The Devil's Diadem

by Sara Douglass

  ‘Then get that churl out of my sight!’ Edmond said to two guards standing nearby.

  They hesitated an instant, then came forward, grabbed Henry under his arms, and half dragged, half supported him from the hall.

  Edmond came over to me, took the hand that had endured the gauntlet, and kissed its palm gently.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, ‘you grace my court and my heart.’

  Raife took me back to our chambers. I was weak-kneed and shaking after what had happened, and needed rest, and I barely made it back to our privy chamber on my own legs.

  But I could not rest immediately.

  Isouda and Evelyn came to me as I sat in a chair, but I asked Isouda to wait in the solar for a while.

  When she had gone, I turned to Evelyn.

  She would not look me in the face. ‘Why?’ I said.

  Evelyn dropped to her knees, weeping. ‘He threatened my daughter, my lady. I beg you to forgive me.’

  I looked over Evelyn’s bowed form to Raife, standing arms crossed and leaning against a wall.

  He shook his head slightly.

  ‘He said he would see her cast out from de Tosny’s household,’ Evelyn continued, her words falling over each other, ‘and that he would see to it that she would not be accepted elsewhere. My lady, she would have had to wander the streets, and —’

  ‘Enough, Evelyn,’ I said, wearied beyond measure. I felt for her, and even understood why she had betrayed me. Henry commanded the power to have done as he threatened — and Evelyn loved her daughter. I wished now I had asked Evelyn’s daughter to serve with me, because then she would have been safe, and Evelyn not vulnerable.

  But I also knew Evelyn would not have betrayed Adelie in this manner.

  ‘You could have asked either myself or the earl for aid,’ I said.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Evelyn said.

  Perhaps I could find it in my heart to forgive her, but I would never trust her again. I rued that our friendship had come to this, but Evelyn had never been comfortable with my elevation from the lowest of the countess’ attending women to the rank of countess, and maybe the friendship had died months ago.

  I did not know what to do. I looked over to Raife.

  ‘You will not serve my lady again,’ Raife said, his voice hard, emotionless, ‘nor any lady, for I shall ensure that word of your action spreads.’

  I could see the back of Evelyn’s head tremble, and her hands clutch together.

  ‘But I also know my wife holds you in affection,’ Raife continued, ‘and for that reason alone I shall not cast you out without hope. I shall settle on you a cottage and some land in Donecastre. I am patron of an almshouse close to there and you may serve the master and help as you might.’

  Poor Evelyn. She was to be sent far north, where she might never see her daughter again. While her keep was assured, with the cottage and land and position under the master of the almshouse, another place serving within a noble household was now beyond her. No one would take her after what she had done to me, nor would they take her from an almshouse, from where most would fear she might carry disease.

  ‘Now leave,’ Raife said. ‘FitzErfast will see to the arrangements.’

  Evelyn rose, sending me one single glance as she did so, and then she was out the door, and out of my life.

  I missed her; missed her companionship and our memories of shared life together within Adelie’s household.

  She was almost the last reminder I had of my life as Mistress Maeb Langtofte.

  Isouda came and helped me disrobe, and put me to bed, promising to return with a warm herbal to drink. Raife waited until she was gone, then he came over to the bed, sitting down by me.

  He picked up my right hand, tracing one finger about its palm before enclosing it between both of his hands.

  ‘My God, Mae,’ he said. ‘I have never known such terror as I felt this morning.’ His hands tightened about mine.

  ‘Raife, I knew that the —’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ he said suddenly. ‘Don’t. I know what happened.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘You have a powerful protector,’ he said. There came a significant pause. ‘In God.’

  I studied him, somewhat perplexed. I thought for a moment he referred to the knight, but then to add the ‘In God’?

  He lifted one hand to lay his forefinger on my lips. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You trod the paths.’

  I nodded, slowly. He did not wish me to speak of it, and used his own voice to lay a false trail. Why?

  He bent down and kissed me, slowly, sweetly.

  The door opened, and Isouda came back, bearing a steaming cup of something that smelled sweet.

  ‘Drink this,’ said Raife, ‘and then sleep.’

  Chapter Six

  Winter was colder than it had been for many years. The period from Martinmas to Christmastide was one of storms and icy sleet interspersed with snow. Edmond’s Advent court celebrations turned to indoor activities, and the sudden cold snap appeared to dampen even those celebrations, for the mood of the court often turned as grey as the skies outside.

  I certainly did not enjoy the remainder of the Advent court so much. This was likely due more to the lingering effects of my ordeal than the weather. People were cautious around me, not so much due to Henry’s accusations, but because anyone so obviously God-touched as to emerge from the ordeal of the burning gauntlet completely unmarked was someone, apparently, to avoid; lest perhaps I slapped their faces, too, and God marked the guilt (from whatever misdemeanour or sin) in maille weave on their cheeks.

  Partly as a result of what she had done for me on the day of the ordeal, and partly because others were more careful of me, my friendship with Alianor de Lacy became stronger and truer and I spent much of my time at court in her company.

  Henry vanished from court. I do not know where he went, but I was deeply thankful he had gone. I did hear that, as his father had foretold, his cheek scarred deeply during healing and he would remain marked for the rest of his life.

  His cheek would serve to remind Henry constantly of his humiliation that day.

  I knew that, whereas Henry had been my enemy beforehand, now he was my bitterest of foes. I prayed often, either to sweet Jesu and all the saints, or to my miraculous knight protector, that Henry would heed his father’s warning and tread more lightly about me.

  After Advent court Raife and I took our household back to Cornhill. I stepped inside the house cautiously, wondering how it would feel. Thankfully, it did feel cleansed, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked through the hall, past the stairs down to the crypt, and up to the first floor to our privy chambers. The house felt empty without Evelyn, though. I thought of her often, and wished that our friendship had not been so soured, nor sundered by betrayal.

  In her absence I had acquired not one but two more women. Ella Peverel was a Norman woman of good family, who came to attend me alongside Isouda. Gytha was a girl just past sixteen, but known throughout London for her ability to dress hair. She had already served in two noble households and now came to me. I liked them both, but felt more warmth toward Gytha who almost never spoke but would glance at me shyly as she worked wonders with my hair.

  After Henry’s attack on me in court, Raife appointed Gilbert Ghent as my permanent escort. If I so much as stepped foot outside then Ghent was by my side, and there he stayed with almost religious fanaticism after what he perceived as his failure to keep me in sight in the forest that day of the hunt. If Ghent would have preferred some more manly duty then he never showed it. He became a good companion, a friend, and trailed uncomplainingly behind me as Alianor and I sought out ribbons and baubles in the covered stalls and shops of West Cheap.

  On the second last day of Advent, the day before the Vigil of the Nativity of Christ, a raging storm blew in from the ocean. Our household spent the day huddled about fires, windows tightly shuttered, listening to the roaring of the wind and the thunder of the rain outside. I was glad of t
he safety of a stone house, and thought those who sheltered in wooden or wattle and daub houses must be truly terrified.

  We escaped unscathed, save for some minor water stains where rain had leaked in through cracks in the roof, but when we emerged the next morning, the Vigil of the Nativity, it was to see that the storm had wreaked much havoc through the city.

  Raife sent soldiers and servants to give aid (as did most of the noble households currently resident in and about London), and our kitchen cooked bread and pease pudding for those whose fires had been dampened by inundations. As the day drew on, we heard reports of much damage from around the city: much of the building work on Saint Paul’s had been undone; many houses in East Cheap and Rother Lane had been blown completely apart and their beams and debris littered both streets; the wharves along the Thames had been affected and much merchandise lost after an exceptionally high tide driven by the winds had invaded some of the warehouses. Miraculously, in this Christmastide season, no one had lost their life.

  Along the Thames itself, from London to Westminster, the high waters and winds had damaged many craft. Scores of barges and boats, however tightly secured along the banks and flats of the river, had been wrenched from their moorings by the wind and waves and, as the tide receded, were borne down the river to London Bridge where they wrapped themselves about its piers and struts. There was such a chaos of splintered timbers now lodged under the bridge, so I heard, that much of the flow of the river was impeded and, in the absence of the storm, the water upriver of the bridge had become almost a still pond.

  It would take months to clear the mess, and that not likely to start until after the celebrations of Christmastide.

  Later that day, Raife and I once more embarked with a large part of our household to take up residence in the Tower chambers Edmond had assigned us. Now it was Christmastide court, a chance for Edmond to demonstrate his largesse to those he invited — mostly the greater nobility of the country but also most of the aldermen and the more powerful among the merchants and traders of London.

  The memory of my ordeal had faded somewhat, and most gossiped now about the storm and the damage done to London and various villages along the Thames to its mouth. Christmastide court, Edmond’s Advent court, passed amid cheer and celebration, with much feasting, plays, dancing and games.

  The Christmas Feast held in the great hall of the Conqueror’s Tower was memorable. The hall was decorated in greenery, holly and mistletoe, with ribbons strung all over. I was dressed in such finery, and Raife, too — oh, we were splendid! Raife had given me a beautiful coronet (he wore one as well), all gold and precious gems, and Gytha had outdone herself, twisting my hair in intricate weaves through the gold of the coronet and then down my back with gems glittering within the complicated braiding.

  Edmond sat Raife and myself at high table. We sat to either side of him, which was a great honour. That afternoon and night was filled with feasting and games and dancing. The king gave us both stunning gifts: for Raife a salt cellar in the shape of a unicorn, delicately worked in gold and silver, and for me a beautiful deep-green, fur-lined mantle … ‘To go with the clasp,’ he said as he gifted it to me.

  Both our table placements and our gifts signified to the court as nothing else in what affectionate favour the king held us.

  It was such a merry night of wassailing: I drank perhaps a little too much posset — a rich, thick drink of ale and egg, honey and spices — but no one seemed to mind that my smiles became a little freer as the night wore on. The Yule log hissed and spat in the fireplace, the multitude of candles burned bright, everyone in the hall exchanged kisses of friendship, and all seemed so well with my world.

  The storm seemed to have cleared winter of much of its early malice, and, while it was still cold, the wind and rain and sleet had stopped. Thus — once we had quite recovered from the richness and excess of the Christmas Feast! — we were able to enjoy jousts and races and games on the fields abutting the Conqueror’s Tower. Everyone was wrapped up in one, or even two, thick mantles and furs (I, of course, wore the king’s gift), and with hoods drawn close about our faces we made the most of the entertainment, the wine and food and the cheer. I was now far enough into my pregnancy that all queasiness of stomach had passed, and I did not tire so much, and I truly enjoyed the twelve days of festivity.

  Toward the end of Christmastide court, Edmond suggested to many of the noblemen that they embark on a hunt through the forests and woodlands east of London. Edmond had manors to the east, as did several other noblemen, and Edmond proposed a hunt extending for scores of miles with nightly rests and feasts at various manor houses.

  The men thought it a splendid idea (those whose manor houses were to be engulfed by a royal visit, and its expense, managed to keep their sinking stomachs to themselves). Their wives, also, thought it splendid, for we suddenly envisaged a quiet week or so of gentler entertainments after the excitement of court.

  Raife was as eager as the rest about the prospect of a winter hunt through the crisp, white landscape. He was somewhat anxious about me, especially after the incident with the imp the last time he had left me alone in the Cornhill house, but when Alianor suggested that I stay with her and Robert de Lacy in their manor hall in the meadows north of Holbournestrate, just outside London, he greeted the idea with relief (and I with considerable enthusiasm).

  Thus it was that, on the day after the Feast of the Epiphany, while our men rode with the hounds and their hawks to the east, the de Lacys and I (along with Ghent, four other soldiers, my three women, and several servants and grooms) rose westward out of London along Holbournestrate. We were doubly lucky on that journey, in that the sun shone bright but the chill air froze the roadway mud beneath us. I nestled inside my fur-lined mantle, its hood about my head, and relaxed on Dulcette’s back. We rode along at a sedate pace, mindful of the horses’ footing on the icy road. Dulcette seemed to know of my pregnancy, for she stepped sure and smooth, and did not tire me by pulling on the reins.

  The fields were frozen under a layer of white, the rooks distinctive black smudges as they sifted through the snow to find worms and insects. Everything was quiet. It was too cold yet to work in the fields and most people were, I imagine, content to rest after twelve days of Christmastide indulgence. To the north of us the stalls and pens of Smithfield market stood empty — just a few cattle and pigs left to forage for food in the pens before trading began anew in a few days. The only sign of life came from the nearby Saint Bartholomew’s priory and hospital, where smoke rising from chimneys suggested warm fires and kitchens.

  As we rode further along Holbournestrate we came to a newly built church on the southern side of the street. It was entirely round, very solid, and had many outbuildings: a hall, dormitories, stables, kitchens, bakehouses and a brewery. Behind the complex I could see a fishpond and an orchard, both currently as white and still as the rest of the fields, the branches of the orchard’s trees bleak and thin in the winter air.

  ‘What Order is this?’ I asked Alianor curiously.

  She gave me an amused glance and chuckled. ‘It is the Temple — the Templar’s church,’ she said.

  We pulled the horses to a halt, looking over the church.

  ‘I very much doubt your curiosity will get you entry,’ Robert said. ‘The Templars are known women haters.’

  I grunted. Fulke d’Ecouis certainly seemed to have taken a dislike to me.

  Then — as if thought had given flesh to name — d’Ecouis and another, older Templar, walked out of the Church and halted as they spotted our party in the middle of Holbournestrate, staring at them. Immediately they came toward us, leaping smoothly over the roadside ditch, as sure-footed in the treacherous conditions as I suppose only men of God can be.

  ‘My lady countess,’ d’Ecouis said to me, then greeted the de Lacys. He turned slightly, indicating his companion.

  He was an older man, his hair silvered but his body still wide with muscle. He looked at us with a bright blue g
aze that was both bold and curious.

  ‘This is Hugh of Argentine,’ d’Ecouis said. ‘Our newly arrived Master of Temple.’

  We all inclined our heads to the master, as he did to us. We passed a few minutes in idle conversation — the storm, the coldness of the air, our destination — then d’Ecouis indicated me as he spoke.

  ‘Master,’ he said, ‘the countess is the only child of Godfrey Langtofte.’

  Instantly, Hugh’s eyes became keen, penetrating, and he stepped forward to lay a hand on Dulcette’s neck, as if to prevent me riding away.

  ‘Your father was a member of our Order in Jerusalem,’ Hugh said. ‘I recall him well.’

  I sighed inwardly. ‘He was a sergeant, I believe. He came home the winter before last, only to die within weeks.’

  ‘We must remember him together sometime,’ Hugh said.

  ‘I have done my grieving for my father,’ I said, ‘and would prefer not to rekindle it.’

  Hugh’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps so,’ he said, ‘but there are matters left untended and —’

  ‘They are not my matters,’ I said, ‘and not my worry.’

  Hugh and d’Ecouis exchanged a glance, then Hugh tipped his head, as if the matter was of no concern.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we shall see you at court?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Master,’ said Robert, ‘we must ride on. The countess is with child and this cold does her no good.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the master said once again and inclined his head in farewell as we turned our horses back to the road.

  ‘I have lost the immediate threat of Henry’s malice,’ I muttered to Alianor, ‘only to be left with that of the Templars. What in sweet Christ’s name can they want from me?’

  With that unanswerable question hanging between us, we resumed the ride toward the de Lacy manor and hall.

  Chapter Seven