หน้าหลัก The Knight and the Rose

The Knight and the Rose

ปี: 2015
ภาษา: english
ISBN 13: 978-0-9873846-6-9
File: EPUB, 800 KB
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The Golden Widows

ปี: 2014
ภาษา: english
File: EPUB, 1.43 MB
The Knight and the Rose


Isolde Martyn

International Award-winning Author

Awards and Reviews for The Knight and the Rose

Winner of the ‘Romantic Novel of the Year Award’ 2001

Romance Writers of Australia


‘A lovely medieval, rich as a stained-glass window’

International best-selling author Jo Beverley


No 4 in Amazon Editors’ ‘Pick of Romance 2002’


Top Pick!

Romantic Times Club Finalist, Historical Romance


‘The lush, richly textured historical backdrop as well as the finely drawn historical characters and political suspense are just what readers have been looking for when they say “give me more history with my romance”.’

Kathe Robin


‘They don’t get any better than this. This is a book that truly deserves the five-heart designation “keeper”.’

Lesley Dunlap, The Romance Reader

By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Apart from references to actual historical figures and places, all other names and characters are a product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


Copyright 1999 Isolde Martyn

ISBN: 978-0-9873846-6-9

Draft2Digital Edition

For John, who liked this story best of all

Characters 1322-1327

Listed in order of appearance. Asterisks denote the real historical people


Sir Fulk de Enderby (‘the Mallet’) husband to Lady Johanna FitzHenry and a veteran of the wars against the Scots


Lady Johanna FitzHenry third wife of Sir Fulk de Enderby, daughter of Lord Alan FitzHenry, Constable of Conisthorpe


Agnes her tiring woman


Geraint/Gervase de Laval (and several other aliases) a rebel fleeing from the Battle of Boroughbridge


Sir Edmund Mortimer* heir of the rebel Marcher lord, Sir Roger Mortimer of Wigmore


Father Gilbert chaplain to Lady Constance of Conisthorpe


Lady Constance wife to Lord Alan FitzHenry, Constable of the royal castle of Conisthorpe and mother of Lady Johanna


Yolonya tiring woman to Lady Constance


Sir Geoffrey Seneschal of Conisthorpe Castle


Lady Edyth de Enderby Sir Fulk’s unmarried sister


Sir Edgar de Laverton retainer of Sir Fulk


Dame Christiana a holy widow and recluse under the patronage of Lady Constance


Jankyn (Watkyn) jester to Thomas, Earl of Lancaster


Miles FitzHenry younger brother of Lady Johanna and heir to Lord Alan FitzHenry


Lord Alan FitzHenry Johanna’s father and former Constable of the King’s castle of Conisthorpe


Sir Ralph de Middlesbrough Deputy Sheriff to Sir Roger de Somerville, High Sheriff of Yorkshire


Stephen de Norwood Proctor of the Archdeacon’s (Consistory) Court, advocate to Geraint/Gervase and Lady Johanna


Maud de Roos a widowed noblewoman


William de Bedford Judge of the Archdeacon’s Court


Martin de Scruton Examiner to the Archdeacon’s Court


Queen Isabella* wife to King Edward II and sister to King Charles IV of France, Later known as the She-wolf of France


Sir Roger Mortimer* rebel lord imprisoned in the Tower of London, father of Sir Edmund and favourite of Queen Isabella


King Edward II* King of England at war with his barons


Edward, Prince of Wales* son of King Edward II and Queen Isabella. Future King Edward III


Hugh Despenser the younger* favourite of King Edward II


Hugh Despenser the older* Earl of Winchester, father to Hugh


Lady Elizabeth Baddlesmere* wife to Sir Edmund Mortimer, daughter of executed traitor, Bartholomew Baddlesmere


Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford* supporter of Queen Isabella and enemy of King Edward II


Henry, Earl of Leicester* brother of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster


March 16th 1322: the Feast of St Boniface

‘How many more times must I teach you your duty to me!’

Fulk de Enderby lashed his ringed hand into Johanna’s cheek, sending her stumbling back against the bedpost. She heard his spurred boots descend the stone stairs outside her door, and slid miserably to the floor, huddling beside the coverlet. The bruise down the side of her face was already ripening uncomfortably against the interwoven metal threads. Yes, how many more times?

The laughter, the joy in life, that once had been her nature had been threshed away; Fulk, this so-called worthy banneret her father had compelled her to wed, had nigh on defeated her but she still had a little courage left. Killing the old fiend might be a mercy to mankind even if they hanged her for it. Anything to escape the cruelty and the beatings.

Cob, her little hound, whined against her ankles. Johanna roused herself and gathered him into her arms, rocking his head against her kirtle. Only a matter of weeks, she thought, and she would be prepared to hurl herself from the top of the keep and risk an unhallowed grave and eternal Hell. Satan at least might have a sense of humour.

‘Oh, my lady, what damage has that brute done this time?’

Her young tiring woman, Agnes, came quietly into the bedchamber and knelt down beside her shaking mistress. Dried lavender seeds tumbled off the cloth tucked into the girl’s waist and she smelt comfortingly of the linen press. Fulk had not taken Agnes from her, not yet.

The younger girl gently turned Johanna’s face to the open shutters and shook her head sorrowfully. ‘This wicked place! I curse your father for sending us here. There were tales in plenty but did he care?’

‘They were wrong?’ Johanna knuckled the tears away angrily.

‘Who, madam?’

‘The wretched jongleurs with their songs about knightly chivalry and love. All lies!’

The small dog, all paws and teeth, grew tactlessly playful, at odds with its mistress’s unhappiness and Johanna set it down. ‘Do you think my skin will grow calloused and as wrinkled as a walnut from all these beatings. Mayhap he will not desire me then.’

Rising, she paced to the narrow slit that served for a window. A blackbird, perched precariously on the crenellation flew off, his freedom mocking her. She had uncaged every song bird in the castle; she was the only prisoner. Her palms pressing against the insensitive stone of the walls, she stared longingly through the deep embrasure at the bleak brown-tufted hills that breasted the horizon beyond the village of Enderby.

‘If only he would let me ride. Just to escape for a few hours and feel the wind on my soul.’

‘He thinks you more likely to conceive if you forsake riding.’

‘Ha, what truth is there in that? Besides...’

Agnes came across and slid a sisterly arm about her. ‘I know.’

The chapel bell for morning mass crossed the silence between them like a shadow. ‘Light a candle for me and tell the chaplain why I shall not be at mass.’ Coiling her fingers into fists, Johanna bruised them against the broad sill. ‘Oh, by our sweet Saviour, what I need is a miracle or let God send a thunderbolt.’

‘Aye, well, you never know, my lady, God might send both.’

Chapter 1

March 18th 1322: the Feast of St Edward the Martyr

‘I’ll not be taking you further, master scholar.’

Geraint awoke to a jab in the ribs, felt the weight of Edmund’s inert body across his thighs and knew that the danger, the nightmare, was still with him.

The carter clambered down from the driving board and relieved himself on an untidy cairn of stones. It gave Geraint the chance to come to his wits before the fellow sauntered round to the side of the wain and lifted up the sacks that had been giving his passengers a meagre protection against the chill damp.

Rubbing the sleep out of his bleary eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Geraint wondered how he had even managed to doze, awkwardly crammed in as he was between the tightly lashed barrels of Bordeaux wine and the crates of North Sea stockfish.

‘Looks like he’ll be wearin’ a thick ‘ead when he wakes,’ the carter muttered, casting grim eyes over the youth cradled in Geraint’s arms, wrapped chrysalis-like within a heavy cloak. ‘Won this at dice, did he?’ He reached out and tested the fabric between his fingers.

In a different world, Geraint might have clouted the clod for his discourtesy but the fellow unwittingly had carried them at risk of his own life. They had certainly not been on the list of goods to be collected.

‘Aye, he did,’ Geraint muttered indifferently, tossing his fair hair back and eyeing the wild wood that disappeared into the mist in each direction with misgiving. ‘Where are we?’

They had been trundling for hours up across a foggy, God-forsaken moor since leaving Ripon but now he could hear the churning of river water against crags and knew they had left the high country.

‘T’ road yonder hies east up t’at moors agenn and I dare say you’ll not be wantin’ that. Go straight on an’ you will reach the road to Skipton. If you be wantin’ t’ nearest village, cross the bridge, take the right lane an’ follow t’ beck along. Me, as I told you this mornin’, I be bound to deliver goods to Bardon and, like as not, the Cliffords or t’ constable will give me food’n lodging, but they don’t like me bringin’ extra travellers wi’ me. Tried it afore.’

‘Aye, fair enow,’ answered Geraint. ‘Help me down with him then.’ Not for the first time, he was tempted to slide a blade between the carter’s ribs and seize the vehicle but he had seen so much death in the last week that he had no stomach for further killing and, like as not, if the man was known hereabouts, some gossip might recognise the horses and start asking questions. Besides, the man seemed to be a charitable fellow with a misplaced respect for poor sozzled scholars and did not deserve such a miserly end.

‘Happen there might be another traveller as can take you further,’ muttered the carter, clearly feeling guilty at dumping them like sacks of waste from a tanner’s. Between them, they lifted down the groaning, valuable heir of the imprisoned rebel, Sir Roger Mortimer. ‘By the Rood, he ain’t no feather.’

Geraint grunted. Both he and the carter were strongly built but the intermesh of Edmund’s bones and flesh weighed cursed heavy. It was a veritable marvel how two humble feet could keep any healthy man upright at all, let alone in chain mail, he reflected, as he propped Edmund against a convenient milestone and straightened his aching back, striving to hide the fact that his own wound was hurting like the Devil’s fire. The cold wind was already scourging him through the thin fabric of his tunic and poking icy fingers into his ears. He tugged his ragged hood forward and stamped his feet to get the blood flowing back through his limbs, stiffened from the journey.

‘I ain’t likin’ to pokin’ me nose in where it ain’t welcome,’ muttered the carter, scratching his scrubby chin. ‘But your friend seems right sickly.’

‘Pah,’ snorted his passenger dismissively, ‘if you think he looks white around the gills, you should have seen him under the alehouse board two days ago. We are supposed to be journeying back to his family,’ he added. ‘Leastways we will be if he can poxy well stay sober enough to tell me the directions.’

The middle part of the freshly-baked tale was certainly not a lie-that was if King Edward’s armoured sheep dogs had not herded up the remainder of the Mortimers still at large.

‘An’ here was I hopin’ he might be one of them wounded rebels what opposed the King’s men up Boroughbridge way. Might be a reward for some of ‘em, I shouldn’t wonder.’ So the fellow did not have a turnip for a brain.

Geraint sniffed with what he hoped was convincing incredulity and shook his head. ‘Not him, my life upon it!’ He was careful to watch the carter’s face, hoping that the man believed him. With the flail wound weakening his left shoulder and arm, he did not rate his chances of overpowering such a brawny fellow. During the journey, he would have had surprise on his side like a friendly wench, but face to face now with merely a knife-well, not unless he had to.

‘Aye, well,’ the carter shrugged. ‘I’ll be off then. God be wi’ you, lad, and Christ preserve your drunken sot albeit he looks ripe for an early grave. There’s a priory down the dale if you reckon som-mat else is ailing him.’ Sensible advice except that their enemies would be sniffing around the religious houses like dogs above a coney warren.

‘He will be back at the dicing table tomorrow,’ Geraint grinned. If he was not dead before sundown. ‘God’s blessing on you and my thanks.’

‘Glad to have the company, young ‘un, not that you said aught. But it’s good to have some extra muscle if a wheel should loosen comin’ over the high places an’ I should not have cared to meet one of them rebels.’ With that, the carter clapped him heartily on his wounded shoulder then happily busied himself checking girths and hooves, leaving his passenger with his teeth clamped together, nearly passing out with the pain of it.

With relief, Geraint watched him eventually flick his carthorses moving. It was a mercy the fellow had not expected payment; being dressed like a poor scholar had its advantages. He scowled at the stained, worn tunic that served him now and waited until the cart had rumbled out of sight before he heaved Edmund into the paltry shelter of the wood.

A twitter of wrens in the thicket complained at being disturbed as he gently set Edmund down and paused to retrieve his breath. The young knight’s lank brown hair lay tumbled incongruously across a patch of wood anemones that were optimistically unfurling.

Poor Edmund. Nature had spooned him out too small a dose of Sir Roger’s appetite to live life to its full. Yet the lad had tried his best to act in his father’s interests and support my lords of Hereford and Lancaster against the king.

Geraint had little thought to play his nurse but discovering their companions slain and stripped beside the campfire when he returned from seeking food and tidings, and only the lad left alive, had given him little choice. Dead before nightfall? Please God, no, but the dank, grey weather seemed to be closing in upon them again.

He felt again the despair of being a stranger and the hollowness of not knowing where to find kindness that could hold its tongue. With no knowledge of these Yorkshire dales, he was not certain how far they had come from the great road north nor whether the people of these parts had heard the tidings of the battle.

He decided to scout out an empty barn loft, warm with animal breath, where he could bestow Edmund at dusk. His clothing had already blessed him with a kind of sanctity so it seemed but a simple matter to pass himself off as a footloose schoolmaster and cozen a crust or two from a housewife. And with God’s providence, there might be a laundered sheet left out upon a hedge that he could pilfer to dress their wounds.

The ashes and hawthorns, still unbudded, yielded no cover so he hacked free some nearby coppice to make a shelter of sorts, interweaving a mesh of foliage byre-like around Edmund’s body. It would conceal the youth’s presence and shield the upper part of his body and, with God’s good grace, keep the wind from chilling him further. Not that it seemed the young knight was even aware enough to be troubled.

Setting out back to the cross-roads, Geraint took the village lane, which ran cheek by jowl with the wood as far as he could see. Accustomed to riding, he felt disoriented and vulnerable out of the saddle, or maybe it was because his wounded shoulder throbbed with every step, his belly was pleading to be fed and the freezing wind was slowly addling his mind.

Furrows of mud sucked at his feet so he picked his way instead along the matted grass at the road edge, trying to avoid slithering into the ditch that kept him company. It was an effort to keep the memory of the battle and its aftermath from repeating like a continual rallying horn in his head, or to staunch the anxiety that he could be hanged or worse. Dazedly he floundered on, blowing on his fingers and trying to concentrate on his footing.

Pounding hooves and the jingle of harness drove the weariness from his mind. God forbid they were bounty hunters. Cursing, he sprang into the ditch and crouched against the mess of ivy and nettles. A half-score of men-at-arms, their surcotes too far off for him to recognise, came thudding into sight heading towards the village.

Pressing his body hard into the bank, he crossed himself, offering more rash promises to St Jude as the ground pounded with their passing, or was it his heart frantic lest they drag him for interrogation before they hanged him?

The saint must have heard his desperate prayer. With his damp hose muddied further and his hands prickling from nettle stings, Geraint eventually clambered back onto the road.

If the soldiers were searching the village or drinking at an alewife’s, he would be better to seek help from some more isolated villeins, so he struck south through the wood, his arms hugging his body against the wind-hurled raindrops. Were they bounty hunters? Would they search this far for fugitives? All about him the lichen-encrusted trunks grew hostile as if they shared some sinister secret. Unease crawled down his spine. The telltale slap of startled pigeon’s wings confirmed it; he was being hunted.


IN the solar at Enderby, Johanna took the letter her husband held out to her, cursing that she had never been given the opportunity to learn what the confusion of black marks meant.

‘What does it say? Oh, for our Lord’s sake, tell me!’

Eager as a young dog to please, her mother’s comely, fair-haired groom, who had just arrived from Conisthorpe bearing the letter, butted in: ‘My lady, your father is dying, and your lady mother beseeches you to come home straightway.’

Sir Fulk de Enderby twitched the parchment from Johanna’s astonished fingers and turned a face towards the groom that usually bespoke punishments for his own servants. Realising his offence, scarlet faced, the young man fearfully pulled his forelock and inspected his toecaps as if he had suddenly grown alien appendages.

‘Does he speak truly?’ Johanna asked swiftly, diverting Fulk’s wrath and anxious to know what else her mother had written. There were more lines marching across the letter than that brief summary had warranted.

Her husband gave a curt nod, folding the missive and tucking it beneath the safe custody of his belt. No sympathy lay behind his cold smile. Had Fulk been in Jerusalem at the time of the blessed Christ’s crucifixion, he would have been one of Pilate’s knights ramming the crown of thorns harder on Jesus’s brow, and wearing that same coercive expression.

Discipline and conformity were everything to Fulk. Which was why she, his young third wife, had failed every test. Above all, she was barren, her womb unresponsive to his seed and her husband could not forgive her for it. He had tried to beat obedience and pump fruitfulness into her until she was bruised both outwardly and inwardly but still her mind and body had refused to conform.

And her father and mother, shent of her, had remained indifferent, even though she had dispatched them word of her unhappiness. A sympathetic visiting friar had clandestinely carried them tidings of her misery, but no answer had come. Though a baron with Norman ancestry and of higher rank than her husband, her father, Lord Alan FitzHenry, had not bothered to admonish his old friend Fulk. The ties between them as companions-in-arms were clearly more important than helping his once beloved younger daughter.

‘Well, wife, what is to be done? You are of a sudden unusually tongue-tied.’

Johanna swallowed nervously, glad that the veil hiding her injuries also screened her from Fulk’s interrogative stare. Please God, she could play this aright. She tightened her lips stubbornly as she chose her words.

‘My father can die without me,’ she declared. ‘I have no wish to set eyes upon his face again.’ Turning towards the cushioned window seat, she crossed her fingers within the shadows of her sleeve and waited for his temper to take flame.

Her husband grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her round to face him. ‘Why, what ignoble attitude is this? You shame my name, wife.’

Beneath her veil, she winced at his touch. ‘I will not go.’

He turned abruptly on her mother’s messenger. ‘Wait outside!’

Fingers, fierce as talons, fastened into the soft flesh of her upper arms. Fulk loomed over her. If ever the Death the Great Leveller set aside his hooded travelling cloak and scythe to dress for dinner at a bishop’s table, she would wager he would have the appearance of her husband-tall, gaunt, hoary-headed and bereft of pleasure in humanity.

‘You shameful bitch!’

Vixen, she hoped, might be nearer the truth.

‘Go? With this? ‘she hissed, setting back the gauzy tisshewe to show where he had hit her the day before. ‘I curse my father that he married me to you! He may die alone and unshriven for aught I care.’

Fulk, as always, was unmoved by guilt or shame. ‘Curse all you please, woman, but your father still has not paid the balance of your dowry and I will have it.’ He thrust her away, and paced towards the brazier. Turning, he jabbed his forefinger towards her. ‘I say you shall go. You will reconcile yourself with your father and plead on your knees for what he owes me. Tell him you are with child.’

‘By you!’ she scoffed, hating him with the loathing that our Blessed Lady must have felt towards Judas on the morning of Christ’s passion.

Hurling insults at Fulk’s age and childlessness were the only weapons in her arsenal save cunning. She voiced them seldom, fearing too much use would blunt them. But today the victory must be hers.

With one stride, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. She trembled at the fury in those joyless eyes, afraid lest she had gone too far; If he beat her senseless, she would be too ill to travel.

‘I had a foul bargain in you, girl. How many beatings will it take to make you hold your peevish tongue?’ He stroked his fingers down her throat and she froze, her gaze averted from the pale, lined flesh, the steel-blue eyes. Take away my looks, she prayed. Make me loathsome so he will set me away out of his sight.

‘I thought your youth and vigour would swiftly nourish my seed but you are disobedient, Johanna. You do not give yourself to me like a good wife should.’ Not now, she prayed desperately.

Not here, with my mother’s servant beyond the door..

‘I will not go!’ she hissed. ‘So what will you do? Tie me to the litter?’

‘Escort you there myself and stand behind you to see you grovel on your hands and knees for your inheritance.’

‘You go and do the grovelling. I care not.’

His thumb and finger collared her throat. ‘I think I will devise some new punishment for your waywardness. A public humiliation. A scold’s bridle perhaps.’ He was bluffing. No knight would shame his lady in the common gaze although privily he might well humiliate her in front of the servants. ‘Or would you prefer the hair shirt and scourging once again?’

For an instant longer, she showed him no fear.

‘I mean it, wife. Or perhaps you would like me to dismiss your beloved Agnes?’

‘You Hellspawn!’ She hung her head, seemingly defeated.

‘Excellent, I see we understand each other at last.’ He let her go and flung open the door.

‘Return to Lady Constance, fellow, and tell her my lady her daughter will set out at first light. Will you not, my heart?’

Johanna sent him a sullen look and turned her back. As the door closed behind him leaving her alone, she at last dared to smile in triumph.

Chapter 2

Geraint leaned against an oak to catch his breath and listened, wondering how many bounty hunters there were. He tensed ready to catch his stalker by the throat, but only the tap of an industrious woodpecker and the constant swearing of distant nesting rooks reached him. Perhaps his mind was playing him tricks. He could not leave Edmund for much longer. God forbid their enemies had already found him.

He staggered on and at last stumbled onto a well-used bridlepath that climbed and twisted awhile before bringing him down to rough-hewn planks across a beck. Beyond, the track disappeared round the hillside. An ideal place to jump a man. Edgy, certain that he was pursued, Geraint half knelt, feigning to drink and unsheathed his knife. Dead bracken rustled. He rolled aside as a cudgel came hurtling towards his skull and sprang up to face a thickset, black-maned lout grinning at him from behind a tangled beard. Relief flooded through Geraint. This was no bounty-hunter from Boroughbridge for the scoundrel wore neither haubergeon nor a scrap of stolen armour. This was nothing more than a scurvy outlaw.

‘My purse is already cut,’ he growled in English, covetously eyeing the black sheep pelt the brigand sported.

‘But your knife and boots would do me right well, stranger,’ the rogue chortled, not in the least deterred by his opponent’s larger frame.

Geraint braced himself but the attack never came. Instead, the man cocked his head, listening, and sucked in his cheeks. The clomp of hooves came from along the path.

‘Better pickings coming!’ the outlaw chuckled softly. ‘I will split the winnings with you. Pax?’

The sudden reprieve astonished Geraint but before he could protest or run, the rogue concealed himself behind a tree.

It was a crinkle-haired cleric leading an ass who rounded the corner. The aged churchman took a horrified look at Geraint and his knife. There was no time to warn him before the outlaw came at him across the planks. The little priest gave a roar of defiant outrage and jabbed the end of his quarterstaff into his attacker’s right eye. Then twirling it with the skill of a Scots war veteran, he sent his assailant tumbling backwards into the water. Before Geraint could protest his innocence, the priest hurtled across the planks, thwacking the staff into his side and then wounded shoulder with the precision of a rotting cabbage hurled at a pillory. And the world went black.

HIS head still reeling, Geraint opened his eyes painfully at the huff of hot breath on his mouth to discover that a hound’s black nose was investigating him. He could still hear the ripple of the beck but there was now a soft murmur of voices and the fidgeting of horses’ hooves. Someone had propped him against a tree trunk, but his wrists were tightly tied and he became aware of three pairs of feet.

‘No sign of the other one,’ someone said, and a fourth pair joined the others.

Several people seemed to be assessing him like sworn jurors but none of them he recognised save for the priest and there was no sign of the outlaw. Had the priest been riding ahead of the rest?

Fortune had certainly played the whore with him; he was not used to gazing on the world from the dirt like some penitent villein. Even if these people knew naught of what had transpired at Boroughbridge and that he was an escaped rebel, they would assume he was an outlaw. He might as well have turned himself and Edmund in to the nearest sheriff.

‘He is wounded. I never did that.’ The old churchman’s blue gaze studied him with interest.

Geraint stared down at the darkening patch on his breast while a second man, a knight grey-haired and grizzle bearded, knelt down before him, unbuckled his belt and lifted the thin tunic to inspect the damage. The man grimaced, his breath hissing.

Their prisoner blinked at the scarlet, bloody mass that was part of him from collarbone to belly and moistened his parched lips. For a moment Geraint was shocked but reason assured him that the fresh blood spilling out more than covered the true extent of his wound.

‘It-it should make an interesting scar, do you not think?’ he commented huskily in Norman French, trying out his most appealing grin, desperate to convince these people that he was no un-couth, rank-smelling ruffian but a wandering scholar. It would buy him time and mayhap he would escape the noose.

The knight glanced up at the churchman in mutual confusion, clearly not sure what kind of beast they had snared. ‘Aye, if it is attended to straightway,’ he answered Geraint. ‘Have you more of these?’

Their prisoner lifted his bound hands. An ugly gash descended for a span width below his elbow, half-hidden by the ill-fitting sleeve.

‘You reckon these might impress my grandsons if I live that long?’ His bravado was returning.

A bright blue skirt with a gris hem swished forwards. Geraint became aware that the knight’s la-dy was staring down at him-an older woman with the girth that came from childbearing and a laden table. He gave her but a cursory glance and looked past her to watch the knight’s face. Therein lay his fate.

Judging from his appearance, Geraint’s captor was not overly wealthy. The man wore no gold and his woollen tunic had seen much wear albeit his sword scabbard and belt were of excellent craftsmanship. He would certainly seek payment if he guessed King Edward might reward him for a fugitive rebel. But thankfully his expression was concerned rather than suspicious.

‘Yolonya, have we anything that will staunch the bleeding?’ the lady asked over her shoulder.

There was a rending noise and someone’s underkirtle was being generously ripped.

An even larger woman, clad like a servant, with arms the size of mutton joints, crouched and thrust a wad of linen against his wound and ungently threaded another strip around his waist and bound it tightly.

‘Now, what are you doing on my land?’ It was the lady who spoke.

Geraint swore inwardly at his stupidity and reappraised her. Her eyes were too shrewd, damn it!

He could tell she was weighing how she might profit from his capture. Her gaze took in the neat cut of his hair and evaluated the costly boots that he had refused to abandon, which were so at odds with the fraying tunic that strained across his broad chest. She pointedly studied the finely wrought horn handle of his knife that the priest was holding before looking back down at him for an answer.

Oh yes, too shrewd by half.

‘It saddens me to say it, young man, but I really do think you should abandon your aspiration to play Robin Hood. Save it for May Day, hmm? The recklessness is there but…’ she gestured apologetically, as if she was sparing him a more cutting comment.

‘-But I am inept,’ he finished for her. ‘Yes, it would appear so.’ He was conscious of his stub-ble, that his fair hair was tousled and in need of a sousing. Clean and well clad with sweet breath and good teeth, he could usually net a woman’s heart with his smile. He tried now. ‘I am a poor scholar of Oxford, my lady, and I pray you for charity to give me a few pennies and some food and I will be away from here as fast as I may.’

‘And your injuries? Never tell me the masters of Oxford hurl words at you with such leaden ferocity.’ Although he liked the amusement in her voice, he did not dare share a morsel of the bitter truth with anyone.

Smiling painfully, he shook his head. ‘True, madam, but I was set upon as I was about to drink by the rogue who attacked yon priest. You were impressive, Father. Is the outlaw also trussed so deftly?’ They did not answer him nor produce the wretch. Geraint moistened his lips nervously. That was unfortunate; the fellow could have been forced to corroborate his story.

The lady exchanged glances with the others. It seemed as if the jury was still considering, but she did not have the patience to await a consensus.

‘Oh, free him, Sir Geoffrey.’ She folded her arms and regarded Geraint sternly, as the knight-

evidently not her husband since he had made no contribution to the decision-loosened his bonds and helped him to his feet. He must have tottered precariously; not only did his head swimviciously and his wounds throb but now his other side also ached damnably where the priest had whacked him.

‘Please, I beg you, have you any food?’

Mercifully, she nodded to the churchman. After much fumbling in the pannier strapped behind the ass’s saddle, the priest drew out a pot. Was that all the man could manage? No bread and cheese?

The lady caught Geraint eyeing it ravenously and set a hand upon the priest’s arm delaying him, from unsealing it. ‘Who was it set upon you?’ she demanded, taking the pot delicately between her gloved fingertips as if she was about to bestow a jousting trophy.

‘Good dame, for the love of God.’ Geraint held out his hand for the nourishment but she with-held it. ‘Should I have asked his name, madam, before he hit at me?’ Her mouth tightened angrily at his sarcasm and he cursed his temper. ‘I beg your pardon. I should not have spoken so.’

Hugging the vessel pot possessively against her bosom, the lady tyrant circled him, inspecting him as if he was a villein up for hire. ‘What are you called?’

‘Ger…’ By Jesu, he needed a name. It was necessary but difficult to think fast, given his addled state, but he was used to dissembling. He chose one he was at home to. ‘Gervase de…Laval.’ God willing she had never crossed the sea.

Satisfied, she handed him the stone jar. Lifting out the stopper, he jabbed his fingers in. Honey.

Better than nothing. He hungrily scooped out some of the sticky mass, swiftly licking it off his fingers before it wasted on the ground. The dog plonked itself in front of him, wagging its tail hopefully. The lady, anticipating his other need, gestured to the leather bottle on the knight’s belt and Sir Geoffrey handed it reluctantly to him.

‘Thank you, sir. God and all his angels bless you, my lady.’ He raised it to her before he drank.

The ale ran down his dry throat, pleasing him better than the finest of wines. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stopped the pot. ‘I beg of you may I keep these?’ he asked gravely, too proud to lace his voice with pleading.

They were watching him with an excess of curiosity, and he cursed inwardly. It was tempting to ask their help for Edmund, but far too dangerous. He needed to be quit of them. Going down shakily on one knee, he carried the lady’s hem to his lips. ‘I am a poor scholar, my lady, and I thank you for your act of charity. God be with you.’ He rose and turned to go before he remembered they had disarmed him. ‘Would it please you to give me my knife,’ he asked humbly.

That too was handed him and he touched his forehead to the lady, bestowed a wry mutter of thanks on the rest and hobbled off in what he hoped was the wrong direction.

It took a cursed while to find Edmund for he picked a circuitous path lest the outlaw should follow him again but no panicked bird or snap of twig betrayed unwelcome company.

‘Edmund, Edmund! Can you hear me?’

He felt for a pulse at the side of the youth’s neck. It was faint beneath his fingers but still there, thank Christ. His beloved cloak, soft leather, waxed against the weather, had kept the drizzle off the young knight from neck to calves, and he was right glad that he had made the sacrifice. Gently he loosened its folds, praying that the bleeding had stopped.

‘Is he still alive?’

Geraint spun round, drawing his knife with an oath but it was the priest who had come up behind him, his tread soft as cats’ paws.

‘It were best you had kept out of this, Father. Now I shall have to kill you,’ he growled, but the thin, little wafer of a man came closer still.

‘Kill me?’ A wry smile twisted his lips. ‘I have bested you already, I recall.’ The priest’s glance fell meaningfully upon his wounded shoulder. ‘You do not have the mien of a murderer, my son, and my lady will unleash her hunting pack to track you down. Here is better work for me.’ Not waiting for an answer, the older man crouched down beside Edmund, reaching out a compassionate hand, tributaried with veins, to feel his forehead.

Even as he cursed inwardly, Geraint was glad of the comfort of another human being. If Edmund was dying, at least his soul would not be sundered from his body unshriven.

Shifting round, the cleric set back the cloak and inspected the bloodied shirt beneath. He frowned, not liking what he saw, and swiftly covered him again.

‘There is a healer, a holy widow, dwelling on my lady’s demesne west of here. We have presently come from there. Your friend will not last long without her skills.’

‘How far?’

Brushing the leaves from his habit, the priest clambered to his feet.

‘We can have him there by nightfall if we sling him on a litter with my mule and another beast aft and back. I will fetch them hither as fast as I may. Keep him as warm as you can and say your prayers.’ He lifted his face to the sky, assessing the clouds and then returned his glance to Geraint’s hesitant face and the blade still naked in his hand. ‘Or would you rather he die?’

‘Could you not fetch her here?’ Surely the woman could not disobey the priest’s summons?

‘Her? Not Christiana.’ The cleric studied his face, adding, ‘You fear I will be indiscreet? Is that what concerns you? I know battle wounds when I see them, master scholar. And I heard that a rebel army was on the march from the Trent with King Edward harrying them.’

Geraint averted his gaze. Dear God, the man knew too much for his own good. ‘And these are the Mortimer lions unless I am mistaken.’ The priest stooped and fingered the embroidery on the edge of Edmund’s shirt collar showing where the cloak ties had slackened.

‘You are mighty omniscient,’ Geraint answered coldly, grasping the weapon more firmly. Certes, he would need to use it; the man had just written his own death warrant. Yet his curiosity was whetted. ‘We are dangerous company. Why should you wish to help us?’

‘Because…’ The churchman’s blue stare rose from Mortimer’s face to gravely examine his. ‘Because King Edward has broken the laws of God.’ He took another interested glance at the prostrate knight. ‘Edmund, I heard you say, eh? Not quite so comely as his father. Yes, I think I can guess whose son this is. Trust me. You have little choice.’ As if he read suspicion rampant still on Geraint’s face, he continued, ‘Oh, I know a Mortimer when I see one. Three of Sir Roger Mortimer’s brothers are priests, and Walter, rector at Radnor, is a good friend of mine. Was not Sir Roger arrested down in Shrewsbury in January on the king’s orders.’

Geraint stared at him, further amazed that he was so well informed. ‘Aye, arrested after being promised a safe conduct to King Edward at Westminster.’

‘Is Sir Roger still alive?’

‘For the nonce. The king has him mewed up in the Tower of London.’

‘Then I suggest we do everything we can to ensure his heir lives.’ He stood tensely waiting for Geraint’s decision, as if he faced a snarling dog with its hackles up.

It was necessary to be pragmatic. Geraint’s grip on the haft eased and he slowly sheathed the knife. ‘We rode out to rescue Sir Roger on the road from Shrewsbury to London but there were too many soldiers for us. That was two months since.’

The priest took a deep breath, as if in relief that his life was no longer in peril, and answered, ‘Fortunate, I would say, otherwise you and Sir Edmund also might be in the Tower or hanged from Shrewsbury gibbet by now. We have heard some rumour of a skirmish north of York. Is that where you have come from?’

‘Skirmish!’ So they knew little as yet. ‘Bloody slaughter, morelike. My lord of Hereford is slain and Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, was claiming sanctuary in Boroughbridge church.’

‘God protect him!’ The priest fervently crossed himself. Even though the weapon was put away, he raised his eyes to Geraint with new respect and a great deal more apprehension. ‘Do you know who else led the rebel lords, my son? Was Sir Roger Clifford among them?’

Of course, down the road lies Skipton. Geraint realised he was hard by the demesne of the Cliffords, the great lords in these parts. Surely then the king’s men would search all the harder in these dales. Clifford and his men-any of the fortunate wretches who survived-might flee this way.

‘Clifford is a man of massive height, taller even than yourself, married to my lord of Hereford’s daughter,’ the priest was saying.

‘I believe he was with my lord of Hereford but whether he escaped…’ Geraint swallowed painfully. ‘I fear the king will wreak sore vengeance on all those taken prisoner. God’s mercy, we only escaped by the skin of our teeth and then our company was set upon by bounty hunters just east of Ripon. If Edmund is caught and accused of treason, it will go ill for his father in the Tower.’

‘Then better he lie low at the healer’s…if he lives out the night. You also, young man, you look as though a sparrow could topple you, big as you are.’ Or an ancient priest might!

‘This holy widow, can she be trusted?’

‘As God is my witness, yes. And if any mortal can mend him, she can.’ The cleric’s heavily lid-ded eyes glittered with sagacity now. ‘You will have to trust us, won’t you?’

Chapter 3

Three dogs in a variety of sizes harangued him and sniffed suspiciously at his heels as Geraint warily followed the priest Gilbert into the dwelling of the woman Christiana. The inevitable smoky smell that met him surprisingly carried no obnoxious tallow vapours and it was reassuring to see that the earth floor was clean. The only extravagance was the costly beeswax candle, no doubt a gift from the faithful, squatting stolidly on a small table. Vellum and quills were neatly set out around the candle holder.

Before he had a chance for further observations, a scrap of a little woman stepped out from behind the door. Grey braids on either side of her head, neatly coiled like a noble woman’s, showed beneath the folds of a blue headdress as clean as those in any painting of Our Lady, and her kirtle, dark as yew needles, hung in sober folds. A simple silver cross, the length of a finger, rose and fell upon her bosom.

‘How is a body to write her revelations with continual interruptions?’ she demanded, brown eyes, round and shining like wet river pebbles, glaring at her visitors. Geraint’s jaw slackened.

Revelations! This Christiana must rate herself immodestly high to have the temerity to set herself such a task. A literate woman!

As if she sensed him judging her, the old dame sucked in her cheeks and lifted her chin in challenge.

‘Why are you back, Gilbert? Come to see if I practise the black arts by night, have you?’ And as if to add a macabre quality to her humour, a black bird flapped from the rafters, startling Geraint into crossing himself. ‘Ha, this is Jack. You have frightened the handsome young man, Jackie.’

The jackdaw fixed one eye speculatively on Geraint as it settled on her shoulder and then scratched its grey nape thoughtfully.

Father Gilbert chuckled. ‘Well, you have familiars in plenty if ever I want to petition the archbishop,’ he countered, firmly stopping her from latching the door. ‘I am here because this lad needs your healing and we also have a wounded man out there slung between our horses.’

‘Excellent,’ muttered the widow shrewishly. ‘That must have done his hurts a power of good.

Special, is he?’ She took up the candle. ‘Did my lady bid you come?’

The men followed her out. ‘She knows of this, yes.’ The priest instantly sensed Geraint’s angry reaction and swiftly set a reassuring hand on his good shoulder, adding, ‘But we require your discretion, Christiana.’

‘Do you now?’ She marched across to the pole stretcher where they had lain it on the ground.

‘He is not her leman, is he?’ The priest gave a grunt of disapproval but Christiana continued undeterred. ‘No?’ She surveyed Edmund by the candle’s light. He was swaddled tight as a fly in a spider’s web. ‘Hmm, too green a codling, from the look of him. Well, do not stand there like drones, the pair of you. Fetch him in. ‘

Once they had laid Edmund on her palliasse, she gave Gilbert the candle and ran gnarled hands exploratively over the young man. ‘Hunting accident? Or has there been a battle?’ Her gaze, thick with curiosity, swung from the priest’s face to the stranger’s.

Geraint met her piercing inquisition. Given the light, feeble though it was, it was necessary to try for an honest expression. ‘I should prefer not to have to lie to you, good dame.’

‘Can you save him?’ Father Gilbert interrupted. ‘My lady would be pleased if you would care for him and the lad here.’

Christiana’s antennae must have sensed Geraint’s irritation at being referred to as a lad.

‘Hunting accident for you too, boy?’ she asked, her harsh voice larded with sarcasm, and, not bothering for his answer, pressed her fingers against the side of Edmund’s throat. ‘Hold the candle for me.’ Then her eyes flickered over Geraint once more. ‘Care for the pair of ‘em? Oh, no, of course not,’ she added waspishly. ‘Let her magnificence send the king and his court as well. What matter if it pleases me not one whit. I request to be left alone yet every stray dog, two legged and otherwise comes whining. Bring the poxy light closer!’

“A soft answer turneth away wrath’,’ snarled Father Gilbert. ‘Have done with this prattle.’

‘Do not dare quote at me, sir priest! Have I broomed these boys from my threshold? No, I have not.’ She pulled down the skin beneath one of Edmund’s eyes and inspected its colouring.

‘Well?’ asked the priest as she finally straightened up.

‘I will do what I can.’ She swung round on Geraint, ‘You, get your shirt off! What are you gawking at, lad? Over there, move the skull off the stool.’

Geraint lifted what had probably been the inside scaffolding of a badger’s head and set it beside the hearth next to two other skulls. Did she grind them for potions? he wondered, as he sat down with a weary sigh.

‘Well, uncover yourself, scholar, or are you expecting me to play your nursemaid?’ He felt the blood heating his cheeks and fumbled at his belt. The effort of freeing himself from his tunic made him swear and Father Gilbert came to his aid.

‘You should minister to my companion’s wounds first, dame.’

‘Nay, boy, let me see what mischief you have suffered. I want you to gather wood and stoke the fire. We shall need hot water to cleanse the pair of you.’

‘I shall do that,’ Father Gilbert lit a taper from the candle, grabbed a wicker basket which stood by the hearth and went out.

‘My eyes are not so good by candlelight but I will do what I can.’

He surrendered to Christiana’s skilful prodding like a tired child, relieved to have someone else make the decisions for a little space.

‘When did this happen?’

‘Two days ago, I-I think.’ Was that all?

‘Like that, is it, my handsome? Well, a good night’s sleep will sort you out and cleanse your memory. I am sure you will think up a good tale to tell me in the morning.’ Her voice lost its levity. ‘What was it damaged your shoulder? You can lie through your fine white teeth but see sense.

If I know what I am dealing with, I might be able to heal you faster.’

Geraint hesitated. ‘The gash on my arm is from a pitchfork.’

‘And your other wound?’

‘A flail,’ he answered softly.

Christiana gave an unladylike whistle. ‘Sits the wind in that quarter, eh? Plenty of enemies out there, have you?’

‘No, that was done by one of my own side.’ He trapped her hands, forcing her to look him in the face. ‘Will my companion live?’

She wriggled her fingers free from his grasp.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I very much doubt it.’


BEFURRED against the chill damp, his collar raised like a demon’s hood, Fulk signalled for the portcullis to be raised and handed Johanna into the litter that was waiting in the courtyard. He made no effort to tuck the coney fur rug about her thighs as if he was a dotard besotted with a young wife, but gave his hand to his youngest sister, Edyth, who, with a smug expression, seated herself beside Johanna.

‘You never told me she was coming,’ Johanna blurted out. It would be a journey planned by the Devil; her sister-in-law’s collared pet squirrel was already scrambling up its mistress’s shoulder, cowering from Johanna’s dog.

‘Edyth will remind you of your duty, madam. And do not stay away long. I want you back the moment your father has agreed to dispatch the remainder of the money he owes me. Make sure my sister witnesses his consent.’ Johanna made no answer, ignoring him as she turned her little dog’s attention from the squirrel and made Cob cosy upon her lap.

Fulk looked across her at his sister, ‘Remember what I told you, Edyth! Have others there besides. We may need them to give testimony.’

‘I am not a fool, brother,’ Edyth answered sharply, her glance directing Fulk’s attention meaningfully to the dog.

‘This creature stays.’ The tiny hound yelped in pain as her husband violently snatched it from Johanna’s astonished hands and flung it to the wet cobblestones where it cowered whimpering.

Johanna clenched her fists futilely and swallowed back the tears. Was there no depths that he would not sink to? Last night and this morning had been further humiliations. She would have given the throne of England to scour his face with her fingernails in front of his servants but Agnes was sitting pillion behind one of the escort ready to leave, and she did not dare risk losing her as well.

‘Do try to behave decorously, wife,’ Fulk admonished, pinching her cheek with a nasty leer, ‘but you will not have much choice, will you?’

‘God rot you, Fulk!’ she whispered. It was all she dared.

He laughed and let fall the litter curtain.

‘Lead on, Edgar.’ Another scourge to her back but one of which Fulk was probably unaware.

Ever since she had arrived at Enderby, Edgar de Laverton, one of his knights, had been wickedly eyeing her like a polecat watching a squirrel. Damn Fulk! He was sending half her problems with her but at least she would be free of him.

The litter swayed uncomfortably as the horses were whipped forwards and the squirrel, caught unawares, snagged her veil, landed unwelcome on her lap and bit her gloved thumb. It could have been a portent, thought Johanna gloomily, but as she heard the hooves of the packhorses clop behind them across the drawbridge, her spirits started to soar. It was like leaving Hell.

No one ever leaves Hell, her intellect reminded her. If your father recovers, he will send you back.

Only Fulk’s death or yours will free you from this bondage. You are no better off than a villein. No! Johanna protested silently. There has to be a way. Men make the laws, persisted the practical voice, adding pettily: Besides Fulk has your dog.

Johanna lifted her chin resolutely as the wooden planks of the drawbridge were winched up behind them. Whatever it takes, she vowed, I am never going back.


GERAINT raised surly eyes heavenwards before schooling his gaze into a proper semblance of gratitude and humility at the arrival of the Lady of Conisthorpe next morning. He turned towards her, his arms spiky with kindling wood, feeling unkempt in her elegant presence.

Smiling, she set back her fur lined hood with a hand gloved in Moorish leather and let her horse prance round towards him, delicately picking its hooves across the spangled grass. The sun glittered on the gemmed caul which held her hair close to the nape of her neck. A few strands of silvery hair glinted among the auburn strands pulled severely back into the snowy linen which framed her high-boned cheeks and wilful chin.

‘I said how is your companion?’ she repeated, gazing down at him from the saddle with all the grandeur of a formidable goddess of plenty. ‘Is he mending?’

Geraint sighed, temporarily unloaded his armful into the lee of the cottage wall and returned dutifully to take her palfrey’s bridle. ‘No, my lady, but he lives yet.’

The lady made no answer but swung herself out of the saddle and briskly strode towards the cottage leaving him to play the groom. He tethered the horse reluctantly, his mind bristling with anxiety. Did she ride unaccompanied? he wondered, glancing uneasily round for her servants.

How many knew of his presence?

He hastened after her, determined to have some answers and found her giving Edmund a cursory inspection.

‘So you have kept him alive?’ she exclaimed, studying the youth’s face while giving the old dame’s crinkled cheek a peck of a kiss as if she was an ancient aunt. Perhaps she was.

‘Just, God be praised,’ muttered the old woman, unmoved by the perfumed embrace.

‘I take it, if he recovers, he will not be fit to travel for a while.’

‘No, child.’


‘Madam?’ Geraint clenched his jaw.

She looked around the cottage as if making an inventory but her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. ‘I may have some work for you, Gervase,’ she exclaimed, tapping her riding crop impatiently against her silken surcote, as if anxious to be gone. ‘I will return tomorrow. Have you everything you require, Christiana?’

‘Ha, apart from peace and solitude, you mean? More clean linen for the dressings would be a blessing and healing moss too.’

‘Yes, of course, Christiana, I shall send a manservant for it and you shall have your supplies by Father Gilbert’s good grace after noon.’

‘Madam.’ Geraint hastened out after her into the sunshine. She was waiting for him to untie her horse for her. ‘I…’ He wanted to plead that she keep a still tongue.


‘Sure … surely it is perilous for you to ride without an escort, my lady. That outlaw who-’

‘Oh, him.’ Her eyes sparkled, lingering on Geraint’s still unshaven chin. ‘Do you take me for a fool, master scholar?’

‘No, madam.’

‘My servants await me hard by, never fret.’ She looked back towards Christiana, waving her crop to encompass the cottage and the trees beyond. ‘You know what this place is?’ Geraint shook his head, having observed little in yesterday’s dusk. ‘It is a park for our deer. I have given Dame Christiana permission to dwell here where she may be in seclusion and devote herself to prayer and meditation. And since she detests visitors, my people have orders not to disturb her. My chaplain, Father Gilbert who brought you here, administers the Holy Sacrament to her here twice a week.’ So she had fathomed him. ‘Does that set your mind at rest, master scholar?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘How is your shoulder?’

‘It mends, I thank you, but I fear my arm fares worse.’ Linen strips hid the inflamed flesh.

‘Fortunately it is your left arm. I thought that since you claim yourself to be lettered,’ her gaze rose assessingly from his boot caps to his collarbone, ‘you may assist Dame Christiana to write down her visions. Her hands pain her, poor soul, so it will be a way for you to repay her for her charity. I take it that will be no difficulty?’ From her tone, she thought him to be barely literate.

‘No, madam.’ He saw surprise glitter in her eyes.

‘Scholar indeed,’ she murmured. ‘Well, well, there is more to you than meets the eye. Your hands, sir.’

He stared at her perplexed and then realised she was waiting for him to cup his fingers so she might place her foot on them and mount. In the saddle, she smiled down at him silkily and with a flourish, unstrapped a saddle roll and tossed some clothing into his surprised arms.

‘These will be a better fit, I trust.’

He blinked at the tawny tunic and leather hose but before he could thank her, the palfrey was in full gallop up the path.

‘A law unto herself, that one, now that his lordship is afflicted.’ Christiana stood beside him, her hands on her hips, stretching her back.

‘Afflicted?’ Somehow it had not occurred to Geraint that Lady Constance was still a married woman. Could she have told her husband about himself and Edmund? ‘What is wrong with her lord then?’ Leprosy, the crabs, the crippling stiffness that came with age?

‘Seems Lord Alan has been smitten by God. Lost his speech completely, she reckons, besides the sense all down his right side.’

‘How long since?’

‘A week, maybe less.’

‘And is there aught you can do?’

Christiana shook her head. ‘God’s will. These things happen.’ She poked a bony finger into his back. ‘Now neither you nor I have time to waste in idle gossip.’ She peered up the track that Lady Constance had taken. ‘Keep your nose out of it, that’s what I say, master scholar. Let Lady Constance mind her own affairs.’

‘Aye, and not mine,’ Geraint added fervently.

Chapter 4

The Enderby escort, in their waspish black and yellow livery sounded their horns as they approached the archway of the Conisthorpe barbican and the castle clarions answered shrilly.

Pulling back the litter’s curtain, Johanna was heartened to see that the drawbridge was already lowered to welcome her home.

In the blink of a tearful eye, the inhabitants of the great jumble of dwellings within the bailey emptied into the courtyard like bees from a smoked tree trunk. By the time Edgar de Laverton had dismounted and was assisting Johanna from the curtained folds of the litter with his predictable leering smile, a crowd of Conisthorpe servants, tasselled by an untidy row of jumping offspring and a garlanded pig, was waiting to receive her.

Amazed that her mother had preserved the pig for sentimental reasons, Johanna held a friendly gloved hand to its cautious snout, chucked one of the cleaner children under the chin and received a fistful of bruised primroses. She badly wanted to share her euphoria at being back with those familiar faces, but it was necessary to behave soberly and she was ashamed of setting back the fine Laon veil-she could barely see out of her left eye.

What alarmed her too was that the castle seemed to lack a sombre mien. God forgive her for hoping that the mighty Constable of Conisthorpe was still ailing to death. It was selfish, despicable and she would fall into Hell faster than a penny down a well but her bruised face throbbed and she knew if her father’s health had returned, he would send her back to Enderby-without the remainder of her dower.

‘Sweet heart.’ Her uninhibited mother was hurrying down from the steps of the new hall as fast as her skirts would allow. Most noble ladies waited by the door to be kissed unemotionally but the Lady of Conisthorpe made her own laws. She threw her arms about Johanna and then let go, masking her dismay, as she sensed resistance.

Johanna desperately wanted to feel her warmth and strength but not a word of compassion had been sent to her during the exile at Enderby and her mother’s silence had left her cautious and resentful.

‘What is the matter?’ Constance whispered, stepping back.

‘Oh, it is good to be home,’ Johanna’s voice was brittle. Lifting her skirts, she mounted the steps and then turned.

Her mother stood transfixed on the lower step, unusually bereft of words, staring at her as if she had suddenly sprouted wool and a pair of curly horns. Perhaps she was wrong, Johanna thought, mayhap her letters had never reached Conisthorpe.

‘Johanna.’ Pearls of moisture formed and sparkled on her mother’s lashes. So she had been missed.

‘I feel as though I have been away a millennium, madam,’ Johanna offered softly as a conces-sion.

Encouraged, her parent took a step up and stretched out a hand to lift away the barrier of fabric.

‘Not now’, Johanna said swiftly with deceptive lightheartedness, glancing meaningfully at the litter to distract her. Forehead puckering, Lady Constance obediently turned to have her attention instantly snared by the emergence of Edyth, complete with squirrel, into the courtyard.

‘By all the Saints, did you have to bring her?’

In less fragile humour, Johanna would have enjoyed her parent’s expression.

‘Oh, he sent her to report on me. She is like a dag of mud, sticking to my life. Perhaps we can find a bucket somewhere.’

Her mother raised an eyebrow, took a deep breath, rearranged her features in an vacuous smile, and sailed down to greet Edyth somewhat fulsomely.

It was wonderful to have an ally again; since Edyth was not expected and there was no bedchamber to tidy her into, Johanna’s organising mother deftly manoeuvred the Conisthorpe chaplain, Father Gilbert, into conducting their guest around the gardens, giving orders that he was to point out the features, all the feature. Then, after conducting Johanna to one of the bedchambers built above the new hall, her mother hastened off to deal with the remainder of the visiting entourage and to warn them they were expected to return to Enderby next day.

Wanting to feel herself a maid again, Johanna unlooped the cream silk barbette that tethered her pearled head band, discarded her veil and unpinned the dark plaits from her aching head.

‘Shall I rebraid it loosely for you, my lady?’ Agnes asked.

Johanna shook her head and opened the casement. She stood idly watching the river below tumbling over the broad fall. The cold breath of wind from the soaring moors that gilded the edge of this little world, was a physical reassurance. She was home, the comforting familiarity of Conisthorpe no longer an insubstantial dream before waking. Tears might serve now; words were beyond her. Nor could she sum up in any way how much she valued this innocent, haphazard concurrence of hill and dale stretching before her from the steep cliff. It was not just the poetic grandeur of moving shadows of cloud dappling the hillsides which filled her soul, the land’s prosaic aspect gave her pleasure: the narrow timber bridge with a queue of mules and carts on the town side deferentially waiting for her father’s bailiff to ride across; the uncontrolled scatter of weavers’ houses beyond. Even the wire interlacing of winter branches, necklacing the river banks pleased her.

But the comforting peace before her could not yet erase the suffering of the last months. She was safe here, but she could not drive the thoughts of her little dog and those who served her well at Enderby from her mind. Who would have a care for Cob? And what of Barnabas the little page who was always incurring Fulk’s wrath? At Yuletide when the child had clumsily spilt the best Bordeaux over her husband’s finest clothes, Johnna had grabbed the other end of the stick and refused to let him beat the boy. Only by agreeing to fast for two days as penance for the child, had she managed to persuade Fulk to spare him.

Behind her in the bedchamber, Agnes busied herself unpacking the few kirtles brought from Enderby. To have packed all would have aroused Fulk’s suspicion.

‘Johanna?’ Her mother, returning, spoke from the threshold without her usual certainty.

Her daughter latched the casement, closing off the valley behind the translucent lozenges of cloudy glass and slowly turned. She saw the horror of her appearance reflected in her mother’s appalled expression.

‘God Almighty!’ exclaimed Lady Constance, crossing herself. She came across to Johanna, one hand clasped to her mouth. ‘Oh my darling,’ she whispered, ‘is it hurting?’

‘Every bit of me is hurting,’ answered Johanna coldly. She came swiftly to the crux of her resentment. ‘Why did you not write?’

‘But I did.’ Constance raised a hesitant hand to touch her daughter and let it fall unwelcomed.

‘You are assuming-.’ She paced away and turned, ‘Indeed, you should have had, let me see,’ she tapped her fingers against her skirts, ‘yes, half a dozen letters. I dictated them to Father Gilbert.

Ask him if you do not believe me.’

Her daughter shook her head in despair. Fulk or Edyth must have prevented the letters reaching her.

‘Oh, lambkin.’ Her mother, understanding, opened her arms and Johanna threw herself into them, the tears gushing up as if she simmered inside with sorrow.

‘It has been dreadful, madam, dreadful. Ask Agnes. If only you knew how good it is to be home, to be free.’

‘Aye,’ Agnes sniffed, ‘will you look at my lady, madam, thin as a bodkin and nigh blinded by that excrescent.’

‘Excrescence, Agnes,’ corrected Lady Constance, distractedly patting her daughter’s back.

It was wonderful to be held by loving hands. For a little space, the demons in Johanna’s life were muzzled and she wept out the anguish. Eventually she stilled and drew back, mopping the tears away with a sodden kerchief.

‘So, is he dead yet, the tyrant that yoked me to that fiend?’ She watched her mother wince at the bitterness in her voice.

‘You mean your poor father?’

‘My father who always swore he loved me. I suppose he thought I exaggerated in my complaints. It is a pity he had to be dying for you to bring me home.’

Her mother’s defensiveness gave way to self-congratulation. ‘But I have managed it! You are here, are you not?’ Johanna stared at her resentfully and Constance went on hurriedly: ‘As God is my witness, child, I tried before, but my lord brushed aside every reason I could find: ‘The marriage must be given time to work’,’ she mimicked. “You have turned the girl into a milksop. It will do her good to learn obedience, she is too wilful.’ You know what he is… was like.’

‘Was!’ Johanna stared at her. ‘Was? Then, in God’s Name, tell me what ails him! How close is he to making Satan suffer his abominable company?’

Lady Constance saddened. ‘He is not dying and yet-’

Panic streaked again through Johanna. If need be, she would lock this chamber door and take her own life. Her fingers curled into claws of frustration. ‘God give me strength!’ she exclaimed, addressing the stars daubed on the whitewashed ceiling. ‘Surely you are either dying or you are not.’

‘No, you see, my darling, it is some kind of visitation. It was…’ Her mother shrugged, her palms open and lifted as if she trusted the Almighty might just deposit the right words into them, ‘Johanna, it … was as a thunderbolt. One inst …What is the matter?’

Conscious that she was staring open-mouthed at her parent, Johanna pressed her lips together and tried to suppress the desire to grab up her skirts and rush to the chapel to give God an exuberant thank you.

Her mother’s one-must-make-allowances expression dissipated. ‘Your father had been riding all day with the new bailiff-some trouble with one of the villeins at Kirkbridge-and he came back in good humour well before supper, striding into the hall, calling for ale, hale as you please one moment, and in a thrice he had collapsed. There was nothing we could do. I sent to Skipton for the Cliffords’ physician and the fellow came as soon as he might. But he said there is nothing to be done.’

‘So it is not a frenzy?’

‘No, nothing of that sort. He is paralysed down one side and cannot speak.’

Christ forgive her for being pleased but she could not mourn the loss of a loving father who had metamorphosed into a ranting tyrant and forced her, poor fool, to believe that marriage with the wealthy Fulk was better than imprisonment and daily beatings ‘Can he write?’

‘What an odd question. I should not think so. Basically, my darling, it is not easy to know if the poor soul understands a word we say to him, and to be honest, we have not thought of trying him with parchment yet, but his sword arm is certainly useless. Perhaps he may be capable of scratching a cross with his left hand eventually-if he makes any kind of recovery-but I doubt he will understand what he is doing. Oh, I have hardly come to terms with the situation myself. It happened but a week since and there has been so much to do. I wrote to your sister Petronella and Sir John but I expect she is too far gone with child to travel and I have not heard back from Sir John yet, but that is to be expected. And I assure you I sent for you straightway.’

Johanna, feeling guilty for ever doubting her mother, reached out a hand and drew her close.

‘Thank God you did, Maman,’ she whispered bestowing a kiss upon her cheek, ‘and with such a message! Nothing else would have moved Fulk. I am only allowed back in order to acquire the rest of my dowry. That is why that wretched Edyth is here-to make sure I return with laden packhorses. Damn them both! Go and spy out where she is now, Agnes. That cursed woman is a cat on human legs.’

Her mother sat down on the high bed with a sigh. Johanna paced to the window and stood stroking her finger down the carving. ‘You have to help me, Maman. I cannot return. Should my father recover his wits …’

Her mother lifted up a kirtle from a half-emptied coffer, one that carried her own stitching, and absentmindedly fingered the soft silk.

‘If ever he does. Dame Christiana reckons it might take him years if at all. Mind, she has not seen him, but the physician said the same.’ She laid the garment upon the bed. ‘You shall not go back, I promise you.’

‘But what can we do against Fulk? He will send for me within the week or come himself to see why I have not returned. Do you think if I ride to the Benedictine nuns at the Priory of St Clement in York, the nuns will give me protection? I will gladly take holy vows there. If I never set eyes on another man as long as I live, it will not bother me.’

‘Oh, Johanna, you addlepate, that will not serve. Did not Fulk remark at your wedding supper that the prioress, Agnes de Methelay, is some distant kinswoman? Of course, there are the Cister-cians but if you have truly set your heart on the cloister, you would be better to go to one of the great abbeys in the south out of Fulk’s reach. What better than Shaftesbury? I know the abbess, Margaret Aucher.’

‘Then, please, no time must be lost. Pray, could you write to her this afternoon on my behalf?’

Her mother paced to the door, her fingertips a steeple at her lips. ‘Yes, I could do that, certainly but I have another notion. You may not like the sound of it but I … I believe there is an alternative way except it will require another’s help.’

Not all her mother’s enterprises worked but Johanna was now a creature tumbled into an un-mapped marsh, grabbing at any lifeline. She sped across and gently shook her mother’s shoulders. ‘Tell me of it then, Maman. What must I do?’

Lady Constance set her aside, ‘Give me until tomorrow noon-Oh!’ The door ring turned in her hand, lifting the latch and Edyth marched in unannounced, an embarrassed Agnes at her heels. She lifted her pointed chin at Johanna.

‘Skulking, sister? Should we not go and see your father about what is owing. The chaplain tells me that he is not to be shriven after all and … Oh, madam, I …’

‘Did you think my mother was a tiring woman to be opening doors for you, Edyth?’

‘My lady, I-I beg your pardon.’ Edyth managed an almost apologetic obeisance.

‘I think it inappropriate for you to trouble Lord Alan at the moment, Edyth. Perhaps tomorrow before you leave.’ Her mother waited a heartbeat for their guest to soak in her meaning and added sweetly, ‘It was kind of you to accompany Johanna, but I am sure you are needed at Enderby to play the chatelaine in my daughter’s absence.’

Her words were like drops of water on duck feathers; Edyth was not at all ruffled. ‘Oh, I have already discussed that with my brother and it is decided that I shall stay here until Johanna is ready to return.’

Her sister-in-law bit back a retort and lifted an eyebrow at her mother.

‘Excuse me,’ answered Lady Constance, sweeping round Edyth in a stately manner. She paused and turned, framed like an altarpiece, in the doorway. ‘I have just thought of a good idea,’

she told Johanna, ‘and …’ She hesitated, smiling broadly at her unwelcome guest.

‘And, madam?’ Edyth prompted, frowning.

‘And I have to find a bucket.’


LADY Constance seemed to fill Dame Christiana’s dwelling with her restless presence. A few moments earlier Geraint had started up from Edmund’s bedside drawing his knife at the sound of hooves. Now he was relieved to learn it was only the Lady of Conisthorpe. The disruption, however, was tiresome; he had spent the morning happily carrying out chores for the old lady, trying to forget that there was a world beyond the deerpark, a world where he was hunted.

‘Dame Christiana is out herb-gathering, madam. Do you want me to give her a message?’

The lady prowled, glancing at the parchment he had been working on earlier and prying into a stoneware pitcher but her gaze eventually returned to him. She studied him thoughtfully and then declared, ‘I mentioned yesterday that I had work for you. Is he any better?’ She lifted her jaw indicating Edmund.

‘No, madam.’ How much did she know? Had Father Gilbert told her of Edmund’s parentage.

‘Come, let us go outside. All these skulls, ughh. Ah, Dame Christiana, you are back.’ She helped the old lady free her arms from a basket laden with nettles and hedge parsley. ‘How can you possibly tolerate all these bones? What is that? A sloughed snakeskin?’

‘Vipers are no worse than some as is living.’

‘I hope you are not including me, you old besom, for I will not be sending you some of the latest batch of cheeses nor a firkin of ale, if you are. Come, Gervase, we have matters to discuss.’

‘Do not go inviting the lad to your bed,’ cackled Christiana, ‘he will wear you as thin as a poor man’s soles. Bah, go and be secretive, see if I care.’

Geraint reddened as he followed Lady Constance out. The bawdy exchange at his expense was disconcerting. Dame Christiana’s protectress was not quite old enough to be his mother but she certainly eyed him with an older woman’s brazen freedom.

The lady led him beyond eavesdropping distance of the old dame, who fetched out a stool and plonked herself down on it in the sunshine watching as if to chaperone them.

‘That tunic fits you better.’ The lady’s green eyes teased him. He might have known she would ask more than gratitude.

‘So, how may I serve you?’ he asked brusquely, hoping his tone might dampen any ardour on her part.

‘Oh, not me,’ she answered softly. ‘I have a daughter. Four, in fact.’ Geraint groaned inwardly.

Not more women. It was bad enow dealing with a scolding mystic and this capricious lady of the manor without further mischief.

‘My youngest daughter has a problem?’

Do we not all? he thought, witheringly. ‘Is or has, madam?’

She ignored his sarcasm. ‘Well, it used to be is but she is now wed to a stonyflint who abuses her right cruelly.’

Already unstabled by Christiana’s bawdy jesting, Geraint’s thoughts galloped to an unwelcome conclusion. ‘I hope … trust you are not…’

‘Suggesting that you amuse her, master scholar? Oh no, more desperate than that.’ Her voice lost a little of its humour.

‘Desperate?’ It was necessary to make his position plain. ‘I do not hire myself out like a stallion, Lady Constance.’

To his relief, she laughed. ‘Climb off your high horse, master. I thought you a humble book-worm and here you are making far too many assumptions.’ She held a cautioning forefinger up to silence him. ‘Do not premeditate me further. As I said, her husband, Sir Fulk, is very cruel to her.

I love Johanna dearly and I cannot bear to see her suffer. I want to sever these marital fetters and to do this I require a man who is, like yourself, unwed.’ He felt like hiding his hands but she had already observed he wore no betrothal ring. ‘To come to the point, Gervase de Laval, I want you to swear before an ecclesiastic court that you plighted your troth to my daughter before she married Sir Fulk.’

Geraint was rarely short of an answer but she had winded him. ‘Perjure myself, you mean?’

he spluttered finally.

Why did this have to happen? He was in enough trouble without this added complexity.

She smiled. ‘I require merely words not deeds, young man. Are a few extra weeks in Purgatory too costly? Not only will you be freeing another soul from a present torment but you will emerge with your celibacy intact.’

He would be saying no, of course, but it did not hurt to prolong the conversation or sate his curiosity. Besides, he might have heard of the husband. It would give him some inkling as to where the danger might lie in this shire. ‘Tell me more about this Sir Fulk.’

‘Sir Fulk de Enderby. His demesne lies a day’s journey on an ambling horse from here. Not as wealthy as our family. His castle is older than Conisthorpe. Round keep, you know the sort, built around the time of the first Henry. He is older than my Johanna by some thirty years. He was a companion of my lord’s in the wars against Scotland.’ Her voice dropped, ‘Johanna always was wilful but he beats her daily.’

‘I feel sorry for her but it is not against the law for husbands to chastise their wives.’

‘Do you doubt my judgment?’ He read the steel will in her eyes; she did not like to be thwarted.

Geraint shook his head, wary at her sudden change of tone, but he would be damned if he became embroiled in her scheme. God protect him! The High Sheriff of Yorkshire, not to mention every bailiff and bounty hunter between Berwick and Bristol, was scouring every cranny that might hide a rebel from Boroughbridge. No! If she shot at this target from every angle, the arrow would not stick.

‘What would you have me do, madam? Walk into this Fulk’s hall and say ‘I am a poor scholar who took your wife’s maidenhead before you married her and I have just remembered I want her back’?’

‘Something like that but far easier. She has just returned to Conisthorpe.’

‘With her husband?’

‘No.’ She raised a hopeful eyebrow.

‘No, my lady, I am sorry but it will not wash. Dear God, madam, I am just a scholar. The husband will skewer me like a fish before the matter even reaches the nearest bishop’s ears.’

‘A few days of dissembling is all I ask. The archdeacon’s court is due in Conisthorpe within a week.’

He gazed at her in horror. ‘You cannot be serious, lady. It is a case for the bishop. No archdeacon would dare touch a marriage dispute between the nobility.’ He ran a hand through his hair.

‘By all the Saints, madam, your whole notion is incredible. As if your daughter would mire herself to wed a schoolmaster with no prospects.’

She tried again. ‘It could work. You are a stranger, that is crucial, and of pleasing appearance -enough to turn a young woman’s heart. And I am sure you are learned enough to plead your case. There is no one else I can think upon and if I do not use this chance that God has sent me …’ She shook her head sadly, pacing away from him. Then she turned. ‘Johanna threatens to take her life if I send her back. You are our only hope. God has sent you for this purpose, I know it.’

Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, her mouth twisted beseechingly.

‘Well, the Almighty never consulted me,’ muttered Geraint. ‘And my answer is no.’

Lady Constance took an angry breath and he braced himself. Now that the cajoling had failed, he expected her to have an arsenal of threats ready to catapult. God in heaven! If this damn woman only knew who he really was, she would not even have the audacity to rattle on.

‘My lady, there are matters you do not understand. I would help you if I could but…’

‘You would leave the shire afterwards, of course. Johanna would not expect you to remain. All we need is for the church to dissolve this marriage. A week and an oath is all we ask of you.’

‘If it were within my power… ‘

The face she turned to him was adamantine. ‘I know who he is.’ She jerked her head towards the dwelling. ‘And you, whoever you, why you are no more a scholar than I am a fisherwife. Let me be plain, young man, unless you do as I ask, I will send a messenger posthaste to the king. I believe he stays at York. It is not very far.’

Geraint took a deep breath. ‘I have a knife, my lady. I will kill to keep the heir of Sir Roger Mortimer safe and I shall not hesitate to take your life and the old woman’s.’

‘You will not travel far with a dying man and my palfrey will be recognised.’

‘I will have to risk both.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said softly. ‘But what if he dies before tomorrow? Will you change your mind?

You shall be paid handsomely. Expensive tastes, hmm?’ Her glance provocatively slid over his boots.

He regarded her unhappily. Women were supposed to know their place; they were supposed to be ineffectual, gentle creatures, bearers of babes and, well, chattels that must be protected. The last thing he wanted was to have to kill this lady and the healer in cold blood. By Christ, if he did, every man within the shire would be hunting him before sunrise.

‘What is the penalty for treason against the king?’ she prompted softly. ‘They will half-hang you, then they will cut you down and draw your entr-’

‘Exactly. And what is more, if they catch me, they will take Edmund. If they convict him, they will take his father outside to Tower Hill and- Dear God, my lady, would you have the hanging of so great a man as Sir Roger Mortimer on your conscience.’

‘Would you have my daughter’s death on yours?’ He turned away from her, his arms folded sternly. ‘Please.’ She pleaded, all pride and menace emptied from her voice.

Geraint swallowed. A pity Edmund was not close to recovery. He needed time. If he could get the lad safely away.

‘I will think upon’t, my lady. Give me a day to consider. I cannot run far with a dying man. ‘

‘But you can run far on your own.’ Her voice sank to a whisper, ‘If you abandon him, I swear I will turn him over to the High Sheriff, alive or dead.’ Her expression grew more adamant with every heartbeat. ‘You have no choice You have to do it!’

Chapter 5

‘MOTHER, are you out of your wits?’ Johanna sank down on the linen chest in Lady Constance’s bedchamber after midday dinner and regarded her mother scathingly. ‘Am I to understand that you opportuned some man of unknown origin in our deer chase this morning and offered him money to be my husband! Jesu, madam, the knave might be blabbing the tale out to half the shire by now if he has sufficient ale to make his tongue gallop. What possessed you?’

‘Your wellbeing for a start,’ muttered her mother reproachfully, ‘and I did not opportune him.

We first met a few days ago when he tried to rob Father Gilbert.’

Johanna’s eyes widened further. For an instant, she could not find words to clothe her feelings. ‘Only tried!’ she exclaimed. ‘The saints preserve me, now you are admitting he is not only an outlaw but a stupid one as well.’

Her parent sniffed defensively. ‘He is a poor scholar and he was desperately hungry.’ Was that supposed to make her feel more comfortable about the fellow?

‘And a failed one, by the smell of it.’ Johanna rose and paced between the bed and door. Lady Constance of Conisthorpe was not usually so reckless. Certainly she ordered the demesne as skilfully as Lord Alan ever had and for the most part she chose her servants well. But had this outlaw a silvery tongue and a cheerful eye? She would wager he had cajoled his way into her mother’s goodwill.

‘And another thing?’ Johanna swung round. ‘Why is this scholar of yours not tutoring some rich man’s sons or employed honestly as a schoolmaster? What was he doing apart from trying to rob old churchmen? Poaching our deer?’

Catching Johanna’s hands in hers, her mother exclaimed, ‘I am not such a fool as you think me. This man will serve our purpose, trust me. Where else can I find a stranger so swiftly, one who is willing to swear that he married you before Fulk did?’

Johanna tugged her fingers away. ‘Do you truly realise the enormity of what you are saying?

You have asked some incompetent trickster to come and pose as my husband? Think about it, madam. Why would a woman of my status have espoused myself to a poor scholar?’

‘You could swear you fell in love. Besides, you have yet to meet him. You are judging the wine before you taste it.’

‘Of course I am.’ Johanna flung up her hands like birds panicked into flight. ‘I would not even buy this vinegary wine in the first place.’ She gave an angry sigh and gathered up her sewing and silks.

‘Supposing I were to arrange for you to meet him, Johanna?’ Her mother reached out a staying hand. ‘No, listen, go and bathe your face at St Robert’s spring early tomorrow morning. This young man can meet you there. Then tell me yea or nay.’

‘What, go to the chase to be assaulted? Out of one cooking pot into another.’

Her mother met Johanna’s outraged glare undeterred. ‘Father Gilbert can accompany you. He knows the scholar already.’

‘The chaplain is embroiled in this?’ That reined in Johanna’s galloping indignation. She folded her lips, pensively gathering the embroidery to her breast. What harm might it do? The old courage in her struggled for air. ‘I was thinking of visiting the holy spring anyway. It may help my bruises heal faster.’ Then she sighed, ‘But it will not do. Edyth will insist on accompanying me like a shadow.’

‘I will warn the man.’ Lady Constance began to unpin her veil. ‘I had better make haste if I am to let him know this afternoon. I hope he will agree to this. To be honest, he is not exactly en-thralled by my plan any more than you are.’ That was scant relief.

‘But the smell of gold, of course, is loosening the straps that binds his conscience.’

‘You are probably right, lambkin. Where is my cap?’ She searched though the untidy pile of garments on her bed. ‘I am thankful you are being co-operative at last. This man will be perfect for our purpose, and let us face the facts, Johanna, we are beggars and must ride whatever horse we can in this matter.’

‘Mother, he is a beggar and will ride us if we let him.’


THE first thing Geraint noticed about the man who had suddenly materialised out of the forest to annoy Dame Christiana was that the span between his shoulders and head could be hardly called a neck and his skin was the hue of a brown egg. In fact one could suspect God of having pressed his thumb on the fellow’s head to stop him growing an extra span before dropping him into a dy-er’s vat.

The knave was almost dancing before the old dame as she sought to circumnavigate him and reach the peace of her hut. Geraint could have easily made his presence felt and sent the wretch sprawling on his way with a cuff on the ear, but he was curious to see who would best whom in this encounter and a strong instinct told him that he had seen the fellow before in some marketplace, probably seducing housewives into buying lotions that would mend anything from sore breasts to styes. The rogue’s maturity-he must have seen some thirty winters to judge by his thinning brown hair and the ploughlines of his brow as he removed his beaked hat-not to mention his tenacity and particularly good clothes were sufficient to proclaim his character and such a charlatan was the last kind of traveller Geraint wanted to see straying over the holy widow’s doorstep or poking his nose into others’ business.

‘Give me employment, sweet madam,’ the man was pleading. ‘I chop wood exquisitely, herd cows according to the laws of Pythagoras, discuss metaphysics with sheep, juggle, tumble, recite scurrilous ballads and I have an uncommon hand.’ He waggled it, and then as if it were an embarrassment, hid it behind his back with an apologetic shrug.

Christiana’s glance could have scythed him. ‘Can you tie knots in your tongue?’ Like partners in a dance, they reached the dwelling’s threshold together.

‘No, good dame.’

‘Pity.’ Christiana closed the door fiercely on his piked toe.

‘Ow! For shame, mistress, a crust of bread and I will be gone in a trice.’

‘Nay, feed you and you will hang like a bad smell in the air for days.’ She tried to push the door closed but the man kept his foot in place.

‘Sweet mistress, surely, living here on your own, you lack for company and those hands would be fairer for another’s labour. Ouch!’

The woman now had the rogue by the ear but he was wriggling hard and Geraint moved into view, reluctant to reveal his presence, but he could not chance the dame receiving any hurt.

His large and sudden appearance stifled the fellow’s bravado, but only momentarily. ‘For pity, master, bid your wife let me go. My mother said my ears were long enough.’

‘Wife!’ exclaimed Geraint and Christiana in unison.

‘Is she not your wife, sir? For I never saw such a fair and comely wench. Desist, my lovely one.

Ow!’ Another clout caught the knave’s ear.

Geraint started laughing as the man sank to the ground with legs crossed, his hands cradling his head to ward off further blows.

‘What are you, besides a good-for-nothing?’ Geraint set his arm protectively round the healer’s shoulders. He was appreciative of the man’s wit. Give the creature his due, nothing else had made him smile since Boroughbridge.

‘I would be flattered if you thought me a fool but alas, sir, as you say, I am good for nothing, a vagabond.’

‘So what can you do besides let your tongue run amok?’ Christiana folded her arms and inspected him.

‘Do?’ exclaimed the fellow, falling onto his knees with a hopeful doglike expression. ‘I grovel, I plead, I say prayers that God will send generous, charitable folk to succour me and keep me from the Devil.’

‘Where are you from?’ Geraint asked, his curiosity aroused. The man’s dialect was southern, Kentish perhaps.

‘I was born in the shadow of the Conqueror’s tower, master, and have truly walked in shadows ever since, aping my betters.’

‘Ah, send him on his way, lad,’ muttered Christiana to Geraint, tossing her hands in the air.

‘You will never get an answer out of this one that is not tarnished with falsehood. You worm, be gone!’ She disappeared into her cottage. The door closed emphatically.

The man climbed to his feet, fastidiously brushing the dags of dirt from hose that betrayed no mending. The gesture stirred a memory. Had he said ‘fool’?

‘By Heaven, now I know who you are,’ exclaimed Geraint. ‘You are my lord of Lancaster’s jester!’

The man’s head jerked up in terror and he would have taken to his heels had Geraint not grabbed him more swiftly.

‘How dare you accuse me of consorting with rebels!’ shrilled the man, wriggling worm-like to free himself from the hold on his cape. ‘What would a jester be doing in this God-forsaken place?

As for Lancaster, the world knows him as a traitor.’

‘Be still, you scoundrel!’ snarled Geraint. ‘Do you think the king’s men are bothered with the likes of you?’

‘King Edward would readily shackle any who fought at Boroughbridge so I am told.’ The glares between them weakened into an understanding and Geraint slowly let him go although he was poised to prevent the fool’s escape. Only the smaller man’s hands writhing like mating adders betrayed his fear.

‘The earl is a honourable man,’ Geraint commented softly.

The jester gulped and was silent, his gaze wandering like a blind man’s fingers over his enemy’s features. The fight seemed to go out of him and his shoulders sagged. ‘Oh, good sir, I went into battle for Lancaster, twice fool that I am.’ His voice was burnished with sorrow.

‘You did?’ Geraint grabbed him by the cape again. ‘What news of your lord then? Is he taken south to London and stowed with Sir Roger Mortimer?’

The small man stilled, his brown eyes fearful of his interrogator. ‘Has the news not whistled through the forest like an arrow?’ he asked, swallowing nervously. ‘I would have thought the whole kingdom would know by now. My master is taken in irons by boat to the king at York. They dragged him from the church at Boroughbridge, set my fool’s cap upon him and hauled him up the high street to the river.’

Geraint let him go with a mixture of disbelief and amazement.

The fool’s glance zigzagged Geraint’s stature from boots to collar. ‘I see the news displeases you, master.’

‘I too have come from Boroughbridge and if you have been less than honest with me …’

The jester scowled at him. ‘An excellent but foolhardy revelation worth much gold perhaps.

You are a bigger fool than I to tell me so.’ Then he added gravely, ‘I thought none escaped, even those who shed their armour and stole women’s skirts off hedges.’

‘Why did they let you go?’

He sighed. ‘The Carlisle men beat me right sore in the churchyard when they took my fool’s cap and bells but I made them laugh and they relented.’

‘In God’s name, man, what were you doing in the battle lines?’

‘I followed my lord like a faithful hound but I’ll not speak of it further.’ He gave an exquisite shudder.

‘Oh yes you will if you want to keep body and soul together.’

‘Not this moment,’ pleaded the jester, and he sprang back shedding his wistfulness like a wet dog shaking itself. ‘Let us blow this ship in a different direction. You are not what you seem, great one. Mayhap you need a servant.’

Ah, there was a thought. The jester had yet to hear of holy springs, wilful wives and the formidable, scheming Lady Constance who had come riding in yet again after noon demanding Geraint’s unquestioning compliance.

Seeing the wolfish grin, the fool was of a sudden disconcerted. ‘You do?’ he asked, wary now.

‘Oh yes.’


‘HOW do I look?’

Jankyn, the jester, pirouetted like a whore in a Southwark bathhouse. Geraint’s discarded black hose, washed free of mud, was drawn tightly over his head and the ample scholarly tunic was belted round his middle.

‘A true rogue,’ clucked Christiana. With slits cut for eyes the improvised hood looked sufficiently malevolent. It hid the fool’s distinctive lack of neck and gave him a few extra inches. Not that he was puny, but if he was going to play an outlaw, he needed to look the part.

‘And I?’ asked Geraint, pulling down the black hood which Lady Constance had brought him.

‘An improvement, sir.’

‘If we borrow the good Christiana’s dagger and stick that in your belt as well, Jankyn, it might suffice.’

‘What, two daggers, sir? I will look like a cutler’s stall.’

Geraint shrugged. ‘Have it your own way. You are, of course, built like a Colossus and no one could dream of mistaking you for anything but the Robin Hood of Wharfedale.’ The withering remark was a mite unfair, but of course Jankyn did not know of his earlier baptism into outlawry and his humiliation at Father Gilbert’s hands. He had decided to let the jester take the forward part. It offered a better chance for him to observe the female bane named Lady Johanna and the fool had a dexterity with words that would not go amiss.

‘Thank you,’ declared Jankyn, ignoring the insult and waving his hand pretentiously in the manner of the king’s favourite, the younger Hugh Despenser, only to find his new ally’s right hand encompassing his throat.

‘Have a care, man! I know whom you ape. You could be gutted for such a jest.’

‘Aye, true, but then both you and I could be hanged for aping outlaws. What if we prey upon some other brigand’s turf, that woolly pelted wretch you met? And if some other strangers fly into our web, shall we rob them for practice?’

‘We run-like the deer do.’


‘YOU insisted on coming, Edyth, so do not grumble.’ Johanna cried over her shoulder, urging the mare faster with her heels. She deliberately left her two companions several lengths behind on the woodland track and turned off down to the river path, anxious to be earlier than the stranger. St Robert’s spring was a magical place to her, one that she hated sharing, least of all now with Edyth.

Although it was safer to have company, she desired a few moments of peace to pray in solitude.

Spiky wild garlic and sorrel dappled the wooded slopes and to her right the willow fronds fronting the river were trying to decide whether the sunlight was sufficient to risk their tender leaves. A few paces more and the well-trodden path narrowed. She dismounted, startling a pair of bramblings, and led her horse along to the small cleared glade where a fallen tree had been cut to make a foot bridge across a beck joining the river. It was an exhilarating feeling to be on her own, however briefly, but there was no time to dawdle. Swiftly tethering her horse to a beech sapling, she rewarded her with a withered Lenten apple, and lifting her skirts, crossed the bridge pigeon-footed.

As if in defiance of this holy place, some early toadstools had burst up, born unseasonably of the moist night, and these Johanna treated with respect, heartily wishing that the Queen of Elfland might carry her off to be her tiring woman. No, perhaps not even a comely Elfin king could heal her invisible scars but St Robert might listen. It was said that the hermit had seen a vision here in his wanderings as a youth before he had become a monk at Fountains. His cave beside the Nidd at Knaresborough attracted pilgrims but this holy spring was little known.

The path led down to where the river narrowed through a chasm and there the sun sparkled on the sacred gill bursting out of the bank. A withered garland of summer flowers, left over from dressing the well the previous Ascension Day, still clung to the tangle of undergrowth above the spring and there was a scattering of white petals fallen from the blackthorn thicket higher up the slope.

A local mason had carved the saint’s head upon a stone slab and set it up beside the spring and here Johanna knelt to cup her hands, offering an unspoken prayer to the saint. The holy water was icy enough to freeze the bruises off her so she methodically splashed it up under her veil, then gasped in surprise as a man’s arm coiled around her ribs and a palm came down across her mouth before she could scream a warning to the others.

As Edyth and the chaplain turned the corner into her view, a second, shorter man, hooded like an executioner, sprang out onto the path behind Father Gilbert, blocking their retreat.

‘Here’s sport, look you!’ the shorter rogue declared in a Welsh voice, prodding the chaplain forward to where the path widened beside the spring. ‘What have we here? Ladies come to pray to Saint Rob to take away their pimples and give them beauty. But vanity is a sin, they say. You will look better without your jewels, demoiselles.’

Edyth turned on him. ‘Cowards! Brigands! Attacking defenceless women and a poor old priest.’

‘No wedding ring, my darling? Now I can see why you have come to pray for beauty,’ lilted the Welsh voice. ‘Ask the saint for the gift of silence too and you might find a brave husband, look you.’ He was grinning broadly at his fellow ruffian.

This rough handling was not called for. And there were not supposed to be two of them. What fools to pose as masked outlaws. She would not be able to make a proper judgment. Cursing, Johanna drove her elbows backwards but her captor was tall enough to evade her flailing fists. The Devil take him! The man was made of rock. She could feel his body, hard as steel, pressing into her back as she wriggled to free herself.

Geraint was enjoying the feel of the girl. This must be Lady Johanna he was holding. The breasts that rested upon his forearm were pert enough to keep their ripeness through childbearing but of sufficient fullness for his taste and she fitted excellently against him. It was a pity that the veil hid the lady’s face. Thanks be to the great multitude of saints that the other scrawny unwed woman was not Lady Constance’s daughter.

He swiftly revoked the prayer as the Lady Johanna kicked him hard in the kneecap with the heel of her boot and he almost kneed her headfirst into the holy spring. He insinuated his right leg between hers so that she could not easily repeat her assault. That halted the wench’s squirm-ing but then her fingers started unaccountably scrabbling for his dagger. With little choice, he freed the lady’s mouth so he might slap her hand away from his belt. The dagger he drew himself and held it against her breast.

Johanna froze, not only terrified of the evil blade but also too aware of the firm thigh and muscle pressing against her legs through her kirtle. She would agree that the outlaws must not arouse Edyth’s suspicions but this was unseemly.

Contending not only with a struggling wench, Geraint also watched Jankyn anxiously. He had warned him about Father Gilbert’s reputation with a staff, but the priest carried none and now looked as mild as a lamb in a painting of the Nativity.

‘Down, both of you, face down.’ Jankyn waved the sword.

Father Gilbert fell to his knees, crossed himself and then lowered his forehead to the ground.

‘No!’ snapped Edyth. ‘I am not prostrating myself before any Welshman.’

‘Do it or Black John here will kill the wench.’

Johanna stiffened as the man holding her thrust his dagger higher so that its tip was now pricking against her throat.

‘Do as he says!’ she squeaked, barely able to speak. She was of a sudden convinced that the man holding her might be a genuine outlaw.

Edyth sullenly prostrated herself and the leader gleefully planted a foot on her back. ‘Would all English women behaved so.’ His eyes grinned at Johanna through the slits. ‘And you, sweet heart, now you.’

The wretch was gleefully jerking his sword menacingly at the ground, indicating that she should grovel and it pleased her not one whit. How could her mother have bargained with such a rogue?

The great rapscallion holding Johanna let go of her. She backed away from him. Dear God, but he was huge and menacing in the hood. And-pox take him-who was this second man?

‘What say you, Black John? Bind the priest, shall we, and let’s have some rare sport.’

The second man, who had held her, was studying Johanna through the sinister hood slits with an intensity that she found uncomfortable. Too flustered to stare further, she tumbled to her knees, swallowing anxiously. This was definitely not going as she had expected. The Welshman might be behaving boldly because of Edyth’s unexpected presence but the evil faceless appearance of the pair of them was whittling away her courage. She had expected to sum her prospective bridegroom from his face and demeanour. Her mother must have been taken in by the rogue or maybe he had run away and these were real brigand.

‘I had rath