by Alys Clare
The Joys of My Life
( Hawkenlye - 12 )
Alys Clare
Alys Clare
The Joys of My Life
Prologue
March 1199
The evening air was still. The day had been unseasonably hot, with a definite hint of summer. Now, as the sun went down beyond the low hills on the far side of the Tardoire River, the temperature was rapidly cooling and it was clear that it was barely spring, let alone summer.
The bareheaded man in the fine woollen tunic stood on a hillock in brooding contemplation of a field whose rich brown earth had been turned ready for sowing. The ploughing had been more than a month ago and still the empty earth lay patiently waiting. Above the field, a mile or so distant, a castle sat upon a slight rise. It was in a state of siege; two trebuchets stood before it, and gaping holes in the soaring walls gave testament to the accuracy and force of the missiles that had been repeatedly hurled from the siege engines’ slings. Nearby, a stoutly constructed wooden structure on wheels stood waiting for the morning, when the sappers would utilize its protective shelter to creep up to the walls and continue the process of undermining them. Back in the besiegers’ encampment lay the scaling ladders, ready for deployment as soon as the castle’s resistance had been sufficiently worn down for a forced entry.
The man in the tunic scratched his head vigorously — he was not much bothered with bathing even at the best of times, and living under canvas with limited access to hot water did not rank anywhere near best — and winced as his dirty fingernails raked off scabs from infected head-lice bites. He sniffed at the sweet evening air, noticing wryly that the stench of his unwashed body easily overcame the scent of fresh young grass, and then raised his eyes to stare up at the castle.
Curse the man! Could he not appreciate that holding out so determinedly was merely postponing the inevitable? And the longer it took, the angrier the besiegers would be when finally they took the castle. ‘I will take it,’ the man in the tunic murmured, ‘and I will do so before any rival claimant arrives to argue about who owns what. I own the lot, and that’s an end to it.’
Abruptly making up his mind, he leaped down — he was congenitally unable to keep still for very long and he had been standing on his mound for all of three minutes — and strode back to the encampment. He hollered for the captain of his mercenaries, waiting impatiently while the man came hurrying out of the mess tent.
‘My lord?’
The man in the tunic stared at him, taking in the strong body and the sense of barely restrained violence waiting for an excuse to break out. The captain’s face was at first glance impassive until one looked into the deep, dark eyes, where ruthlessness was as easily read as capital letters on an illuminated manuscript.
‘I want to reconnoitre,’ the man announced.
The captain of the mercenaries suppressed a sigh. He had accompanied his master all around the castle walls that morning; the only difference now would be that the sappers had dug a little further beneath the walls and the hole beside the left-hand gate tower was slightly larger. The besiegers had not had a great day. ‘As you wish, my lord,’ he murmured. Then, ‘I will fetch your sword and your armour.’
The man waved an impatient hand. ‘There’s no need for that. I’ve rarely seen it so quiet up there.’
‘You must at least wear your helm,’ the captain insisted. Then, because he knew you did not insist with a man of his master’s calibre, he added, ‘Please, sire. I am responsible for your safety and it is not wise to take unnecessary risks.’
‘Oh, very well.’
The man stood tapping a foot in irritation, but the wait was short. Very soon his captain reappeared proffering the heavy iron helm and the close-fitting leather bonnet worn beneath it. The man put them on. Then, picking up his shield more out of habit than from any sense that he would need it, he strode off out of the encampment and along the wide track that his besieging force had made across the pasture.
The castle might well have appeared quiet — the lookout towers and the defensive positions on its battlements seemed deserted, for many of those inside were sitting down to their meagre evening meal, and all of them were complaining because there was less to eat today than there had been yesterday and the meat was rotten — but the tranquillity was deceptive for, hidden behind the stout walls, several men stood up on the fighting platform keeping careful watch on the scene below. One man had his eyes fixed on the pair walking towards the castle, their manner so relaxed and casual that it was an insult.
The man was an archer, his weapon the deadly crossbow, whose bolts were so savage that they had been known to enter a knight’s leg and penetrate deep into his horse’s side so that he was pinned as fast as a man nailed to a cross. He was a fine archer, one of the best.
He watched the two men far below. Despite their nonchalant air, the archer noted with ironic amusement that they kept out of bowshot. They were obviously inspecting the day’s damage. He waited, biding his time. One of the men was helmed and fully armoured, the westering sun glinting off his chain mail and studded gauntlets. The other man bore a shield — the archer strained his eyes but could not make out the device — and he wore a helmet. Otherwise, he did not appear to be dressed for fighting.
A slow anger began to burn in the archer’s breast. He thought grimly, how dare they amble along down there as if the castle had already fallen and its occupants were no longer a threat? They have put us through a miserable and frightening fortnight of siege, and all because of one man’s greed! Well, we have not fallen yet and there is still plenty of heart in us. We shall defend ourselves for as long as it takes.
The two men below, heads together as they talked, had strayed closer to the castle. The archer placed a bolt in his crossbow and, resting the front of the bow on the ground, put his foot in the little iron stirrup and wound the handles that pulled the bowstring taut. Then, raising his weapon to eye level, he stepped back up on to the platform and, leaning on the wall, aimed at the men below.
The armoured man stepped into the archer’s sights but then moved away again. The other man was standing with his left arm raised, indicating something on the wall beside him. For a few precious moments he stood quite still and the archer had a perfect shot. With luck the bolt would enter beneath the upraised left arm and pierce the man’s heart, killing him. Even if luck were not on the archer’s side, there was no chance that he would miss. The crossbow was utterly steady as the archer took aim, drew a calm breath and then, when the moment was perfect, released the bolt. It flew down straight as a die and, finding its mark, buried itself deeply just above its victim’s left armpit.
The archer stood back — instant retaliation was always a possibility and he was better off out of sight — and a grim smile spread across his lean face. That’ll teach them not to wander up to a besieged castle like ladies on a May Day outing, he thought. That’ll teach them not to underestimate an arbalester of my quality! With a swift glance over the parapet — the wounded man was kneeling on the ground, his pale tunic already stained with blood — the archer left his post and went in search of a celebratory mug of ale.
The wounded man was in a great deal of pain. With his captain’s support he managed to get halfway back to camp before the faintness caused by loss of blood overcame him, at which the captain left him lying on the ground while he sprinted for help. He swiftly returned with a horse and cart, and the man suffered agonies while they loaded him up on to the cart and bounced him back to his tent. They begged to be allowed to inspect the wound but, beside himself with pain and fury, the man would not let them.
‘Go and take the castle!’ he roared. ‘Attack and keep on attacking, and don’t stop till it’s ours!’
‘But, my lord-’ began the captain of the mercenaries.
The wounded man turned bloodshot eyes on him. Drawing a ragged breath, he hollered, ‘Get on with it!’
Late that night, the captain tried to extract the iron arrowhead, but it was buried deep and the muscles around it were powerful and firm. The captain’s first attempt succeeded only in removing the arrow shaft, which broke off, leaving the head embedded. Several more attempts were necessary, each one further mangling the torn and bloody flesh, before at last the bolt was out. The man, all but unconscious from shock and blood loss, fell back into an exhausted sleep that was as deep as a coma.
At first he seemed to revive. He was strong and he firmly believed that it would take more than an arrow in the shoulder to do him any lasting harm. As time passed, though, his body began to grow warm, then hot, until he was burning with fever. Streaks of dark, sinister red stood out along the veins of his left arm, the stench of putrefaction filled the air, and he knew without being told that his blood was poisoned and it was going to kill him.
Between the hallucinations and the delirium of high fever there were moments of lucidity during which the man had time to think. What was I doing here? he asked himself on one such occasion. Why did we have to take the castle? With an effort he remembered the reason, recalling how, a month or more ago, they had come racing to tell him of the crock of gold unearthed by a ploughman. The tale had swiftly grown and the crock of gold had become a huge golden statue of an emperor seated with his wife and children around a jewel-encrusted table.
Where was the treasure? Had his troops found it when they stormed the castle? The man tried to bellow for his captain, but his bellowing days were over and all he managed was a croak, for his mouth and throat were parched and his lips cracked and bleeding. The servant attending him must have heard the feeble whisper, for he bent down low over his master, careful not to let his disgust at the smell show on his face.
‘My lord?’ he enquired softly.
‘Tr-treasure,’ the dying man managed. ‘They’ve found it? Wh-what is it?’
The attendant briefly considered a kind lie but decided against it. ‘No sign of any treasure as yet, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘I am very sorry.’
No sign of it, the man thought. Ah, well.
He slumped back against his blood- and pus-stained pillows and wearily closed his eyes.
He lasted the best part of another week, for he had always been a fit man, strong and hardy. He used the time to set his affairs in order, arranging for his succession and for the disposal of his body. He confessed his sins; he said farewell to his beloved mother. Then, late in the evening of 6 April, he gave up his spirit and the forty-one years of his life came to an end. The day was a Tuesday and appropriate, the chroniclers would later say, for Tuesday was dedicated to Mars, god of war.
And Richard the Lionheart of England, who died from septicaemia following a futile treasure hunt that failed to turn up a single gold coin, had been a warrior all his life.
Part One
The Island
One
Early May 1199
The five travellers were in no fit state to go before a queen. Their journey had taken three weeks and, although the sea crossing had mercifully been calm and uneventful, since coming ashore nearly a fortnight ago they had encountered wet weather that had soaked them and turned the roads to mud, swiftly followed by sudden hot sunshine, which had burned their faces, raised clouds of dust and attracted a million newly hatched flies to settle on their sweaty skin. The inns had been full to bursting — it seemed that everyone was on the roads just then — and what accommodation they had managed to find had been filthy, the food poor and anything resembling decent wine or ale quite unobtainable.
There had been a brief respite at the great abbey of Fontevrault, where they had been offered clean beds, warm water for bathing, servants to help brush the mud off their clothing and excellent food. They had, however, believed Fontevrault to be their destination and so their pleasure in its generous welcome was mitigated by discovering that they were faced with a further hundred miles or more on the road. The first few hours’ travelling had swiftly cancelled out most of the good that Fontevrault had done.
Nevertheless, they had received a royal summons and, dirty, weary, hungry, flea-bitten or not, they must obey. They had pressed on uncomplainingly and now they were close to their journey’s end. Abbess Helewise glanced at her four companions and, suppressing a moan of distress at their appearance, turned her mind to the problem of how on earth she was to spruce them up.
The summons had reached Hawkenlye Abbey a month ago. Like everyone else, the nuns and monks had still been reeling from the terrible news of King Richard’s death. He had died like the great and noble man he was, some said, fighting and defeating the vicious and tyrannical lord of a castle somewhere in the Limousin, wherever that might be. One version of the tale added the embellishment that the tyrant had been an infidel, and such was local ignorance of the great world beyond Hawkenlye that nobody thought to ask what an infidel lord was doing with a castle in the middle of France. Others — the very few with contacts in high places — heard and believed a version that was closer to the truth, but they had the good sense to keep their mouths shut.
Then, in the middle of April, the messengers had come, three of them in the livery of Aquitaine. They had demanded to see the abbess and had presented her with Queen Eleanor’s letter. It was the queen’s wish, the letter announced, that a chapel should be built at Hawkenlye Abbey, dedicated to the well-being of the soul of her dear son King Richard. Stunned, Helewise read on and swiftly learned that, the queen being unable to come to Hawkenlye, its abbess must go to her at Fontevrault to receive her instructions.
Go to Fontevrault, Helewise thought, her mind already buzzing with frantic planning. Leave Hawkenlye — leave England! — and cross the seas to France. Attend the queen herself and then come back here to build a chapel. Dear God, how am I to achieve all this?
My emotion and distress must not show, she told herself then. She sat quite still, her head lowered as if she still read the queen’s words, and waited until she felt calm. Then she looked up, gave the senior messenger a serene smile and said, ‘I shall set out for Fontevrault as soon as arrangements can be made.’
The first thing she did was send word to Sir Josse d’Acquin, for she could not contemplate her mission without him. Good friend that he was, he must have read the urgency behind the carefully bland summons and he arrived at Hawkenlye ahead of the lay brother who had gone to fetch him. As soon as he understood what they must do, he began making practical and concise plans. A small group was best, he advised, for a great gaggle of people always took longer to get anywhere. Could she manage with just one nun?
‘Of course,’ Helewise had said, instantly deciding on young Sister Caliste.
They would take two lay brothers, Josse went on, and he suggested Brother Saul and Brother Augustus. Smiling to herself — for these two brave and loyal men would have been her choice too — Helewise sent for Sister Caliste and the brethren to break the news.
She had always judged Sir Josse to be a man skilled at organization but even so she was surprised at his swift efficiency. Within days he had found good mounts for all five travellers — the sturdy Horace for Sir Josse, the golden mare Honey for the abbess, the Hawkenlye cob for Brother Saul and borrowed horses for Sister Caliste and Brother Augustus — and a pack animal to carry supplies of food, drink, a rudimentary medical kit, spare clothing and various other bundles and bulging bags whose purpose, Helewise thought, would no doubt become clear as they went along. All too soon it was time to depart. There had been a special service the previous day, during which the community prayed for the travellers, but Helewise snatched a moment to go alone to the abbey church, where she fell to her knees and begged the Lord’s help and protection for her companions and herself while they were away from Hawkenlye.
She kneeled, eyes closed, hands
clasped, in the cool, silent church. Then, just for an instant, she thought she sensed something, a sort of brief pressure on her head. With a smile, she opened her eyes, got to her feet and hurried outside. Josse was holding her horse and he stepped forward to help her into the saddle. Then he swung up on to Horace’s back and turned to her. She nodded and he led the way out through the abbey gates and off on the long road south.
They crossed the English Channel from Hastings to Honfleur, on the mouth of the Seine, and then turned south through Normandy and Anjou, stopping when they could in the relative safety of the busy, hectic towns — Lisieux, Alencon, Le Mans, Tours — and when nightfall found them out in the lonely countryside, putting up in whatever rural household would have them. Finally reaching Fontevrault, that renowned and wealthy abbey where Eleanor of Aquitaine now spent her days, they were greeted with the news that the queen was no longer there. She had left but a few days ago, Abbess Matilda informed them, bound for her castle on the island of Oleron. She had left orders that the Abbess Helewise and her party were to join her there.
Helewise glanced nervously at Josse, who had given a very faint shrug as if to say, don’t ask me! So, summoning her courage and telling herself firmly that she too was an abbess, she said to the abbess of Fontevrault, ‘My lady, I do not know where this island may be found. Is it far?’
Abbess Matilda looked at her sympathetically. ‘It is off the coast near La Rochelle, and perhaps a week’s journey. Less if the roads are dry.’
A week! Helewise kept a serene expression and said calmly, ‘I see. In that case, we shall set out immediately.’
Abbess Matilda reached out and clasped her sister abbess’s hands. ‘A day will make little difference. Stay with us this night. Let us tend you and your horses. You can bathe, rest and recover some strength. Then we shall replenish your supplies and see you on to your road.’
