Charles de Lusignan was recovering more slowly, not yet fit to make the sea voyage home, and when the Count offered Wulfstan a permanent position at the castle, to assist Charles on an equal footing as a brother, he eagerly accepted the offer, for it solved the problem of where he would live and what he would do when back in England. Once the stump of Charles’s leg had healed, Wulfstan was determined to get his brother-in-law back on to a horse, a gentle mare such as he would choose for himself in their circumstances. By then he hoped that the Prince’s official scribe, a Master Hugh Baldoc, resentful at being ousted from his position, would be ready and able to resume his duties.
‘My son and I will be forever in your debt, Sir Wulfstan,’ said the Count, scarcely able to control his emotion. ‘When your good sister Cecily brought you up to the castle as a boy to be trained as a squire, we little thought that you would be made a knight at nineteen! God grant that the broken shoulder will heal, and restore you to full health and strength.’ His voice shook.
Wulfstan smiled and gave a little bow – then gasped at the pain caused by this slight movement. It showed no sign of abating, and caused him much secret agony.
The situation regarding Dorine Merlette still troubled Wulfstan, and if Robert Poulter had not left Bordeaux, Wulfstan would have challenged him and demanded a full apology from him to the Merlette ladies; yet he would have been humiliated by his inability to engage in combat with his one-time comrade-in-arms. He tried to banish the matter from his mind, but continued to smart under the unfairness of it; he had for so long anticipated a renewal of friendship, and perhaps more, with Dorine.
One afternoon when he was at work in the room set aside for official business, the Prince entered in a jocular mood.
‘What’s on your mind today, Sir Wulfstan?’ he asked, seating himself on the table, covering the parchments. His face was flushed, and his breath smelled of wine. ‘Why all this frowning and turning down your mouth? Is it a disappointment in love? Has some shallow-hearted miss turned you down because of your arm? If so, she’s not worth fretting over!’
‘It’s nothing, my liege, nothing to speak of,’ Wulfstan replied hastily, not wanting to make any confessions that the Prince might repeat in his cups.
‘Nothing? So it is an affair of the heart!’ said the Prince, laughing at Wulfstan’s reticence. ‘Is she English or French?’
‘Really, sire, it’s of no importance,’ said Wulfstan, unable to stop himself from flushing deeply. The Prince regarded him for a minute or two, then heaved a heavy sigh.
‘Ah, my boy,’ he said with the air of a father towards a son, though they were but eight years apart. ‘It may interest you to know that I too love a woman who can’t be mine, so I can share your chagrin – and it is a bitter draught indeed.’
Wulfstan was surprised at hearing such an admission from Edward, the Black Prince, that universally popular figure, for surely no lady could resist him. He would need to be careful in answering, however, for the Prince might later regret making such a confession when not completely sober.
‘Indeed, my liege,’ he replied, hoping that he was not going to hear more details.
‘How long have you known your fair lady?’ asked the Prince. ‘Is she a Frenchwoman?’
‘Yes, sire, and I met her when I arrived in Bordeaux, just over a year ago.’
‘Ah, that’s not long. I have yearned for my beloved Jeanette ever since we were children playing together,’ confided the Prince, and pulled from an inner pocket a short length of pale-blue silk. ‘She wore a gown made from this, look – the sweetest lady I’ve ever known, and yet I have to foreswear her.’
Wulfstan’s expression was blank as the Prince continued, a little wryly.
‘My parents have done their best to find me a suitable bride, for they say it’s important that I marry and raise up heirs to claim the crown when I depart this life. They’ve offered me a princess of Portugal, and the daughter of the Duke of Brabant, any number of young virgins with half a spoonful of royal blood – but I’ll have none of them.’ He stuck out his lower lip in defiance. ‘If I can’t have my beautiful Lady Jeanette, I’ll have no other queen.’
For a minute or two he stared moodily into space, then gave himself a little shake. ‘But come, Sir Wulfstan, ’tis your turn to name your ladylove. You say she lives here in Bordeaux?’
‘Yes, sire, she is the daughter of the widow Merlette who keeps an inn. She is but sixteen, and—’
‘God in heaven, boy, have you been paying court to a wench of sixteen, a mere innkeeper’s daughter? Would you really tie yourself down to such a one? If she were older, I’d suggest you take your pleasure of her, then leave her for some neighbouring French butcher or baker to claim.’ He looked hard at his scribe. ‘But you wouldn’t do that, would you, Wulfstan?’
‘Indeed I would not, sire. And she wouldn’t have me.’
‘There you are, then – forget her and look for an English rose when you’re home again. I must stay here until March, till England and France sign this peace treaty for two years – but we’ll be setting sail in April, and you’ll be a conquering hero – your wound will be your badge of honour. All the comely girls will be throwing themselves at your feet!’ He laughed and clapped his hand on Wulfstan’s left shoulder, causing him to clench his teeth in pain, though he managed to conceal it, at the same time resolving to follow his royal master’s advice not to look back on his lost opportunity with Dorine. He straightened his shoulders to show his confidence in himself – and immediately had to stifle another gasp.
‘It’s nothing, sire, only a passing twinge,’ he muttered as the Prince stared at him, for he could not hide his grimace. Poor boy, thought the Prince, he’s in no fit state as yet to go seeking for a wife, but I’ll keep him at my side until he regains the use of that arm and shoulder – or until he has to lose it.
Seven
1357
Land! A cheer went up from the crowded and slow-sailing vessel on which the Black Prince was returning to a grateful nation. It had been a tedious voyage from Bordeaux, sailing against the wind. Wulfstan narrowed his eyes at the distant outline, turning from misty grey to green as it came closer.
‘There she is, Sir Wulfstan,’ said the Prince, ‘our homeland. Does the sight of it touch you in the same way?’
‘I shall be glad to set foot on dry land, my liege,’ answered his newly appointed knight and scrivener, weary of the rolling deck, crammed together with other military officers of the Prince’s inner circle, not including the Count de Lusignan and his son who had sailed on an earlier, smaller vessel. To feel the earth firm beneath his feet was what Wulfstan most yearned for, and to continue his career as official scrivener and Keeper of the Purse to the Prince, much to the chagrin of Master Hugh Baldoc, now demoted to assistant scrivener. Wulfstan was sorry when he thought of the de Lusignans, for his new position in the Prince’s household meant that he could not accept the Count’s invitation to assist Charles’s recovery at the castle, and to get him on to a horse again.
When the Prince had heard of this invitation, he flatly refused to allow it.
‘What? Waste a valuable young fighter as nursemaid to an invalid?’ he had said to the Count. ‘Certainly not! I have plans for Sir Wulfstan’s future at my court. There are plenty of able men looking for just such an opportunity to be squire to your son.’
Wulfstan’s conscience smote him, pleased though he was at being a member of the Prince’s household; he knew that he was said to be a ‘favourite’, and Hugh Baldoc made no secret of his resentment towards one he considered a young upstart.
‘I’ll visit Castle de Lusignan at the earliest opportunity to see you, Charles,’ he promised, but even as he spoke, he felt disloyal to his brother-in-law, who through their shared experiences in France had become a close friend.
The landing at Plymouth was a ceremonial occasion, for the Mayor and chief burghers were waiting to welcome them, and a cheering crowd of townspeople jostled to get a glimpse
of the Black Prince who stood up on a platform by the jetty to address the company. He named and presented to them the men who had been closest to him in the Poitiers campaign; the first was Sir John Chandos, and the last Sir Wulfstan Wynstede, honourably wounded in battle.
It was a strange experience for Wulfstan, hearing the cheers and shouts of his name: here he was, a newly appointed knight of the realm, sworn to serve his country, his King and his Prince, surely the luckiest youth in England and France! Dismounting from his horse gave him a jolt which sent a sword-thrust through his shoulder; his arm, now supported in a sling around his neck, was as lifeless as the arm of a corpse. Yet as the Prince had foretold, his wound was a badge of honour, and he saw some admiring looks from women and girls in the crowd.
On the following day a procession was formed with the Prince at its head. Taking a southerly direction, they skirted the great forest of Dartmoor and reached Totnes before evening, where they were offered good board and lodging. The next lap of their journey took them to Exeter, where the Prince commanded every man to enter the massive cathedral to give thanks for their deliverance and commend the souls of the fallen. Wulfstan duly knelt to give thanks for the Prince’s victory, and begged for a return of strength to his left arm, and relief from the pain in his shoulder, now eight months after the blow that had broken it. The cathedral choristers sang Non nobis Domine, sed tuo da gloriam, and a great wave of patriotic fervour filled Wulfstan’s heart; this was surely where his future lay, here in his native land. He had been away too long.
A long journey followed, mostly through untamed heath and forest, often through steep and difficult ways. The earth was awakening after its winter sleep, and fresh green foliage decked the trees; the distant grey, blue and green horizons of England seemed to beckon them on. Sometimes they came upon great open fields divided into narrow strips farmed by the tenants of gracious manor houses; sturdy yeomen’s cottages of wood and stone contrasted with the single-roomed hovels made of wattle branches daubed with clay and cow dung, which housed the families of the labourers who toiled in the fields. As they approached a dark, dense forest, the Prince came to ride at his side.
‘Well, Sir Wulfstan, are you glad to be back on English soil? Are you content to serve the house of Plantagenet in an English court as well as in a French one?’
‘I would serve the King and his heir wherever they were lodged, my liege, but I’d prefer to serve in England.’
‘Well said, Wulfstan! Your wish will be granted for at least the two years of the truce!’
Their progress along the edge of this wilderness eventually ended in a steep north-easterly climb which brought them out on to a wide open plain, where stood a circle of upended standing stones, some supporting other stones placed horizontally across them.
‘There are many ideas about how these stones came to be here,’ said the Prince, seeing Wulfstan’s amazed stare. ‘Some believe that they date back to a time when giants ruled the land, and others say they were here at the Creation of the world, but got swallowed up in the waters of the Flood, and strewn around as we see them now.’
They came to Salisbury, its newly completed cathedral spire pointing heavenwards. Once again Wulfstan followed the example of his Prince, and knelt to pray. The Dominican friar came over and touched his right shoulder.
‘See over there, Wynstede, the tomb of St Osmund where men with broken bones come to be healed by putting their arm or leg through one of those three openings in the stone, do you see? Being close to St Osmund’s bones may bring you healing from him.’
Wulfstan sprang to his feet, causing another stab of pain to shoot through his shoulder. Lying on the marble floor, he removed the sling, and using his right hand, pushed his limp left arm into one of the three holes, pressing his shoulder against it, while the friar said a prayer to St Osmund. The pain was so intense that Wulfstan had to withdraw his arm and confess that the saintly bones had not had the power to heal him. He began to despair of a cure, and prayed that he might continue to walk, write, ride a horse and put a brave face on his affliction; he had no wish to become known as a cripple.
From Salisbury they traversed miles of heathland, and by now were saddle-sore; Wulfstan’s right arm ached from having to hold the reins for hours at a time, doing the work of two. They reached Winchester and another vociferous welcome; the Prince did not tarry there, but continued to lead them eastward, through sandy soil and tall pine trees, to Kingston where they crossed the river Thames. And then, on the twenty-fourth of May they were met by the Mayor and aldermen of the capital, who led them through decorated streets and cheering crowds to Westminster where King Edward and Queen Philippa awaited their triumphant return. The King embraced first his son and then King John of France and his son. For Wulfstan it was the culmination of a year and a half of high adventure, of serving the Black Prince and fighting under his flag. It was also time for rewards, and the Prince celebrated his successes with his customary lavishness, handing out gifts of land, horses and armour, gold and silver for the religious institutions, rare silks and brocades for the ladies. He paid public tribute to them all.
‘You have excelled yourselves in battle, my friends, and now you may enjoy the rewards of peace,’ he told them, and they needed no second bidding. Their days were spent hunting and jousting, and at night there were games of chess, draughts and backgammon; many bags of gold sovereigns changed hands at dice, especially after heavy drinking. Though unable to joust or shoot an arrow, Wulfstan became a skilful chess player; he had little patience with the men who were drunk every night, and his own one experience of over-indulging in wine had been a salutary lesson. Reeling back to the room he shared with three others in a similar state, he collided with something, a door or a wall or even another man silly with drink, which caused such agony in his shoulder that he howled out loud, and his friends feared the devil was after them. Never again! Besides, a drunken man was not attractive to the ladies of Queen Philippa’s court who were more inclined to look with favour on such as himself, a courtly young knight with the advantage of natural good looks.
In the evenings when the musicians played for those who wished to dance, Wulfstan was soon persuaded to join in the slower, more formal dances currently in fashion, treading a measure to the low-pitched, melancholy sackbut and rhythmic beat of the tabor, holding a lady’s hand with his right, while she placed her other hand on his shoulder for lack of a hand to hold; it caused him many a stab of pain, but he was learning to conceal it, compensated by the smiles of the ladies who were happy to dance with a handsome young knight, honourably wounded in battle. He had noticed one in particular, with laughing eyes as blue as cornflowers, and golden hair she sometimes wore loose, rippling over her shoulders, signifying her virgin state. He tried to find a reason for speaking to her, but she always seemed to be deep in conversation with others, and he would hear her peals of laughter from across the hall or the courtyard, wishing in vain for an opportunity to share the joke.
During the day he rode, sometimes alone, sometimes with others, mounting without help the docile mare he had chosen from the Prince’s stables. A frequent companion was Sir Ranulf Ormiston, a cheerful, well-turned-out man in his twenties, shorter than Wulfstan, and with a squarish, blunt-featured face and floppy brown hair. He always made allowances for Wulfstan’s lack of a left arm, and took particular care when crossing streams, avoiding steep and stony paths, which he knew jogged Wulfstan’s shoulder.
Returning from one such ride, they went into the courtyard beside the great hall where the tables were laid for a banquet. Groups of people were standing around talking and laughing – and Wulfstan saw the lady he had admired from afar. She was wearing a high-waisted, low-necked gown in blue brocade, caught in folds beneath her breasts, and fashionably close-fitting sleeves.
‘Tell me, Ranulf, that lady in blue, talking to Earl Holland? Who is she – his wife?’
‘Oh, no, he’s married to the “fair maid of Kent”, lucky man; they say she’s as
kind as she is lovely to look at,’ Ranulf replied with a grin. ‘No, this beauty in blue is Lady Mildred Points, daughter of old Sir Humphrey Points, a Crusader in his time, and very jealous for his daughter. Some armful, eh? Imagine coming up behind her and putting your arms round under those two – ah! There’ll be plenty of competition for her favours, so you’d better stake your claim early. Go on, offer to escort her in to supper!’
Wulfstan frowned at his friend’s mockery. The young woman was indeed a beauty, slender and graceful; her fair hair was plaited this evening, and wound around her head, kept in place with a jewelled circlet. And she was looking straight at him. He felt a curiosity, a sudden strong attraction to her, an arousal of his manhood that took him completely by surprise: he stared as she smiled and took her leave of Earl Holland who bowed to her in return. And then – and then, incredibly, she began to walk towards Wulfstan and Ranulf, smiling and holding out her hand! Ranulf bowed to her, but she addressed Wulfstan, who hastily bowed, wondering what on earth she would say, and how he would answer.
‘I have heard that you won your honourable wound by the part you played in the capture of the French king, Sir Wulfstan,’ she said, taking his right hand and looking up at him with interest in her large blue eyes.
‘My lady,’ he said, taking her hand and blushing, much to his annoyance, aware of his body’s swift response.
‘Sir Wulfstan, I am happy to meet you – such youth and such courage! Will you be dining at the Prince’s table, sire?’
‘Yes . . . yes, of course, my lady,’ he stammered, bewildered by her condescension. Was this some kind of invitation? With Ranulf’s teasing in mind, he drew a breath and asked her outright, ‘Will my lady permit me to escort her – to escort you to dine with the Prince?’
Every Noble Knight Page 10
