[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘Course not!’ But he looked aside and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Sybilla shouted at his retreating back, ‘Someone’s got to help her!’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Certainly I remember them, Sir Richard,’ said the prioress. She could hardly deny it. ‘We have never forgotten Lady Ragnhild and Hallgerd.’

  Her eyes, the colour of dirty ice and as cold, met Straccan’s like a clash of blades. Word of his arrival, in company with a royal clerk and sent by the king, had reached every part of the convent of the Penitent Sisters by the time he and Wace were shown into the prioress’s parlour, and the nuns had closed ranks. Whatever they might be after, these spies of the king would learn nothing here. The nuns were accustomed to the lightning swoops of the bishop’s regional inspectors, and everything they didn’t want the strangers to see — pet dogs and birds, the charcoal brazier in the dormitory, private keepsakes and correspondence — was hidden with the swift efficiency of long practice. All questions met a wall of resistance concealed by a discreet curtain of good manners.

  If she could manage it without getting herself arrested and her convent disbanded, Prioress Heloise de St Valery was determined to obstruct the king’s agents. It was the king, after all, who had brought down the full weight of papal wrath upon the kingdom, inflicting the Interdict upon the innocent and confiscating the priory’s meagre revenues. And it was the king who had toppled Lord William de Breos, becoming thereby the author of all the priory’s misfortunes, for Prioress Heloise was cousin to Lord William’s wife.

  That had been to their advantage when Lord William was high in royal favour; Lady Mahaut was generous, the priory flourished and had plans. But since the downfall of the house of Breos the supply of gifts and legacies and well dowered novices had dried up; the new refectory remained half built, the masons were dunning for their money and the priory was hard put to make ends meet.

  To make matters worse, these two snoops had arrived when the prioress was going over the accounts for the twentieth time trying to make economies, and had she not been a Religious she might have wished them to the devil for their interruption. Instead she told Sister Eglantine to serve wine, and hoped they wouldn’t notice the cheap pewter cups or the darns in her sleeves, or the unmistakable whiff of the piggery clinging to Sister Eglantine’s patched boots.

  The intruders would get nothing out of Mother Heloise. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and raised a formidable chin, ready for battle. She would not lie, of course, but she would meet their questions with vagueness, evasion and dissimulation. That they showed no interest in the priory’s few remaining assets but asked only about the wreck of the Danish vessel ten years ago and the fate of the rescued girls was a relief, though puzzling, but the principle was the same: give the enemy nothing.

  It seemed no one could remember who had brought the maidens to the priory door. Rough fellows, fishermen, but as for names… After all this time? The prioress spread her hands in a gesture of futility and looked Straccan straight in the eye. He’d seen colder eyes, but seldom in the living.

  ‘We just took the poor creatures from them, and put them straight to bed,’ said Sister Eglantine, helpfully piling masses of useless trivia around the lack of solid facts. ‘Poor things, they were soaked and shivering and exhausted. We took them straight to the infirmary and stripped them and put them in a warm bed with hot stones packed round. They slept for a day and a night. Dame Winifred or myself were always at their bedside. Hallgerd was very ill; we thought she’d die, but our Blessed Lady heard our prayers.’

  ‘What happened to their things?’

  ‘Their garments, you mean?’ Sister Eglantine looked surprised at the question. ‘They were ruined, of course. We made floor-cloths of them.’

  ‘Did they have nothing with them? Pouches, purses or the like?’

  ‘Lady Ragnhild had many rings,’ Sister Eglantine recalled.

  ‘So she did,’ said the prioress. This was safe enough ground. ‘She gave two of them to the priory upon her marriage.’ They had been sold long since to keep the wolf from the door, along with the priory’s silver chalice, its relics and vineyard, but in spite of all efforts the wolf was halfway across the floor by now and its breath hot on the prioress’s back.

  ‘But there must have been other things saved from the wreck,’ said Straccan.

  ‘There was her dower chest. She locked it when the ship struck and threw the key overboard. The river warden, Lord Maurice, took charge of it for the king.’ The prioress’s lips thinned for a moment in disapproval. She knew very well what Maurice de Lacy had been up to: spurring his poor horse so that the blood ran, back to the watchtower with the chest on his saddle-bow as if the devil was after him, and the locksmith sent for at once. The prioress saw a chance to start a hare that might lead these meddlers away from the priory, and a glorious opportunity to drop Lord Maurice in it at last. She seized it gladly.

  ‘Five hundred marks of pure silver was in the chest, so Lady Ragnhild told me.’ That should cook Lord Maurice’s goose! ‘All else was lost: her bride-clothes, her dogs, all the goods brought for her new home.’ And soon after, she remembered sourly, Lord Maurice was poncing around (the prioress had four brothers and a fair command of their vocabulary) in new furs and silks, and riding a new Spanish stallion.

  Straccan sighed. He was growing more certain by the moment that if the Banner was hidden here the nuns knew nothing of it. If they had it and knew what it was, they wouldn’t be wearing mended habits and patched shoes; this backwater priory would be famous throughout Christendom. Skilfully managed, and he had no doubt of Prioress Heloise’s managing skills, a relic such as the Pendragon Banner could fairly take the wind out of Canterbury’s sails.

  He was wasting time here. Thoughts scuttled through his tired mind like ants. What was it the king had said? Ragnhild had taken the Banner from the chest and hung it round her neck. But supposing she didn’t. Supposing it was still in the chest. Who had had the opportunity to ransack that before sending it on, ostensibly unopened, to the king?

  Wace butted in. He’d had enough of all this feminine vagueness — the talk of floor-cloths and rings — although the matter of five hundred marks would be mentioned in his next report. It was time to remind these women who they were dealing with.

  ‘Madame prioress, it would be to your advantage to help us. Obviously,’ he stared pointedly at Sister Eglantine’s patched apron and set his untasted cup on the table with the dull clunk of inferior metal, ‘you are in want of, um, many things. His grace can be most generous…’

  Straccan could have strangled him.

  A dull flush suffused the prioress’s cheeks and she pressed her lips together to hold back the retort that leapt to them. Then she smiled. It was like a hidden dagger suddenly drawn.

  ‘Thank you, master clerk, for reminding us of the virtue of poverty,’ she said with poisonous sweetness. ‘How easy it is to be seduced by the pleasures and comforts of the world! It would ill become us to accept any favours from the lord king while throughout his realm the poor face starvation. If his grace is generous, then beg him in our name to bestow his gifts not upon us but upon God’s poor outside these walls.’

  Despite his frustration, Straccan felt like applauding her.

  Impatiently Wace said, ‘Is it possible, madame, that Lady Ragnhild might have had with her a relic of sorts — a flag — that had belonged to her father?’

  The nuns exchanged mystified glances. ‘There was no flag,’ said the prioress firmly and Sister Eglantine shook her head.

  No, Straccan thought, that poor young creature was in no condition when she got here to find a cunning hiding place for her treasure. The nuns undressed the girls and watched by their bed. If there was a Banner; it never came here.

  Where did it go?

  Was it in the chest? Or was it lost in the river? Or taken by the men who brought the girls from the wreck?

  ‘Madame prioress,’ he said. ‘The fishermen who saved the girls,
where did they come from?’

  The prioress raised questioning eyebrows at Sister Eglantine who furrowed her own in apparent thought. ‘One of the riverside villages, I suppose,’ she said. ‘But as to which one—’

  ‘The priory keeps a chronicle, does it not, madame?’ He knew damn well it did, for Wace had told him. Everything the nuns considered noteworthy would be recorded, from plagues and falling stars to the crowning of kings and the annual weight of the priory’s wool-clip.

  Prioress Heloise nodded. ‘You are well informed, sir. There has been a chronicle kept here since old King Henry’s time.’

  ‘I should like to read the account of these events, if I may.’

  She just bet he would, the literate nuisance, but she had anticipated this. ‘Unfortunately our scriptorium was flooded during the recent storms,’ she said smoothly. ‘Most of our books have gone. I regret that the chronicle is no longer there.’

  Deceive the enemy with truths she thought, lowering her eyes to veil any giveaway glint of triumph. The scriptorium had been flooded and indeed most of the books were gone, sold to keep the little community fed and clothed. As for the chronicle, the prioress was sitting on it.

  Wace, who loved books with a passion, was genuinely distressed. ‘A great loss,’ he murmured. ‘I am sorry to hear it.’

  ‘It appears you have had a wasted journey,’ said the prioress. Now, please God, they would take themselves off and she could get back to her accounts. Her mind returned to its interrupted scrabble for solutions. Not only the nuns but also the poor and destitute must be fed. The beggars’ dole must be there, at the gate, on demand, even if they went hungry themselves. It might be possible to save on candles. Rushlights could be used in the refectory. They sputtered a lot, smelled of mutton fat and the sisters would complain, but needs must. She took up her pen.

  In the doorway Straccan turned back.

  What now? Damn the man! Dear God, forgive me for swearing!

  ‘Lord Maurice de Lacy, madame… Where will we find him?’

  The prioress looked up from the page with weary politeness. ‘There was report of pirates downriver this morning. I believe the warden went after them but they will tell you more at the tower.’

  ‘What tower, madame?’

  ‘The watchtower at Trevel. Five miles south, at the riverside,' She picked up her penknife and began to trim her quill. "You can’t miss it.’

  They bowed and left. Prioress Heloise and Sister Eglantine exchanged satisfied nods.

  ‘I wonder what they are really after,’ said Sister Eglantine. Will they be back, mother?’

  Prioress Heloise sighed deeply. It was one da— one wretched thing after another. ‘I fear so. But tell the sisters not to worry; I will deal with them.’

  Reassured, Sister Eglantine went back to her pigs, leaving her superior frowning at the columns of figures that, no matter how hard she tried, would not balance. Perhaps the sisters could be persuaded to wear wadmal this coming winter instead of wool; it was scratchy, but mortification of the flesh was good for the soul.

  For the moment she pushed the ledger to one side and took up a fresh piece of vellum. In favour or disgrace, Lord William had been their patron; he was also her kin by marriage. It was her duty to tell him about this.

  The rest of that day and the next, Straccan spent trying in vain to get answers from the folk of the three riverside settlements — ‘village’ was too grand a word for the diminishing clutches of huts that comprised Great, Less and Lesser Pinchel. The population of all three were playing awkward buggers, being as obstructive as possible without pushing it so far as to get themselves killed.

  Storm? What storm? They were still clearing up after the last. Rare old storm, that. Not that one? Well, there was a bugger of a blow at the turn of the year. Half Less got washed away and… Not that one neither? Ow many years ago?

  Noses were rubbed thoughtfully, lips pursed pessimistically.

  ‘Ten years? You must be joking, mate!’

  There were so many gales: spring gales, autumn gales, winter gales, not to mention freak summer buggers like the one they’d just had. As for wrecks, every big blow brought one or two.

  Two young women?

  Hands, mending nets, never paused; heads were shaken, shoulders shrugged.

  ‘Can’t elp you, squire!’

  Straccan wished Bane was there. He’d have got this lot talking somehow, probably managing to get himself fed while he was at it… He should have reached Shawl by now, if nothing had hindered him on the way.

  Straccan wrenched his thoughts away from Father Osric’s letter, from Janiva and the threat to Gilla. Thinking about that could drive him to madness. He glared at Wace’s unsuspecting back. How easy it would be to snap the clerk’s weedy neck, slip his carcass in the river, abandon Havloc and ride hell for leather… God and Jesus forgive me! Like himself, Wace was only obeying the king; as everyone must or suffer the consequences.

  Would John really take Gilla hostage? Straccan dared not risk it. The only way to make sure she was left in peace at Holystone priory was for him to obey the king and find this bloody Banner.

  ‘What now?’ Wace asked as they rode away from the third unrewarding village.

  ‘Maurice de Lacy,’ said Straccan, ‘if he’s back yet. We’ll see if he knows who saved the Danish maidens.’ And if not, he thought, what then? Where do I begin? Take the nunnery apart stone by stone? John's got me by the balls! Holy saints, if you're listening, help me!

  The warden’s watch tower had been built two hundred years before by an Irish pirate who came raiding, took a fancy to the place and stayed. One side was guarded by the river and a deep moat had been dug to carry the water all round. The present warden had enlarged the original simple tower by adding another storey and had it painted ox-blood red. It glowed in the sun like a gigantic boil. No wonder the prioress had said they couldn't miss it.

  The drawbridge was up, and as they approached they saw crossbows trained on them from the battlements. They halted and a voice from above demanded their names and business.

  Wace urged his horse forward and shouted, ‘I am Robert Wace, clerk to the lord king, with Sir Richard Straccan and his servant, to see Maurice de Lacy.’

  ‘Throw down your weapons!'

  The quarrels remained steady as the drawbridge squealed and juddered down, and a greasy kitchen lad, obviously expendable, darted out and picked up their swords, scuttling back inside with them tucked under his arm. The voice aloft shouted at them to go on in.

  ‘What's going on?' Straccan asked, when the very young acting-captain of the guard came panting down the steps.

  ‘Raiders. They’ve sacked the priory. The nuns' priest came last night for help but the warden had gone after pirates. He rode straight out again as soon as he got back, didn’t stop for anything. You staying, sir?’ he asked, eyeing the newcomers hopefully. The clerk would be pretty useless but the servant looked a strong fellow and could surely pull a bow, and the knight must be experienced. The young captain, though immensely proud of his temporary status, had only five crossbowmen, none older than himself.

  ‘Sorry, captain, I can’t.’ Straccan was buckling his sword-belt on again. When did it happen?’

  ‘Yesterday, tween none and vespers.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Robert the steward came back to find Shawl’s population scurrying about like chickens with their heads cut off, precious little work being done, the Shaxoe men throwing their weight about, Mistress Janiva still locked up like a criminal and the manor’s parson dying.

  Dear God, and he’d only been gone a few days!

  Having shouted himself hoarse and given a couple of hard cases a right seeing-to, Robert went in search of his wife. In Father Osric’s hut there was only Mag, a simple-minded girl — the old priest’s nominal niece, actual daughter — trying to feed her unconscious father with soup. As he could not swallow, the stuff was running out as fast as she spooned it in and his ears were
full of it.

  ‘Christ, girl, don’t do that, you’ll choke the poor old man,’ cried Robert, appalled.

  ‘I be frighted,’ she wailed. ‘Da won’t eat. E be gwinter die.’

  So he was, thought Robert as he mopped up the mess, but someone would have to look after him until he did.

  What happened to him?’

  ‘Twas when they locked Mistress Janiva up,’ Mag sniwelled. ‘Da were angry, e went to see that old Vinegar. “I’ll ave un out with im,” e said. They was shouten, an Da fell down and went funny like this.’ She lifted her round, silly, tear-slimed face to Robert. ‘I don’t want Da to die.’

  ‘Don’t give him anything,’ Robert said, ‘not even water. Run and find Pog; tell him to send his wife here right away.’

  Pog’s wife Joan, a sensible soul, was installed in the parson’s hut as nurse and the steward eventually found his own wife in the kitchen, chivvying the cook into getting some sort of meal ready. To his annoyance she rounded on him as if it was all his fault.

  Men and women, routed by the steward’s wrath, began to drift back to their homes. Presently smoke began to rise from thirty cooking fires.

  What happened to Parson?’ Robert asked when at last he sat at his own table. He winced as Sybilla banged his bowl in front of him.

  ‘They was arguin, him and Old Vinegar, about Janiva. Parson said ordeals ain’t lawful and she was free anyway, not manor property. He got very het up, shoutin an all; then he fell, like someone’d hit him.’

  ‘When he’s dead that Vinegar’ll probably get the living,’ Robert said glumly.

  His wife snatched his bowl away.

  ‘Here, I haven’t finished!’ But Sybilla pretended not to hear.

  When he tried to put an affectionate arm round her in bed that night she turned away. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ she said.

  Next morning Sybilla stood at an upper window in the manor house wondering what to do. From there she could see the whole village, folk in the fields and with their beasts, in their gardens and going about as usual among the cotts. Everything looked as it always had but there was no laughter, no tuneless singing, no ribald calling back and forth as neighbours met, no whistling, no children shouting as they played, in fact no children in sight at all.