‘Breos?’
‘Missed him by a whisker. Got clean away. Not sure where to yet: toss-up between Philip of France and the prince of Gwynedd. Courier’s held up by the floods somewhere, I suppose.’
‘Are you a betting man?’ Straccan asked.
The Master spread the fingers of one hand and rocked it from side to side. ‘Given a certainty.’
‘Put your money on Wales.’
In Prince Llywelyn’s private chapel Lord William de Breos knelt in prayer.
He was a pious man.
Piety had never stayed his hand from the slaughter of innocents: hostages, guests, heralds, even women and children.
An infamous massacre had won him his nickname, the Butcher of Abergavenny. They said of him that after that infamy, he went red-handed to the Mass. It was his habit to hear Mass every day, and he never passed a wayside shrine without stopping to kneel and pray. He had always given generously to the Church, and expected God to see things his way, no matter what he did.
He had escaped from Ireland in a fishing boat a bare hour ahead of John’s pursuing force, thanks to the woman Julitta in whose warnings and promises he now placed his trust. He still had friends; friends in Brittany had sent her to him. Heed her, they said. He had done so and was glad.
Lord William had landed at Aberffraw with just the clothes he was wearing and three attendants — his squire, his medicus and his witch — one of the greatest lords in the realm, reduced to seeking charity.
Hospitality was a sacred duty to the Welsh, so the prince of Gwynedd had taken them in, albeit coolly at first; Lord William would not soon forget that proud cold face and chilly greeting. But when his loyal knights and sworn men began arriving by ones and twos, then by fives and tens to join him, Llywelyn’s welcome had grown warmer. This was no defeated rebel, no poor refugee on the run from King John’s retribution; this was the leader of a small but formidable band of fighting men, a valuable piece on the chessboard where Welsh prince and English king strove always for the winning move.
In the clothes the prince had given him Breos still looked every inch the great man, but his confidence had taken a hard knock. The magnitude of his downfall had stunned him. In the nature of things royal favourites rose and were toppled. He’d seen others fall, helped tread them down, joined merrily in the scramble for their estates, never dreaming it could happen to him, the great William de Breos, lord of Brecknock, Abergavenny, Builth and Radnor, Hay and Gower and Kington; master of Glamorgan, Monmouth and Gwynllwyg, Whitecastle, Grosmont and Skenfrith; lord in Ireland of Limerick, and in England of much of Sussex and more besides. Answerable to none within his boundaries. Untouchable.
So he’d thought.
He hadn’t been the only one to misjudge the king. Perhaps because John loved his comforts — good food and wine, rich clothes, jewels, especially jewels, his bath, his bed, his doxies, his wife — men compared him slightingly with his father, King Henry, who’d been admirably impervious to luxury; and with his brother King Richard, whose halo of crusader glory blinded men to the fact that he also had loved fine raiment, music, poetry, jewels and not only pretty women but pretty boys as well. At least no one ever said that about John! In battle he was as ferocious as his father or the Lionheart, and in enmity more thorough.
Lord William had never bothered to count the thousands of marks he owed the king, vast sums lightly promised for favours, cashes, wardships and shrievalties, pledged in the comfortable certainty that he would never have to face a reckoning. For he was the right-hand man of the king, deep in his counsels, keeper of his secrets and of one secret in especial.
He who had been given much yet looked for more. All that he had was as nothing beside his burning desire for the comital rank. Lord of this, baron of that he might be, but the king alone could create an earl. John had done it for William Marshal, why not for William de Breos? It never occurred to him that the king would refuse, and in the disarray of his amazement. Lord William made a mistake: he dared to remind the king of something John preferred to forget.
That folly, that imprudence cost him everything: all his estates, fair manors and farms, great castles, rich abbeys, wealthy towns. Having seized the chance — he’d been praying for it — to drag down his ambitious and over-mighty vassal, John compounded Lord William’s ruin by demanding payment of the staggering sums Breos owed him, and when Lord William protested that he had nothing left with which to pay, the king demanded his grandsons as hostages.
Greed had brought about the downfall of the house of Breos, but it was his wife’s defiance that sealed their doom. When the king’s marshal arrived to take the hostages, Lady Mahaut barred the gates and refused to hand them over. Her infamous words, hurled from the battlements, heard by all her household and dozens of others, were repeated in horrified whispers from one end of the country to the other, crossing the Channel to send shock waves rippling through Brittany and France.
‘I’ll never yield my grandsons to that monster,’ she bawled down at the marshal. ‘All the world knows he murdered his own brother’s son!’
It was no more than all the world had thought for the past seven years, ever since the mysterious disappearance of the young Duke of Brittany, John’s nephew, Arthur. But she said it. To the king’s marshal. At the top of her voice. From that moment they were not only doomed, but damned.
But Lord William could not believe his cause was totally lost. John could not afford to have him as an enemy; he knew too much. Better to have him in the tent pissing out, than outside pissing in. Eventually there would have to be a reconciliation, with proud condescension on the king’s part and grovelling gratitude on his own. William knew the routine; he’d seen it happen to others who slipped from royal favour and bought their way back. It would be humbling, it would cost him an enormous sum of money which he’d have to get somehow, but John would come round.
Of course, if he managed to track down this relic the Bretons set such store by, this banner of King Arthur, then John’s pardon — and indeed the king himself — would no longer matter.
Chapter Twenty-One
The people of Shawl grieved for Dame Alienor. The steward’s wife Sybilla had found her lady lying at the chamber door, blue in the face and unable to speak. A manservant lifted the dame’s body, astonished at its lightness, and laid her on the bed.
Alienor’s eyes sought Janiva. Obediently she swallowed the draught held to her mauve lips but it did no good. Propped on pillows she fought for breath all that night and the next day, and the following night, while her heart lurched and stumbled towards the end of its labours.
Father Osric, blinded by tears, gave her the last rites, his hands shaking as he anointed her with the oil. Janiva unhooked the shutter to let Alienor’s soul fly unhindered to God. Her two elderly tire-women, poor cousins, resigned themselves to the inevitable cloister and began to cry.
Father Osric, clutching the chrysm of holy oil, looked helplessly at Janiva. ‘What’ll I do? I can’t ring the bell for her. I did ought to ring the bell.’ The Interdict had silenced all the church bells in England.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Janiva.
But he felt it was and stumbled wearily out of the death chamber. ‘The bell did ought to be rung for her,’ he muttered unhappily as he negotiated the worn steps down to the hall. ‘How will Saint Peter know she’s coming?’
Like icy water the news ran from the death chamber to the hall, to kitchen, stables, mews and bakehouse, and to the huts and cotts of the village. The people left their work to run to the hall, hoping it was a mistake, huddling in quiet grieving groups when they found it wasn’t.
Father Osric wrote letters: one to Sir Roger in Ireland with the king, although God only knew when he’d get it, the other to Lady Richildis at her parents’ manor at Shaxoe.
Janiva and Sybilla washed and dressed the body lovingly and laid it on the great bed, covered with a pall of black velvet. The pall was worn and thin in places. It had done duty for Sir G
uy and his parents and grandparents. Dame Alienor’s body scarcely mounded it, as though a child lay beneath the covering, yet while she lived no one had realised she was so small.
The manor’s carpenter, his tears falling on her, measured his lady’s body and sawed and sanded and hammered at her coffin, a temporary coffin to serve until the necessary lead one could be fashioned. The people of the dame’s household took turns to keep the death watch in her chamber all that day, and the next.
At the bedhead Father Osric prayed. His soft mumble and the beads clicking as they slid through his fingers made a comforting homely sound. Janiva knelt at the other side of the bed, her tears falling on the black velvet. ‘Lady,’ she whispered, ‘I shall miss you so much.’
She wept for both Sir Guy and his wife, remembering the years of affection, the warm heart and gentle capable hands of the woman who had been a second mother to her all her life. Remembering Sir Guy when young — strong, cheerful, generous, kindly — it seemed such a short while ago, yet the speeding years had changed him into an old man, breathless, tired, sick. His heart, like his wife’s, had failed; his squire, hearing the hawks’ clamour, had found him dead in the mews.
What made hearts wear out? Janiva wondered. Beating from birth through fifty or more years of life. How many beats? Thousands upon thousands. Yet there were older men whose hearts did not fail. Why?
All her griefs, great and small, overwhelmed Janiva and she wept for her father whom she could not remember, for her mother who had died young, for Guy and Alienor, for Richard who had not returned although he’d promised, and for her broken bowl.
Nothing had gone well since she broke the bowl.
Like the gleam of a fish in the river a fragment of memory flashed, dreamlike, and was gone. Green eyes, cold, pitiless, fixed on her own. A voice, remote as an echo in her soul: 'All that you love you shall lose' She tried to hold onto it, pin it down, but the candles flared in a sudden draught and there was a sound behind her.
She turned. Richildis stood in the doorway with Benet Finacre at her side. His eyes flicked from Janiva to Father Osric, and his over-full lips tightened.
‘Lady Richildis,’ said Janiva, standing.
The girl walked forward, one hand resting protectively on her belly, Finacre hovering solicitously. She drew back the pall and gazed at her mother-in-law’s still face. Crossing herself, she knelt beside the bed, tugging a rosary from her pouch. Her fingers moved along the beads. Behind her, Finacre also knelt, bowing his head over his clasped hands.
Presently Richildis looked up, straight at Janiva.
‘Get out,’ she said.
‘ To Richard Straccan, knight, at Stirrup near Dieulacresse, from Osric, priest at Shawl.'
Straccan took the letter to the window. It was not easy to read. The writing was shaky and the writer had used an ill-cut splattery pen and poor home-made ink, grey and pale.
'Knowye that Dame Alienor; widow of our good lord Guy died on Saint Hubert's Day, may God assoil her and receive her into eternal joy.'
‘Amen,’ said Straccan, shocked and saddened, crossing himself.
'Lord Roger being oversea with the king, his lady holds the domain in his absence. Take it not ill, I implore thee, that I write of Janiva, and fear not that she is sick, not so, yet are things ill with her here. If thou would stand her friend come, for she has need of thee.'
He stared at the pale wavery lines. What did the old man mean? Why didn’t he say what was wrong? She was not sick, no, but bereft. . . His heart ached for her grief but she had sent him away; what comfort could he give her?
He read it again.‘His lady holds the domain …’ Why write that? Sir Roger was in Ireland, possibly he didn’t yet know of his mother’s death, and in his absence his wife — he’d forgotten her name and Osric hadn’t written it — would be lord in his place. That was custom. Why tell him?
Something was wrong. Janiva needed him; he must go to her. The floods were still high but there were boats, there were rafts… There was Bane’s voice at the door. ‘Someone asking for you.’ Behind Bane, Straccan saw a little man with small hands and feet; tidy, clean-shaven, his greying hair lying in neat waves, his linen collar spotless, hose unwrinkled and the latches of his shoes shining like silver. He entered the room in a cloud of perfume. The king’s clerk, what was his name? Mace? Race? Straccan’s heart sank. What did John want now?
‘Sir Richard! I was afraid you’d have left already, but of course, the floods… Dreadful. I had a terrible time getting here and they tell me me it’s much worse to the south. Half the country is under water. You’ll have heard that Breos is in Wales?’
‘No.’ Wace, that was it, and his shoe latches probably were silver; royal clerks were well paid. ‘We’ve been cut off here since I got back.’
‘About forty men have joined him. Some are his own knights but he has also welcomed outlaws and vile rybauds who fight for pay. They’ve razed a path across South Wales from Brecon to the Severn, plundering towns, priories, abbeys; they’ve even got a ship, a galley, to reive along the coast!’ He sighed. ‘It is a wicked thing when a great lord turns rebel.’
‘I have never understood,’ said Straccan, backing away from the cloying scent of violets, ‘the quarrel between Breos and the king.’
‘It’s a long story; Lord William has committed many offences over the years. His grace lost patience in the end.’ Wace looked embarrassed. ‘And there was Lady Mahaut’s, um, indiscretion.’
‘I heard about that.’
‘All Christendom has heard of it! A most unfortunate business. She refused to yield up her grandsons for the king to hold.’ Wace looked down at his silver buckles, glanced up at Straccan and looked down again quickly. ‘The king has many children in his care.’
Straccan wondered why the fool was maundering on in this fashion before he’d even taken his cloak off. Of course the king held daughters and sons of men whom he mistrusted hostage for their fathers’ obedience. What had it to do with him?
Wace was still talking. ‘They are well looked after, Sir Richard. Boys receive military training; the lord king frequently knights youngsters in his care. Maidens are protected, taught housewifely skills and the management of the great estates they will one day oversee. Good husbands are found for them, loyal men in the king’s favour. They are not all hostages, of course. It is an honour for a man’s son — or daughter — to be taken into the king’s care. You, um, have a daughter, I believe.’
The shock struck through Straccan like a lance, a physical jolt below his heart that left him breathless. Oh dear Gody this is what the king does! This is how he manipulates men. Gilla! Oh God, Gilla!
‘How soon do you think we will be able to leave?’ Wace’s eyes slid about like jellyfish, missing no detail of the room, but if he saw murder in Straccan’s eyes he gave no sign.
‘What do you mean, “we”?’
‘I am to go with you, of course, Sir Richard. The king believes you may find me, um, useful and I am to send reports to him at every opportunity.’
The urge to fling the little man aside, kill him if he got in the way, was nearly overwhelming but Straccan fought it down. ‘Reports?’
‘Certainly. Commending your diligence, I’m sure. The lord king wants to know every detail of your endeavours. He is concerned that no time be lost, and that you give this matter your exclusive attention. As you will, of course! Perhaps your man can find me a place to write my first report, assuring his grace that you will do his bidding in, um, every particular. Just a quiet corner somewher…’
God damn John and his bloody Banner to hell' Straccan raged inwardly. He'll not have my Gilla! Bane must take her to Janival No one will know she's there… He became aware of Osric’s forgotten letter still in his hand and closed his fist on it. Christ, no. I don't know what's amiss; there's trouble there. If it wasn't for Havloc and his damned cup I'd have been gone before this scented slug came crawling in. God's holy face, is there no way out of this coil? What's wrong a
t Shawl?
Chapter Twenty-Two
The first Manor Court of the new lord’s rule, held at Shawl in his absence by his lady, had dragged on through a long humid day and was at last over.
Richildis sat in her husband’s chair on the dais, sipping mulled wine. She looked tired and unwell. Benet Finacre, acting as recorder, finished making notations in his book, rose, bowed and left the hall, while villeins with fines to pay queued at the board where Robert the steward sat with ledger, pens, ink and sand. The steward wrote a careful but slow hand, and the queue shuffled forward by inches, murmuring to one another and clutching their coins.
‘Well, that weren’t too bad,’ the cowman’s wife whispered to the shepherd’s wife.
‘Coulda bin worse.’
‘She were a bit hard on old Avice, though.’
‘It’s her own fault.’ And so it was. Age — she was nearly seventy — had not blunted the edge of Avice’s tongue and she had been fined several times before for insolence. This time she had splashed the hem of Benet Finacre’s fine wool robe with her slops; an accident, she said, but when he rounded on her she made it worse, far worse, by calling him a slimy little shit, an opinion with which the manor wholeheartedly agreed.
‘Yes, well, like I say, coulda bin worse.’
No one had known what to expect from the new regime with Sir Roger away, and the new lady a stranger to Shawl and its ways. Now the ordeal was over and hadn’t been as bad as they feared, the villeins grew chatty and expansive with relief, disposed to joke and nudge one another and even, as Lady Richildis got up to leave and the steward sanded his entries in the ledger and sharpened another quill, to joke with him.
Robert read from his book, ‘Barnabas is fined tuppence,’ and looked up expectantly at the next in line. Amid laughter, Barnabas pretended to tremble, turning his pouch inside out and patting his pockets. ‘Shut up, you lot,’ said the steward resignedly. They were always like this after the court. ‘Get on with it, d’you want to be here all night? I don’t!’
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