The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  Stephen of Norwood’s skilfully worded articles were known to her so she had her answers ready, but eventually they arrived at Fulk’s advocate’s questions and these were a different matter.

  “Would you say you were an obedient wife to Sir Fulk?”

  “No, sir, he expected me to obey his orders precisely. I could never please him.”

  “But were you not wilful?”

  “I suppose I defended myself for my shortcomings. He beat me daily.”

  “For being a poor housewife?”

  “No, for not bearing him a son.”

  “You were not free with your favours to him?”

  “It is true that I found the act of procreation unpleasant. Despite his efforts, I remained barren. That was why he beat me—every day.”

  “Was he sober when he beat you?”

  “Always.”

  “Men are allowed to correct their wives. The law allows it.”

  “Where it is deserved.”

  “Did you use a sponge soaked in vinegar, or take any potions that would prevent conception?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you wish to bear him a child?”

  She hesitated. “If it would stop the beatings, yes.” She was tempted to add that she abided by God’s will, but it may have been seen as presumptuous.

  “Would you say you did your uttermost to disobey his commands?”

  “No, sir. He delighted in humiliating me in our bedchamber. Last time he hit me, I could not see properly out of my left eye for a week. There were plenty of witnesses.”

  “Is Gervase de Laval your lover?”

  “He is my lawful husband, but after he had consummated our marriage I never saw him until last week when he came to Conisthorpe and claimed me.”

  “What was he doing during his absence?”

  “That is for him to tell you, sir. To speak otherwise would be hearsay.”

  The examiner took a heavy breath as if he considered it too cunning an answer, but made no comment.

  “Did you have carnal knowledge with any man before your marriage with Sir Fulk was consummated? You are under oath, remember.”

  “Only with my lawful husband, Gervase, on the day Father Benedict wed us.”

  “Surely it occurred to you that Sir Fulk would be angered to find you already spoiled?”

  “Yes. I had a phial of chicken blood. I deceived him.” She felt like adding wryly that Fulk had neglected to take the necessary precaution of passing her through St. Wilfred’s Needle at Ripon—the hole in the wall that was reputed to trap the deflowered. “I . . . I was also advised by a wise woman of a recipe mentioned in one of the treatises of Trotula that would constrict the passage to my womb, but I did not take any potion because I had only experienced carnal knowledge once and that had been at the handfasting with Sir Gervase at least a year before. Indeed, sir, I was very naive in such matters.”

  “It did not occur to you to be honest with Sir Fulk?”

  “I was frightened of him.”

  “Sir Fulk has deposed under oath that he found you intacta and that the blood on the bedsheet was yours.”

  “No.”

  “What bothers me, my lady, is that if you lied to Sir Fulk, you are quite capable of lying to this court.”

  “If I deceived him then, it was to save my life and on my mother’s advice. I pray you ask her. I believe Sir Fulk would have whipped me almost to death had he suspected.”

  “But surely when the banns were called, you had leisure to furnish proof to your father that there were reasons for not proceeding with the marriage?”

  “Sir, first, I had had no word from Sir Gervase since he departed following our marriage. Second, not wanting to dishonour my family’s name with scandal, I made my protest to my father privily, saying I was wed and could not lawfully be plighted to Sir Fulk, but my father scoffed. He chastised me saying that Sir Gervase had made a whore of me. I protested, arguing that Father Benedict and I had agreed to the handfasting in good faith. ‘The priest is dead,’ replied my father, ‘and this Gervase has sent you no further word and must be a false fellow, and as far as I am concerned, you will obey me.’ He had me locked up, beaten with the rod and fed me naught but dry trenchers and water until I submitted.”

  “You are living with Sir Gervase as his wife in all senses of the word?”

  “I understand your meaning, sir. Yes, Sir Gervase has. . . has . . .”

  “. . . had carnal knowledge of you.”

  She nodded, her fingers twisting upon her lap.

  “Sir Fulk alleges that this is not possible. He states that he locked you into a device that would prevent any wanton behaviour while you were away from him. Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how can you be a true wife to Sir Gervase?”

  “Sir Gervase broke the lock, sir.”

  The notary’s pen spluttered, sending a line of blots, like a skimmed stone, across the parchment. His interest overt, the examiner leaned forwards across the board, hands clasped, his smile of manly authority patronising and sceptical.

  “And how did he do that?” His eyes slid sideways at the notary, sharing the jest.

  “My lord inserted a burning hot spike into the lock and smote it with a hammer.” She watched Martin de Scruton’s jaw slacken. Even the notary had set down the goose quill and was staring at her as if she had sprouted fairy wings. “I do not wish this to be read out in court,” she added softly, pressing her advantage. “It has been a humiliation that I wish to be kept private.”

  Like deep water, the examiner’s expression gave no indication of the thoughts that swam beneath until he continued, “How often were you placed in this device?”

  “Every time Sir Fulk was absent from Enderby.”

  “Does that not imply he considered you untrustworthy and of a lascivious character?”

  “Sir, at Enderby I was right glad of the device, as God is my witness. When Sir Fulk was away, I was always afeared. There were many knights and men-at-arms there whose looks made me uncomfortable.”

  “Sir Fulk knew this?”

  “He understood his men. He rationed their ale when he was present, but sometimes in his absence they took advantage of the steward.”

  “I congratulate you for arguing most cunningly in your defence on this matter, my lady, but the veracity of Sir Fulk’s allegation must still be determined. He requires you to be thoroughly examined. Let it be done presently.” Without waiting for her answer, he loudly rang the small handbell set before him.

  Horrified, Johanna rose to her feet.

  “I protest! This is not necessary. Sir Fulk requires!” she sneered.

  “What does the judge require? I presume he is in charge of this hearing. No, do not write that down!” she snapped at the scribe, slamming the board with the flat of her hand, making his quill leap.

  Martin de Scruton stood up to stare her down. “Calm yourself, my lady! Let me clarify this, namely, the plaintiff’s advocate requires you be physically examined.”

  “Do you want to look for scars of beatings too?”

  Not a merciful muscle moved in the face opposite her. “No, that will not be required,” he responded dispassionately.

  I wager it will not, thought Johanna furiously and nearly said so.

  It was the mayor’s wife, Adela Mercer, who entered whitefaced, clearly as reluctant as Johanna to take part in this ordeal—a small, ancient lady of impeccable grace. She was accompanied by the wife of one of the aldermen, Margery Fuller, and Lady Constance.

  The examiner rose and inclined his head in greeting to the ladies before addressing Johanna again. “I think all that is necessary is that you draw your kirtle up over one hip, my lady.”

  “Then you must turn your backs,” she replied icily.

  His answering smile was tight. “No, it is understood that we shall leave the room.” The condescending tone underscored the masculine reproof, implying that her improper conclusion that he and the nota
ry would remain reeked of lewdness and ill-breeding.

  The alderman’s wife tumbled into a lavish curtsey.

  “Oh, my lady, so distressing. We are most aggrieved that we must put you to this shameful ordeal, are we not, Mistress Mercer?” The older woman, fragile as a tiny treecreeper, nodded with more refinement.

  “It is no fault of yours, Mistress Fuller.” Lady Constance swept between them. “You can see my daughter has been under much strain so let us have this done without any fuss and bother.” She retired to the side of the chamber with the grandeur of a tournament marshal.

  Sighing, Johanna steadied her weight on her left foot and, bending, grasped the hem of her kirtle through the thickness of the blue surcote. Raising her right heel, she gracefully drew the fabric up her side to thigh height, exposing her stockinged leg with its simple garter. The chafing of the Florentine girdle was still evident at the top of her leg.

  Adela Mercer peered forward myopically. “I think it had better be to your waist, my lady.” Her aged voice was laced with apology.

  Johanna was seething at the indignity, but with outward patience hoicked her clothing the necessary distance, keeping her gender modestly covered. “To my underarm, Mistress Mercer, if it be required.”

  “Enough, my lady.”

  “Thank you, good dames.” Letting drop her skirts, Johanna reached across and rang the bell fiercely.

  The examiner strode back in with the notary scurrying ratlike after him, and frowning, surveyed the women expectantly.

  Mistress Fuller moistened her lips and walked across to the table, positioning her fingers carefully upon the cover of the Holy Book. “My lady wears no garments beneath her skirts save her stockings and garters.”

  Adela, her fingers stiffened and twisted cruelly by time, did likewise and added a codicil: “There is no truth in the allegation that Lady Johanna FitzHenry is restricted carnally by any device, but there is evidence of marking on my lady’s flesh to show that such a garment may have been worn recently.”

  Martin de Scruton nodded and raised his brow at Lady Constance. “My lady, will you affirm that this examination has been made with diligence and without prejudice?” He received a silent nod. “Then the court thanks you, good women, and will declare your findings at the hearing.” He opened the door for them and jerked his head at Johanna to resume her seat. So there was to be more interrogation.

  Pedestrian, outwardly innocuous questions came at her now: What had Gervase been wearing at their trothplight? Had he any distinguishing marks on his body that might be known only to her? Thanking a miscellany of saints that she had dressed his wounds, she was able to blush and answer competently.

  Martin de Scruton moved on to dig further holes and set a half-score of traps before he finally dismissed her, fatigued and confused as to whether she had outwitted him. If she had found it hard, how would poor Agnes fare?

  Leaving the two men to the wafers and ale which her mother sent in when the interrogation finished, Johanna summoned Agnes, anxious to quickly advise her of what to expect. But as the servants returned one by one alone, having briefly searched keep, kitchens, gardens, new hall and each of the towers, Johanna realised with sinking heart that Agnes was unaccountably missing.

  Her mother swiftly substituted Father Gilbert to placate the examiner’s growing curiosity and to attest to Johanna’s character and piety, while outside a muffled version of hue and cry ensued.

  Geraint, interrupted in a session of putting the garrison through combat practice, carried out his own meticulous search within the castle precinct although he guessed the futile outcome. Fulk had seized their chiefwitness. The cruel killing of Johanna’s lapdog, the attempt to poison her pet pig, and now Agnes’s likely abduction, let alone the bruises he himself carried from the beating by Fulk’s men, had Geraint mouthing obscenities beneath his breath as he scoured the keep. He was burning to run the whoreson through, but that would send him to the gallows for sure.

  “Oh Gervase, this is a terrible business,” Lady Constance called to him. She was in the gateway of the barbican giving orders to an extremely flustered Sir Geoffrey. It was needful to discreetly search the town, but finding the girl was as likely as persuading Hugh Despenser to give away one of his fifty-nine manors. “But at least that dreadful Martin has left for today, thank God,” she continued, tucking her arm into his as they walked back to the hall, “else we should have had to send you in next and that would be unfortunate if Johanna has had no time to tell you what she was asked.”

  “So how fares she? Is she distraught?” He moderated his pace to Lady Constance’s slower step.

  “Dyeing,” answered Lady Constance, “it is a wonder she did not do it when Cob died—” and realised she had left him behind her stock still. Observing he had changed colour, she added hastily, “No, next to the kitchens,” as if that explained everything.

  He found Johanna in an old surcote that had been used for the task before, judging by a mess of colourful drips and splashes that Joseph of Egypt’s brothers might have envied, furiously poking a wooden pole into a breast-high tub of water. The tippets of her ancient sleeves were tied in a loose knot behind her back and a heathenish cloth swathed her head. Tiny droplets of moisture clung to the coils of hair that were straggling across her damp, reddened cheeks.

  One shirted manservant, sweaty and scarlet, was standing by to work the bellows which kept the fire below the vat healthily glowing, while a second man waited alert beside her, armed with a large flagon of water. A shallow, cloth-lined pannier, hedgehogged full of rusty nails, and two earthernware pots of whitish powder, presumably precious alum of Yemen and common salt, flanked her heels.

  Since she was wearing an expression of martyred housewifely zeal and was clearly engaged in a furious effort to banish thinking, Geraint wisely said nothing and sauntered in. Deliberating how best to manage Johanna, he idly reached out and unstoppered one of the jars standing to attention on a shelf. It proved to be mature urine and he set it back and turned to frown at his lady through the steam, wondering if this excessive industry was doing either of them much good.

  If she wanted distraction, he would concur. “Not a very ladylike occupation, madam wife. Do you always see to this personally?”

  Johanna drove the pole into the skeins with vicious hands.

  “The colour must be precisely to my liking. More water, Dickon!”

  He waited as she supervised the specific amount and then issued his own orders, towering menacingly above them all. “Leave us. I wish to speak to my lady privily. Unless,” he relented, gesturing to the evil red brew bubbling between them, “the moment is critical.”

  Glaring at each other through the vapour, they could be taken for a couple of frustrated alchemists trying to make gold.

  Johanna gave his request some consideration, and then felinely pawing an itch on the tip of her nose with the back of her hand, she answered doubtfully, “Only if you are willing to hoist an occasional pail instead, sir.”

  “Over you, my lady?” It was spoken with a wry kindness that the menservants found amusing as they withdrew. His so-called wife viewed him with a baleful twist of her lips, and he wondered if left to marinate in this chymical marvel she would turn cherry red or onion hued.

  “Has anyone found her?” Her dispirited tone smacked of defeat.

  “There is no news,” he announced. He could see that she had been weeping—and what better place? The servants might think the vapours affected her. “I am sorry that you carry this added suffering.”

  “If Agnes was taken in the castle, someone might have . . .” Her lip trembled.

  “I lowered a man into both wells, aye, and had the earthworks and ditches ’twixt the town walls and our curtain walls perused. My money is on Edgar. I’ll hazard it was as we left the church this morning.”

  “You would have thought that someone would have noticed. Oh, now do not look disapprovingly at me like that. She is pure gold. She would not leave me now.” />
  “No lover at Enderby to lure her back?”

  “No! It is over, is it not?” she exclaimed, biting her lip and wielding the pole with both hands to move the fabric round. “Upon my life, if that whoreson allows a hair of Agnes’s head to be harmed, I will poison him, I swear I will. Has the town been thoroughly combed?”

  “Aye,” Geraint answered wearily, “so thoroughly even the lice have been interrogated. I have asked your mother to inform the archdeacon’s court that our main witness has been abducted.”

  “Much good that will do. Even if William de Bedford believes us, we cannot prove that Fulk is responsible. God rot him, he will try every filthy trick he can think of. I would swear he is dining with the judge at this very moment and trying to bribe him.” She mopped her forehead with her sleeve then drew breath as if she was about to deliver a proclamation. “Gervase, I cannot expect you to stay here any longer. For one thing it would be asking too much and for another I do not wish to put your life in jeopardy.” She blinked hard as if her tears were close to flowing again.

  His smile was wistful as he scolded, “You cannot show a white tailfeather now, my fighting bird. Will you kick off your spurs after coming this far? What of that vow of yours never to return to Fulk?”

  For a moment, she stared at the wall above his head before she regained control and replied with an excess of briskness. “There was always a contingency line of action.” She ran her tongue nervously along her lips. “I must tell you it is settled that Mother will give me an armed escort down to Shaftesbury Abbey. I will leave at first light. Father Gilbert can accompany me, if he wishes.” She was eyeing him warily. Did she think he would ignite of a sudden? Well, he might! “Come with us, please you,” she added swiftly, “I should be glad of your sword arm.”

  The secrecy and dismissal hurt, but it was her decision to seek the cloister that displeased him most. Or was she to be coerced into taking the veil? “Shaftesbury! Godsakes, lady, that is in . . . in Dorset. It will take days, and you are too sore for hard riding yet. Shaftesbury, why?”

  “Mother knows the abbess so I am sure they will take me in until somewhere permanent is found for me. . . and it makes sense, sir. It is an extremely wealthy abbey so they will not be cowed by Fulk’s threats.”