‘Misfits,’ said Straccan, frowning.
‘What?’
‘Soulis said I had roamed about the country collecting misfits. Is that what my daughter is now?’
‘No more than I am! But that is why I ask you to let her come to me where she can talk, and be understood and safe, and loved.’
‘If she becomes a woman such as you are,’ Straccan said, ‘I will be well pleased.’ He took the spindle from her and laid it on the bench between them, then took her hands in his. They were well shaped, fine but strong, not the pale delicate hands of a fine lady but capable, loving hands, skilled in many crafts. He kissed them.
‘Janiva—’
There was the sound of a horse coming fast, and Bane burst over the fence and flung himself from the saddle. ‘King’s men,’ he gasped. ‘At the manor. Asking for you. Coming here.’
And as Straccan got to his feet, sending the spindle flying, there they were—half a dozen mounted archers in the king’s livery, with their captain—neat, efficient, polite, implacable.
‘Sir Richard Straccan?’
‘Yes.’
‘The lord king summons you to attend him at Nottingham, Sir. I am to escort you.’
‘What for?’
‘I’m not privy to the king’s mind, Sir Richard. I just do as he tells me. And he told me to fetch you.’
‘Janiva …’ He turned to her. ‘Gilla …’
‘It’s all right,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll take care of her. She needs rest. Don’t worry about her; she’s safe now.’
Straccan turned back to the captain. ‘What about my man Bane?’
‘I’ve no orders concerning him, Sir. He may go or stay as you please.’
He unbuckled his purse. ‘Hawkan, take this to Saint Mark’s Priory. It’s somewhere near Christchurch. Give it to the prior. Tell him all about it. Tell him how we met Brother Celestius, and that this gift is in gratitude for your life. Go now.’ Before anything happens to stop you, his eyes added. Bane put the purse inside his shirt. ‘When you’ve done that,’ said Straccan, ‘come back here and escort Mistress Janiva and my daughter home to Stirrup. I’ll see you there, when the king’s finished with me.’
He fastened his jerkin, feeling the crackle of the letters inside against his shirt. The sound of the grey’s hooves receded fast as Bane left on his errand. Straccan’s sword and harness hung by the door; he reached for them, then drew his hand back. ‘You will want my sword?’ he asked the captain.
‘I have no orders concerning your weapons, Sir,’ said the young man looking surprised. ‘You are not my prisoner. I am to take you safely to the king.’
‘Ah! Do you have a spare mount?’
‘Er … no, Sir.’
‘Well, I have no horse.’
The captain rose to the challenge. ‘Simon!’ One of his company nudged his horse forward. ‘Sir Richard will take your horse. Double up with Tom.’
‘Then I am ready,’ Straccan said. He went into the house, bent over the bed and saw his daughter’s eyes were open. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ he said quickly. ‘I have to take those letters to the king, that’s all.’
‘Can’t someone else take them?’
‘No, there are things I must tell him. I shan’t be long. Mistress Janiva will look after you, and Bane will bring you both home when I get back.’ He kissed her and stroked her hair. Then he took Janiva in his arms, held her close, smelled the perfume of rosemary that scented her hair and clothes. Spurs and harness jingled outside. Buckling his sword belt, he walked out and mounted the horse held ready for him.
When they were out of sight, Janiva turned back to the fragrant little room and saw that her cat had crept under the blanket and was purring happily, tucked against Gilla’s shoulder.
Chapter 41
He had been killing time in Nottingham Castle for three days before he saw the king. It was a relief to find that he was, in no sense, a prisoner; he could come and go about the town as he pleased. And Straccan told himself he should not really be surprised that the king had come to Nottingham on his way to the Scottish border, stopping also at York and Durham to gather men and supplies for his expedition. If spies were set to watch men as politically insignificant as himself, of course they would be watching the great ones. King William’s designs on the north lands would be no news to King John.
On the morning of the fourth day the king sent for him. They had not met before, though he’d seen the king at a distance a few times. Now he remembered everything he had ever heard about John: murderous, perverse and deceitful, suspicious, ungodly, touchy—and the other side of the Angevin coin—generous, genial, brave, indulgent, dangerously intelligent.
‘Sir Richard! How good of you to come!’ The king put a friendly arm round Straccan’s shoulders and walked up and down in the castle garden with him. ‘This isn’t anything like it was in my mother’s day,’ said John, jerking a disparaging thumb at the shrivelled roses. ‘Greenfly! See?’ He pinched one off a bud and squashed it. ‘The gardener tries everything, but nothing works. Do you know anything about roses. Sir Richard?’
‘No, My Lord. I’ve not had much to do with gardens.’
‘Nor me, nor me. I knew she was a witch, of course.’
The abrupt change of subject made Straccan blink. ‘The Lady Julitta, My Lord?’
‘Julitta, yes, who else? Haven’t run into any other witches recently, have you? Christ, I hope not! Pity she got away. Not that I blame you. You have letters for me.’
‘Yes, Sire.’ Straccan proffered the packet, and the king leafed through them.
‘De Vesci,’ he murmured. ‘Well, well, what a surprise! And that little sod Mowbray, after all I’ve done for him. Percy, too, another ingrate. Grellay, he owes me a thousand marks, FitzWalter, de Lacy—all of em northerners. Must be the climate.’ He handed the letters to the clerk who followed him about, writing desk hung round his neck, pen and inkhorn always ready. ‘This the lot?’
‘No, My Lord. We divided them, these for Your Grace, the others for the King of Scots.’
‘I’m on my way north, as it happens, for a few words with my brother of Scotland,’ John said ominously. ‘Didn’t meet him yourself, did you? No? I don’t suppose he calls me his brother of England,’ he added morosely, kicking at a faint-hearted clump of pinks. ‘I wouldn’t like to think what he calls me. He’ll have to be brought to heel again; it’s getting to be a habit. What were you doing in Pontigny, by the way?’
It seemed an age ago. ‘It’s rather a long story, Lord King,’ said Straccan.
‘Good,’ said John, bending and pulling up a wilted something.
‘Look at that! Shocking!’ He threw it disgustedly down among the sorry-looking roses. ‘Carry on, Sir Richard. I like a good story.’ Straccan told him about the icon, and how it led him to Julitta. About Soulis’s order for the finger of Saint Thomas. ‘That’s why I went to see the archbishop,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect to get anywhere, but I had to try.’
‘He’s no archbishop of mine,’ growled the king.
Whoops, thought Straccan, and said, ‘No, My Lord. Your pardon.’
‘A figure of speech, I know, I know,’ said John. ‘Let’s go back inside.’ On the doorstep he half-turned and shouted, apparently to nobody, ‘Get these things watered; they’re probably dying of thirst. I know I am,’ he added to Straccan. ‘Come in, come in, I’m expecting someone, and I do want to be in when he arrives. How did you get Langton to let you have the relic?’ He held out a hand, and a servant placed a cup of wine in it.
‘It turned out that he felt himself under some obligation to me. I had done a service to his nephew, years ago, in the Holy Land.’
‘Ah,’ said John. ‘How fortunate! You seem to be a lucky man, Sir Richard. Luck’s a strange thing, so unaccountable. Your horse was killed, I’m told.’
Straccan was surprised. If the king’s uncanny knowledge of such minutiae was due to Larktwist’s report and Larktwist only one of many wandering
spies, then John’s espionage system must be the envy of Europe. ‘Yes, Lord King,’ he said. ‘By the man-eaters.’
‘Well, well,’ said the king thoughtfully. ‘Pity to lose a good horse. Had him long?’
‘Eleven years, My Lord.’
The door opened, admitting a sergeant and two men-at-arms roughly pushing another man before them. ‘Ah,’ said the king, beaming. ‘Sir Gilbert. Feeling better, now, are you?’ The man reddened, gazed at the floor like a naughty child and said nothing.
‘Gilbert was very sick when first I sent for him,’ John told the smirking company in general. ‘But it seems my second summons found him recovered. A minor miracle, perhaps? It’s been a good year so far for miracles. Why, only this summer a band of white monks from Altraham took their skull of Saint Joseph on the road to raise money, and by God’s Grace the rest of the saint’s body grew back! They ended up with the whole thing, bar a few toes. Isn’t that a marvel? I wonder what happened to the toes.’ He looked slyly at Straccan. Oh Christ, thought Straccan, those silly sods, no idea where to stop! And pox take that Larktwist and his big accurate mouth! But he met the royal gaze innocently, and the king smiled.
‘Well Gilbert, speak up,’ said John cheerfully. ‘Cat got your tongue, has it?’ He put a handful of grapes in his mouth and began chewing.
‘Yes, My Lord, I mean no, My Lord.’
A royal-liveried man appearing in the doorway caught the king’s eye, was beckoned forward, and whispered for a few moments into the royal ear. John nodded, his bright eyes on Sir Gilbert. When the messenger had done, the king snapped his fingers, and a servant popped out of the crowd to give the man a few coins.
‘Now,’ said John. ‘Sir Gilbert. About this business of yours. Do you still maintain that the wreck of the Sleipnir is yours to use as you please?’
‘I was badly advised, My Lord.’
‘God’s teeth, I’ll say you were!’ The king spat a mouthful of grape seeds. ‘Oh, sorry, did they land on your sleeve? Never mind, it’s a bit behind the fashion, don’t you think? You can visit a good tailor while you’re here. Now then, you’ve had the wreck, the crew and the entire bloody cargo, and you thought I’d either not find out or couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it, what with all my other troubles, that right? Nice try, Gilbert, but that’s my money you’ve been spending; and that’s naughty. Oh, don’t look so worried! I’m a reasonable man. You can choose.’
‘Choose, Sire?’
‘Yes. Whether to have my goodwill or not. Up to you.’
‘Sire.’ Sir Gilbert ran a nervous finger round the sweat-wilted neck of his fine shirt. ‘My Lord, it would grieve me to lose your goodwill.’ To say nothing of being the end of me, he thought miserably. He’d been a fool to try and keep the wretched wreck a secret. Everyone said there was nothing the king didn’t know, and it was true.
The king hummed a snatch of tune and scratched his backside.
‘So if you’ll just have the cargo sent here as soon as you get home.’
‘Of course, Sire.’
‘Oh, and I understand there was a passenger, now enjoying your hospitality?’
Oh God, thought Gilbert, he even knows about the woman!
‘There were two passengers aboard, Sire: a man and his wife, but he drowned.’
‘With a bit of help, was it? Good of you to care for his widow; charity begins at home, that’s what I always say. But you can send her along as well, together with her belongings, of course. Clothes, trinkets …’ His voice crunched on ‘trinkets’ and Sir Gilbert winced and failed to meet the hard gooseberry stare. The king knew about the jewellery too. What Gilbert’s wife would say when she had to give up that magnificent set of Byzantine bracelets and the rubies, God only knew. Gilbert thought a small pilgrimage would probably be a good idea, to get himself safely away from her tongue for a few months. Not that she’d have run out of things to say even then. Or ever.
‘So, Gilbert.’ John beamed. ‘You admit your fault humbly and wish to make it up to me.’
‘Oh yes, Sire.’ Fervently.
‘After all, just who is king of the English, Gilbert? You, or me?’
‘You, Sire.’ Squirming.
‘Oh good,’ said John. ‘I’m glad that’s settled. No need for any of these little misunderstandings at all, really, if you’d all’—his stare swept everyone in the room—‘just bear that in mind. And shall we say five hundred marks, Gilbert? As an indication of your remorse? That sound about right?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘And you might throw in a little sweetener,’ the king suggested brightly.
‘Sweetener, Sire?’
‘Ye—es. To have my goodwill in full measure. No point in half measures, really, is there, when you think about it? What about that big bay horse your son was slopping about on when you arrived?’
‘The horse, Sire? Certainly, Sire.’
‘Oh thank you, how kind!’ The king turned to Straccan. ‘Well, there you are, Sir Richard.’
‘Pardon, My Lord?’
‘Don’t say I never did anything for you. The horse, man.’ He grinned, seeing Straccan’s blank face. ‘The horse! You can pick it up when you leave. See to it!’ He snapped his fingers in the general direction of the gaggle of underlings. Two boys detached themselves from the cluster and rushed to the door together, where one blocked the other’s way, kicking him sharply on the shin. The loser let out a yip of pain, yielded the errand to his rival and limped back, scowling.
‘Thank you, Sire.’ Straccan was truly grateful. He missed Zingiber sadly, and such an animal was a princely gift.
‘Quite an adventure you had,’ said the king. ‘Interesting. What became of the icon, after all? Lose it, did you, in the heat of things?’
‘No, Sire,’ said Straccan with an inner sigh. He hadn’t expected to get away with it, not really. ‘In fact, I have it here, My Lord.’ He took the icon, in its new wooden case, from his pouch and offered it to the king.
John unrolled the picture and stared at it for some time. Then he rolled it up and slid it back in the case. ‘Remarkable,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Sir Richard.’ He pulled on his gloves and made for the door.
‘Are you going straight to Durham, Sire?’ quavered Sir Gilbert.
‘I might,’ said the king.
‘Only the bridge—’
‘Is washed out. I know.’
‘There is a back way …’
‘I know,’ said John. ‘I know the back way to every town in my kingdom.’ The door banged behind him.
‘I just bet he does,’ hissed Sir Gilbert, sinking heavily on to the nearest stool. ‘Five hundred marks, oh God, and the horse too! And the bloody jewellery! My wife will kill me!’
The king put his head round the door. ‘Oh, and Gilbert!’
‘Oh Jesus! Yes, Sire?’
‘The saddle goes with the horse, naturally.’
‘Oh, naturally, Lord King!’
Chapter 42
The stallion was a splendid animal, three years old and well trained, and after toying with several possible names Straccan fell back on Zingiber, which really seemed to him the only name for a ginger horse. It was a joy to ride, and the fine saddle fitted man and beast perfectly. Poor Sir Gilbert!
He saw from a long way off the lookout on the watchtower at Stirrup, and heard the warning tocsin begin its familiar cracked clanking. His people were milling about in the open gateway: Adeliza in her best gown, his clerk Peter, Cammo his steward, and the rest. Home! His loving eye noted the crops doing well, the vegetables looking fresh and well tended; his sheep, newly-shorn and skinny-looking, with new lambs at heel—surely that one had twins? Yes! His cattle, heads down and tearing at the grass. Everything in good order.
For the next few days he was fully occupied. There was a backlog of business for him and Peter to deal with, as well as the farm. Cammo managed well, but the master’s decision was necessary in some matters: whether or not to buy a bull, whether to
sell this year’s clip to Walter Durnford as usual or perhaps take it to Lincoln or Nottingham for a better price, whether or not to sell the colt foal born at the new year.
Several times a day he climbed the ladder to the watchtower and spent some time staring at the road where it met the northern horizon, hoping to see three riders. His heart beat faster whenever a cloud of dust appeared and sank when it resolved itself into merchants, pedlars and other travellers. He kept reckoning up the days: the least and most it should take Bane to reach Christchurch and return to Shawl, and then the time to travel from there to here. He was too impatient; they could hardly be looked for yet. Another week, at least …
But that evening and next morning he was on the watchtower again.
The clanking of the tocsin brought him from the stable at a run but it was only a delivery of wine. Later in the day it clanked again to announce the arrival of a pedlar with his gossip and rubbishy goods. Next day when it clanked to herald yet another nonentity, he lost his temper and bellowed up at the startled watchman.
‘Don’t ring that bloody thing again! Not until Gilla’s coming!’ Then he went into his office and worried Peter until he made a mistake in his subtraction and a blot on his page. He wandered into the kitchen where he pried into the cook-pots, picked at a piecrust, knocked over a pitcher of milk and trod on the cat, until a harried Adeliza shooed him out.
Eventually he took an axe and began splitting logs, keeping at it for hours while swallows flicked around him, in and out of the woodshed where they’d built their nests. ‘Messy things, shall I clear em out?’ Cammo had said years ago. ‘Let them be,’ Straccan replied. ‘I wouldn’t like to do all that work for nothing, would you?’
[Sir Richard Straccan 01] - The Bone-Pedlar Page 25
