by Ellis Peters
“Norfolk says you did your errand well,” she said then. “Like a natural diplomat. It’s true I was in some doubt of him, but he is here. I marked little of the diplomat about you this afternoon in the great court.”
Yves felt himself flushing to the hair, but she hushed any protest or excuse he might have been about to utter with a raised hand and a cool smile. “No, say nothing! I admired your loyalty and your spirit, if I could not quite compliment you on your discretion.”
“I was foolish,” he said. “I am sensible of it.”
“Then that is quickly disposed of,” said the empress, “for at this moment I am, officially, reproving you for the folly, and repeating the bishop’s orders to you, as the aggressor, to curb your resentment hereafter. For the sake of appearances, as no doubt Stephen is chastising the other fool. Well, now you have understood me, and you know you may not offer any open affront or injury to any man within these walls. With that in agreement between us, you may leave me.”
He made his obeisance, somewhat confused in mind, and turned again to the closed door. Behind him the incisive voice, softened and still, said clearly: “All the same, I must confess I should not be greatly grieved to see Brien de Soulis dead at my feet.”
Yves went out in a daze, the soft, feline voice pursuing him until he had closed the door between. And there, standing patiently a few yards away, waiting with folded hands to be summoned back to her mistress, the elder lady turned her thin oval face and dark, incurious eyes upon him, asking nothing, confiding nothing. No doubt she had seen many young men emerge from that imperial presence, in many states of mortification, elation, devotion and despair, and refrained, as she did now, from making them aware how well she could read the signs. He drew his disrupted wits together, and made the best he could of his withdrawal, passing by her with a somewhat stiff reverence. Not until he was out in the darkened court, with the chill of the November twilight about him, did he pause to draw breath, and recall, with frightening clarity, every word that had been said in that brief encounter.
Had the empress’s gentlewoman overheard the valedictory words? Could she have heard them, or any part of them, as the door opened to let him out? And would she, even for an instant, have interpreted them as he had? No, surely impossible! He remembered now who she was, closer than any other to her liege lady: the widow of a knight in the earl of Surrey’s following, and herself born a de Redvers, from a minor branch of the family of Baldwin de Redvers, the empress’s earl of Devon. Impeccably noble, fit to serve an empress. And old enough and wise enough to be a safe repository for an empress’s secrets. Perhaps too wise to hear even what she heard! But if she had caught the last words, how did she read them?
He crossed the court slowly, hearing again the soft, insistent voice. No, it was he who was mangling the sense of her words. Surely she had been doing no more than giving bitter expression to a perfectly natural hatred of a man who had betrayed her. What else could be expected of her? No, she had not been even suggesting a course of action, much less ordering. We say these things in passion, into empty air, not with intent.
And yet she had quite deliberately instructed him: You may not offer any open affront or injury… And then: But all the same, I should not be greatly grieved… And with that you may leave me. Yves Hugonin! You have wit enough to get my meaning.
Impossible! He was doing her great wrong, it was he who had the devious mind, seeing her words twisted and askew. And he must and would put this unworthiness clean out of his mind and his memory.
He said no word to Hugh or to Cadfael, he would have been ashamed to probe the wound openly. He shrugged off Hugh’s teasing: “Well, at any rate she did not eat you!” with an arduous smile, and declined to be drawn. But not even Compline, in solemn state among bishops and magnates in preparation for the next day’s conference, could quite cleanse the disquiet from his mind.
In the chapter-house of Saint Mary’s Priory, after solemn Mass, the sovereignty and nobility of England met in full session. Three bishops presided, Winchester, Ely, and Roger de Clinton of Coventry and Lichfield. All three, inevitably, had partisan inclination towards one or other of the contending parties, but it appeared that they made a genuine effort to put all such interest aside, and concentrate with profound prayer on the attempt to secure agreement. Brother Cadfael, angling for a place outside the open door, where observers might at least glimpse and overhear the exchanges within, took it as a warning against any great optimism that those attending tended to group defensively together with their own kind, the empress and her allies on one side in solid phalanx, King Stephen and his magnates and sheriffs on the other. So marked a tendency to mass as for battle boded no good, however freely friends might come together across the divide once out of the chapter-house. There was Hugh, shoulder to shoulder with the Earl of Leicester and only four or five places from the king’s own seat, and Yves upon the other side, in attendance on Hugh Bigod, earl of Norfolk, who had commended him to the empress for an errand well done. Once loosed from this grave meeting they would come together as naturally as right hand and left on a job to be done; within, they were committed to left and right in opposition.
Cadfael viewed the ranks of the great with intent curiosity, for most of them he had never seen before. Leicester he already knew: Robert Beaumont, secure in his earldom since the age of fourteen, intelligent, witty and wise, one of the few, perhaps, who were truly working behind the scenes towards a just and sensible compromise. Robert Bossu they called him, Robert the Hunchback, by reason of his one misshapen shoulder, though in action the flaw impeded him not at all, and scarcely affected the compact symmetry of his body. Beside him was William Martel, the king’s steward, who had covered Stephen’s retreat a few years back at Wilton, and himself been made prisoner, and bought free by Stephen at the cost of a valuable castle. William of Ypres was beside him, the chief of the king’s Flemings, and beyond him Cadfael, craning and peering in the doorway between the heads of others equally intent, could just see Nigel, Bishop of Ely, newly reconciled to the king after some years of disfavour, and no doubt wishful to keep his recovered place among the approved.
On the other side Cadfael had in full view the man who was the heart and spirit of the empress’s cause, Robert, earl of Gloucester, constant at his half-sister’s side here as he fought her battles in the field. A man of fifty, broad built, plain in his clothing and accoutrements, a lacing of grey in his brown hair, lines of weariness in his comely face. Grey in his short beard, too, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw in two silver streaks. His son and heir, William, stood at his shoulder. The younger son, Philip, if he was present here, would be among those on the opposing side. This one was built sturdily, like his father, and resembled him in the face. Humphrey de Bohun was there beside them, and Roger of Hereford. Beyond that Cadfael could not see.
But he could hear the voices, even identify some whose tones he had heard on rare occasions before. Bishop de Clinton opened the session by welcoming all comers in goodwill to the house of which he was titular abbot as well as bishop, and asserting, as he had promised, the ban on the carrying of weapons either here in hall, or, under any circumstances, when attending the office of the Church, then he handed over the opening argument to Henry of Blois, King Stephen’s younger brother and bishop of Winchester. This high, imperious voice Cadfael had never heard before, though the effects of its utterances had influenced the lives of Englishmen for years, both secular and monastic.
It was not the first time that Henry of Blois had attempted to bring his brother and his cousin to sit down together and work out some compromise that would at least put a stop to active warfare, even if it meant maintaining a divided and guarded realm, for ever in danger of local eruptions. Never yet had he had any success. But he approached this latest endeavour with the same vigour and force, whatever his actual expectations. He drew for his audience the deplorable picture of a country wracked and wasted in senseless contention, through years of struggle wit
hout positive gain to either party, and a total loss to the common people. He painted a battle which could neither be won by either party nor lost by either, but would be solved only by some compounding that bound them both. He was eloquent, trenchant, and brief. And they listened; but they had always listened, and either never really heard, never understood, or never believed him. He had sometimes wavered and shifted in his own allegiance, and everyone knew it. Now he challenged both combatants with equal asperity. When he ended, by his rising cadence inviting response, there was a brief silence, but with a curious suggestion in its hush that two jealous presences were manoeuvring for the advantage. No good omen there!
It was the empress who took up the challenge, her voice high and steely, raised to carry. Stephen, thought Cadfael, had left her the opening of the field not out of policy, as might have been supposed, since the first to speak is the first to be forgotten, but out of his incorrigible chivalry towards all women, even this woman. She was declaring, as yet with cautious mildness, her right to be heard in this or any other gathering purporting to speak for England. She was chary of revealing all her keenest weapons at the first assay, and went, for her, very circumspectly, harking back to old King Henry’s lamentable loss of his only remaining legitimate son in the wreck of the White Ship off Barfleur, years previously, leaving her as unchallenged heiress to his kingdom. A status which he had taken care to ensure while he lived, by summoning all his magnates to hear his will and swear fealty to their future queen. As they had done, and afterwards thought better of acknowledging a woman as sovereign, and accepted Stephen without noticeable reluctance, when for once he moved fast and decisively, installed himself, and assumed the crown. The small seed which had proliferated into all this chaos.
They talked, and Cadfael listened. Stephen asserted with his usual vulnerable candour his own right by crowning and coronation, but also refrained as yet from inviting anger. A few voices, forcefully quiet, argued the case of those lower in the hierarchies, who were left to bear the heaviest burden. Robert Bossu, forbearing from this seldom regarded plea, bluntly declared the economic idiocy of further wasting the country’s resources, and a number of his young men, Hugh among them, echoed and reinforced his argument by reference to their own shires. Enough words were launched back and forth to supply a Bible, but not too often mentioning ‘agreement’, ‘compromise’, ‘reason’ or ‘peace’. The session was ending before an unexpected minor matter was raised.
Yves had chosen his time. He waited until Roger de Clinton, scanning the ranks which had fallen silent, rose to declare an end to this first hearing, relieved, perhaps even encouraged, that it had passed without apparent rancour. Yves’ voice rose suddenly but quietly, with deferential mildness; he had himself well in hand this time. Cadfael shifted his position vainly to try and get a glimpse of him, and clasped his hands in a fervent prayer that this calm should survive.
“My lords, your Grace…”
The bishop gave way courteously and let him speak.
“My lords, if I may raise a point, in all humility…”
The last quality the young and impetuous should lay claim to, but at least he was trying.
“There are some outstanding minor matters which might tend to reconciliation, if they could be cleared up now. Even agreement on a detail must surely tend to agreement on greater things. There are prisoners held on both sides. While we are at truce for this good purpose would it not be just and right to declare a general release?”
A murmur arose from partisans of both factions, and grew into a growl. No, neither of them would concede that, to put back into the opposing ranks good fighting men at present disarmed and out of the reckoning. The empress swept the idea aside with a gesture of her hand. “These are matters to be dealt with in the terms of peace,” she said, “not priorities.”
The king, for once in agreement upon not agreeing, said firmly: “We are here first to come to terms upon the main issue. This is a matter to be discussed and negotiated afterwards.”
“My lord bishop,” said Yves, fixing sensibly upon the one ally upon whom he could rely in considering the plight of captives, “if such an exchange must be deferred, at least may I ask for information concerning certain knights and squires made prisoner at Faringdon this past summer. There are some among them held by unnamed captors. Should not their friends and kin, who wish to ransom them, at least be provided that opportunity?”
“If they are held for gain,” said the bishop, with a slight edge of distaste in his voice, “surely the holder will be the first to offer them for his profit. Do you say this has not been done?”
“Not in all cases, my lord. I think,” said Yves clearly, “that some are held not for gain but for hate, in personal revenge for some real or imagined offence. There are many private feuds bred out of faction.”
The king shifted in his chair impatiently, and repeated loudly: “With private feuds we are not concerned. This is irrelevant here. What is one man’s fate beside the fate of the realm?”
“Every man’s fate is the fate of the realm,” cried Yves boldly. “If injustice is done to one, it is one too many. The injury is to all, and the whole realm suffers.”
Over the growing hubbub of many voices busily crying one another down, the bishop raised authoritative hands. “Silence! Whether this is the time and place or no, this young man speaks truth. A fair law should apply to all.” And to Yves, standing his ground apprehensive but determined: “You have, I think, a particular case in mind. One of those made prisoner after Faringdon fell.”
“Yes, my lord. And held in secret. No ransom has been asked, nor do his friends, or my uncle, his lord, know where to enquire for his price. If his Grace would but tell me who holds him…”
“I did not parcel out my prisoners under my own seal,” blared the king, growing louder and more restive, but as much because he wanted his dinner, Cadfael judged, as because he had any real interest in what was delaying him. It was characteristic of him that, having gained a large number of valuable prizes, he should throw the lot of them to his acquisitive supporters and walk away from the bargaining, leaving them to bicker over the distribution of the booty. “I knew few of them, and remember no names. I left them to my castellan to hand out fairly.”
Yves took that up eagerly, before the point could be lost. “Your Grace, your castellan of Faringdon is here present. Be so generous as to let him give me an answer.” And he launched the question before it could be forbidden. “Where is Olivier de Bretagne, and in whose keeping?”
He had kept his voice deliberate and cool, but he hurled the name like a lance for all that, and not at the king, but clean across the open space that divided the factions, into the face of de Soulis. Stephen’s tolerance he needed if he was to get an answer. Stephen could command where no one else could do more than request.
And Stephen’s patience was wearing thin, not so much with the persistent squire as with the whole process of this overlong session.
“It is a reasonable request,” said the bishop, with the sharp edge still on his voice.
“In the name of God,” agreed the king explosively, “tell the fellow what he wants to know, and let us be done with the matter.”
The voice of de Soulis rose in smooth and prompt obedience, from among the king’s unseen minor ranks, well out of Cadfael’s sight, and so modestly retired from prominence that it sounded distant. “Your Grace, I would willingly, if I knew the answer. At Faringdon I made no claim for myself, but withdrew from the council and left it to the knights of the garrison. Those of them who returned to your Grace’s allegiance, of course,” he said with acid sweetness. “I never enquired as to their decisions, and apart from such as have already been offered for ransom and duly redeemed, I have no knowledge of the whereabouts of any. The clerks may have drawn up a list. If so, I have never asked to see it.”
Long before he ended, the deliberate sting against those of the Faringdon garrison who had remained true to their salt had already
raised an ominous growl of rage among the empress’s followers, and a ripple of movement along the ranks, that suggested swords might have been half out of scabbards if they had not been forbidden within the hall. Yves’ raised voice striking back in controlled but passionate anger roused a counter roar from the king’s adherents. “He lies, your Grace! He was there every moment, he ordered all. He lies in his teeth!”
Another moment, and there would have been battle, even without weapons, barring the common man’s weapons of fists, feet and teeth. But the Bishop of Winchester had risen in indignant majesty to second Roger de Clinton’s thunderous demand for order and silence, king and empress were both on their feet and flashing menacing lightnings, and the mounting hubbub subsided gradually, though the acrid smell of anger and hatred lingered in the quivering air.
“Let us adjourn this session,” said Bishop de Clinton grimly, when the silence and stillness had held good for uneasy and shaming minutes, “without further hot words that have no place here. We will meet again after noon, and I charge you all that you come in better and more Christian condition, and further, that after that meeting, whatever it brings, you who truly mean in the heart what your mouths have uttered, that you seek peace here, shall attend at Vespers, unarmed, in goodwill to all, in enmity towards none, to pray for that peace.”
Chapter Four.
HE IS LYING,” repeated Yves, still flushed and scowling over the priory’s frugal board, but eating like a hungry boy nevertheless. “He never left that council for a moment. Can you conceive of him forgoing any prize for himself, or being content with less than the best? He knows very well who has Olivier in hold. But if Stephen cannot force him to speak out, or will not!, how can any other man get at him?”
“Even a liar,” reflected Hugh judicially, “for I grant you he probably is that!, may tell truth now and again. For I tell you this, there seem to be very few, if any, who do know what happened to Oliver. I’ve been probing where I could, but with no success, and I daresay Cadfael has been keeping his ears open among the brothers. Better, I do believe the bishop will be making his own enquiries, having heard what he heard from you this morning.”
