by Sole, Linda
Beth shivered as she took a jug and pail and went to fetch water from the spring. It would be heavy to carry, but she would take a flask of water with her when she went to the village again.
Twenty Four
The chapel was filled with nobles and barons, all of them watching as the King took communion from the priest’s hands. Father Arnaud held a privileged position as one of Henry’s scribes and on occasion his confessor. There was talk that he was soon to be made a bishop. It could not be allowed to happen. Raoul tasted the bitterness of gall in his mouth as he watched the priest make the sign of the cross over the King’s head.
How dare he pretend to be so pious and holy when he was guilty of adultery and murder? Raoul’s rage was like a red mist before his eyes and it was all he could do to keep from crying out his accusations and falling upon the hypocrite, yet he held his peace. He must find a way to take his revenge on the priest but for the moment he was too powerful for he had the King’s ear.
Raoul’s gaze travelled over the assembled company as they began to file out of the beautiful church. He saw that William de Burgh had decided to attend, and as men lingered outside in the frosty air, hesitating, uncertain whether to follow the King, dukes and officials back to the palace or make their own way elsewhere he spoke to him.
‘You came then? What made you change your mind?’
‘I saw no sense in arousing hostility where there need be none. Henry is King in his father’s place and we must see how he goes on. Your letter helped my decision.’
‘I am glad for I would not have you under suspicion. Had you not defended me that day in battle, when my foot slipped in the blood, I might have been killed. For that you have my gratitude.’
‘You wore the colours of England. I would defend any man in trouble who fought for England. I had thought to settle at home once the trouble in Wales was squashed, but now I believe I shall offer my sword if Henry needs it. He hath ordered the removal of Richard’s body from Langley and had it taken to be buried with honour at Westminster. For that I honour and respect him.’
‘Yes, it was well done and shows that he feels some regret for his father’s sins.’ Raoul nodded, his gaze thoughtful. ‘I imagine there will be wars enough to satisfy any soldier of fortune. Henry is already speaking of his right to the French throne. Charles of France is mad and the Dauphin will soon be called upon to rule in his stead. I have heard it whispered that Henry has some idea of challenging him to a duel to settle the quarrel, though I doubt his challenge will be accepted. I dare say the struggle with France will go on – if you have a taste for it?’
‘Perhaps, I am not yet sure of my plans. My estate suffered when my father was ill and there are things that need my attention, but I am not sure I am ready to put up my sword.’ William frowned. ‘You visit France often – who takes care of your lands here?’
‘My father’s brother has the care of them.’
‘Can you trust him? Will he not try to keep them for his sons?’
‘He has no son merely a daughter. If I would wed her the estates might combine.’
‘But you do not wish for it?’
‘I have no intention of wedding any woman yet. They are faithless creatures at best and at worst…and Mary is but a child.’
‘I see you have suffered misfortune in love.’
‘Not I – but another.’ Raoul shook his head, his hands balling at his sides. ‘It does not matter. I must get an heir one day but until then…’ He thought of something. ‘The girl I saw – the witch’s daughter. How does she fare?’
William shrugged. ‘I know little of her. She would not do for you, sir. You must marry well when the time comes.’
‘Perhaps.’ Raoul’s frown lightened. ‘I do not think I shall return to the palace this night. I have no taste for court life, though for the moment it suits me to remain here. Come, let us find an inn where we may sup together. How long do you intend to stay in London?’
‘No longer than it takes to pay my respects to the King. He has not yet summoned me to tell me what he requires of me and I suppose I must wait on his command,’ William replied, then frowned. ‘That priest is staring at you as if he hates you. You should take care, sir. Some of them are as deadly as serpents.’
Raoul followed the direction of his companion’s gaze and saw that it was Father Arnaud. Immediately, the priest inclined his head as if in good will but Raoul did not doubt that de Burgh had spoken truly.
‘It is he that should take care,’ he said softly. ‘His time is coming soon.’
‘What did you say?’ William asked.
‘Nothing that mattered. Come, I know a decent inn where we can find ourselves food that is palatable and a flagon of good Rhenish wine.’
‘Yes, I shall sup with you,’ William said. ‘Tell me, how long do you intend to linger at court?’
‘Until my business is done here,’ Raoul replied. ‘If I am fortunate it should not take too long now. ’
Raoul glanced at the priest once more. He had made his plans and very soon now he would speak to the King. He had heard that the priest had been consorting with a lady of the court in behaviour that was both lewd and ungodly. Henry was a pious man and would not tolerate such behaviour from his priest.
‘Where could such a rumour have started?’ Henry demanded ‘I would swear there is not one ounce of truth in the rumour. Father Arnaud is a pious man and this scurrilous tale is wicked injustice.’
‘I fear the man is not all you think him, Majesty. I have no wish to repeat gossip – but the priest is known to have broken his vows of chastity before this and to have lain with a woman who was wed to a good man. I have heard that the pair plotted to murder her husband – but I cannot say how true it may be. I speak now only because the tales are becoming rife amongst the courtiers and it was decided that someone should inform you of his lewd behaviour.’
‘Have you proof of this?’
‘Lady Berenice has been sent home by her husband in disgrace – and I have a letter the priest sent to the woman with whom he lay in sin before this time.’
‘Will you show it to me?’
Raoul reached inside his black velvet jerkin and brought out a piece of crumpled vellum, which he handed to the King. ‘Arnaud wrote this to the woman he had encouraged to betray her husband. I think you will recognise the signature.’
Henry took the parchment and perused the message briefly. ‘It is his hand and the content is clear – a message a man in love would write to his lover.’ His mouth curled in distaste as he returned it. ‘There is no mention of the lady’s name.’
‘She was married and well loved by her husband until the priest corrupted her. I can tell you no more for it would bring shame on her husband’s name.’
‘Have the priest summoned. He can answer these accusations to my face.’
‘Is that wise, Your Majesty? In the face of the rumours might it not be better to dismiss him at once? He will of course deny everything.’
‘Yes…’ Henry frowned. ‘Arnaud served my father for many years, but I never truly liked him. There was always something sly about him. I asked my father why he kept the priest with him but he would never answer me.’
‘May I suggest something, Sire?’
‘Your advice has always proved sound. What would you have me do?’
‘Arnaud longs to be a Bishop, but before he could deserve such an honour he would need to retire to a retreat to reflect and purify his thoughts. Let him believe it is your wish that he takes a while to cleanse himself of sin. Let me do this for you – I shall engage to remove the man from court quietly and without scandal or a scene. If you speak with him it may cause unpleasantness for you, for he will undoubtedly deny his guilt. Give me a letter requesting that he take time to reflect and pray in solitude, to give time for these rumours to be forgot.’
‘You think these rumours are true?’
‘I know only that the court is rife with tales of behaviour that is both lewd and perha
ps worse…some have whispered that in private he worships Satan.’
Henry was thoughtful for a moment, then, ‘I thank you for your prompt action in bringing this to my attention. He must leave the court at once. I shall not tolerate such wickedness. I thought there was something odd about his behaviour with my father – and I will have none of it.’ He crossed himself. ‘My father was haunted. Did you know that he thought he was cursed? If this priest practises the dark arts…he must never return to court. Make certain of it, D’Avignon.’
‘It is my pleasure to serve you. I shall send Arnaud on his way this night – nay I shall escort him to his retreat and make certain he understands it is your wish that he never returns to court.’
‘Do that and you have my undying gratitude.’
Raoul bowed low, hiding his satisfaction as he left the King’s presence. Soon now the priest would learn that the time for retribution had come.
Twenty Five
The fair was a rare treat for the villagers, because it came but once or twice a year and set up in the meadow between Sir William’s land and the miller’s pond. There were weekly markets at the small towns up and down the country and the nearest was but ten old French miles from the edge of Sir William’s estate. However, it was too far for most to visit often, unless they had a horse or could beg a ride on the carrier’s cart, which made this fair so special. Beth looked about her at the stalls, which were selling all manner of wonderful things. The fairs brought exotic fruits to people who would otherwise never see figs or peaches, oranges or dates and rare spices. There were stalls selling holy relics, bead necklaces and rings of base metal that made your finger turn green when you wore them, but there were also belts of tooled leather, silver and soft leather shoes, pots and pans, silks, wool cloth and lace.
There were other marvels at the fair: men playing with fire, sword swallowers, tumblers and the archery contest. It was the duty of every man to train at archery for at least a day each week, and they began from the age of seven for it took years of practice to draw a long bow. There was also a wrestling contest and a team of men from the castle was entered in a fierce tug of war with the village men.
Beth lingered as long as she dare watching the fun but she had no money to waste on pretty trifles. Marthe had given her three silver pennies to buy a crock of honey, two pounds of flour and a block of salt. Nervous of having so much coin, Beth had tucked her purse inside her gown for it was dangerous to wear it hanging from your belt at the fair lest a cut-purse steal it. She had managed to purchase all she needed, even bargaining for two sweet almond cakes, which she and Marthe would have as a rare treat that night.
Beth noticed the man sitting by the side of the road as she returned from the fair. She was carrying her purchases in the large rush basket over her arm. The man was dressed in the grey robes of a pilgrim but they were ragged and filthy, and his feet were bare. She saw they were streaked with what looked like dried blood and as she paused, thinking to ask if he needed help, the man moaned and flopped forward in a faint.
‘Are you ill, good sir?’ Beth went to him, kneeling by his side on the ground, which was hard with frost. He did not answer nor did he open his eyes as she bent over him, touching his face and hands, which she saw, were disfigured and crusted with sores. She stroked his poor face and his hands, because he was clearly in some terrible affliction. His skin was very cold and she could see that he looked emaciated and ill. ‘What ails you? Can you tell me?’
‘Water…’ he begged through cracked lips. ‘Pray give me water, mistress. There is naught else you can do for me.’
Beth thought quickly. She was not carrying a flask and the stream was still too far distant to fetch water quickly. What she did have was a small vial containing a cure for a sore throat, which she had hoped to bargain for meat or cheese. No one had been interested and so she had carried it home with her, but it was sweetened with honey and all she had to offer. Taking out the stopper, she held it to the man’s lips.
‘Take a sip of this, sir,’ she said. ‘It will ease your throat for now. I shall take my purchases home and then return. I will bring water and a little food. We do not have much to offer but you are welcome to share what we have. For the moment you may have this sweet cake. I must save one for Marthe, but you may have the other. It will ease you until I return with more food.’
The man swallowed several gulps of her mixture and handed it back to her. His eyes were open now and intensely blue. His thin hand clasped her wrist.
‘Who are you, lady? I asked at the fair for food but no one would give me any. One of the men told me that if I did not leave he would take a stick to me.’
‘That was cruel, sir,’ Beth said and held his hand, stroking it with her finger in sympathy. She felt a warm tingle up her arm but it was pleasant and she did not draw back or snatch her hand from him. ‘Why should people send you away? It is only common kindness to offer water and share what food you have with a traveller in need. Especially with a pilgrim.’
The man withdrew his hand from her touch. ‘Do you not know what ails me? I am a leper, mistress. Years ago I made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and it was there that I contracted this foul disease. People fear me and drive me away because they are afraid of taking it from me. Now I travel from shrine to shrine and pray for a miracle but God hath not seen fit to grant me His Grace.’
‘I am sorry for your trouble, sir,’ Beth said. ‘Yet I shall not run from you. You are ill and need my help. Rest here and I shall return with food and water, as I promised. Eat your cake for I promise you it is sweet and wholesome.’
Beth rose to her feet and began to walk swiftly towards her home. Glancing back she saw that the man was eating the cake, thrusting it into his mouth as though he had eaten nothing for days. She was thoughtful as she hurried home. Beth had heard of leprosy, which was still a much feared disease and rife throughout the land, though seldom seen in England these days. Marthe had told her it had mostly died out here and it was unlikely that she would see a case of the foul sickness but to be careful and stay clear if she did. Beth knew that she must wash her hands before she touched anything that Marthe might touch afterwards, but she was still determined to return with the food and water.
However, when she returned to the spot an hour later she discovered that the man had gone. Lying on the ground where he had rested, she found a tiny pebble. It was black and shiny and had an engraving of a man on its flat surface. Beth picked it up and looked at it before placing it in her pouch. If she guessed right the picture engraved on the stone was of a saint for he had a circle above his head – and she thought that perhaps it was a picture of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. She was sure that the man had left it for her and wondered where he had gone and why he did not wait for her to return with food and water.
‘They are saying in the village it was a miracle,’ Mistress Grey said when she came to the hut three days later. ‘Everyone saw him at the fair. His face and hands were covered in sores and he wore a cloak and rang a bell to tell us that he was a leper. John Blacksmith told him he must leave or he would beat him and he did, but later he returned talking of his vision of the Blessed Virgin and how she had given him a drink of something that had cured him.’
A trickle of ice slid down Beth’s spine. Mistress Grey had described the pilgrim she’d seen sitting by the side of the road. It must be a coincidence for she was not the Blessed Virgin.
‘But surely the scabs were still on his face and hands?’
‘No, they had gone, all of them,’ Mistress Grey said. ‘I did not see him at the fair but I saw him the next day and his skin was as clean as yours or mine, Beth – do you not think it a great mystery?’
‘It is certainly a mystery. Had he prayed at a shrine near by?’
‘No. His tale is that he sat by the roadside and a young woman came up to him and asked if he were ill. She did not seem to fear him, as others did, and she touched him and gave him a drink that tasted of hon
ey. She went away to fetch food and water, but he said that as he sat by the roadside a white light enveloped him and he felt it warming his skin. When he looked at his hands the disease had gone – and it had gone from his face too. He is praising the Blessed Virgin and telling everyone of his vision.’
Beth trembled inwardly. Mistress Grey’s tale was so strange that she could scarce believe it. It was not possible that she could have cured the man simply by giving him a drink of her mixture or by touching him. Mistress Grey was staring at her oddly, as if she suspected that the vision the pilgrim had seen was Beth, but she held her tongue. Her friend might not be able to resist telling someone else and people would think it strange. They would whisper of magic and witches again.
Beth felt cold all over. Had John the blacksmith done this? Perhaps it was a fake miracle and meant to make people look at Beth with fear and suspicion? The more she thought of it, the more she was convinced that she had hit upon the truth. The blacksmith and the priest had planned this between them because they wished to convince the villagers that she was a witch. Only someone who practised the dark arts could cure a sufferer of leprosy – but of course the man had only pretended to be ill.
She would tell Marthe what had happened but must say nothing to anyone else, because it might be yet another plot to brand her as a witch.
Why did the priest hate her so much?
‘You paid him for his part in the affair?’ The priest looked at John Blacksmith, who nodded. ‘See that people hear of the miracle and hint that you know who the identity of the woman . She was too clever for us in the matter of the well, but one day we shall have her and her mother.’
‘Marthe is a witch and deserves to die,’ John Blacksmith said but felt uneasy. ‘Why do you hate the girl? She has not harmed anyone.’
