Knight's Acre

by Norah Lofts

  He had never been a very pious man; he had accepted the teaching of the Church, kept the rules. He had been faithful to his knighthood vows and to his marriage vows, he had never cheated or told an unnecessary lie but his religion had always been a matter of form rather than of feeling; except when he knelt there in that narrow street and asked, from his heart, for help in getting Robert out before he roasted. That help had not been forthcoming… How then approach God now, except to say, as to some remote, indifferent overlord, ‘My God, I am sorry if by word or deed I have given offence. I beg forgiveness.’

  A creak, a narrow streak of oil-lit light. Something pushed in and a voice. ‘Take this, you swine!’

  Without knowing, without wishing, Sir Godfrey had picked up a small knowledge of Arabic. Terms of abuse were always the most easily acquired in any language.

  He had not been buried alive; but he was still a prisoner. He had failed in his attempt to escape and was back with his hopelessness. Sometimes, in the darkness, he wept.

  Floggings were not frequent in the quarry, partly because they disabled a man for work for some time; but it was good for everyone to be aware of the existence of the dreaded whip and to see it in use from time to time. The procedure was therefore made as public as possible with the offence which had occasioned it chanted. ‘Look well and learn. See what befalls one who would run away. See the punishment for defiance.’

  Sir Godfrey would have said that he was hardened to pain; to bear it without fuss was part of every boy’s training. At the first stroke of the many-thonged, metal-weighted whip he bit through his lower lip in order to keep silent. At the second both bowels and bladder failed him and he screamed like a trapped hare. Then he lost consciousness again.

  He was now, in every sense of the word, a marked man. Even an abortive attempt at escape was resented by the guards as a reflection on their vigilance and this man had for months been immune from even the most desultory punishment. As soon as his back and shoulders and ribs and buttocks were half healed he was moved to heavier work, at the rock face itself.

  Had he, in this new misery, been capable of finding consolation in anything, he would have found it in the fact that he now worked alongside John Barnes with whom he could at least exchange remarks now and then. Much talking was not allowed. The atmosphere here was also less dour and sullen than in the mosaic chamber where everyone was half-dead of age or ill-health; this was the place for the younger and more able-bodied slaves. Their plight was just as hopeless but they chose not to recognise it quite as fully as the old, sick men had done. They were of many nationalities; Italian, Dutch, French, Norwegian, German, but they had developed a kind of polyglot language with a good deal of Arabic in it.

  One day, when Sir Godfrey had been at the quarry face for some time, there was a new arrival; a Greek who also spoke Latin and quickly made himself understood by the two Italians who managed to impart the news he brought to the rest of them. The Turks, he told them, and they told the others, had taken Constantinople in May.

  ‘And that should stir up the Pope and the rest of ’em,’ John Barnes said. ‘There’ll be big war now, Christian against Infidel all over t’place. We might yet see t’light of day; if we bear up.’

  It was a frail hope, but anything, however small, was better than nothing.

  THIRTEEN

  At the point where the road to Moyidan met the lane to Intake, Bishop William halted his horse. James was head of the family, after all. And breaking bad news to a woman was a woman’s job. He was tempted. Then he admonished himself for wishing to shirk and rode on down the lane.

  Sybilla, at the sound of his horse, ran out, her headdress blowing in the gay April wind. At the sight of his face, she said:

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Nobody knows. It seems likely.’

  She did not break into the storm of tears which he had feared. Her face blanched and hardened, that was all.

  Inside the hall she said, ‘I have felt for a long time… from the very first… I was against it. What does it mean—nobody knows?’

  He took out the letter which the Head of the Dominican House in Seville had written.

  The Count of Escalona, the knights who were with him, Father Andreas and six of the Dominicans had simply vanished. They were known to have gone into Moorish territory in February 1453. No word of what had happened to them had ever been received. In March 1453 the Moors had overrun Escalona itself and, so far as could be ascertained, there had been no refugees. All hope for the priests had been abandoned and the chance of any man’s survival was small; the Moorish custom was to take only women and children as prisoners.

  Sybilla sat perfectly still with her hands pressed to a point just below her breast as though easing a pain. Stunned, poor woman. Now he found himself wishing that she would cry.

  He noticed for the first time how thin she had grown during these months of anxiety. He remembered, with startling clarity, a dress she had worn on one of her early visits to him. Not a modest dress, he had thought at the time, either in colour or style. It was bright scarlet, cut low and with sleeves that were so wide and loose that every time she lifted her spoon, her right arm had been revealed to the elbow; white and dimpled.

  To be honest, in those days he had not either liked or approved of her much; too worldly and given to fashion; and then when the children came she had spoiled them shamelessly and tried to interfere with his household arrangements which suited him perfectly. But now he was genuinely sorry for her, as he was for all the afflicted, and his words of comfort, though well-worn, came from his heart.

  Godfrey, he said, was now in God’s hands and safe for ever. Dying in a battle against the Infidel—as must be assumed—he had died in a Holy War. And it could be certain that he had died bravely. ‘He was a brave knight and a good man.’

  In his experience praise of the dead, however little deserved, provoked more tears in those already shedding them but applied comfort at the same time.

  ‘He was a brave knight and a good man. And he died because I must have a house!’

  ‘He died,’ William said, ‘because this Count of Escalona, having gathered knights for a tournament, snatched an opportunity to lead a small Crusade. In effect, Godfrey took the cross—an act which, even with men of evil life, shortened the pains of purgatory. Godfrey is now in the presence of God.’

  He then bethought himself of his last talk with his brother. There would be no money now to be brought home and looked after.

  In his own way William Tallboys was brave, too. He had broken the bad news, given what spiritual comfort was available and now took a decision that was likely to cost him dear.

  He said, ‘My dear, I should be very happy if you would come and make your home with me.’

  And if ever a man told a lie, he told one then. For more than the mere disruption of his household was at stake, though that would be bad enough… Henry was old enough to go to the monks’ school but, even so, it would leave two and John bade fair to be as noisy and hungry as his brothers. But there was also an undertow; the Lollards had been put down but some of the things they had said during their attacks on the Church had echoed … the words “housekeeper” and “nephew” had been smeared; and something of the smear clung. Conscientious clerics were careful to have only old, ugly women about them; and seemed to have fewer nephews… Still, if at his age and with his unblemished reputation he couldn’t invite his brother’s widow to share his home, things had come to a fine pass.

  ‘William, that is very kind. I am grateful. But I must stay here.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Except for those few short months I have always been alone here.’

  ‘But with hope,’ he said gently. ‘Now you will be…’ He left that sentence unfinished. ‘I am sure we could make some very comfortable arrangement. Those rooms that face the sea. A kitchen of your own.’

  ‘Thank you. That is most kind and ge
nerous. But I must stay here; in the house that Godfrey made for me. His last gift.’

  ‘The offer will remain open, my dear.’ She was in no state to be pressed. He felt that she was making a wrong decision; and although to make the offer had been an effort he did not like to see it rejected so promptly. Nor did he like the idea of leaving her here alone. Such unnatural control must surely snap. On whose shoulder would she weep?

  He offered to stay overnight. Offered to send Emma from Moyidan. Offered to send a well-mounted messenger to fetch one of Eustace’s sisters. She said, ‘I need nobody, William. I have been prepared for this. For many months now.’

  But then, he thought, so were women who had watched through hopeless illnesses—yet they wept. For the first time William understood what his sister Mary had seen in Sybilla.

  James came next day and made an offer similar to William’s and that had cost him even more of an effort—hours of argument with Emma who did not favour the idea at all. And he had come a cropper. In the course of the argument he had pointed out—meaning no ill—that in June Margery was to be married and that Sybilla could, to an extent, take her place. Emma took that much amiss. ‘Are you telling me that I am old enough to be Sybilla’s mother? I thank you for nothing! She is full twenty-six, maybe more if the truth were known.’ He had tried to explain; he only meant that Sybilla would do the errands, the running about, the waiting on. Emma refused to be pacified, refused even to discuss the matter further until, by one of those curious twists that a quarrel takes, they came back to something she had long wanted and James had been reluctant to give, holding—as he did—that as he inherited property, so he should pass it on. And there was something—unpleasant—in this assumption that she would surely outlive him, obvious as it must be considering their ages. And she had been well-dowered; but her argument was that values were changing so rapidly. A noble, once worth in words, six shillings and eightpence, was now in words worth eight shillings and fourpence but it bought less; and she could not really trust Richard to look after her—good mother as she had been to him. He was so weak; even in the midst of this quarrel she could not bring herself to say simple-minded; weak and stubborn. He’d choose his wife—as Godfrey had done—and then live under her thumb and where would Emma be?

  By the end of the quarrel, Sir James had pledged his word. Emma should have land and money enough to build a house when she needed one, not as a bequest in his will but now. A bribe for doing what was merely a duty—offering a home to a widow and her children.

  Sybilla gave him the same answer as she had given William. Kind. Generous. But she must stay here. And she could manage. Knight’s Acre was even now virtually self-supporting, next year it would do even better. She could manage. Sir James was so much impressed by her attitude that he made another effort; he said that if ever she needed money—or advice—she had only to ask…

  Time now seemed to change pace. While she had awaited news, it had been both speedy and slow. A week of waiting an age and yet the Sundays seeming to crowd one another. Different now.

  She had broken the news to Henry. ‘Henry, I have something sad to tell you; I heard today that your father is dead.’ No impact. Henry said, politely, ‘I am sorry, Mother.’ He would have been more concerned if she had cut her finger.

  Walter struck a truer note. ‘I am sorry, my lady; but I had begun to think… And he died as he would have wished. If that’s any comfort.’

  There was that to think of. She had not wanted him to go; but he had wanted to and had whistled, merry as a blackbird, as he scoured his armour and rubbed neat’s-foot oil into its straps. He had gone happily to death. And since death must come to all men…

  Father Ambrose asked, ‘Any news of Sir Godfrey, my lady?’

  Senile; she had told him in those first bitter moments and he had said, ‘I am very sorry. I will say a mass for his soul.’

  But he asked the question every time he saw her; not on Sundays only; as the days lengthened and even the twilights were warm he would come, knock on the door, ask the same question, receive the same answer, make the same promise. She outlived the stage of being exasperated and was able to think—Poor old man!

  In that April William of Bywater had had another thought. What of the rest? Who else should be informed? He plodded up the hill to the Dominican Priory and, because Dominicans were scrupulous about records, he was given the names of fifty knights, half embarked on a ship named Mary Clare which, after so long a time, must be assumed to be lost, and half on The Four Fleeces which had been luckier, at first.

  He went back and sat at his wide table and cogitated. Urged by Sybilla he had put enquiries afoot; and been answered. Other women, living with anxiety and suspense that ate the flesh from the bones, still knew nothing. It was his duty to write and he did it, until the repetition dulled his mind and the writing cramped his hand. He had a perfectly adequate clerical staff but he felt that such a letter should be personal.

  The mystery surrounding the event kept interest alive and it was still being discussed when Sir Simon Randall went to the Lammas Tourney at the Abbey of Bury St. Edmund’s. There he disported himself less well than usual because his mind was distracted; should he or should he not pay a visit of commiseration to Sir Godfrey’s widow? It would be a perfectly conventional thing to do; he and Sir Godfrey had been comrades-in-arms during the Welsh war; so why not make up his mind and go? Because, after only five months, bereavement would still be raw and he shrank from seeing her in a lachrymose state. He’d been a child when his father died but he had a vivid recollection of how his mother—a strong-minded woman, too—had behaved for a full year. (He could also remember how his parents had quarrelled; but he had not associated his mother’s violent grief with feelings of remorse and guilt.)

  In the end he decided to go; sent his squire home with his great horse and a message to his mother, rode to Baildon and spent the night there and arrived at Knight’s Acre at midmorning.

  Sybilla was in the kitchen. Madge, the deaf woman, was helping with the harvest: she worked less ostentatiously hard than Bessie had done, being older and not inspired by a wish to impress Walter, but she did well enough. John and Margaret were also helping this year, gleaning stray ears for the hens. Their development had reached the stage where whatever John did Margaret would attempt to copy.

  Sybilla no longer listened for horses’ hoofs and when the knock sounded on the door, she thought—Father Ambrose again! She stopped only to throw off the coarse apron. She had abandoned headdresses now. Even in those days of declining hope, or near hopelessness, while there had been the slightest chance of Godfrey ever returning, she had been careful of her appearance. Now there was no reason to suffer inconvenience.

  The hair thus fully exposed had changed colour; Sir Simon remembered it as being the soft amber of fresh-run honey. Now it was primrose pale. And that look of youth which had made her so surprising a mother to four children, two of them big boys, had vanished. He felt something twist inside him as she greeted him. Poor lady, she has felt her loss keenly.

  There was, however, nothing tragic about her manner; she actually smiled as she said, ‘Sir Simon, how very kind of you to visit.’

  ‘I was nearby,’ he said a trifle awkwardly.

  ‘I have for so long been meaning to write to your mother. To thank her. Everything she sent me flourished and gave me much pleasure. The roses are over now but I believe, I really believe that one tree, one of the damasks, is preparing to bloom again.’

  ‘That does happen sometimes—with damasks.’

  She still had not wine, no saffron cake for mid-morning hospitality. But she had ale.

  ‘Walter,’ she said in a light, sociable manner, ‘has taken to brewing—and does it as well as he does all else. And I have learned the art of making harvest buns.’

  Harvest buns were meant to be eaten in the field; they contained a little finely chopped suet which prevented them drying out as slices of bread did. They were flavoured, too, a pinch
of nutmeg, a pinch of cinnamon and just before harvest started Walter had ‘happened upon’ another of his extraordinary bargains, a little old battered chest, regarded as rubbish by those who had inherited it and hoped to find gold. The spices in its small compartments, which ignorant heirs had opened with hope and shut again in disappointment, had found their way to what Walter called “the rubbish market” at Baildon.

  Sir Simon was at a loss; he had been properly reared and taught what to do in most circumstances; but how could you mention a dead man to his widow who talked about roses, about ale and harvest buns. It was like seeing a woman, and talking to her, through a window.

  Finally, he forced himself to say what he almost believed he had come to say. ‘Lady Tallboys was most profoundly sorry to hear…’

  The glass between them should have shattered then; but it did not. She said, ‘Yes, it was a terrible thing. My only consolation is that he went happily. That is true. He whistled as he made his armour ready and as he prepared Arcol. To be honest I was never in favour of that enterprise; I sensed something wrong… from the very beginning. But he went happily…’ There was a sombreness, now, in her voice and on her face the look of sorrow which had hollowed the youth away. But almost immediately she was again a hostess entertaining a welcome visitor; asking what he had been doing since they last met.

  How astonished she would be, he thought, if I told her the truth—sedulously avoiding my mother’s matrimonial lures! He gave her a brief account of his recent activities, one half of his mind intent to be as entertaining as possible; the other deeply concerned for her. Poor and alone. And sad—for all that brave front! Finally, feeling self-conscious about it, he managed to get in his question; did she propose to stay in this house? Oh yes, she said, everybody had been exceedingly kind; she told him about the homes she had been offered. ‘But I prefer to stay. I am not lonely. I have three children, and Walter, and Madge. At the moment they are all in the field.’ Where, shortly, she should join them, carrying ale and harvest buns. The corn was thicker this year and no part of a good working day must be wasted by dallying over dinner. Supper was the main meal at this busy time of the year; she had been in the act of preparing it; a mutton and apple pie…