Almost Innocent

by Jane Feather

  It had taken her no more than a day or two to realize that Edgar and Lord de Gervais had indeed been teasing her about the strictness of discipline in the manor at Hampton. It was a place of light and laughter, although there was routine, lessons to learn, and tasks to perform; but always plenty of time for music and play and mirth. The only serious offense for anyone in the household was to cause the Lady Gwendoline the least distress, and since she was a lady much beloved by all, it was an offense rarely if ever committed, and never intentionally.

  Lord de Gervais, with a party of liveried retainers, all of whom, like their lord, wore at their shoulders the red rose of Lancaster, was waiting for them in the inner court. His caparisoned palfrey was held by a squire, who had been obliged to forgo the merriment in the village since it was his task this day to serve the lord. Magdalen’s small mare stood patiently in the hands of a groom.

  The child came running over to him. “Are we to go immediately, my lord? I fear I am sadly untidy.”

  “I fear you are, too,” he agreed affably. “You had best find one of your maids and make haste to change your dress. Do not keep me waiting above a quarter hour.” He gestured with his whip to the sundial in the center of the court where the new-risen sun threw its shadow. Magdalen scampered off, narrowly missing a head-on collision with Lady Gwendoline, coming out of the hall.

  “You will not return this day?” Gwendoline walked over to her husband, smiling ruefully at the precipitate Magdalen.

  He shook his head. “We will sup at the Savoy, and it will be too late to bring the child home afterward.”

  “The roads at night are ill for traveling anyway,” his wife said.

  “We are well protected, sweetheart,” he said, but there was a frown between his brows as he ran his eyes over the armed retainers. “I trust there will be no danger.”

  “Do you fear danger for the child?”

  “At some point, it will be inevitable. But I cannot think it will come this soon. Her identity cannot yet be known for certain beyond the duke’s confidants, although there are bound to be whispers, both busy and malevolent. But that is another reason why we will travel only under the sun.”

  He glanced with a hint of impatience at the sundial again. The quarter hour he had allotted Magdalen was all but over. However, she reappeared even as he thought this, fresh and pretty in a clean gown of blue damask, full-skirted with a white collar, her plaits looped at the side of her head beneath a chaperon of dark blue silk.

  “I am not late, am I?” she asked anxiously, hurrying across to them.

  “Not unpardonably. I am accustomed to waiting for maids and ladies while they beautify themselves.”

  She blushed prettily as he said this. Laughing, he lifted her astride Malapert, and she arranged her full skirts decorously around her. “What is our business in London, my lord?”

  “All in good time.” He turned from her to bid farewell to his wife. “Try to rest, sweetheart. You had little enough sleep last night.”

  Gwendoline had thought she had succeeded in keeping her sleeplessness from her husband, gritting her teeth on the gnawing pain, clenching her muscles so that her restlessness would not disturb him. But she should have known that he would be aware of it. “I am going to take counsel with the dame from Shrewsbury in the morning,” she said again, almost like an incantation, lifting her face for his kiss. His gaze lingered over her upturned face as if he would read some hope therein, then he bent to kiss her with ineffable tenderness.

  Magdalen grew impatient with this whispered congress and the extended salutation. For some reason, it made her uncomfortable and a little cross. She shifted on her mount. The mare skittered on the cobbles as her rider’s heels accidentally nudged her flanks. Guy looked round sharply at the sudden clatter, catching the mare’s bridle above the bit.

  “It’s not like you to be clumsy, Magdalen,” he said, frowning. “Sit still now, until we are ready to depart.”

  Magdalen flushed deeply at what was, however gentle, an undeniable rebuke. A lump grew in her throat and she swallowed hard, wondering why she should mind a mere word of censure from Guy de Gervais so much more than the most severe strictures at Bellair Castle.

  They were off at last, however, and she sat silent, nursing her resentment, as the cavalcade rode down the hill from the manor and onto the road to London. The river wound between grassy banks alongside the uneven roadway, where the winter’s mud was dried into razor-edged ridges. The hedgerows were massed with hawthorn, periwinkles, and buttercups opened beneath the warmth of the late spring sun. Guy was too preoccupied with thoughts of his wife’s illness and the words they had had in the orchard to notice the nature of his companion’s silence, and her sense of injury increased as the silence stretched. He had not even told her why they were making this journey. He had been too busy with the Lady Gwendoline to spare her so much as a word. And she was wearing her prettiest dress. She had no mirror, but Catherine, when her opinion had been solicited, had said the chaperon also was most elegant and made her look quite womanly. So why would he take not the slightest notice of her?

  The road was crowded, but all gave way to the cavalcade in its blue and silver livery, the red rose of Lancaster emblazoned for all to see and recognize. The knight at its head was clearly a baron of considerable substance and power, and the small figure riding at his side caused interested speculation in the villages where the de Gervais livery was known.

  After a while, Magdalen found she could no longer nurse her grievance. It kept slipping out of her mind when some sight caught her interest. First there was a dancing bear being led on a long string by a raggedy man flourishing a long-tailed whip, then a peddler with his pack spilling goods, scarves, and packets of needles and bundles of ribbon. A grinder had set up beside the road, and women from the nearby villages were bringing their knives for sharpening, while a troupe of jongleurs offered entertainment as they waited.

  Magdalen wished she had a silver penny to throw to the jongleurs. She wished they could stop for a few minutes and watch. She wished she could sample the wares of a pastry cook, calling his pies from a stall set up in the market square of the little town of Kingston. But they pressed on through the narrow streets, the herald blowing his horn to clear the way for them when they met an obstruction in the form of an oxen-pulled ploughshare or a haycart or a straggle of barefoot pilgrims.

  A heavy sigh escaped her as they clattered over a small bridge across the river, and she craned over her shoulder to catch a last glimpse of the entrancing bustle they were leaving behind.

  “I’faith, but that’s a sigh to move the devil himself!” Guy looked down at her in surprise, shaken out of his self-absorption. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “That was a most grievous sigh for nothing.” He took in her forlorn expression and frowned. “Come, tell me what is distressing you.”

  “I do not like to be scolded, and you will not tell me why we are journeying, and there is so much to see but we are going so fast I have not time to look.”

  “That is a catalogue of woe, indeed,” he said solemnly. “But who has scolded you?” He had completely forgotten his flash of sharpness in the manor court.

  Magdalen set her lips and would not say, realizing suddenly that it seemed rather silly.

  “Well,” he said, when it became clear she was not going to answer his question, “let me see what I can do to put right the other wrongs. We are going to London so that you may be presented to the Duke of Lancaster, my overlord. He has an interest in Edmund’s affairs as well as my own and has given order that you be brought to him.”

  Magdalen’s eyes widened. “He is a son of the king, is he not?”

  “And one of the most powerful men in the realm,” Guy said without exaggeration, reflecting that with John of Gaunt’s faction controlling the Parliament at Westminster, he had undisputed control over the affairs of the land.

  “Perhaps I shall see the king,” Magdalen
said in hushed tones. “Do you think I might, my lord?”

  “Not today, although we will sup at the Savoy Palace and lie there overnight.”

  The child was silent at this information. She knew enough to realize that in such a case, she would be separated from de Gervais, given into the charge of strangers. It was an alarming prospect.

  “As to the sights you do not have time to enjoy,” he continued cheerfully, “today we are in somewhat of a hurry, but tomorrow we will proceed at a more leisurely pace, and you may look your fill.”

  “May I have a silver penny, too?” The thought diverted her attention from the upcoming visit.

  “I think I could spare such a sum.” He laughed. “What gewgaw have you set your heart upon?”

  “None in particular.”

  “But one must have money to burn, is that it?”

  She laughed up at him and nodded. “Edmund kissed me this day. Do you think he should?”

  “That rather depends upon whether you think he should,” he responded. “Did you find it agreeable?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “I am not certain. My lady says I am to be wed even if I do not yet have my terms. Is it truly so?”

  “Yes, but you will remain with the others in the children’s wing until you are old enough to be a proper wife to your husband.”

  “Catherine has her terms already, but she is not yet betrothed. She says she would wish for the religious life, but I think that would be very drear, do you not, my lord?”

  “Not everyone thinks the same way,” he pointed out. “But how long has Catherine had this yearning for the cloister? I did not know of it.”

  “She had a vision two months past, when she was walking in the pleasaunce,” Magdalen informed him. “It was of an angel and a beggarwoman. The angel was very beautiful, in shining robes with a large halo, and he told Catherine she must devote her life to the poor … That was the beggarwoman, you understand. And when Catherine woke up—for she said it was as if she had been asleep although she was still standing up—she had been transfigured.”

  “I see.” Religious hysteria in girls of Catherine’s age was hardly unusual, Guy reflected, but he had best talk with his young cousin. He had begun tentative discussion of a betrothal with the son of Roger de Mauroir, but if she really wished for the religious life, then he would not stand in her way. The abbess of Cranborne Priory was his kinswoman and would be delighted to receive a well-dowered cousin as novitiate. And the young de Mauroir could be saved for Alice, who was nearly nine and could soon be betrothed.

  Magdalen’s merry prattle continued until they reached the gate of the city. There she fell abruptly silent in mid-sentence, her mouth slightly agape as she stared upward at the peculiar frieze over the gate. It took her a minute to realize that they were heads, disembodied heads, fleshless, although some still had straggling locks wisping in the breeze. She had never seen such a sight, never before having spent time in a city.

  Her awed silence continued as they rode through the narrow streets. She did not think she had ever seen so many people gathered in one place. And what a people they were. They walked with an air of belonging to no man, the air of those who inhabit the kingdom of heaven and know it. Burghers and master craftsmen in rich mantles bedecked with jeweled chains jostled with leather-aproned apprentices and sober-gowned merchants. The noise was incessant, a cacophony of shrieks and bellows, of blows and laughter. Street vendors called out their wares, and children darted between the hooves of cart horses pulling heavy drays. In a square they came upon a man in the stocks. That was not an unfamiliar sight, but it was always an amusing one. Someone had slung a dead, decomposing cat around the prisoner’s neck, and the crowd roared at his predicament as he tried to turn his head away from the stench and crawling vermin. Magdalen laughed with the rest until suddenly she caught the villein’s eye. Her amusement vanished at the sheer misery revealed in that desperate gaze. An F was branded on his left cheek, the mark of the fugitive serf, and she wondered who or what he had run from. Then they left the square behind, and she forgot the branded villein.

  Her mare tittuped delicately on the crown of the causeway which sloped steeply on both sides to the filth-clogged kennels. An old woman, bent double beneath a bundle of kindling, was pushed from the relative cleanliness of the crown by a stalwart youth with a basket of fish and was forced to continue her journey splashing through the stinking mud at the side of the road. A strident warning came from above a second before a pot of night soil was emptied from a gable window, cascading into the kennels, splashing all in its path.

  Lord de Gervais muttered an oath as the foul contents splattered the palfrey’s saddlecloth. City ordinance forbade the emptying of chamber pots from upper windows, but he took no action against the offender. None could take action against the citizens of London. They were a law unto themselves; militia, magistrates, and mob, they accepted the dictates of no lord, not even the king.

  It was with relief that they rode out of the city on the road to Westminster, some two miles distant. The roofs of the abbey and the great hall were visible as they reached the magnificent white stone mansion of the Savoy Palace, the seat of the Duke of Lancaster, commanding the road between London and Westminster. The Lancastrian flag flew from the central donjon, and, to Magdalen’s fanciful eyes, the palace’s four white towers gleamed like the towers at heaven’s gate in Father Benedict’s illustrated book.

  The de Gervais herald blew his note of identification. “Here is come the Lord de Gervais, vassal of the House of Lancaster, on business with his overlord.”

  The great gates to the outer court were flung open, and they rode through into the bustle within. They were received with swift and ceremonious courtesy by the duke’s servitors. Magdalen was helped from her mare and stood waiting while Guy dismounted and spoke with the duke’s chamberlain. It was clear she was the subject under discussion, judging by the chamberlain’s swift sideways glance, then Guy beckoned her forward.

  “Come, you will be taken to the women’s wing, where you may ease yourself after the journey.” Seeing her unhappy expression, he took her hand. “There is nothing to alarm you.”

  “But you are going to leave me.”

  “I must for a while. You will be sent for soon enough.”

  There was nothing to do but obey. She was conducted across the quadrangle and into the vast mansion by a waiting page who offered her not a word of greeting, maintaining a haughty silence as if she were beneath his notice. He ushered her down bewilderingly long and twisting corridors, up a flight of stairs, finally showing her into a long gallery. Soft sunlight sparking off water filtered through the diamond panes of the narrow windows overlooking the river. The air rustled with the light tones of women, the swish of their richly colored gowns, the merry plucking lilt of a lute. They sat around on low stools, on the cushioned seats carved beneath the windows, coiffed heads bent over tambour frames, whispering gently among themselves, lost in the absorption of their private world.

  The page left her at the door, and she stood awkwardly, unacknowledged. She was in need of the privy and most desperately thirsty, but she had no idea how to relieve either of those conditions. Which of these women was the lady of the house? She must surely make her reverence to her grace, but how could she do so if she could not identify her? Angry tears of resentment at Guy de Gervais for abandoning her in this predicament pricked behind her eyes.

  Hesitantly, she stepped further into the gallery. The women were all most magnificently gowned, she noticed, but her attention was drawn to a knot of women by the far window. A lady was plucking a lute and singing softly to the group. Magdalen summoned her courage and walked as boldly as she dared toward them.

  “I pray you, good mesdames, where is the lady of this house that I may make my reverence?”

  “Good heavens, child, where did you spring from?” A young woman in a dark red cotehardie beneath a sideless surcote laughed, not unkindly.

  “I was told to wait here u
ntil I am summoned,” Magdalen said. “I am come with Lord de Gervais.”

  There was a sudden silence. Then an older woman, one who sat in the center of the group, said with an accent that Magdalen found strange yet not unpleasant, “Come here, child. I am Constanza, Duchess of Lancaster.”

  Magdalen stepped over to her. The lady was large and swarthy, with dark eyes lost in rolls of flesh, her hair hidden beneath a jeweled cap over a netted caul. Her gown was so smothered with gems that it was hard to see the material beneath. Magdalen made her reverence and waited while she was inspected with considerable care.

  “How are you called?”

  “Magdalen, my lady. I am daughter of the Lord Bellair, Lord Marcher of Bellair Castle.”

  A little ripple ran around the room, but the duchess shook her head, frowning at her women, and they fell silent.

  “You are a long way from the border lands, Magdalen of Bellair.”

  “Yes, my lady. I am betrothed to Edmund de Bresse, ward of my Lord de Gervais.” Magdalen answered the questions in the formal manner she had been taught to adopt in the company of adults, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped in front of her. It was only in the de Gervais household that such formal deference between child and adult was not insisted upon, nor even particularly encouraged.

  “And you are come with Lord de Gervais.” The lady of the house touched her chin, where, to Magdalen’s fascination, sprouted some astonishingly long black hairs. “For what purpose?”