by Deryn Lake
‘I’m coming down,’ he called. ‘Will you catch me?’
And without waiting for a reply he released the animal and shot from the branch straight into Marcus’s arms. The feel of him was quite extraordinary: to the squire, so young himself that he could not have experienced such a thing, it was like holding a dearly loved and familiar child.
‘Are you a new servant?’ The simpleton was gazing up at him with uncannily light blue eyes.
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. I joined the household of the archbishop last night.’
‘You belong to John?’
Marcus could not believe his ears. Who was the fellow that he spoke of the archbishop in such familiar terms?
‘I belong to Sir Paul d’Estrange, a Gascon knight. I am his squire and we are in England seeking an audience with the king. We have become attached to the archbishop’s retinue for the time being.’
‘Oh good,’ said the little man, clapping his hands together. ‘Then I can play with you often. I am his brother, you see.’
‘The archbishop’s?’ Marcus could not believe what he was hearing.
‘Yes. It is very sad that he is so brilliant and I am so slow, but I do try to be good. If I am good will you be my friend? You always were my friend you know.’
Not understanding what he meant, Marcus said, ‘Yes, I will be your friend. What is your name?’
‘Colin,’ answered the other. ‘Or is it something else I can’t remember? No, it is Colin.’ He started to skip, leaping from one cobble to another. ‘I knew you would come one day,’ he said over his shoulder. Then he bounced off towards the kitchens and the smell of freshly-baked bread. As he reached the door, he waved. ‘I shall ask John if you may look after me instead of Wevere,’ he called, then vanished inside.
Marcus stared after him amazed, so lost in thought that, a few moments later, he did not hear the running feet of a servant until the boy was practically on top of him.
‘Master Marcus,’ said a panting voice, ‘the archbishop wishes to see you immediately in his chamber. Please come at once. And hurry!’
But on entering Stratford’s private apartments the squire saw that he need not have made such haste, for the archbishop stood with his back to him, gazing out over the grounds as if he had all the time in the world.
‘You wanted to see me, my Lord?’ asked Marcus, bowing in the doorway and feeling fractionally annoyed with the imperturbable figure who had now turned and was appraising him with a glittering eye.
‘Yes. I have been wondering since you entered my service yesterday what your duties should be, Flaviel. Now it is all quite clear to me and the hand of God is plainly visible.’
‘My Lord?’
‘You have met my brother and understand that he is ... different. He has been afflicted since birth, of course. But there is nothing cruel or unpleasant in his nature.’
‘I realise that, my Lord.’
‘He has been to see me already. He has asked that you may be his guardian rather than my steward, Wevere. Strangely, I was looking for someone. Now do you see the workings of God’s plan?’
In a flash of clarity, Marcus did. He had been brought to the palace by a series of mighty chances which did, indeed, seem to have some overriding pattern. It was meant that he and the simpleton should meet. The words ‘I knew you would come one day,’ repeated themselves in his mind.
But the archbishop was speaking. ‘Do you accept the task?’
‘If Sir Paul agrees,’ answered Marcus, ‘it would give me great pleasure to be your brother’s guardian.’
Stratford did not answer, merely nodding his head and raising his hand to bless the Gascon who, for no reason, had suddenly dropped on one knee before him.
*
As the moated manor house of Sharndene and the Palace of Maghefeld came to full and bustling life, so Robert Sharndene awoke in his mistress’s bed in Battle and gave a sigh of pure contentment. To see that pretty face next to his on the pillow and touch the great cloud of spreading red hair, so long that it hung to her buttocks, was a joy of which he would never tire.
He did not know, of course, that she was little better than a whore, being utterly deceived by her tilting eyes and sweet rosy lips. He believed her to be nothing more than a tragic widow who had become his own dear love, little realising that from the age of seventeen — when her husband had fallen at the battle of Halidon Hill — she had sold her body for money and favours to middle-aged men.
But the sleeping girl, in her wakeful moments, did not regard herself in that light. Nichola de Rougemont saw herself simply as a mistress — young and sensual, uninhibited and pleasing, a skilled exponent of the art of love.
Now she woke, opening her eyes slowly, and saw Robert watching her. She read so much in his look — desire, love, his youth recaptured — that she smiled lazily. Then she sensuously slithered on to him, prolonging his delicious agony until he was a boy again, wet with dreams and wild with delicate sensation. It was a performance of consummate power and artistry.
Robert knew then, just before he fell back to sleep, that he could never give Nichola up. In the aftermath of lovemaking he made drowsy plans; plans that included Sharndene but somehow glossed over the futures of Margaret and Oriel, and most certainly did not encompass Piers. Yet plans that stopped short at the thought of Hamon — Robert’s eldest son who had fought in the Scottish wars and had risen to serve in the king’s personal retinue — and his monumental disapproval if anything should upset his mother.
No, he would not think of Hamon, only of Nichola, decided Robert, as he fell asleep beside her.
Eight
The unexpected laughter in the valley of Byvelham seemed to catch between the hills and echo round the moat and the manor house and through the thick wild flowers that grew profusely where the trees were thin. And to the horseman, riding fast from the direction of Maghefeld, the sound came as a shock which made him slow his mount and gaze about him to learn who was so carefree on that bright and gentle June morning. Much to his amazement the rider saw Margaret de Sharndene and a stranger over on the far ridge, their heads thrown back and every sign about them, even at this distance, of harmony and enjoyment.
John Waleis’s big handsome face grew dark, for he was the archetypal man of substance, liking everything in its place, his houses, his steward, his villeins, and, most particularly, his wife. And, by the same token, the wives of his friends and contemporaries. It did not do for consorts to be out and about without proper escort. Nor for them to be laughing and enjoying themselves without the stabilising influence of their husbands.
Curiously, and as rather a jest of fate, John himself had the most deliciously individual wife alive. Alice Waleis had long since perfected the art of appearing to comply whilst actually doing precisely what she wanted.
But John realised nothing of this and now spurred his horse on to where Margaret and her companion went at walking pace down towards the woods.
‘Good-day,’ he shouted, bristling with importance at the possible discovery of an illicit meeting.
‘Sir John,’ Margaret was obviously pleased. ‘Are you in good health? How is Alice?’
‘Well enough. Well enough.’ He stared at the stranger pointedly, obviously demanding an explanation.
Paul spoke. ‘Paul d’Estrange, Sir John, a poor knight of Gascony, in England to seek redress for loss of his lands, having joined the household of my Lord Archbishop the meanwhile — and there having met Madam Margaret. And, at this moment, taking some well-needed exercise in her company and delighting in the scenery. Alas, what it is to grow stout!’
He patted his stomach, which was as high and as round as an autumn pumpkin, with a pretended look of despair which slowly turned into a sheepish grin. It was obvious that he was a trencherman and would stint himself nothing in the way of rich foods and fine wines. John could almost hear the man smacking his lips as he talked. But there was something terribly likeable about him and the Englishman, who was also
beginning to gain a little weight, found himself nodding sympathetically.
‘What a joy it is indeed,’ Paul went on, ‘to see such glorious countryside.’
‘You have not visited England before?’ asked John.
‘Oh yes,’ Paul looked a little mysterious. ‘Many, many times. But never to Sussex, never here. Never to this valley full of magic and merriment.’
Margaret and John stared at one another. ‘How delightfully put!’ they said, almost together.
Paul looked suitably gratified and made a bow from the saddle. As he did so his stomach vanished for a moment and Margaret thought, ‘He was handsome when he was young. How wonderful to have known him then.’
She considered him quite the most fascinating and colourful character ever to have entered her life, and blessed the chance visit to the palace which had brought about their meeting. Robert, attractive though he had been when she had married him, had never had the charm that positively glowed from this Gascon.
She felt that John Waleis was eyeing her with some suspicion and forced her face into a serious expression. ‘Perhaps we should go back, Sir Paul. Do you feel you that you have seen enough?’
The fieldmouse eyes twinkled. ‘No, my Lady. If we might ride to the high point above us? I imagine from there the view would stretch for miles.’
He pointed to the plateau from whence John de Stratford had seen his stone palace for the very first time.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said John abruptly. Then added, ‘If you have no objection, Margaret?’
‘Of course not.’ Was her voice a little hesitant? ‘Please do.’
The three riders climbed into the sunshine beneath a sky blue as a babe’s sweet eye. Under the horses’ feet the ground became coarse and scrubbish and then they reached the summit and looked down upon the sight before them. Field after field, wrested from the Wealden forest, stretched away in the colours of a herb garden. While beyond the cultivated land they saw fallow pasture, roamed all about by full-coated sheep and lambs and handsome brown cattle. But even then there were other splashes of colour; bluebells blazed splendour in the depths of a golden wood and out, on a distant hill, the rose-red coats of running wild deer were plainly to be seen.
‘Paradise,’ breathed Paul.
‘But surely,’ put in Margaret, ‘your own estates in Gascony must have been equally lovely?’
‘They were glorious, of course,’ answered Paul. ‘Gardens rolling down to the river beneath the ramparts of the castle. But here you have something unique: a rural magnificence echoed in the characters of those fortunate enough to live here.’
John’s heart began to swell. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘A hardness of aspect, a fierceness of blood, combined with a mellowness of spirit, a gentleness of soul.’
The Englishman beamed at the man whom he had considered an intruder and seducer but barely fifteen minutes earlier.
‘I would deem it an honour, Sir Paul, if you were to visit my father’s house at Glynde. I know that he and my wife would be more than interested to meet you.’
John’s recent thoughts of women in their place and men as master of the domain were now completely gone from his amazingly uncomplex mind as the party turned away towards the thick woods.
As they went down through the fields, Oriel saw them from her perch on the sloping hill above Tide Brook, where she had ridden with her serving woman. She raised an arm and gave a shout but, of course, the distant riders did not hear her, and went plunging on to where bluebells seemed to swallow them up and they vanished into a wave of flowers. She and Emma had ridden hard that morning, far harder than was Oriel’s usual custom, for today there had been even greater enjoyment in the sound of pounding hooves and feeling herself, almost like a boy, leaning low over the horse’s neck and shooting, arrowlike, towards the sun. But now Emma was showing signs of weariness and Oriel began the descent downhill that would lead them home to Sharndene.
As she came through the trees, she saw a stranger standing on the high ground and looking down to where the house lay surrounded by a moat full of sunshine. Though he had his back turned it was obvious that he was staring at the manor house, lost in admiration, and Oriel was at once reminded of her dream of a strange young man in the woods.
‘Who is it?’ she whispered to the servant.
‘I think it must be the Gascon squire, Mistress. I’ve heard it said he’s unusually tall.’
Oriel regarded him closely. Ever since her meeting with Sir Paul at the palace when the squire had been mentioned but not seen, she had wondered what he was like.
‘Will you speak to him, Mistress?’
‘Yes, of course. It would be rude to do otherwise.’
The horses crossed the ridge and at the sound of their approach, Oriel saw the Gascon’s hand fly instinctively to his sword, before he realised that it was only two women who were coming towards him. He jumped from the saddle and bowed, and Oriel saw a bony face, a long lean body and bright eyes, gold as autumn apples.
‘Mistress Oriel?’ he said politely.
‘Yes. Master Marcus?’
‘At your command.’
They were both speaking formally as convention decreed and Oriel was wondering what to say next when a spectacular smile transformed the Gascon’s features. Suddenly he looked young and amusing and interesting to be with. Oriel was perturbed to feel her heart quicken its beat. She willed herself not to blush but could feel the colour creeping into her cheeks.
The Gascon did not appear to notice and much to Oriel’s relief started to look back towards Sharndene.
‘What a beautiful situation,’ he said. ‘The house nestles so contentedly.’
She smiled. ‘That is very poetic, Master Marcus. I have never thought of it like that.’
‘That is because you are used to it. Rare beauty is treated as something quite ordinary by those who see it every day.’ Once again he gave his extraordinary smile and Oriel would have looked away had not his eye caught hers so that she felt obliged to stare bravely at him. After a moment they stopped seeing each other as they really were and received impressions of eyes and features and hair. The air became alive with unexpressed emotions, with longed-for sensations, and both Marcus and Oriel believed at that moment that they had looked at each other like this before though neither could remember where or when.
How long they stayed like that nobody could tell for Emma, whose duty it was to protect her young mistress, found that she had to turn her head away, moved to tears by what she was witnessing. A hardened country-woman, brought up on rolls in the haystack and uncouth wooing, she believed that she was seeing that phenomenon she had only heard spoken about, falling in love at first meeting.
It was Marcus who finally broke the spell by saying, ‘I will always serve you, you know that.’
To Oriel’s shame she became an ordinary, prim girl again and said, ‘We do not know each other, Master Marcus. You cannot serve a stranger.’
His features became hard and set and the smile vanished. ‘We will never be strangers, Mistress. At least that is what I believe.’
Oriel would have answered something unworthy of her but was saved by a sight that attracted the attention of all three. A distant brown dot was coming from the direction of Maghefeld and heading for Sharndene at a great rate. They stared at it silently and as it reached the edge of the moat saw that it was the small and wizened monk who acted as secretary to the archbishop, riding a horse that seemed far too big for him.
‘I wonder what he wants,’ said Oriel, turning to Emma.
The monk clattered over the drawbridge, his funny round shoulders slumped within his habit like a pudding in a cloth.
Turning to look at Marcus again, she said, ‘My mother is out riding with Sir Paul d’Estrange. I must go and receive him.’
‘Then I will take my leave of you.’
He raised her hand to his lips and the touch sealed everything between them. They were on fire for each other
, longing to be together embracing and loving, never wanting to be separated again.
All the way home, Oriel turned to stare over her shoulder at the departing horseman and as he disappeared into the trees on the track to Maghefeld, he waved. Oriel waved back till he was lost from her sight and Emma said, ‘You shouldn’t let him know you like him so much.’
A pair of blue eyes that held a sparkle the servant had never seen before, turned to regard her seriously.
‘I could never hide my feelings from him, Emma. I feel that he is already part of me.’
‘Be careful, Mistress, I beg you. Your father would be furious to think you had a light-of-love.’
‘He’s not that — yet,’ answered Oriel, smiling. And Emma was left to keep her worries to herself as they crossed the drawbridge and went into Sharndene.
*
That night, soon after midnight, Alice Waleis, asleep in Bayndenn, had a strangely vivid dream. She dreamt that she stood on high ground above the moated manor and looked about her. Everywhere were colours that she had never observed in real life: stars of crystal were ice-white in ebony skies; purple hills rose up from lakes of deepest indigo; and streams flowed silver amongst jade-green pastures.
As Alice looked at these awesome shades she wondered whether she was, in fact, dead. Whether she had breathed her last in her sleep and it was her wandering soul which now stood alone and looked down upon the beauty of the magic valley at night.
In her dream Alice wore dark blue and held in her hand the mystic stones, wondering, as she looked at them, whether their secret was the eternal search for God, or whether they were the playthings of a darker power. And as she puzzled there came into view, almost as if it symbolised something, a strange procession. Seated on a white horse was Oriel de Sharndene, behind her two men, neither of whom Alice recognised. One was tall, thin, hawklike; the other short, dark, tragic-faced. There was also a man holding Oriel’s bridle and as he stepped out of the shadow Alice saw to her amazement that it was Adam de Bayndenn, the man whom Isabel had bought out of serfdom and married.
