akimbo. ‘This is my kingdom. I rule here and no other. My son shall be crowned as my heir and I shall brook no argument. Close the ports!’ He swept his arms wide. ‘Becket can stay in France, cowering from my wrath. He shall not oppose me in this too.’

  He turned and began to pace the distance of the lighted area. ‘With the ports closed, neither he nor any messenger can defy me. Not even communiqués from the Pope can be brought. I shall have no interference from the Church in this matter.’

  Back to Becket, now joined by an uncomfortable-looking Sarah dressed in a nun’s habit.

  ‘Mary de Blois, my dear Princess, you are my only hope.’

  ‘Archbishop, I am pleased to serve you, Your Grace.’

  ‘I have a task for you. A task only you can succeed in, and you shall have your retribution against Henry for the unholy marriage he forced upon you.’

  ‘I need no retribution, Your Grace. I only wish to serve our Lord in the company of my sisters.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Becket said. ‘Both myself and Pope Alexander are most grateful that you have chosen to leave the convent to assist us.’

  The lights switched once more. Paul had now been joined by Ed playing the role of young Henry – the King’s eldest son.

  ‘Prepare yourself, boy, this is a great honour.’

  ‘Yes, My Liege,’ Ed said, playing a bewildered boy terrified of a tyrannical father.

  Henry adjusted the ermine cloak his son wore, then looked up in fury as Sarah walked into the light.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he roared.

  ‘I am a royal princess, Sire, daughter of King Stephen and your cousin. Your closure of the ports could not stop me attending the coronation of young Henry.’

  ‘I see,’ Henry said, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Have you brought Rome’s blessing?’

  ‘Indeed I have not, Sire. I hold papal decrees for Archbishop l’Évêque, Bishop Foliot and Bishop Salisbury,’ Sarah said, producing three scrolls bearing the intersecting circles of the seal of Rome. ‘They are forbidden to continue with this coronation in the absence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  ‘Ah, so Thomas still thinks he has power over me, does he?’ Henry said.

  ‘Indeed not, Sire, only over the bishops who are subordinate to him,’ Sarah – as Mary de Blois – said.

  ‘Hah,’ Henry shouted. ‘Becket holds no power in a land in which he is too cowardly to set foot. The bishops are subordinate to me!’ He grabbed the scrolls and ripped them, throwing the pieces back into the nun’s face. ‘The coronation shall proceed. My son shall be proclaimed the Young King this day.’

  The stage plunged into darkness and Helen stood, applauded carefully as the lights came back on – grateful her pot had finally come off – and shouted, ‘Well done, guys. Sarah and Ed, you could both be a little more relaxed on the night, but well done!’

  Helen sat back down and turned to Donna. ‘What do you think?’

  Donna sighed. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid. Both the main guys had spirit with them – I’ve never seen spirits so close to a living man before. They didn’t just stand behind or to the side, they walked in.’

  ‘Walked in?’

  ‘Yes. Almost blended with the men. Have you ever seen a trance medium work?’

  Helen shook her head.

  ‘It’s quite remarkable to witness. The spirit of the medium withdraws and gives permission for another spirit to enter – at least temporarily.’

  ‘That sounds . . . frightening,’ Helen said.

  ‘No – it’s done with permission and great respect, and the trust is never betrayed. The disembodied spirit needs the full approval of the medium. But here . . .’ she paused. ‘This is something else. I’ve never seen anything like it. The auras of both the main men—’

  ‘Paul and Charlie,’ Helen said.

  Donna nodded. ‘Their auras changed as soon as they started speaking. Even their appearance changed, did you notice?’

  Helen stared at her hands and did not speak.

  ‘When they finished . . .’ Helen looked up at Donna, waiting for her to gather her thoughts. ‘The spirits withdrew,’ Donna continued, ‘but not completely, they’re still attached by their auras.’

  ‘Is that bad?’ Helen asked.

  ‘It isn’t good,’ Donna said. ‘Especially as I don’t think the guys are even aware of it. I think this is without their permission and they’re being violated.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We hold another séance and ask the spirits to leave.’

  ‘And will they?’

  ‘That depends on how strongly and faithfully Paul and Charlie tell them to go.’

  ‘Faithfully?’

  ‘If it’s a deep and genuine wish to be left alone.’

  ‘And we need their cooperation and belief?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They don’t believe.’

  ‘That they want the spirits to withdraw?’

  ‘That the spirits exist in the first place.’

  ‘Then we really do have a problem,’ Donna said.

  Chapter 41

  ‘Okay, let’s pick up from where we left off yesterday,’ Helen said. ‘We have a few days left, let’s make them count. Places everyone.’

  Paul and Charlie walked on to stage, Charlie taking Becket’s place to the right, Paul to the left. The rest of the cast settled into their seats to watch, Dan sitting as far away as possible from his wife and Mike.

  Helen turned to the sound and lighting booth to give Alec a thumbs up. ‘From the top.’

  Charlie’s spotlight focused its glare on to Thomas Becket. He sat at a table, scroll in hand, and paused as he read, then looked up to the audience, stood, and brandished the parchment.

  ‘By God, that man shall drive me to apoplexy! His son is crowned – crowned – and by a hand other than mine! The lion of justice? No – a rat of betrayal! He shall be the death of me, by God, I swear it.’

  Becket approached the front of the stage and lowered his voice. ‘But I shall not submit to his tyranny. Yes, tyranny! Once my good friend, he has become a caricature of himself – of a king. I shall bring him back to actuality – bring him back to himself, the good man he once was. I shall save him if it is the last thing I do.’

  Becket returned to his chair, picked up a quill from the table and began writing on parchment. The spotlight dimmed and Henry’s blazed into life.

  ‘Damn that man!’ Henry shouted, both fists clutching sheaves of parchment. ‘Will he never do my bidding? Look at these, look at them!’ He thrust the parchments towards the auditorium. ‘Papal mandates, letters of interdict from Becket and Pope Alexander! They’re threatening excommunication. Imagine, me, Henry, King of England, excommunicated! It’s unthinkable!’ He threw the parchment into the air as he stamped his foot, grabbed fistfuls of his hair and cried out as if in pain as he doubled over.

  Straightening, he calmed and his hands dropped to his sides. ‘I have no choice. I must extend peace to Becket and bid him return to England. That should take care of these.’ He kicked at the scattered parchment. ‘At least in England he shall once again be within my reach.’ He smiled in cunning.

  Becket’s spotlight came on and the men met centre stage and embraced as the lights dimmed to nothing.

  ‘That was great, guys, well done,’ Helen called to the stage, standing and clapping. The other Castle Players did the same.

  Helen turned to give Alec a clap too, the complicated lighting sequence having been executed perfectly, then spotted another audience member at the back of the theatre. ‘Donna! What are you doing here?’ Helen said as Donna stood and moved to join her.

  ‘What’s she doing here, again?’ Dan called
and made his way to join the rest of the crew. ‘Come to do an exorcism?’

  Donna shook her head. ‘No, no exorcism, you’re not possessed by demons, but are being attacked by spirits. That’s very different.’

  ‘So why are you here?’ Helen asked.

  Donna gave her a strange look. ‘You invited me, don’t you remember?’

  Helen looked puzzled and glanced at Sarah, who shrugged.

  ‘After I called Richard Armitage and told him what was going on.’

  ‘You did what?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Don’t worry, he didn’t believe me. Sarah, what have you done to your face?’

  ‘Ask my husband,’ she snapped.

  Donna looked around at everyone, eyes settling on Dan, who looked furious. ‘Can I have a word in private?’ she asked Helen.

  ‘Uh, yeah, I suppose so.’ Helen looked to the others and they all drifted towards the stage and Paul and Charlie.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Donna asked Helen. ‘Has Dan been hitting Sarah?’

  ‘Only a couple of times, but they’re staying well away from each other now. Well, at least when they’re not on stage.’

  ‘Has she been to the police?’

  ‘The police?’ Helen looked blank. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? She’s a victim of domestic abuse.’

  ‘I didn’t really think about it like that, they’ll sort it out between themselves.’

  Donna stared at her in a moment. ‘Oh my God, you’ve got one too.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’m fine.’

  Donna lowered her eyes and looked up at Helen through her lashes. ‘No, you’re not. You have a man standing in your aura – too close. He’s in mail so is another knight. Hang on, I’m trying to get his name. Brought, rock, something like that.’

  ‘You mean Broc? Ranulf de Broc.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Who was he?’