‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sancti – sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum . . .’ What came next? If only Cecily were here to pray with him! She would tell him that God gives ear to all prayers, whether offered up from a great cathedral or a miserable prison cell like this; and that he makes no distinction between rich or poor, young or old, just so long as the words come from the heart. So he began to pray in English, asking Cecily to look down from heaven and intercede for him.
‘Listen to my cry, O Father in heaven, and look after those boys; save them from all dangers and bring them safely home.’ He paused, and wondered what else she would have told him to pray for. He knew in his heart what he should ask, but was reluctant at first to say the words. Tears filled his eyes as he continued, ‘And if Léon Merand has really betrayed me, give me the grace to forgive him as I ask for my own sins to be . . . to be f-forgiven.’ The words faded on his lips, but he felt calmer, and a measure of peace came over him, even in this dismal place. He lay down on the mattress, and the sleep that had been denied him for a day and a night now enfolded him in merciful oblivion.
The sun had not risen, but a few pale streaks had appeared in the eastern sky. Père Bonnat in his bare white chamber on the second floor had recited the Office of Matins in the dark hour after midnight, for which he needed no candle, for he knew the words by heart. When he’d finished, he crossed himself and settled on his narrow bed to the peaceful sleep of a clear conscience. In her rather more comfortable chamber on the floor below, his housekeeper Claudine had lain awake for some time after retiring, unable to forget the face of the young prisoner as Udo the guard had marched him down to the cellar and locked the door with a clanking of heavy keys. The boy’s eyes had been full of fear, and held a question, as if he could not believe what was happening to him, or why. Claudine would never disagree with anything the good priest said or did, but hoped that when he came to question the prisoner, he would discover him to be at least partly innocent of the charges laid against him. Late that evening she had taken a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread downstairs to the cellar, and when Udo had unlocked the door, they found the youth on his knees. His courteous thanks to her for his supper had touched her heart. When he hesitantly asked if Père Bonnat would be coming to question him, the guard had shaken his shaggy head.
‘Not today, he ain’t,’ he said, and when the boy raised pleading eyes to Claudine, she had smiled and told him that the priest would probably come to see him in the morning.
Now she curled up on her goose-feather bed and fell asleep, snoring gently.
Udo the guard too was fast asleep on his straw-filled pallet on the landing at the top of the steep stone steps leading down to the cellar. None of them heard at first the menacing sounds approaching from the eastward road: a noise of many pattering steps, of horses’ hooves, men’s voices shouting – and a grunting and a snorting as if a pack of wild beasts were on their way to Sailly. One by one the villagers awoke and trembled. Père Bonnat sat up with a start, and Claudine clutched her sheets around her. Udo remained asleep until the invaders came pouring into the village square; heavy bodies were blundering around squealing in terror, horses were neighing, men were shouting.
‘This is war! You’re all captured!’ the villagers heard as they ran to their windows to look out at the heaving confusion below.
‘Holy Mother of God!’ cried Claudine, leaping from her bed. ‘Mon Père! Mon Père Bonnat, our enemies have come to kill us all! Help! God have mercy on us!’
The priest shook his head to clear away the nightmare he thought had seized him. Throwing on the long black hooded cote-hardie over his nightshirt, he dashed out on to the landing, and saw Claudine on the floor below, in her nightgown, wringing her hands as a great knocking at the front door reverberated through the whole house.
‘Open up! Open this door in the name of King John!’ a man shouted as Claudine looked up to see the priest.
‘Oh, Père Bonnat, bid the angels and saints come to our aid!’ she cried.
Bonnat was not without courage, and saying a quick prayer under his breath, he descended the stairs at speed. ‘Calm yourself, Claudine,’ he whispered, then raising his voice, he addressed the would-be intruder.
‘Who are you, and what do you want with us?’
‘Open this door or it will be the worse for you!’ roared the reply.
Gently easing Claudine aside, the priest drew back the bolts, whereupon a tall man at once rushed in, followed by another, and Père Bonnat caught a brief, chaotic glimpse of stampeding pigs, horses, and what he took to be soldiers, all creating a deafening noise. It was too dark to see the face of the man confronting him, but he held up his hands in truce.
‘I am Père Bonnat, and I’ll do what you ask, as long as you do not harm my servants,’ he said, just as the second man grabbed him from behind, locking his arms across his back.
‘Your keys, priest – your keys, where are they?’ demanded the first intruder. ‘Give me the keys to the cellar now, this minute!’
‘Udo! Come and give this man the keys!’ called Bonnat, and the guard came lumbering on to the scene, his bunch of keys dangling from his belt. He glared at the man who held Bonnat in a vice-like grip, and lunged towards him.
‘Let go o’ that man o’ God, or I’ll throttle yer,’ he began, but Père Bonnat bid him be quiet as the first man suddenly produced a sword. There was a moment of fearful silence, and then Claudine found her voice and spoke shakily to the bewildered guard.
‘Give him the keys, Udo; let him unlock the cellar and free the prisoner, who’s but a boy. Give him the keys, and save us all.’
‘Yes, go in front of me down the stairs, and unlock the cellar,’ said the tall man, giving him a push towards the stairs. Udo muttered but did as he was told, and unhooked the bunch of keys from his belt, handing them to the man who shook his head.
‘No, you know which one unlocks the door,’ he replied, and those waiting above held their breath as they heard the scrape of the huge key turning in the lock. The man slowly drew the door back, and out of the blackness within, Wulfstan’s pale face appeared. His eyes lit up with joy at what he saw.
‘Merand! Oh, Léon Merand, praise be to God, you’ve come!’
‘Quick, up the stairs and your horse is tied outside,’ gasped his rescuer, ‘and here’s Lemaitre to help you get away and join the others on the eastward road while I—fly like the wind, Wulfstan!’
Lemaitre and Wulfstan rushed from the house, soon followed by Merand, leaving the priest and his servants open-mouthed but unharmed.
By now the sun was rising, and the villagers were realizing that their invaders were the five young soldiers from the day before, and the herd of pigs belonging to the swineherd who took them up to the forest each day; the man was speechless with fury, attempting to round them up and promising death to whoever had released them at such an hour and driven the poor beasts into the village square. But the culprits and their horses were already well on the road, and Wulfstan’s sword was back in its scabbard.
They rode for a good hour, urging their steeds to a gallop in case they were pursued. Wulfstan noticed that there were flecks of foam around Troilus’s mouth, and he called a halt when they came to a junction where a path turned off at a sharp right-angle, down a steep track to where a stream tumbled over glittering stones. Wulfstan hoped that any pursuers had been thrown off the scent, and ordered them to dismount and rest both themselves and their horses beside the stream, cupping the clear water up to their mouths, while the horses also quenched their thirst.
No sooner had they arrived at this refuge than deep regrets, explanations and confessions were expressed, especially by Léon Merand who accepted all blame and responsibility for what had happened to Wulfstan.
‘I feared we might all be arrested as enemies of France, Monsieur Wynstede, as you had difficulty with speaking, and I humbly beg your forgiveness for putting you . . . and—’
‘You did right, and we may
all owe our lives to you, Léon,’ said Wulfstan, interrupting him. ‘We will say no more about our adventures in Sailly, but let me thank you, Léon, and all the rest of you for your daring plan to rescue me from the priest’s cellar. Now let’s give thanks for our freedom, and make our way due north-east across country to Lisieux!’
The chevauchée was pronounced a success when Monsieur Wynstede and his five charges arrived at the Maison Duclair on that Saturday evening. The Monseigneur praised Wulfstan, both openly and privately, for the way he had managed the exercise, and the five newcomers loudly agreed that they had learned a great deal during those three days away, and established a close bond with their leader and with each other.
Wulfstan had less to say; he was thankful to return with no casualties, and considered that he had learned even more than his charges about the courage and loyalty, not forgetting the cunning, that turns an armed man into a soldier and a knight. One day, he thought, I shall put myself and all my knowledge of warfare at the service of Prince Edward when I ride into battle at his side!
Three
1355
Monseigneur Duclair spoke as if to an equal, and his voice was grave.
‘Yes, Wulfstan, there are rumours that King Edward is preparing to renew the war and gathering forces together, possibly to invade before the close of this year.’ He stopped speaking, seeing Wulfstan’s eyes brighten. ‘Whether France’s present King John is as eager to resume hostilities again, nine years after the bloody Battle of Crécy, is something that cannot be known outside of his court, but he will no doubt have spies on the lookout in danger spots. Rumours may swarm in town and country, but there is no definite evidence that he is stirring up anti-English feeling, not yet.’
‘But Monseigneur,’ Wulfstan interposed, ‘surely I – we – saw evidence enough in Sailly, when half a dozen young fellows, scarcely out of boyhood, were accused of being enemies of France before we even had time to announce that we came in peace. If it had not been for the quick thinking of Léon Merand—’
‘Yes, yes, I gather what happened, and I’ve pondered on the danger I put you in,’ said Duclair, a little impatient at being interrupted, and making a dismissive gesture with his hands. ‘To me it sounds as if Sailly is one of those remote pockets of human habitation ruled over by a priest, notary, mayor and physician all in one man whose word is law because the unlettered villagers have no other ruler, and such men become bigots and tyrants. No, Wulfstan, if you have ideas of offering your service – and in time of war that could well mean offering your life – to King Edward of England, my advice is for you to wait and see what actually happens, and not give ear to every bit of gossip and speculation that travels across our fair Pays d’Auges. I do not wish for you to go charging around looking for armies that may not even exist.’ He paused for a moment, seeing Wulfstan’s disappointed look, and continued in an almost fatherly tone, ‘You have proved your courage, my boy, and I don’t want to see it wasted on inconclusive skirmishes.’
‘Thank you, Monseigneur, but . . . well, having learned all I can here in the past five years, it is my greatest ambition to be a soldier in the army of the King of England, and also his son, Prince Edward of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, Earl of—’
‘Chester and King’s Lieutenant of Gascony, already under English rule,’ Duclair finished for him, ‘a much exalted and ambitious youngster, scarcely older than yourself.’
‘He’s eight years older than I, Monseigneur, and by all accounts a sure defender of his father’s realm,’ replied Wulfstan with some spirit, ‘and if the rumours of an English invasion prove to be correct, I have no intention of being left behind.’
‘A pretty speech indeed, Wulfstan, and likely to strike fear into the Prince’s enemies,’ said Duclair with more than a touch of sarcasm, though he spoke good-humouredly. Seeing Wulfstan’s flushed face and the determined set of his mouth, the Monseigneur softened his approach and played his next card with no little amusement.
‘I think there are other matters with which you should be concerning yourself, Wulfstan, but perhaps good counsel would come better from a woman. You will therefore attend on Madame Duclair in her private chamber this evening before supper.’
‘But Monseigneur—’
‘Enough. You are dismissed into Madame Duclair’s care.’
Wulfstan was thrown into a state of angry humiliation. What on earth would Madame Duclair have to say to him? Was it about Madame la Gouvernante? Would she be there? Interviews in the private chamber of master or mistress were usually of a highly confidential nature, so probably not – but if la Gouvernante was to be present, Wulfstan cringed at the thought of the embarrassment he would suffer. What a disaster! And yet he had to obey.
‘Ah, Wulfstan, how pleasant to see you! We have had little opportunity to converse since you returned from the chevauchée, and I haven’t yet congratulated you on its happy outcome after the dangers you went through, the courage and tenacity you showed. My husband has scarcely stopped singing your praises!’
Deep-bosomed and motherly, Madame Duclair smiled and beckoned Wulfstan to be seated on a carved wooden chair opposite her own as she plied her needle at embroidering a silky sky-blue shirt; to his enormous relief they were alone. He bowed, thanked her for her kind words, and sat down.
‘Will you take wine?’ she asked. ‘I find that a little drop or two of a red claret is good for the appetite, and we shall be taking supper within the hour.’ As she spoke, she poured out a generous measure for him and about half the amount for herself. He took the silver cup from her, annoyed to find himself blushing as he thanked her.
‘Now we come to the matter of how you will best use the arts you’ve learned here at the Maison Duclair,’ she went on. ‘I’ve no doubt that you have plans to join the military, and it may be the case that King Edward – or his son, that excellent young man – may be preparing to invade these shores again, or so my husband informs me.’
‘Yes, indeed, Madame, it is widely rumoured that . . . er . . . that King Edward may intend to lead an army to subdue any rebels in his French dominions, Aquitaine and Gascony,’ answered Wulfstan. ‘And I would want to be a part of it.’
‘As young as you are, Wulfstan? And knowing how much Monseigneur Duclair and I would like to keep you here as his squire and instructor of new young men desirous of becoming soldiers?’
‘Er . . . yes, Madame, but if the King were to assemble such an army, I would . . . er . . . want to join it as a swordsman or an archer, as a cavalryman or as a foot soldier,’ he replied a little more firmly, because he thought he could see that she was attempting to dissuade him.
‘I can see how determined you are to be a military man,’ she said with a smile, ‘and I shall not waste time trying to change your mind! No, the reason I’d like you to put off your military career for a while is to do with the family you have left behind in England. I am an Englishwoman, as you know, and I feel sympathy for them.’
‘Madame?’ Wulfstan said uncertainly, not understanding her drift.
‘Your family, my boy,’ she said in her soft maternal way, looking up from her embroidering and fixing her large blue eyes on his. ‘You have no parents, but should you not visit your brother and sister, and make yourself known to your nephews and nieces – especially the girl and boy born to your sister Cecily who brought you here five years ago?’
Now he saw what was coming: her husband had clearly been discussing the matter with her. He shook his head.
‘My brother and sister are both married, and any children they’ve had were born since I’ve been here, so I don’t know them, Madame.’
‘Ah, but your brother Sir Oswald Wynstede would surely like to settle family matters before you go to war, Wulfstan – and forgive me for being blunt, I’m talking of money, of course. Arrangements should be made about your portion of the inheritance that would be due to you in the event of . . . of your brother’s death, or your own. You should see him and talk such matters over, don’t you agr
ee?’
Wulfstan took another sip of wine. ‘My brother would surely see that I got my fair portion of the Ebbasterne estate, Madame.’
‘Hm.’ She made a doubtful little sound. ‘So often these things are not recorded in writing by an attorney, and then later there are family feuds which are very regrettable.
‘And that isn’t all, Wulfstan. What of Cecily’s children? They are a boy and a girl, I believe, getting towards ten years old. Do you not feel any responsibility towards them, seeing that they have no mother?’ She glanced at him shrewdly, and he lowered his eyes.
‘Katrine and Aelfric have a kind aunt, a widow and sister-in-law of their mother’s,’ he said. ‘They live with her and their grandfather, Master Blagge.’
‘Grandfather? Not their father?’ She sounded surprised.
‘No, Madame, my sister Cecily was married twice, first to Blagge’s son, the father of Katrine and Aelfric – until he died of the black plague, and she married his father who’d lost his first wife.’ He hesitated. ‘Old Master Blagge is a . . . a disagreeable man, and I was very sorry that Cecily was forced into marriage with him because the family finances were at a low ebb, and he was a wealthy cloth merchant.’ At this point, Wulfstan could scarcely hide his true feelings. ‘Oh, Madame, I hated that man, and I’ve no wish to see him again!’ He lowered his head between his hands, hardly able to stifle a sob. Madame Duclair put down her embroidery, rose and came to stand beside him, putting a soft, plump arm around his shoulders. For a moment he remembered his motherless state, and was tempted to lay his head upon her maternal bosom, but recollected himself in time to listen to her.
‘Thank you, my dear boy, for telling me, and I’m sorry I’ve stirred up bad memories,’ she said quietly. ‘I shall say no more about your duties towards your family, but will leave the matter in your own hands, to do as you think best. Now then, finish your wine, and we’ll go to supper – you’ll be wanting to jest with your young companions!’
Every Noble Knight Page 4
