Like the Empress, Maud was the one who did the speaking. Her command over the castle was total, yet with it all she maintained a graceful feminine charm.
Penda, who’d always brushed her teeth with the frayed top of hazel twigs, had discovered, by eavesdropping on Milburga’s conversations, that Maud used an ivory toothpick on hers and kept them white and her breath sweet by an infusion of parsley and mint. Now, minus the expensive toothpick, Penda did the same. She had even begun to wash her hair, when she washed it at all, in fern ash, spring water and rosemary, like Maud did. If she had to be a woman, she wanted to be one like that.
Most of the time she was content in male garb but, every now and then, femininity beckoned seductively even though she knew its pain; she recognized that its siren song, should she succumb to it, would render her vulnerable to something appalling … and yet, and yet, there were times when she envied Maud’s clothes, which, even when old, looked elegant.
Whenever Maud appeared Penda would stop what she was doing and watch her swish across the bailey, wondering how it would feel to sweep around in a beautiful skirt instead of lumping about in leggings; or to show the swell of one’s breasts beneath an embroidered bodice instead of binding them tight with linen bands so that they didn’t show. And then Maud would vanish and a memory of Waterlily would take her place and she would change her mind. On second thoughts, better to cling to manhood for as long as she could. It was safer.
‘You all right, Pen?’ Gwil, was nudging her. ‘Looks like you seen a ghost or summat.’
‘Sometimes I think I have,’ she said as she gazed into the distance.
When everyone was seated a throng of servants bearing dishes entered the hall met by a great murmur of appreciation from the hungry diners. During grace an obedient hush descended on the hall until the final ‘Amen’ when the drone and hubbub of conversation began to rise again.
Maud, who was sitting between the Empress and Father Nimbus, noticed that the old priest barely touched his food and that he was fidgeting nervously on his stool. She was worried about him. He had been behaving peculiarly all day: distant, more anxious than usual.
‘What is it?’ she asked when he showed no sign of settling. ‘You’re not yourself today. Is something the matter?’
He was staring blankly into the distance and appeared, at first, not to hear her. She laid her hand on his arm.
‘Father?’ she repeated.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear,’ he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. ‘No, no, I am quite well, thank you … there is just a matter which has been drawn to my attention and which is of great concern. In fact …’ He put his hand over hers, staring intently at her. ‘In fact … I must speak to you … but first I must …’ He became agitated again and, without finishing the sentence, rose from his stool. She watched perplexed as he scuttled around the high table to where the mercenary Gwil de Vannes was sitting, and after a brief exchange saw them leave the hall together. She went on staring long after they had vanished, wondering what possible business they could have with one another. She would talk to Father Nimbus on his return and get to the bottom of it. Something was afoot and it worried her.
Once outside the great hall the two men walked in silence together across the inner ward towards the chapel. When they reached it, Father Nimbus turned to Gwil. ‘In here,’ he said. ‘We’ll have more privacy.’ He looked nervously around him and then, ushering Gwil inside, closed the door quickly behind them.
Father Nimbus lit a candle in one of the wall sconces, then gestured towards a pew near the altar. ‘I have been thinking,’ he said in a low voice as he shuffled in beside Gwil. ‘About everything you told me. Indeed, I am almost unable to think of anything else.’
Gwil nodded. He knew the feeling only too well.
‘We must act,’ Father Nimbus continued. ‘We cannot, must not allow these crimes to go unpunished; we cannot allow a man such as this to gain yet more power and …’ He looked around again conspiratorially, lowered his voice even further and whispered: ‘It is my fear that Stephen is considering this Thancmar for the Archbishopric of either Canterbury or York.’
Gwil’s heart began to thump. ‘But how?’ he asked. ‘How can we prevent it?’
‘Well, you see, this is what I have been thinking about,’ Father Nimbus replied. ‘With your permission, of course, I propose to speak to Lady Maud. We have the parchment as proof of Thancmar’s crimes at Ely. We could send an envoy to the Pope. We could expose him.’
Gwil laughed bitterly. He was loath to offend this gentle man but the idea was absurd. ‘And then what? ’Part from the fact that it’ll be almost impossible to get a messenger through enemy lines, what’s the Pope going to do? Slap ’im on the wrists and tell ’im ’e’s been a naughty boy?’
Father Nimbus was crestfallen but Gwil was right and he knew it. There would be no justice. Even if they were to get a message to Rome (although the odds against it were great indeed) and even if they could convince the Pope to take action, in ecclesiastical courts, a cleric who committed a crime, even a killing, escaped the justice imposed on laymen by the procedure known as ‘benefit of clergy’. The Church would insist on the privilege of dealing with him and although it might banish him, defrock him, take away his living, or even excommunicate him, it would go no further; it certainly would not hang him. He could literally get away with murder and be free to kill again.
They sat silently, heads bowed, staring blankly into their laps.
‘Tell me one thing, Father,’ Gwil said after a while. ‘Tell me he’ll suffer in Hell for ever. Give me that comfort at least.’
But Father Nimbus shook his head. ‘There will be forgiveness, penitence and redemption at the last, my son. After all, Christ came to take all our sins on Himself. No, I’m afraid I can’t promise you that. The only consolation I can offer is that in his case it will take a long, long time.’
‘Then I will pray for natural justice.’ Gwil spat the words and rose sharply, but then, in recognition of the burden they now shared, paused to lay a pitying hand on the old man’s shoulder before making his way back to the hall.
Because of the siege the after-supper entertainment to which Kenniford was accustomed was almost non-existent; none of the itinerant entertainers, the mummers, minstrels, acrobats and jugglers on whom they usually relied were able to reach the castle, so Payn had been prevailed on to sing again and was doing so quite happily when he spotted Gwil in the doorway. All of a sudden his gentle tenor began to warble off-key as, in round-eyed terror, he watched his former assailant making his way across the hall.
‘What’s up with him?’ Gwil asked, resuming his seat beside Penda.
‘Probably thinks you’re going to try ’n’ strangle him again, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she replied. ‘You’re not though, are you?’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘Not tonight, Pen,’ he said, taking a large gulp of wine. ‘Don’t know what got into me that day.’
‘Could’ve been that,’ she said, pointing at the cup in his hand.
He laughed, accidentally spluttering some of the liquid out of his mouth. ‘Could’ve been,’ he said, wiping his wet chin on his sleeve. ‘Could be right there.’
He knew he had frightened her with his behaviour that evening and was sorry for it; nevertheless he would rather sacrifice her good opinion and have her believe him a drunken fool than allow her to know the truth. After Payn’s revelation there was no getting away from the fact that the man who had deprived her of so much already was even now on the threshold of the castle waiting to take her life.
Chapter Twenty-three
DURING THE SMALL hours of the next morning a lone messenger arrived at the castle gate on foot, weary and dishevelled but in possession of both a letter, bearing Robert of Gloucester’s seal, and the correct password. And Ben, who was particularly cautious about entry to the castle these days, especially after the tongue-lashing he had received from his last security breach, was sufficiently impre
ssed to open the portcullis and brave enough to summon Maud and Sir Bernard from their beds.
‘Kept ’im ’ere just in case,’ he said, eyeing Maud warily as he opened the door to the gatehouse. ‘Can’t be too careful nowadays but least he knew the password. Can’t gainsay a password when it’s spoke, now can I?’
The visitor was sitting on the cobbled floor, his back slumped against the wall, eyes closed. If he was an enemy spy, he seemed far too exhausted to pose much of a threat.
‘Looks like he could do with some food and water,’ Maud told Ben. ‘Better get him some.’
At Sir Bernard’s approach the man opened a weary eye, reached inside his mantle and offered up the letter. Sir Bernard took it, backing towards one of the wall sconces to read by its light.
‘Well, well,’ he said, looking up at last. ‘The Earl of Gloucester, it seems, is ready for the Empress. He asks that we provide her with a safe passage from here.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ said Maud. ‘Better go and tell her then, I suppose.’
Some moments later Gwil and Penda were shaken awake by Alan of Ghent and summoned to the conference in the hall to discuss the latest developments.
Tiptoeing across the still-dark guardroom, they wove their way as silently as possible around the pallets on the floor so as not to disturb the men who slept on them. They knew little about this morning’s business but enough to understand that these recumbent bodies would need as much sleep as they could get.
In the hall, the conference was already under way. The Empress, Maud, Sir Rollo, Sir Bernard, Sir Christopher and Father Nimbus sat huddled in their cloaks like ducks on a frozen pond. Despite the bitter chill that morning no fire had been lit so as not to alert the enemy.
‘We’ll form a cohort and barge through with her,’ Sir Rollo was saying.
‘No.’ Sir Christopher opened a bleary eye. ‘We stick to the plan.’
‘Too dangerous otherwise,’ Alan said. ‘My lady might be injured – a stray arrow …’
Father Nimbus, who always thought the best of everybody, said: ‘Surely we may depend on Stephen to ensure his cousin isn’t shot at. We can trust him that far.’
Alan closed his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t trust Stephen to wipe my dog’s arse.’
At this Penda glanced anxiously at the Empress to see how she took it but Matilda’s face was expressionless; only her cold eyes were animated as they flicked from one speaker to the next, leaving Penda to presume that anyone who’d spent as much time among mercenaries as she had was used to their colourful imagery.
Alan put his hand on Sir Christopher’s shoulder. ‘I’d be doing this instead of you if I could, my friend, but I’m too tall.’
Christopher simpered. ‘You don’t look near as pretty in a veil as I do.’
‘What they going to do?’ Penda hissed under her breath.
‘Not sure,’ Gwil whispered back, ‘but it sounds as if they’re going to send the Empress out under cover of a decoy.’
Alan stood up. ‘Time to go then,’ he said. The benches scraped back as the company rose.
Only the Empress delayed and, looking directly at Maud, said: ‘Fetch three of your young and good men to the bailey.’
Outside, though it was still dark, the entire castle was alert, every man and woman at his or her post. Maud hurried out of the hall to summon one of the men-at-arms and before long three anxious young men had been lined up on the rim of the bailey’s pond and the Empress was helped on to a mounting block.
‘Hear me, you people.’ Her voice immediately cut through the hubbub and everybody stopped what they were doing to watch her in silence. For a moment or two she just stood there, surveying the crowd with an air of satisfaction, and then she turned to Gwil. ‘Kneel,’ she told him and, as he knelt in front of her, she held out her hand and turned to Sir Christopher. ‘Your sword, if you please.’
What’s she doing? For a mad minute, Penda thought that Gwil’s head was to be cut off in some tradition that only the Empress followed. Instead, the flat of Christopher’s sword tapped each of his shoulders as the Empress’s voice rang out again: ‘You and Master Penda here have performed a great service for me, and risked your lives in the doing of it. Were times as they should be you would be rewarded with lands. As it is, we must wait until I come into my own. In the meantime, I shall do what I can. Arise, Sir Gwilherm de Vannes.’
She’s knighted him, Penda thought, and whooped. She’s only gone and knighted him. Sir Gwil. Blimey, I’ll never let him hear the end of it.
Sir Gwilherm de Vannes got to his feet, looking bewildered.
The Empress spoke again: ‘Know, you people, that on this day … what day is it?’
‘St Valentine’s Day, I think,’ Sir Christopher volunteered.
‘On this, St Valentine’s Day in the year of Our Lord 1143, I appoint Sir Gwilherm here as military commander of this castle of Kenniford with Master Penda as his squire and assistant, both to receive emoluments according to their rank.’
What’s emoluments? Penda wondered. They sounded rich. Oh Gawd. This strange woman, this granddaughter of William the Conqueror, whom she had thought to be nearly inhuman, was seeing fit to repay a debt as only royalty could.
‘Sir Gwilherm’s commands will be my commands during my absence,’ the Empress continued. ‘His directions my directions. He is an experienced soldier in whom I put my trust.’
Couldn’t be anybody better, Penda thought, and then glanced towards the superseded Sir Rollo to see how he was taking it. He looked shaken. So did Maud, who was standing beside him. Neither had known that was coming. But there was nothing they could do; they had recognized the Empress as their queen, therefore this castle was basically hers and she could appoint whom she liked to command it.
The Empress’s harsh voice rang out again. ‘You three men, do you hear what I say?’
The lads on the edge of the pond nodded.
‘Shall you remember it?’
Yes, yes, they would remember it.
‘Let us be sure. Tip them in.’
Grinning wickedly, Alan and Sir Christopher strode along the line of the three young men, pushing them into the pond as they went. There were gasps of cold and a crackle of ice. It was the traditional way to impress a matter of importance, should it ever be questioned in a court of law, on the memory of men who could neither read nor write. They wouldn’t forget this. If Gwil’s position were ever doubted, each of the trio could say that on such and such a day they had witnessed it being bestowed on him by the Empress, and given a ducking in the process. Granted, the custom was usually carried out in warmer weather, but each of the three was awarded a silver penny for his trouble before being taken home to dry by the fire.
At the rear gate Sir Christopher, now mounted, was patting his veil into place under a circlet. ‘You sure it suits me?’
‘You’d look better in yellow,’ Alan said. ‘Match your complexion.’ Around them, men and horses shifted in tension as they waited for the command.
Alan saluted. ‘Good luck and God go with you.’ And then added: ‘If you get through we’ll meet at Salisbury.’ Then he left to join the Empress in the secret postern. As he did so Sir Christopher turned to Penda:
‘Time for you to take your place as well, Master Penda,’ he said. ‘We shall be depending on your bow when we’re chased.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s been a pleasure, young sir.’
‘Thank you,’ she said meekly; she would miss the courteous Sir Christopher and was anxious for his safety but still rather confused about what exactly was about to take place. However, clutching her bows and quarrels she set off to the ramparts to position herself among the other archers who would be sending arrows down on Stephen’s pursuing troops when they saw the pseudo-Empress ride out.
That was the plan. To tempt the enemy away from its encirclement with riders apparently attempting to escape with the Empress, actually Sir Christopher bewigged and veiled. To outride the pursuit if possible. To stand and fight if not.
To give time and space for the real Empress and her chief mercenary to emerge from the secret postern, leaving only two sets of horse tracks in the ground to indicate where they had gone. Which would be due west.
Below the castle, in the prickly passage that smelled of bush and badgers, with grooms holding the two horses the Empress and Alan would ride, Maud was also feeling confused and anxious. Her castle had been invaded and put in danger by the autocratic woman who stood beside her, waiting to desert it. Poor Sir Rollo had been offended – he had his faults but his loyalty to Kenniford was unquestionable – and a mercenary of low degree put in his place. What’s more – and the thought struck her like a thunderbolt – if, as everybody expected, Sir John died soon, the Empress would most likely signal her gratitude to Gwil by bequeathing Maud and all her estates to him.
Perhaps Matilda was aware of the seething resentment emitting from her for she suddenly said: ‘You have asked for nothing.’
‘I want for nothing,’ Maud said and then added: ‘Except perhaps that, if I am widowed, I would ask that you don’t marry me off.’ It was a spontaneous reaction.
All at once they were creatures together: sleek, rich, breeding machines with leashes round their necks. Maud had been married off without consultation once, the Empress twice.
Maud looked at her. Was that sympathy she saw in Matilda’s face, sudden amusement, even comradeship? If it was, it changed quickly into calculation. If and when she became queen, the Empress might need to award the prize that was Maud of Kenniford to gain a useful alliance. And she would do it. Oh yes, she would do it. Her sudden smile was quite inscrutable.
‘But you are not yet a widow,’ was all she said. It meant nothing.
A rustle behind them announced the arrival of Alan of Ghent. He pushed past Maud and out of the tunnel, hiding in the rowan trees to peer beyond the castle walls to the lines of the enemy.
Winter Siege Page 22
