[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  It was gone. There was just water in the bowl.

  But when she signed the cross over the water it felt as if someone was hanging onto her arm to prevent it.

  ‘Blessed Mother, protect me!’ Even her tongue seemed stiff, the words hard to shape. Chilled, trembling, she sat for a while before carrying the bowl into the garden where she tipped the water onto the earth. For an instant she thought she saw glints of green, like the glance of green eyes through the splashing water, but they were only wet leaves gleaming.

  Her hand jerked, and the bowl that had been her mother’s, and which she valued more than anything else she possessed, slipped from her grasp, fell and smashed on a stone.

  ‘Oh no!’ She bent, touched the broken pieces, picked up one, and another, then let them drop. Softly she said, ‘I’m so sorry!’

  It was just a common black glazed bowl but she had treasured it. Its breaking seemed an ill thing. Another ill thing, for nothing had gone well at Shawl since Sir Guy’s sudden death. Dame Alienor ailed though she denied it. The bones showed sharply in her cheeks and wrists, and her gowns hung loosely on her body and had to be taken in. Now and then she had to fight for breath, and at such times her lips and cheeks took on a bluish tinge. A bad sign, Janiva knew: the sign of a worn and failing heart.

  And there was Richard; what did he expect of her? Last year she had refused to marry him but at Easter he had asked her again. She had put him off with scant courtesy, her grief for Sir Guy still raw and anxiety for Dame Alienor gnawing at her. Father and mother they had been to her since her own mother died. Was that why she had been so sharp with Richard? Because his presence was an intrusion into her grief and fear? Or was it because her treacherous body had wished for nothing so much as to fall into his arms and be held and comforted? And if she had, would that have been so bad a thing?

  Too late to fret about it now. He had not come back. So why did she feel so desolate? Wasn’t that what she wanted?

  Tears overflowed.

  'Absit omen,’ she murmured, and began to pick up the pieces carefully with cold fingers that still shook.

  At the sound of hooves approaching Janiva stood up, cradling the shards between her palms. There were two riders, strangers: a woman, richly dressed, short, plump and blonde, attended by a boy. The woman’s palfrey snorted alarm at Janiva’s sudden appearance, flinching and sidling until its rider, wrenching cruelly on the bit, got control.

  ‘Damn you,’ she cried angrily. ‘You frightened my mare!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Janiva said. ‘Do you want me?’

  The woman — no, she was just a girl, not more than fourteen or so — stared. Her prominent blue eyes were unfriendly. She snapped her fingers and her attendant slid from his pony, running to help her down. To Janiva’s surprise this stranger walked straight into the cottage, gazing around curiously. Janiva followed. A pot simmered over the fire and the girl peered into it, sniffing.

  ‘Mass, but you eat well. There’s meat in there,’ she said incredulously. ‘Where’s your husband?’

  With sudden dismay Janiva realised this must be Richildis, her foster-brother’s bride.

  ‘I am not married, madame,’ she said.

  Richildis walked around the room fingering things. She picked up the spindle and put it down again, touched the wooden cook-spoons, even lifted the dividing curtain and stared at the second bed.

  ‘Who sleeps there, then?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Whoever is sick. Whoever I am tending.’Janiva lifted the pot to a higher hook, away from the flames.

  ‘You are a leechwife?’

  ‘I have some skill in healing,’ Janiva said.

  ‘Do you sell love potions?’

  She couldn’t help laughing. ‘No! I make medicines for the sick.’ She heard another horse outside and a man’s voice, the lad answering. Her foster-brother appeared at the door.

  ‘There you are,’ said Roger to his wife, panting. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You mustn’t gallop like that, you might get hurt. Good day, Janiva.’ Beaming, he took her hand.

  Richildis looked from her husband to Janiva and flushed unbecomingly.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve met,’ Roger blundered on, man-like, noticing nothing. ‘I was going to bring you here, sweetheart, but you rode ahead so fast I lost you.’

  Richildis scowled. ‘Why should you bring me here? Are we to visit all your villeins?’

  Roger said, ‘Janiva is my sister, my foster-sister,’ and stood there looking large and stupid.

  Richildis recovered quickly, her frown smoothing out. ‘I see.’ She walked to the door, passing Janiva without a glance, tossing the words back over her shoulder. Well mistress, still unwed? We must find a husband for you.’

  ‘You are kind, madame,’ said Janiva, ‘but I do very well as I am.’

  Richildis laid a possessive hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Surely there must be one among your servants who will marry her?’

  Roger looked embarrassed. ‘My sister will do as she pleases,’ he snapped. He took his wife by her elbow and pulled her out of the house. ‘Say no more on that,’ he hissed into her resentful face. ‘Janiva’s a free woman. Apologise to her!’

  The girl’s face was scalded with colour but she turned obediently to Janiva.

  ‘Your pardon, mistress. My lord rebukes me.’

  Before Janiva could reply Roger’s wife had scrambled into her saddle and driven spurs into her mare’s sides. The horse squealed and galloped away, its hooves sending leaves and sods of earth flying, with the servant dashing after her.

  Roger leaped onto his own horse and sped after them, shouting back to Janiva ‘There’s to be a feast! I’ll see you then!’

  ‘Oh, Roger,’ said Janiva wretchedly to his retreating and oblivious back. ‘Why did you make so much of it? Better to have laughed it off. Now she will always dislike me.’

  And hard on the heels of that came the chill thought: She is mistress here.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Bane said as they rode out of Cardiff, their cloaks already sodden and heavy by the time they reached the gate. ‘Why us? He’s got a whole army after the lord de Breos.’

  ‘He wants Julitta,’ Straccan said. She made a fool of him ‘He won’t rest until he gets her.’

  Nor will I.

  ‘What about this Banner thing? Is it true, d’you think, or just bait for Breos?’

  ‘God knows!’ He’d been wondering that himself, turning the story over and over in his mind and coming up with nothing but more unanswerable questions.

  It was a fine tale, and parts of it — the shipwreck, the rescued girls — had to be true. But the Pendragon Banner? Could the Danish bride’s relic really be the battle pennant of King Arthur, lost for seven hundred years? Or was the whole thing an intriguing fabrication, bait, as Bane said, for Lord William? Why would Breos want it, anyway? What was Julitta’s part in all this? And why had the king suddenly flung Straccan’s Breton ancestry at him and talked of treason? If it was meant to warn him, he was warned! He had his orders, to find the Banner ‘with all speed’, and by God he’d have to try. In John’s service, failure wasn’t an option.

  ‘Are we going to Shawl first?’ Bane asked.

  ‘Ludlow first, I’m out of money. You’ll have to go to Shawl alone and tell Janiva what’s happened.’

  ‘What’s the chances of finding this Banner?’

  ‘Small!’ But however small, the king had commanded him to find it. Even if the whole thing was no more than the fevered ravings of a dying woman, he had no choice; it was a royal command. He must obey.

  What did he have to go on? Precious little. The shipwrecked maidens had been taken to a priory of the Penitent Sisters near Avonmouth; that much was fact. The river warden, Maurice de Lacy, had notified the king, wrecks and anything of value found in them being royal perks. If there was a relic Ragnhild had somehow managed to hide it, and then died without revealing its hiding place even to her faithful c
ompanion.

  All right, he thought. Supposing it's true. where could she have hidden it? Somewhere in the priory seemed most likely; he’d have to start there. But no, the girls had run away. Surely Ragnhild would have taken it with her. They had wandered off and got lost in the forest and if she had hidden the relic somewhere in the greenwood that was that. It was lost forever.

  The more he thought about it, the more hopeless the task seemed.

  For the next two days the rain never stopped. Flooded roads slowed their progress, impassable fords and washed-out bridges forced them miles out of their way, compounding misery and frustration. But there was worse to come: during the afternoon of the second day massive thunderheads piling up in the west spread and raced towards them, growing ever darker until with a fierce bellow of wind the storm broke upon them.

  Lightning rent the sky followed by a great cracking roll of thunder and within moments rain was falling so densely that it was impossible to see anything ahead and so heavily that grass and plants were smashed flat. Water ran in streamlets down every slope, frothing, treacle-brown, and filling ditches and gullies to overflowing.

  Bane, splashing ahead, shouted something which the wind whipped away. He pointed, and Straccan, wiping the rain from his eyes, thankfully saw the shelter of broken walls and part of a roof, an old deserted shrine.

  They urged the horses in an awkward scramble up a steep bank, pushing in through the bramble and nettle camouflage of years.

  The broker, flagstones were thick with emerald moss and ivy clothed the walls. Rowans had forced their way up through the floor.

  Presently they were joined in their refuge by a hare, which crouched quivering at Straccan’s feet, its fur flattened and soaked but its blue-glazed eyes dark and calm. He was careful not to move.

  There were fluttering sounds and presently Straccan realised that the branches of the stunted sturdy rowans were crowded with birds of all kinds: finches, redbreasts, sparrows and starlings, titmice and blackbirds, dunnocks, even an owl. They clustered in rows like feathery fruit, with occasional small stirring of wings, puffing of breasts and soft chirps. Their bright dark eyes glinted like small beads and he could hear the scrape of tiny claws shifting their grip on the twigs and branches.

  The steady roar of the falling rain continued. Bane, asleep now, snored gently. Straccan gazed wonderingly at the creatures about him and wished Janiva could see this.

  Rain battered relentlessly at the shelter and thunder rolled, further away now. Zingiber snorted softly and the fawn tensed, but relaxed again. Straccan looked round their sanctuary once more, marvelling, then leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Jesu, of your mercy, watch over my daughter.

  Gilla… she was safe, thank God, in the convent at Holystone, where the nuns had cared for her since her mother’s death eight years ago. Straccan smiled at the memory of his last visit there, when they’d picnicked in the priory garden, making plans for Gilla’s homecoming at the end of this year. She would be twelve in November. Time to think of her future… he put the thought away. Not now. There was plenty of time. He would lose her soon enough, to a husband or to the convent, if that was her choice. And Jesu, of your mercy, keep Janiva from scathe.

  Janiva… he couldn’t go to her now. He had no doubt John’s paid eyes would be watching his every move. When they got to Ludlow he’d send Bane to her with a letter. Saying he loved her, that the king’s command, unexpected and unwelcome, kept him from her; that he was sorry; that he would come as soon as he could.

  Jesu, of your mercy…

  He slept.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bridges were always in need of repair. They cracked and crumbled, were penetrated by rain and split by frost. Gaps were bridged by planks which rotted and fell, or broke under the weight of carts. Rivers swelled and swept away trees which buffeted the piers and often broke the arches above.

  The wonder was not that so many bridges fell but that any stood at all, given their age (a lot were Roman), the hazards of the weather and the reluctance of those who collected the tolls to fork out for any maintenance. The bridge across the Wye near Clasbrig was the responsibility of the bishop, who had shrugged off the inconvenient matter of repairs for years, and last night’s storm had finally done for it.

  Three people had the ill luck to be crossing when the flood-waters hit the bridge. A wall of muddy water several feet high and filled with tumbling debris had surged down the river with a great roaring noise, striking the old bridge with tremendous force, carrying away an entire arch at one end, together with the toll-collector in his hut and a pedlar with his pack mule who had just paid to cross. Almost at the same time a great tree trunk bashed the pier at the other end, and it vanished in the boil of water as if made of sand. The central arch stood a moment longer, then slewed and fell away, leaving the two central piers jutting up above the torrent about twelve feet apart, and on one of those piers two other travellers — a young woman with a black palfrey, and a leper.

  The leper crouched beneath the palfrey’s belly, bandaged hands over his ears — or where they would have been if he still had any — eyes shut, lipless mouth behind his mask mumbling prayers. The girl, white with shock, held the horse’s head and bound her veil over its eyes. It trembled but stood rock-still. She looked at the leper, horror overwhelmed by pity, amazed that life should still be so dear to one so dreadfully afflicted. She wondered how long it would be before their shuddering pinnacle of safety also succumbed to the continual blows of trees and tumbling rocks.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said to the pitiful creature, trying to keep her voice from shaking. ‘Someone will surely see us. We’ll be saved.’

  Over his mask, the lashless blue eyes creased at the corners as he looked at her. She had the ridiculous feeling that he was actually smiling!

  ‘Bless you, mistress, I’m not afraid,’ he said huskily. ‘It’s your safety I pray for, and the souls of that luckless pedlar and the tollman.’

  It was so dark that the coming of night made little difference. Regular bolts of lightning illuminated the strange tableau — horse, girl, leper — as still as the stone they perched upon.

  Straccan woke to an unaccustomed silence and a smell of burning. The rain had stopped. The wild creatures had gone and so had Bane. Wet branches showered drops all over him as he pushed his way out of the shelter. The horses stood ready saddled and Bane had a small fire going, with a pot of ale suspended over it, and was making toast, hacking chunks from a loaf he’d liberated from the royal kitchen at Cardiff and offering them to the flames on the end of a long stick. A pile of calcined pieces lay beside him.

  ‘When you entered my service,’ Straccan said, eyeing a blackened crust critically, ‘you told me you could cook. Gave the truth a bit of a polish there, didn’t you?’

  ‘They just want a bit of a scrape.’ Bane seized a knife and suited action to word. ‘There!’

  Straccan inspected the cindery nugget. ‘I suppose I’ve had worse.’

  Breakfasting on toast dunked in hot ale, they looked about them at the tide-wrack of the storm. The stony track they’d been following was lost under a steady flow of brown water. The storm had turned hillsides into cataracts, bowling rocks and stones from their beds, washing shallow-rooted bushes and heather into tangled heaps sometimes too high to get over. Drowned rabbits, moles and hedgehogs lay about, and marooned on a small mound, grumbling, was a cross and scruffy badger.

  They led the horses, picking their way delicately among tumbled rocks and barriers of brushwood, skirting boiling streams where none had been yesterday, and wading through knee- and thigh-deep torrents when there was no easy way round.

  After a wild and terrifying night, dawn found the swollen river running high, overflowing the lower bank and flooding the land on that side. The gale and rain had abated during the night but a stiff wind still blew. The stranded travellers were half dead with wet and cold. The leper thought wistfully of the flas
k in his satchel; he really could do with a couple of mouthfuls but as the young woman couldn’t share it he must go without.

  Now and again came the thud of something hitting the piers but incredibly they still stood, and around them a tangled mass of roots, tree trunks, broken branches, bushes and other flotsam — the sodden bodies of sheep, a broken boat, pieces of thatch — had accumulated. They were on a little island in the middle of destruction and as far as the eye could see there was no sign of habitation or humanity.

  As the morning wore on the mass of rubbish caught and held even more debris, considerably slowing the force of the water which found its way round the blockage by pouring over the lower bank. Shallow floodwater now covered the land on that side, with trees and bushes and small mounds rising out of it, and a few surviving sheep clumped together bleating mournfully on small soggy islets.

  The leper grunted, and reached across the horse’s back to tug the girl’s mantle. Raising her head she saw a large flat-bottomed boat rowed round the bend past a clump of dripping willows. The boatman came to rest against the mass of flotsam, holding onto it to keep the boat steady, and shouting up at them.

  ‘I don’t do this for love, you know!’

  ‘How much?’ the young woman cried. ‘Shillin.’

  She gasped with shock. It was an absurd sum. ‘That’s too much!’

  ‘That’s inflation for you. There’s an Interdict on, you know.’

  ‘I’ve only got ninepence.’

  ‘That’ll do.’ He leered at her. ‘Seein as it’s you. Jump down.’

  ‘The others too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My horse and this man,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Bugger that! You’ll never get the horse in!’

  ‘We can if you help.’