by Deryn Lake
Without seeing her they passed quite close to where Alice stood and it was then that she witnessed the events which filled her with a sense of danger. She saw Oriel’s horse miss its footing and the girl be thrown forward, only to be seized instantly by Adam and lifted to the ground below. Then, without warning, the man suddenly crushed her to his great frame and poured kiss after kiss upon her trembling and frightened mouth. In a flash the younger man was upon him, knocking Adam to the ground and smashing his fist repeatedly into the other’s face.
Alice began to cry out but realised after a second that she was making no sound, that nobody was turning to look at her. Then she saw Adam’s massive strength prevail. He rolled above the younger man and began to batter him like a puppet. At this the small man joined in, punching ineffectively at Adam’s back like a child caught between two fighting adults.
Even from where she watched, Alice heard the terrible gasping sound of strangulation — and then the moon went behind a cloud. She was in total darkness, her eyes searching wildly for what she dreaded most to see. Somebody had been killed in that deserted place, but as to who it was she had no idea. She took a step forward, tripped over a hummock and began to fall down and down into the valley’s secret heart.
‘Oh help me,’ she cried. ‘Evil is at work this night.’
‘Shush,’ said John’s voice beside her. ‘It is a nightmare. You have been calling out these past few moments.’
Alice opened her eyes and saw daylight streaming into her bedchamber from the windows above.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh thank God! It seemed so real. I thought my soul had taken flight, for there were colours in the earth I had never seen before.’
‘The fault lies in those sinister stones,’ said her husband abruptly. ‘You will see strange colours and hear dreadful things as long as they are in the place. I believe them to be Devil’s work.’
‘Or God’s,’ answered Alice slowly. ‘Maybe we receive divine help and guidance through their auspices.’
‘Never. They should be crushed to nothing and buried deep.’
She ignored him, climbing onto a stool to look out of the high window. In a different voice she remarked, ‘It is a rose-bowl morning.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘There has been rain in the night and the flowers are newly-washed. And there is a smell in the air as sweet and sharp as any fine perfume. I must go out at once.’
She jumped down and began to splash her face with water, pulling on her stockings and kirtle — a long-trained dress which fitted tightly to her body — at the same time. Over this she drew her cotehardie — a tunic with elbow sleeves, fancifully trimmed — while on her head she thrust a linen wimple, swathing it round the front of her neck and chin and pinning the ends to the hair above her ears.
John, watching her rapid attempt at dressing, said, ‘Where are you walking?’
‘I thought I might go to Sharndene and talk to Margaret.’
‘In that case I will come with you.’
He swung himself out of bed and put on his clothes. Like Alice he wore a long-sleeved cotehardie but beneath this was a gipon, a close fitting garment with kneelength skirt, which displayed his leg hose, cut on the bias and parti-coloured. On his head, instead of a hood, he drew a soft fur-trimmed and beret-shaped hat. Both he and his wife dressed fashionably for country folk and this morning was no exception.
‘I really do want to walk,’ said Alice as her husband turned automatically towards the stable.
His fondly-imagined look of mastery played about his big dark features momentarily, then he answered, ‘Oh very well. It is a fine day, after all.’
They stepped out into a world washed clean by the rainfall of the previous night. All about them, upon every branch and leaf, raindrops trembled as clear and fine as jewels, reflecting in their lucence a host of little rainbows, while in the heart of a wild rose a spider’s web was transformed to a silken net aglimmer with silver. Above their heads a dim, green arch had been formed by the trees so that, as Margaret and John walked through the Rother valley, they felt themselves to be in a holy place.
But it was the smell that made the morning bright as trumpets and fine as gold. From all around came the aroma of every kind of flower: apple blossom mingled with honeysuckle and rose, while the smaller plants sent up a strange keen perfume of their own. The combined scent of rain-washed petals and earth was almost overwhelming.
And as the Waleises approached Sharndene they saw that the moat, too, gurgled fresh and swollen with rain, the cob and pen riding high and on a level with the house.
‘That should clean it,’ said John hopefully.
The drop shafts from the Sharndene garderobes fell directly into the moat below and a good rainstorm could always be relied upon to shift the sewage — in one direction or another. But further speculation was not possible. From one of the small upstairs windows a banging could be heard and, on looking up, they saw Margaret knocking frantically and sneezing like a pepper cook. As the banging grew Alice hurried into the house, through the hall and up the stairs to where Margaret waited at the top.
‘My dear, are you ill?’ she asked.
‘No,’ replied her friend, blowing her nose violently. ‘It is this wretched complaint I get in summer, and it has come at quite the most inconvenient time. The archbishop has invited both Oriel and myself to the palace to dine with his brother today.’
Alice’s mouth fell open. ‘His brother? You mean Robert de Stratford?’
‘No, no! The youngest of the three, Colin. He is very shy and rarely seen in public, but apparently he has lived at the palace since the archbishop’s arrival.’
Alice shook her head as if she could scarcely believe it and Margaret went on, ‘But I cannot go. I would sneeze all the way through the meal. Alice, would you be able to accompany Oriel?’
Margaret’s face fell as her friend shook her head. ‘John and I are to ride to Glynde this day. We will stay some time.’
‘Then what’s to be done?’
‘Might you not send her with a servant?’
‘No, Robert would not approve of that. Alice, do you think I could ask Isabel de Bayndenn?’
The dream came back to Alice with horrid clarity. She saw Adam’s great body crushing that of Oriel as a bear might smash a flower. ‘Oh no!’ she said. But it was too late. Margaret had already rushed to the top of the stairs and was calling, ‘Cogger! Cogger! Find me a rider immediately.’
Very slowly Alice Waleis made her way into Margaret’s chamber and there took the unusual step of pouring herself a goodly cup of wine. It seemed that day there was a canker in the rose-bowl morning of Byvelham.
*
The town of Battle, which sprawled out from the gatehouse of the abbey, was wet that morning. The rain ran all over the rooftops of the great abbey built at the command of Duke William to commemorate his glorious victory, victory at which Christian blood had been spilled, including that of the English king. The abbey’s high altar had been raised — over the very spot where Harold, son of Earl Godwin and last of the English rulers, had been cut down — as William’s act of atonement.
Yet Robert de Sharndene, leaving his mistress’s little house, which stood with a handful of others some quarter of a mile from the abbey itself, thought nothing of the place’s violent history but only of his own misery, as he passed the mighty building which had been the Norman’s visual penance for the terrible slaughter.
He was infinitely depressed. He would, at that moment, gladly have changed places with the poorest villein in the town. And ahead of him, too, lay a grim prospect, deepening his gloom. First must come his interview with the archbishop at which, he felt sure, accusations would be made about his guilty secret. And then — and far, far worse — he must face Margaret and tell her that he wanted to be rid of her. Even now, as he mounted his horse and rode away, he could imagine her ugly face — flushed and trembling, the eyes beginning to spout — as he told her that
their marriage was over and done.
If only she did not love him so much, he thought with a sigh. If only she had not devoted her life to him and to the raising of their surviving children. If only, like that elf of a woman Alice Waleis, Margaret had some interests outside the home. And it was then that Robert adopted the comforting attitude of every faithless husband: he justified his actions with the conviction that it was his wife’s own fault. For, after all, if she had remained young and slim, lively and on fire with passion, he could not possibly have strayed. It really was Margaret’s responsibility to stay desirable in every way. Slightly happier, he spurred his horse on.
Approaching him from another track that led from Battle to London he saw, as he rode, a distant group of horsemen, their banners denoting them as being on the king’s business. Robert narrowed his eyes. Was it possible that his eldest son was in their midst? But they were too far and too fast, their horses swirling up a cloud of dust even from the newly dampened highway, for him to identify anyone. He toyed with the idea of pursuing them but the possibility of Hamon being amongst them was remote and he turned his head away and continued his progress to Byvelham.
But he was wrong, for Hamon de Sharndene, tall and broad and handsome — a larger, tougher version of Piers in many ways — was in the entourage heading for Battle, and he and his father passed one another unknowingly. So it was the younger Sharndene who now rode through the gate at the western end of the abbey’s precinct wall and, dismounting, went into the stone-built guest range that stood next to the great barn in the abbey’s west courtyard.
Hamon was an interesting man, his dull exterior masking complex emotions and beliefs. For he, to whom killing was second nature, believed in pure love with a fervour that was fanatical. Yet hand in hand with his romanticism walked lechery, though this extraordinary dichotomy in his character was hidden by his generally tough appearance. Hamon was one of a group of men who were the hardest fighters in the world, with their Welsh long bows and heavy cavalry of armoured knights, to say nothing of their machine-like infantry. No one suspected the ale-swilling, laughing soldier’s longing to die, metaphorically, for love.
But now this day, here in Battle, lust was upon him and calling to the villein who was humping in the accoutrements, Hamon said, ‘Where can I find a woman?’
The servant, who was immensely gnarled and smelt quite rank, answered slowly, ‘You are young Sharndene, aren’t you?’
Somewhat startled, the knight replied, ‘How did you know that?’
‘I saw you once with your father, the bailiff.’
‘I see.’ Hamon had ceased to be interested. ‘Well, are there women in this place?’
A strange glint formed beind the villein’s bleary eye. ‘Indeed, yes. There are plenty of women in Battle.’
Hamon frowned impatiently. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. A woman whose body I can hire.’
The villein clutched his sides in a sudden soundless cackle, his rotten gums fuming decay as he opened his mouth. Hamon waved his hand in front of his face.
‘Speak up you old wretch or I’ll give you a beating.’
The villein straightened, his face a wrinkled walnut, each crease etched in dirt. ‘I can think of one to suit you fine, Sir,’ he said. ‘She lives a little distance away, which the gentlemen find convenient.’
‘Then she’s available?’
‘Oh yes, Sir, very available. She has a little house of her own. I’ll point you out the way.’
‘Good. I’ll go as soon as I have eaten.’
‘Very well, Sir.’ The villein was bowing in a cringing manner. ‘But if you’ll listen to an old man, I would not tell her your name.’
‘Why not?’
‘She might be afraid of the bailiff’s son.’
‘Oh, I see. Very well.’
Hamon turned away and did not see the villein once again bent double in mirth behind his back.
*
The rider from Sharndene, in a hurry to deliver his lady’s message, followed the Rother valley as far as he could and then turned towards Maghefeld and the soft green lands tenanted by Isabel de Bayndenn. Climbing up the slope he picked his way through the bluebell wood, then up again to the field and out to where Bayndenn stood overlooking one of the finest views in Sussex.
There the rider halted, tied his horse to a post and entered the hall in which Isabel and her servants lived. This afternoon there was no one about except Adam, who lay asleep on a bench before the central fire, one foot crossed over the other and his head back and snoring. He woke as Ralph entered noisily.
As always when he saw Adam, Robert’s servant felt a wave of acute embarrassment. To him Isabel’s husband was still a villein — as was Ralph himself. But there was one insurmountable difference between them: the younger man had been bought and then married by a freewoman; Ralph had remained the servant he had been born.
Now, feeling this difference strongly as he stood in Adam’s hall, Ralph gave a slight nod of his head — nothing on God’s earth would have induced him to bow — and said, ‘I have a message for your wife from the Mistress of Sharndene. Can I possibly see the lady?’
Adam went slightly pink. ‘My wife,’ his tongue fumbled and tripped round the words, ‘is busy outside. You’ll find her there.’
Ralph’s look said, ‘So what are you doing sitting by the fire?’ and as if he had read his thoughts Adam added, ‘I have been ill with the ague and she wished me to stay indoors.’
Suddenly and quite inexplicably, the messenger felt sorry for him. Adam was no more his own man now than he had been when he was the property of Godfrey Waleis. He had simply gone from one kind of serfdom to another.
‘I’ll wait with you if I may,’ Ralph said, guilty because he had just had uncharitable thoughts, but had done no more than take his place by the fire before the archway darkened and, smiling at them both, Isabel stood in the entrance.
With the afternoon light falling full on her face, Ralph studied her carefully. He knew, could calculate, that she must be approaching sixty and yet she could have been mistaken, by a stranger, for twenty years less. Her clear, fine skin bore only the slightest suggestion of wrinkles and the thick dark hair, visible in strands peeping from her wimple, carried no sign of grey. Her blue-stockinged legs — clearly to be seen as she had tucked her kirtle into her belt in order to walk faster — seemed also those of a far younger woman. And as she released the skirt to fall once more to the floor, a firm and marbled thigh could be glimpsed.
Ralph rose. ‘Madam, I come from Sharndene to ask a favour. Mistress Oriel is to dine with the archbishop today and her mother is sick with the great summer fever. She asks if you and your husband would accompany her.’
Isabel wiped her fingers across her cheek and a tiny smudge appeared; she worked the land she tenanted with her own two hands and cared not a whit who knew it. But the gap between Adam and herself gaped vastly as she answered, ‘Yes, of course we will.’
In any other marriage the wife would have turned to her partner and asked him if it was convenient.
In fact, Ralph thought, in any other marriage it would have been the master of the house who would have made the decision.
His anguish for her husband grew as Adam, to cover up his position, mumbled like an echo, ‘Of course we will.’
Isabel gave him a beaming smile as though he had just made a clever and original remark. ‘Good,’ she said.
Ralph nodded again. ‘In that case, Madam, I shall return at once for I know my mistress is anxious for your reply.’
Isabel smiled once more, looking beautiful. ‘Then I must get the great tub filled if I am to dine with the archbishop.’
Without thinking, without even being consciously aware of what he was doing, Adam, bowing, said, ‘I will see to it,’ and left the room.
*
Nichola’s little house was quite easy to find, even to a stranger on foot. Hamon went through the abbey’s western end, passed the pilgrims’ house, know
n locally as The Hospital, and proceeded down the broad track that ran through the midst of the village dwellings. Then he turned right, as instructed by the villein and found, standing on another track with rolling fields behind them, a few more buildings. The first he came to was the house described to him as that of the woman, and there he stopped and gave a most peremptory knock on the door.
At first there was no response, but after he had banged his fist upon the wood again, someone called ‘What is it?’ and standing back a few paces and tilting his head, Hamon saw that through the unglazed slit a girl was looking out.
‘I was recommended to come here,’ he answered fairly softly, aware of the presence of a damp-nostrilled child who stood outside the nearest dwelling to the little house.
‘What?’ The girl bent her head forward.
‘I’m staying at the abbey.’ Hamon spoke rather more loudly, sure that the child was now regarding him beadily.
‘What? I can’t hear you.’
The glimpse of head withdrew and after a moment or two the door opened to reveal a young and fetching female, her red hair loose and streaming to her buttocks. She wore nothing but a cloak thrown around her, having obviously just woken from sleep.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I was recommended to come here,’ said Hamon, rather abashed.
She stared at him and he went on, ‘I was told you were available.’
An extraordinary look crossed her face and then she said, ‘Oh, were you!’
‘Yes.’
Under her silent scrutiny young Sharndene felt himself grow hot. She really was very desirable. Yet he could not understand why a harlot should be subjecting him to such a cool and appraising stare.
‘Have I made a mistake?’ he said at length. And then he smiled, rather sheepishly.
Despite her anger at his impertinence, Nichola smiled back. There was something she liked about this man, with his rough cropped hair and scar slanting upward from one eyebrow, and the bony wrists showing beneath the sleeves of his jerkin.
‘Come in,’ she said.
