by Norah Lofts
Sybilla did not shed a tear at parting. They embraced; she said, ‘God keep you. You take my heart with you.’
‘And I leave mine with you.’
Rounding the corner of the little church, he turned in the saddle and raised his hand in final salute. He had not realised how small she was, or how small she seemed standing there between those two great boys.
SEVEN
[September 1452-January 1453]
Late for the trysting place. And Arcol to blame. Arcol had tolerated a bag of apples, a bag of outgrown clothes; but the leather bag of armour was heavier and noisier; every time he obeyed the word ‘Charge’ the thing, whatever it was, clanked and bumped, so in the end he refused to charge at all and simply went forward at his other, plodding pace. So, despite his early start, so Godfrey was late.
But he was there. Fifty, Father Andreas thought. Not easy to gather, the English were very insular and in the main curiously content with what they had, unseduceable. The company he had gathered divided itself rather sharply into young men, attracted as much by the adventure as the money, and men a little older than he would have chosen had choice been free. Sir Godfrey did not know it but he had been low on the list of desirability.
Riding in he saw several familiar faces—an old friend and rival, Sir Stephen Flowerdew, Sir Ralph Overton, Sir Thomas Drury. Greeting and being greeted by them gave him a sense of homecoming and of excitement and also the comforting assurance this was not quite such a fantastic adventure as Sybilla had made it seem. Ralph Overton was a much travelled man and shrewd as a lawyer, not one to undertake anything with the possibility of trickery in it.
Now, an unfamiliar face. A very young man, so brilliantly clad as to dazzle the eyes. He bared his head and bowed in most respectful manner and when Godfrey had returned his greeting, wondering who? wondering where? said, in the rather affected way fashionable nowadays amongst the young, ‘Now my happiness is complete. No squire, Sir Godfrey? Here! Gilbert, take Sir Godfrey’s gear and stow it with mine.’
Raised in that masterful, authoritative way the voice at least was remembered. The voice that had said at Winchester, ‘Take him up gently. No, of course I shall not take his horse!’
Lord Robert Barbury. The beardless boy!
Bywater was a busy port but almost entirely devoted to commerce; fifty knights with their horses and other belongings was a sight to see. Embarkations and disembarkations during the French wars had been at the Cinque Ports; Romney, Hythe, Sandwich, Hastings and Dover. Everyone who could spare time now stood about to watch the colourful show which included the biggest hound anyone had ever seen. As big as a donkey. But the most entertaining performance was given by Arcol. Word went around quickly—there’s a mad horse!
Arcol’s nerves had already been strained by the clatter of the armour bag; he did not like the smooth, slippery stones of Bywater’s jetty; he refused absolutely to be coaxed or compelled to step onto the little gangway which connected The Four Fleeces with the jetty. The whole thing frightened him and he knew just what to do when he was frightened. Even blindfolded he was resistant and dangerous.
Sweating and breathless, Sir Godfrey said, ‘I’ll try him again in the morning,’ And led the horse, now meek as a lamb, to the stables at the rear of the inn, Welcome to Mariners.
‘If he continues to be awkward,’ Father Andreas said, meaning well, ‘I am sure that the Count of Escalona can provide you with a mount.’
But the relationship between a knight and his horse—or in the case of the rich man, his horses—was a thing not easily assessed. They were one. The Count of Escalona had been aware of that when he made an order for fifty knights, their mail and their horses. It had taken Sir Godfrey long hours to become one with Arcol when his first destrier had failed.
He said, ‘Without Arcol I cannot go.’ His happy mood, so many old friends, such cordial greetings, had clouded when he recognised Lord Robert. Weeks and weeks in the company of one who, courteous and civil as he was, would always be a reminder… there were two ships but the order, ‘Stow his gear by mine,’ meant close contact.
Once a bad mood began, it grew and darkened. A year ago, without a thought except that he had a noble in his pouch, he would have gone gaily to join the crowd who were merrymaking in the inn. He’d joined such gatherings hundreds of times, often when he had nothing to pay with but confident that when somebody said, ‘Toss for the reckoning’ the dice or the coin would favour him. In the unlikely event of its not doing so, well, one can always borrow…
But broken confidence was less easily healed than a broken knee. He had a good gold piece—Sybilla had insisted on his taking it: ‘Darling, you never know what might happen’. But he was not going to risk it in frivolity. And he had a perfect excuse; he must go and take leave of his brother.
As he toiled up the incline to William’s so-called Palace, melancholy deepened.
He thought he had done with it, done with it on the night when Father Andreas had talked to him—but here it was again, as persistent as an unwanted dog or the three-day fever that haunted the marshes. And a meal of William’s unidentifiable meat did nothing to cheer him.
‘William, if anything should happen to me, have a care to Sybilla and the children…’ Never in his whole carefree life had he said such a thing, never before had he looked ahead to an untoward happening.
‘But naturally,’ William said. He had noted the difference in mood. None of the elation that Godfrey had shown on the visit when he announced that he was off to Spain. It was the parting, he assumed. Godfrey never looked all round a subject; he probably had not realised until yesterday that what he had called a golden opportunity, such a chance as came to few, would involve parting from his family for a long period. William set himself to be cheerful—there was the voyage, of course, but on the sea, if anywhere, a man was in God’s hands. He knew The Four Fleeces, she was a sound ship and Captain Briggs a skilled, experienced seaman. And once ashore—well going to a tournament was not like going to war.
Godfrey kept saying, ‘I know, I know.’ But without looking much happier. ‘The terms were five hundred pounds to anyone who presented himself… I’ve been thinking,if I get there and become entitled… And then should anything happen to me. Somebody would see that Sybilla got the money, no doubt. But it is a large sum—and she has never had much.’ Completely unlike himself.
‘James and I between us would see that it was well handled… and now, I think, your last evening, a glass of wine.’
William’s wine was as bad as his meat and did little to lift heavy mood.
Arcol was no more amenable in the morning; a near ton of frenzied, fighting horse. The companion ship Mary Clare loosed her ropes; clear water showed between her hull and the jetty and still Arcol would not go aboard. Captain Briggs was dancing with impatience and cursing. Father Ambrose, more controlled but equally concerned about the tide, said, ‘Sir Godfrey, you must leave him.’ Amongst the spectators was the old fishwife, loading her donkey’s panniers. Inspiration visited Sir Godfrey; he called, ‘Good mother, may I borrow your donkey for a moment?’
The little donkey, well schooled in obedience, trotted along the jetty and on to the gangway, down into the hold. And Arcol followed the familiar, the loved donkey shape and smell.
‘Cast off!’ Captain Briggs yelled.
The old woman lifted her skirts, showing skinny shanks and large flat feet and ran along the jetty. ‘My donkey! My donkey!’ The watchers laughed and shouted.
Feeling something almost like physical pain, Sir Godfrey put his hand to his pouch. A whole noble, six shillings and eightpence, for an old donkey worth a shilling at most.
Then coins rattled on the stones. Screams and imprecations turned to blessings. ‘God bless you, gentlemen all. God bless you.’
Turning to see who had forestalled him, Sir Godfrey found himself face to face with Lord Robert.
He said with no marked gratitude. ‘Thank you my lord, I must reimburse you.’ He held out
his coin. No great perception was needed to see that it was his only one; full pouches clink when handled.
‘I was afraid she would have a fit—or curse the whole outfit. Could we defer the repayment? I flung her all my small change.’
‘I shall remember that I am in your debt, my lord. And for a second time. You could have claimed my horse that day.’
The boy laughed. ‘And who would want Arcol?’
It was meant tactfully, a joke to explain a gesture, but Sir Godfrey seemed to take it amiss and did not smile.
Sir Robert said, ‘I wonder how many men you have unhorsed, Sir Godfrey, fighting under similar rules.’
‘One. But the fellow was a bad knight and a bad opponent. I reckoned it would be to everybody’s advantage to have him on foot for a bit.’
‘In any case, my unhorsing you was a pure accident. I know and you know that we could meet again a thousand times and you would win.’
‘That may be put to the proof in Escalona, my lord.’
Stiff, unfriendly, denying absolutely his reputation as not only the best knight but the most courteous, the most merry. Until the Easter Tournament at Winchester Lord Robert had never seen Sir Godfrey Tallboys but he had heard of him, even in his native Yorkshire which, though part of England, was so far away as to be almost a different country. For a man who had an almost legendary quality the boy had developed a kind of hero worship. How sad, he now thought, that the purely accidental happening should have had this effect.
A sailor coiling rope said, ‘so now we have a donkey aboard as well as a priest! Sure bad luck.’
Even more than most men in a superstitious age, seamen were superstitious. Bishop William had said that on the sea, if anywhere, men were in God’s hands; it cut both ways; on the sea, if anywhere, men were in the hands of blind chance or the devil. Priests were bad cargo; so were donkeys and corpses—the last worst of all. In fact dead men, soldiers killed abroad who had relatives rich and important enough to want them brought home to be buried with their fathers, were often shipped in the most ignominious fashion, crammed into barrels, rolled up in tapestries. Captain Briggs himself, an enlightened man in his way, had been a bit sorry when Father Andreas chose to travel on his ship and not on the Mary Clare. And he had suffered a moment’s indecision about the donkey, sail with it or wait while it was taken off. The sailor’s remark, chiming with his own unacknowledged feelings, provoked him. He administered a clout on the ear. ‘Lay off that. Talk of bad luck invites it.’ Privately, he determined to get rid of the donkey. That proved to be impossible; the little animal shared Arcol’s narrow space between the bulkhead and the buffering wall of straw bales and the only person allowed near was Sir Godfrey himself. And he, tactfully approached—‘Your horse would have more room and be more comfortable, sir,’ said that the donkey might well be needed again.
No bad luck was immediately apparent; a brisk following wind sent The Four Fleeces skimming down the channel. The way the ship handled, though, was a constant reminder to her master that her cargo was lighter than usual; knights and their horses were great consumers of space in proportion to their weight. In the Bay The Four Fleeces would bounce about like a walnut shell. Knights and horses were also extremely demanding; but Captain Briggs had struck such a bargain with the Dominican, who seemed to have unlimited money, that it made the whole thing worthwhile. Half the charter money was already paid and safe with the captain’s wife in Bywater, the other half was to be paid in Seville. Not only that, Father Andreas had guaranteed a return cargo, a full cargo of real sherry wine, a thing practically unheard of.
The price agreed included food for men and horses and there again some profit might be made, with management and cunning, meticulous though Father Andreas had been about details; fresh bread every other day, fresh meat twice a week. Captain Briggs had carried a few passengers before but they had either provided for themselves or eaten whatever was available; now he carried sheep, pigs, calves, fowls; all closely penned and all—by the sound of them—ill contented. But the Bay, even at its best, was a great curber of appetites. He derived a sour amusement from the thought of a pig killing and a pig roasting with The Four Fleeces attempting somersaults.
But at the end of it all, with God’s blessing and a modicum of luck—peace. Just this one immensely profitable voyage—a chance that came to few men—and he’d sell out and retire. Not, as many old sailors did, to a place within sight and sound of the sea; he wanted no more of it. A little house in that part of Baildon called Saltgate; on winter nights the shutters closed—he did not aspire to the luxury of glazed windows—a blazing hearth and let the wind blow where it liked. His son should be apprenticed to an easier and safer trade…
‘It occurs to me,’ Sir Ralph Overton said, ‘that God, if He is up there, must often have a good laugh.’
The older knights had naturally gravitated to one another, finding out and becoming tolerant of the little physical habits, mental quirks which had not been noticeable in larger, looser gatherings but on shipboard did obtrude.
Sir Ralph was terribly, boringly, given to extraordinary statements, near blasphemous; or, as an alternative, sentences beginning, ‘When I was in Calais… Rome… Pamplona…’
On this, the last peaceful evening they were to know for a while, Sir Stephen Flowerdew, orthodox to the core said, with some irritation, ‘What do you mean? If He is up there. We know He is. And why should He laugh?’
‘At us, my dear man. All rushing about and busying ourselves. And all playing Blindman’s Buff. Whereas He knows. Why we are here, for example.’
‘I know why I am here. I have four daughters; the eldest needs some dower now, the others, presently.’
‘Oh, that,’ Sir Ralph said, dismissing an excellent reason with a shrug. ‘By the same token, I am here because my sister, rich as she is, refused to allow me a penny or pay another debt. She called me a wastrel.’
Sir Godfrey made his contribution. ‘I have a wife and four children and but a small estate.’
‘And you could ask every man and get a reason. But not the one God knows. I sometimes myself hazard a guess.’ He said the last words in his irritating, half-mysterious manner. Neither of his hearers encouraged him by a question. ‘You see, when I was in Pamplona—my first visit as a very young man—Escalona was there.’ That, at least, was new and interesting and he had their attention. Indeed Sir Thomas Drury, conscientiously exercising his wolfhound, halted and said, ‘What’s that? Did you so? What’s he like?’
‘A very strange fellow. Not mad, but given to fits of madness. He fell in love with Princess Blanche of Pamplona, a mere child. Asked for her hand, in fact, and took the refusal so badly her father asked him to withdraw and never set foot in Navarre again. She’s Crown Princess of Castile now.’
‘Interesting,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘But no concern of ours.’
‘That is what you think. I ask myself whether we may not find ourselves engaged, not in a tourney—in a rebellion. All this,’ he waved a hand in comprehensive gesture which included Mary Claire somewhere out of sight, left behind on the first day, ‘seems to me rather a high price to pay for a tournament, even for so rich a man.’
Sybilla had said almost the same thing. And now Sir Thomas, fondling the wolfhound’s head, asked a question that she had asked.
‘Then why the Dominican?’
‘John of Castile is unpopular with them—indeed, with all the Church. He is an open blasphemer; and dabbles in alchemy.’
‘If you are right it would put us in a very grievous position,’ Sir Stephen said; orthodoxy told him that Kings were Kings, God’s anointed. On the other hand—those four sweet girls! ‘Not that we owe any allegiance to the King of Castile.’
‘Why should you think such things?’ Sir Godfrey remembered feeling relief at seeing Sir Ralph on Bywater quay, so knowledgeable, so shrewd.
‘I only said that I asked myself. Well, we shall see when we get there.’
Then came the time when it se
emed likely that they might not get there. The Bay of Biscay, dangerous at any time, was a giant cauldron, stirred by the autumn westerlies. All but the most hardened seamen were prostrate and even they went about green-faced and reeling; even Captain Briggs abandoned his idea of a mocking pig-killing.
Above deck it was like being in a plague-stricken camp under constant rain; below it was an Inferno.
(‘You will need three men accustomed to stable work,’ Father Andreas had said. ‘All knights will not have squires—and in fact, I have discouraged them.’)
The hold had been most thoughtfully prepared for a cargo of horses; bags of chaff and bales of straw, held by nets and steadied by ropes, separated the horses from each other and in ordinary conditions prevented too much lurching about. The place had been kept much cleaner than any stable because odours tend to rise and nobody wanted to live, to eat and sleep in the odour of horse dung and urine; droppings were removed almost as soon as they fell and complete swilling down twice a day was the rule.
Lord Robert had again offered Gilbert’s services to Sir Godfrey but Arcol would not tolerate him, so Sir Godfrey did his own feeding, grooming and cleaning. He did the feeding doggedly, even at the worst, feeding and watering the other horses, too. Cleaning was impossible and though horses were physically unable to be sick, when frightened they staled frequently. The few hardy men still active joked about the smell—it was that which kept them on their feet, they said. But the evening came when Sir Godfrey found himself singlehanded, wading over ankle-deep in filth which swilled about from side to side and from end to end as the ship rolled and pitched.
