by Keith Moray
‘I have seen them already. He summoned his wife with one such bell.’
‘And he is harsh, my lord. He carries a stick with a small leather lash on its end. He uses it regularly, on hands and on buttocks.’ Hubert scowled distastefully. ‘Especially on some of the serving girls’ buttocks.’
Richard frowned. ‘Is he a lecher, then?’
‘That I do not know yet, my lord,’ Hubert returned with a sly grin. ‘There is a limit to the information I could glean from the cook, his lads and the ostlers. The pie did not take so long to eat.’
Richard stifled a yawn. ‘Then I suggest that you work on it further. After you have brought my saddle-packs with my fresh clothes, why don’t you go for a stroll around the battlement walk? You may be able to get some further news from some of the guards.’
Once Hubert had taken his leave, Richard removed the King’s document from his surcoat, then stripped the garment off, peeled off his hauberk and flung himself on the bed. Whether it was the effects of the apothecary’s potion or his long ride and the events of the day, he did not know, but he felt extremely sleepy. Within moments, he had fallen fast asleep.
Richard was startled awake by the peal of six bells from somewhere within the castle. He woke and nodded with satisfaction to see that while he had slept Hubert had returned with his saddle-pack and noiselessly unpacked his clothes and arranged his things on the chest and in the cabinet. He wiped sleep from his eyes then went behind the curtain and used the garderobe. Then he sluiced water from the pitcher into the large pottery bowl and freshened himself up.
He dressed himself in fresh hose, a blue tunic and a darker blue half-cape and pulled on a pair of calf leather boots. Then he picked up the burnished metal mirror that Hubert had laid out for him, ran his fingers through his hair, and attended to his teeth. Finally, he buckled on a belt with a stiletto and his personal food-knife, before letting himself out of the chamber.
The bailey courtyard was quiet and deserted except for two servants waiting on either side of the small stone staircase that led up to an upper porch supported on an ornate octagonal column. Above the door was a large, rather splendid sundial that indicated, if the deserted bailey had not already done so, that he was late.
As Richard approached, one of the servants bowed then scurried up the stairs, opened the door and led the way into a semi-circular oriel gallery. The servant led the way across this into a Presence Chamber, the walls of which were covered in pikestaffs, swords and banners then stood to attention at another huge door that led into the Great Hall. He waited until Richard reached the thresholds, then he pushed open the door, entered and announced in a loud voice: ‘Sir Richard Please, the new adviser to Sir Thomas Deyville.’
The Great Hall was full of people standing behind wooden chairs on either side of two rows of linen-covered trestle tables arranged along the length of the room. Sir Thomas Deyville, his family and a nun and a priest were also standing behind their chairs at the high table at the far end of the hall.
Torches spluttered along the walls, each emitting an oily smoke, while a pink light shone through the greenish glazed glass of the three large mullioned windows which faced the bailey. A fire blazed in a great hearth beneath the arms of the de Warenne family, the owners of the castle for two centuries. Richard noted with interest that Earl Lancaster had not seen fit to have the arms replaced by his own.
Sir Thomas waved Richard forward, a thin, sarcastic smile upon his lips. But Richard stood firm, and hooked his arm through that of the servant who was about to depart. He drew him close and whispered firmly in his ear. The man coloured visibly, alarm written across his face.
‘My apologies, my lord,’ he said. ‘I must have misheard from Sir Thomas.’ Then once more raising his voice to the assembled guests: ‘Sir Richard Lee, Sergeant-at-Law and newly appointed by His Majesty King Edward II of Caernarvon as the Circuit Judge of the King’s Northern Realm and Judge of the Manor of Wakefield Court.’
Richard nodded at the man and entered the hall, grinning inwardly, knowing full well that the servant had neither misheard his name nor misunderstood his position. He had successfully foiled Sir Thomas’s attempt to diminish his status, as was clear from the cold, humourless stare he was receiving from the Deputy Steward as he walked along the hall between the two long tables. He nodded to the assembled guests who bowed and curtsied as he passed.
Halfway along, he recognized Master Oldthorpe and his lovely wife. ‘My thanks, Master Oldthorpe. My leg wound feels much improved and I am less fevered.’
The apothecary beamed and bowed again. Then Richard turned to Mistress Oldthorpe. ‘How is the young patient?’
Mistress Oldthorpe inclined her head, two little points of colour forming on her cheeks. ‘She is feeling improved, my lord. Before we came, I arranged for her kinswoman Matilda to stay with her.’
Richard nodded. ‘Perhaps I can call and have this poultice looked at again tomorrow?’ The apothecary nodded readily and Richard walked on to the high table. ‘My apologies for being late,’ he said genially as he took the place indicated by Sir Thomas between Lady Alecia and the young Lady Wilhelmina. ‘You seem to be always waiting for me, Sir Thomas.’
Sir Thomas waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Sir Richard, you have already met my wife, Lady Alecia. This is my daughter, Lady Wilhelmina, and this is Lady Katherine, the Prioress of Kirklees and Father Daniel, the nun’s priest of Kirklees Priory.’ He patted the shoulder of the wiry priest with carrot red hair and a tonsure, adding, ‘He is also the chaplain of the Manor of Wakefield and the parish priest of All Saints in Wakefield.’
‘And also the finest playwright in England,’ added the prioress, a pretty lady of forty-odd years, who held herself erect and proud.
Bowing to the prioress, the nun’s priest and the two ladies, Richard waited for them all to sit down before he too sat on the large carved chair that had been allocated to him. As he did so, he was all too aware of the description that Hubert had been given of the Lady Wilhelmina, and he silently concurred, for she was indeed a rare beauty of some eighteen years or so. She wore a simple cap which complemented her long, wavy, auburn hair and the gentle curves of her perfectly proportioned face. He found himself admiring her full lips and the intelligent blue eyes that met his.
Sir Thomas lifted a small bell from the table, rang it and then gestured for everyone on the long tables to sit. He remained standing while he spoke.
‘Welcome, Sir Richard, and welcome good people of the Manor of Wakefield. We shall eat and drink and then you shall have a chance to get to know our new — Sergeant-at-Law. And he shall get to know you and hear of our Wakefield Mysteries. And of our news.’
A chorus of polite laughter rang out around the hall and Richard frowned. Still the Deputy Steward was keeping things from him.
‘But first, Father Daniel shall say grace,’ Sir Thomas went on.
The nun’s priest stood, clasped his hands together and with closed eyes recited a grace first in Latin then in English. When he had taken his seat, Sir Thomas picked up another bell, a larger one and rang it with three deliberate shakes. At the first bell, a quartet of musicians in a minstrel’s gallery at the far end of the hall above the entrance door began to play. Soon the air was filled with the music of harp, vielle and lute.
At the second ring, the side doors opened and a team of servants filed in led by a butler who began directing his subordinates with almost military precision. A pander and his assistants began serving trenchers for all, and finger bowls for every two people. A stream of serving women followed with salvers of cut meats, steaming pots and jugs of wine and ale.
On the third ring, the castle cook himself entered, a merry-looking, round-faced fellow with a shock of ginger hair protruding from beneath a prodigious white cap. He walked with a marked limp, for one leg had clearly been broken and set badly in his youth. He carried a tray upon which was a roast boar’s head surrounded by a ring of apples and with a crown of greenery. To his obvious d
elight, the assembled guests applauded as he made his way towards the high table.
‘I have heard that your cook is a rare artist,’ Richard said. ‘My assistant has tasted his pigeon pie and said it was delicious.’
The cook placed the tray in front of Sir Thomas and stood grinning at Richard. ‘I have one great secret which I willingly tell all who would like to produce fresh meat,’ he said, his voice booming and jolly, as if he was on the verge of laughter most of the time.
‘Tell me your secret then, good master cook,’ said Richard.
‘Why, sir, it is simple. I only use the freshest of meat, fowl and fish, because I let them live until they are ready to be cooked. It is my mission on earth to cook and to feed all who will eat their fill,’ he said.
‘Aye, but not always at my expense,’ growled Sir Thomas. ‘You may have guessed, Sir Richard, that he is a man given to over-zealousness.’ Then, turning his gruff eye on the cook, ‘This looks adequate; you may go Gideon Kitchen.’
‘May you all be blessed with an appetite to match this small repast,’ said Gideon as he retreated backwards, still grinning from ear to ear, despite his master’s attempt to deflate him.
Richard felt his stomach juices go wild at the mixed aroma of roast chicken, venison and boar. He looked around the hall, his eye falling upon Emma Oldthorpe, the apothecary’s wife. She smiled at him demurely and he felt strange warmth come over him. And in the corner of his vision, he was all too aware of the pleasing perfume and charms of the Lady Wilhelmina sitting beside him.
‘What think you of our little welcoming feast, Sir Richard, Sergeant-at-Law?’ asked Sir Thomas, leaning past his wife.
‘Succulent!’ Richard uttered without thinking. It was the word that was already in his mind, although he had not exactly been thinking of food.
After taking care of his master’s belongings, Hubert had left Richard to slumber and made his way up to the battlements by an inner staircase on the far side of the bailey bakehouse. Evening was approaching, and with it a glorious sunset had draped the sky with crimson and pink clouds. He strolled along and immediately engaged the first mail-clad guard in conversation. He had recognized him straight away, since he had directed him to the kitchen that afternoon. They rapidly fell into the easy conversation of one soldier to another, for both Hubert of Loxley and Adam Crigg had done service as foot soldiers in wars; Hubert in England, Wales and Scotland and Adam in those as well as a time in Ireland, for he was a good ten years Hubert’s senior.
‘I remember how dull it is to patrol around a castle rampart,’ said Hubert sympathetically. ‘Especially when our masters are feasting and drinking until late in the evening.’
Adam’s weather-beaten face creased into a wrinkled, lopsided grin, on account of an old battle scar which prevented one side of his mouth from moving fully. ‘I know that you have one master, so I hope that he is good to you. As for me, I have to be honest when I tell you that I don’t rightly care much for any masters.’
Hubert clicked his tongue. ‘I am fortunate and have a good one, but I understand what you mean. The likes of us can hardly choose, we have to do what we are told.’
Adam Crigg nodded sagely. ‘Aye, our masters keep changing depending on their fortunes. I have been a soldier since I was eleven years of age, just as my old father was afore me. Don’t misunderstand me, I have been loyal all my life to whoever has held Sandal Castle. That means that I was loyal to John de Warenne, the Earl of Surrey and fought wherever he dragged us. Then Thomas Plantagenet, the Earl of Lancaster besieged the castle and took it over, and I served him, God rest his soul. And now I am loyal to the King.’
Hubert grinned. ‘True, Adam. We are all King’s men now. And I expect all the other guards have a similar outlook on things.’
The old soldier’s face contorted again, and he looked sideways and spat through the nearest embrasure of the battlement wall. ‘That makes me laugh. There are only a few proper soldiers here. That is me and about thirty of the original castle guard.’ He leaned over conspiratorially and continued in a whisper. ‘The rest of them — all sixty of them — are Sir Thomas Deyville’s men. And I reckon they have sold their hearts and souls to the “Deyville”!’ He grinned at his own wit. ‘The trouble is, not one of them knows one end of a pikestaff from the other, so if we ever had a proper attack, they would be as much use as a bunch of milkmaids.’
He looked along the wall at another guard who was watching over another segment of the wall, between the next two turrets. ‘We had best keep walking, Hubert, lest that young jackanapes reports me and I get my knuckles rapped.’
They walked on and Hubert shrugged his shoulders. ‘Still, I suppose they will just have to learn, like we did, eh, Adam?’
Adam snorted derisively. ‘They have learned a lot of things already, if you ask me, and not a lot of it is good. Like I said, they are the Deputy Steward’s men and they behave just like him. Not a spark of human kindness among them. They’ll all beat a serf or a bondsman as soon as look at him. I don’t like it. These are my people. I am born and bred around here and I —’
He was stopped by a sudden shouted stream of profanity from behind them.
‘What is going on here? What is that man doing up here?’
Hubert and Adam had spun round to see a furious mail-clad sergeant of the guard advancing upon them. ‘Who let this man up here?’
Hubert had taken an instant dislike to the fellow and he stood his ground. ‘I climbed the stairs myself! And you didn’t stop me!’ Then, before the burly sergeant could say anything further, he went on, his voice cutting and aggressive, ‘And nor should — or could you have! I am Hubert of Loxley, assistant to Sir Richard Lee, the Circuit Judge of the King’s Northern Realm who is eating with your master right now.’ His voice had risen in volume with each word. After glaring at the sergeant, he dropped his volume again. ‘Or would you like to explain your attitude to him yourself?’
Hubert saw the other’s hesitation. He recognized the pattern. A bully boy who was unable to stand up to bullying himself. He sneered contemptuously. ‘I suggest you don’t interfere with King’s officers in the future.’
The sergeant glowered at Hubert and then at Adam. Then without a word, he walked past them towards the other guard.
‘The bastard will have harsh words with me later,’ Adam whispered, unable to keep the humour from his voice. ‘But it was bloody worth it!’
Despite himself, Richard enjoyed the meal. He found that after satiating his ravenous appetite with his trencher heaped with roast boar, venison and the most delicious vegetable concoctions, and slaked his thirst with a couple of goblets of fine spiced Bordeaux wine, he was able to settle back and enjoy the conversation along the table. He nibbled cheese and sliced apples and listened to Lady Katherine discourse upon the concept of original sin and the need to resist temptation. He smiled as she pushed her goblet forward in the direction of the butler in the expectation that it would be replenished.
Then while Lady Alecia enquired of the prioress about some priory matter, he took the opportunity to talk with the beautiful Lady Wilhelmina. To his delight, he discovered that she was knowledgeable about many things, including art, music and falconry. He was surprised to learn that she was well-schooled in writing and that she could read both Latin and Greek, as well as speak French.
‘My mother taught me,’ she explained, catching Richard’s look of surprise and his fleeting glance in her father’s direction. ‘She has a wonderful mind, Sir Richard. It is a pity that in this day a woman is only permitted to develop accomplishments in the homely arts, or in making babies!’
He looked at her in wonder, scarce knowing how to reply.
‘Or rather, in making male babies!’ she went on, with some spirit. She sipped some wine. ‘If things were different, I would like to study the law.’
Despite himself an indulgent smile formed on his lips, and he saw a spark of ire flash in her eyes. He immediately regretted having drunk more wine than
he should, for he had let his guard down.
‘Do you not think that a woman has the wit for law, Sir Richard?’ she challenged.
‘Oh, many women most assuredly would,’ he returned sympathetically. ‘It is a shame that men have not the wit to let them.’
She smiled up at him, her eyes fixing his keenly. ‘And you, Sir Richard. Do you have the wit? Would you be prepared to do a battle of wits with a — mere woman?’
He found the way that her lips curled into a smile utterly beguiling. He was about to reply when Sir Thomas clapped the nun’s priest upon the back and immediately reached for one of his bells. As it rang out the chatter from the other tables abruptly halted, as did the music from the minstrel’s gallery, and the room went quiet.
Sir Thomas heaved himself to his feet. ‘My guests, I trust that you have enjoyed your meal, your wine and the company. You will all, of course, enjoy the hospitality of the Hall, the Great Chamber next door and the rooms below this for the night.’ He grinned affably. ‘I would not wish you all to get in trouble by trying to get back into Wakefield after the eight o’clock curfew.’
Laughter echoed to the high rafters.
‘My purpose in inviting you all here this evening was twofold. First, to let you see and perhaps afterwards talk with Sir Richard Lee, who will be advising me in legal matters at the Manor Court in the next few days. And second, I wanted to bring all of the main people involved in the Wakefield Mysteries.’
Richard pricked up his ears. At last, he thought.
‘Representatives from the burghers, all of the guilds, the clergy and the constables of three of the town wards are here tonight.’ Sir Thomas spread his hands to indicate the Prioress and the nun’s priest at either end of the high table. ‘And Lady Katherine the prioress of Kirklees Priory and Father Daniel, the playmaker are here to tell us about the final preparations for the Wakefield Mystery plays that are being performed on Corpus Christi Day itself.’
