The column trudged through the outskirts of St. Albans on Icknield Way. Most of the cottages were wood with thatch rooves. The inhabitants, in their grey and brown homespun clothing, stopped their chores to stare at the procession. Sour Frey, Fitzwalter’s squire Alfred, and Owain lead the procession, holding the baronial and royal banners. Behind them rode Sir Will, Robert, and Baron Fitzwalter; their knights, sergeants, and archers following on horse and foot. Sir Joseph and much of Fitzwalter’s men turned off ten miles back, heading south down Ermine Street towards Bennington Hundred and Hertford Castle. His rangers from Epping Forest, as well as the Dunmow and Ongar levies remained.
With each step up the steep hill, the twin towers of St. Albans cathedral stood taller over the walled burgh. Inside the town, most of the houses were of sturdy timber with wood shingle roofs and small gardens. Inns, taverns, brothels, smiths, carpenters, woolers, and other merchant shops crammed the blocks. The town gave way to the walled grounds of the abbey on the left, and a wide grassy field leading to the front of the cathedral and main gatehouse.
“We’re here,” Robert whispered as he stared up at the magnificent cross shaped cathedral. Plastered and whitewashed to symbolize the purity of God, the cathedral seemed to radiate holiness. The two towers of the west front were unfinished, the work halted due to Pope Innocent’s interdict over the Holy Church in England. The wooden scaffolding reaching up the towers looked like a cage to Robert.
John’s cage. Innocent’s interdict, but John’s making.
Robert’s heart trembled, the secret letter quivered, and the royal seal hid it all.
Abbot Robert of St. Albans. . .
Thunder rumbled far away, and a herd of sheep bleated in the field.
“Sir Laurence! We return with the king’s peace!” Will proclaimed once the abbey’s lone brother knight greeted them. He’d been in the gatehouse, a yellow stone fortified manor with a gated throughway.
“Tis good news, m’lord.” Laurence half bowed with a flourish, raised his brow at Will’s bruised face, then scowled at Fitzwalter, “I’ll announce your arrival to the abbot.”
“We’ll stay in the King’s House and send word of the peace shortly,” Will announced with the authority of one whose father was Lord Justiciar of the Realm.
Laurence smiled politely, “As you wish m’lord.”
“Tell me Laurence,” Fitzwalter requested, “Are my cousins here?”
“Out hawking, baron,” Laurence offered the barest courtesy.
“Excellent, inform them of our arrival upon their return,” Fitzwalter grinned.
“For certes,” Laurence grumbled.
They funneled through the gatehouse, which opened onto a vast grassy square covered by a few trees and several different paths leading to the buildings ringing them in. Monks and servants wandered about at their chores. Several noble children in colorfully expensive clothing were playing below a clump of trees under the gaze of a nursemaid. A pair of young couples, guildsmen by their modest dress, were picnicking a polite distance away from the noble children. A young squire was receiving riding lessons from his sire.
To the right were the stables. To the left was the guest house and Old Hall made of yellow stone, with an arched throughway leading to the Abbot’s Yard. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the bakery. Across the yard was a long row of servant’s quarters, with a simple gatehouse leading to the abbey’s orchards and animal pens.
Robert stayed at St. Albans several times while a scribe of the Justiciar’s Court. He stayed in the servant’s quarters, in the guesthouse, and even a tavern in town, but never in the King’s House. It felt like Robert was entering the abbey anew for the first time. His heart thumped rapidly against the secret pouch, he felt it knocking inside his ears, and it made him dizzy with anticipation.
All this will be mine.
The column passed under the arched throughway of the guesthouse, entering the Abbot’s Yard. The Abbothouse was built into the side of the cathedral to their left. Ahead of them was the cellar and larderhouse, and to their right was the King’s House. Like the cathedral, the King’s House was made of granite, plastered and whitewashed. Great care was taken to keep its walls free of grime, and it too glowed amidst the other buildings.
Inside, fresh rushes mixed with mint on the stone tile floors. Beautiful tapestries lined the walls of the main hallways. There was one of St. Albans’ beheading by a Roman governor, another of Jesus emerging from the cave after the crucifixion, one of King Henry I at the opening ceremony of the monastery annex, and another of the local baron Nicholas Breakspear being consecrated as Pope Adrian IV. While the baggage was unloaded, a gang of kitchen servants hauled in fresh food for their guests. Meanwhile, Robert personally oversaw the handling of his chest and baggage to the chaplain’s room, which was beside the chapel on the first floor.
A room to myself!
Once Robert was comfortable his things were secure, he left the room and found the nobles congregating in the solar room upstairs. It was furnished with the finest rugs, tapestries, and furniture royalty could buy. Walter, Adam, and Emeric were playing dice, while pages and squires hustled about with slices of bread, cheese, ham, and silver goblets of wine. Will and Fitzwalter were sitting in large oak chairs cushioned with velvet. Between them was a heap of boiled eggs, which they were devouring with wine.
“Tis too quiet in here,” Fitzwalter was saying to Will, “for certes there’s a minstrel in the guesthouse or the Swan Inn. I think I’ll send someone to scavenge some entertainment.”
“Ah, Robert, good of you to show yourself,” Will said. “There’s still plenty of day left and I’m certain the abbot will want to hear the news. I need you to see to it.” The swelling was down, but his eyes were still horrid purple.
“For certes,” Robert smiled and bowed.
Now’s my chance.
Rather than simply cross the Abbot’s Yard, Robert left the western door of the King’s House. It opened onto another small bailey with the bakery and granary to the right, kitchens to the left and the laundry across the yard. The smell of fresh bread, herbs and spices, boiling vegetables, and roasting meat awakened a deep hunger in Robert, one not satisfied by mere food.
Dressed in priestly robes, with tonsured hair and a bronze royal seal, no one questioned Robert as he went about his secret inspection. He was immensely impressed with the work the lay brothers performed in the animal farm, vegetable and herb gardens, orchards, and sheering pens. Robert was delighted at the diligence with which the monks of St. Albans produced the highly coveted leather bound, illustrated, gilt lined religious works in the scriptorium. He saw the unfinished renovations of the dormitory and refectory, where the monks ate their meals.
All this will be mine, so much to do.
He felt giddy at the prospect of so much authority and responsibility, so much freedom. Then a pang of guilt nipped at his soul. He reached for the rosary beads about his waste. Robert entered the cathedral and marveled at the soaring roof. The nave seemed to extend forever. The emptiness conferred an ethereal and holy serenity. There were a few pools of standing water from the recent heavy rains, but leaky roofs were natural.
Quietly, he found the shrine of Saint Alban. Raised on a dais, housed in gold and silver plated oak, encrusted with jewels, the bones of the first English Christian martyr were second in popularity only to the shrine of Thomas Beckett at Canterbury. Robert kneeled and made the sign of the Cross. He took a deep breath and began to pray.
Holy Saint Alban, please forgive the treachery I must force on the Church in the name of King John. It pains me to do such things. It pains me to serve an excommunicated king. I wish to serve God without serving John, but I am torn between two masters. For now, I am forced to hide the truth that I am the next abbot. For now, I am forced to do as King John bids, but someday I will declare myself the way you did. When that day arrives, I will give myself solely to God, through you Saint Alban. When that day arrives, I will be free.
For a heartbeat Robert questioned whether he was up to the task, but then he thought of his orphan brothers Thomas and Ralph. He thought of Fawkes torturing the Scotsman in front of his family before chopping off his hand then hanging him. He thought of the brothers of St. Barts who served for decades and never left the dorms, who ended their days as they began.
I have to be strong.
Robert was saying the Lord’s Prayer when small steps padded up to him.
“Are you Master Robert de London?” A child’s voice asked. It seemed weary and tired, as if the boy had asked that question a thousand times only to hear non.
Robert opened his eyes and realized his right hand had taken hold of the secret pouch under his robe. He let go with a sudden jerk, the royal seal fumbling against his chest. The boy noticed but didn’t understand. “I am he, and who are you, young novice?”
The boy was already in the drab robe of a Benedictine monk, but had years to go before acceptance into the Order. “I am Novitiate Matthew, your grace,” The boy said, “Abbot Jean wishes to see you. I’ve been looking everywhere, I started at the . . .”
Robert put his hand on the boy’s elbow. “Shall we go see him then?”
. . .
Abbot Jean de Cell was sifting through a pile of papers on a table against the wall of his office. He wore a comfortable black velvet, marten-lined robe, and had a full head of greying hair. Another table was covered in gold and silver goblets, wine flagons, and plates filled with half-eaten bread, apples, and cheese. Candelabras interspersed throughout the room kept the light soft and the air warm. A golden cross hung from one wall, and a tapestry depicting the martyrdom of Christ hung from another.
Robert took a deep breath and basked in his secret mastery.
A middle aged monk in similar attire was ranting in Anglo-Norman, “Tis a sign of the brethren’s disrespect is all! They will adjust! As Belvoir’s prior I am entitled to spend funds as I see fit. They are still fed, clothed, and housed. What have they to complain about, honestly?”
“Roger, I agree there must be some time to adjust. Mayhap they’re just startled by the suddenness of the change. Perchance they find it strange you lavish such feasts on guests you ravage in your commentaries,” Jean commented dryly.
He turned around, and his mouth curled slightly at sight of Robert. “But for now we shall let things rest. We have spoken as the brothers at Belvoir requested, and I trust you shall find a way to ease their fears. Now, I must speak with this crownman, if you don’t mind?”
Prior Roger Wendover smirked, “I’ll deal with them, alright.”
Then he stalked out without acknowledging Robert.
“Master Robert de London, I haven’t had the pleasure of your acquaintance. I’m Abbot Jean de Cell. I must say, when the kingsmen left here a fortnight ago I did not expect such immediate results. Nor did I expect an envoy of . . . such youth. Thank you for providing the king’s justice. One might be tempted to hope this is a step to reconciliation.”
The abbot poured two silver goblets full of mead, offering one to Robert.
“Indeed, the matter was solved more smoothly than I expected,” Robert replied diplomatically.
Jean leaned against the table, “Tell me what happens to Fitzwalter.”
Robert took a good sip of the sweet honey wine. “Baron Fitzwalter was offered the carrot or the stick, in a manner of speaking, your grace,” he replied, “and the king’s peace was achieved with the carrot, as it were.”
Jean’s brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. “The baron hasn’t been chastened?”
“He’s left Binham Priory and vows not to return again, your grace,” Robert offered.
“Aye, that is well and good,” Jean’s voice grew hard as he absorbed Robert’s interpretation, “But certainly the king saw fit to punish Baron Fitzwalter for ignoring the Court ruling in such a violent way? Such was the nature of the request I sent his majesty.”
Robert took another leisurely gulp, deciding it was time to lie. “I am not entirely certain how Sir Will Mandeville deemed it best to punish the baron, your grace. He did promise me that if the king was discontent with the peace, it would be dealt with anew.” He felt better having layered it with some truth.
Jean took a sip, but his brows arched in confusion, “The king sent Sir Will to deal with Baron Fitzwalter. Should every ring father be so lucky.”
Robert swallowed hard.
“At least tell me he must pay for the damage,” Jean demanded calmly.
Robert took another long gulp, and the abbot nodded knowingly.
The abbot put the goblet down and appraised Robert more closely. Only the Plantagenet seal and brown robe distinguished him from a hundred black robed clerics of St. Albans. He was awfully young for a steward, most likely someone’s new favorite. The king wouldn’t bother with such an underling and the justiciar was all but too ill to do his job. That left one man with the office and influence to raise up one so young so fast for his task.
“Robert, as a man of the Holy Church I am certain you know the risks King John takes with all our souls, indeed our very lives, in this confrontation with Pope Innocent,” Jean said.“Does his majesty think the Church so timid, so stupid, as not to recognize an affront to its rights?”
“I cannot imagine that to be true of our king, your grace,” Robert defended, “For certes, Innocent’s Interdict weighs as heavily on my soul as it does yours.”
I’ll not speak for King John’s.
Jean looked like manure was smeared on his lip. “Master Robert, please inform his majesty that I do not recognize the king’s peace, and as an independent abbot I will be informing Pope Innocent directly of his continued abuse.”
“But the king’s peace . . .” Robert began, but Jean pushed himself up from the table and walked slowly towards him.
“The king’s peace is not the same as the king’s justice, Master Robert. Don’t play me for a back country prior. It demeans the both of us.”
“I . . . uh,” Robert stammered, “Twas not my intention, your grace.”
“For certes,” The abbot’s words cut.
“Your grace, there is still . . . ah, there is still the issue of the gift pledged to the king,” Robert said and noticed the mead rippling in the trembling goblet.
“Indeed,” John de Cell agreed, “And please inform the king he will receive said pledge when justice has actually been done. . . and not a day before!” The abbot finally shouted.
Robert spilled mead down his arm.
The abbot sighed and gripped Robert’s Plantagenet seal, pulling it up for closer inspection.
Robert’s heart hammered against the secret letter and his left hand reached up for Abbot Jean’s wrist. He forced it back down but couldn’t prevent the trembling.
“Mayhap you should spend more time contemplating God, Robert. I fear the Church is harming herself by raising clerics to serve worldly men. Tis only natural the weaker of you will succumb to temptation. You would do well to learn that.”
. . .
Robert heard the revelry upstairs. Fitzwalter found his minstrels. Abbey servants were transporting trays of food and a cask of wine upstairs. Robert felt the sudden urge to check his chest. He made his way to the chapel and paused. There was heavy breathing coming from within, a moan, the sound of flesh slapping. Robert tip toed to the door beside the open chapel, opening it as quietly as possible. There was a couple despoiling his bed. His small chest of treasures was underneath the bed. Robert ground his teeth and clenched his fist.
“Hey! Wait your turn, luv.” The young woman on her back requested through gasps.
“I’m almost there!” Her man moaned, oblivious.
Robert closed the door, took a deep breath and told himself they were there for one reason. The chest was tucked into the corner and his bag was lying in front of it. It’ll be fine.
He went upstairs and found a noisy, crowded solar room. A band of minstrels was playing a lively song: beating a tambor, strumming a lute, plucking a lyre, bowing a viol, blowing a flute and squeezing a sackbut pipe. Several were harmonizing about a dairy maid and her neighbor disguised as a cow. Robert recognized them from the tavern in York he spent an evening in, after the Brute and the Bastard Boy sold the Scottish lassies to that brothel.
What did they call themselves? The Cock’s Roost? Non, the Cock’s Crows? The Cocksures!
Owain, the skinny Welsh boy with the thick shag of curly oaken hair, was mesmerized. A dozen or so young men and women in fine and bright attire were dancing and laughing blissfully in the center of the room. Sour Frey was dancing with a lithe, moon faced, raven haired girl, but he stilled looked dour. Fitzwalter’s ginger son, Robin, was dancing with a an angel of a young woman with platinum blonde hair and lightning blue eyes.
Will, Fitzwalter, and several other older men sat in front of the hearth, facing the hall and talking amongst one another. In the left corner, a small crowd of young sirs and ladies were sipping, flirting, and chatting; among them was Walter Fitzwalter. To the right was another cabal of sirs and ladies, these in their late twenties and early thirties. Robert noticed a woman who looked like a plumper Agnes Blunville, wife of Fat Ferrers of Derby. A gaggle of young children chased a beying beagle, in turn being chased by their buxom nursemaid. Older children, pages and squires, skittered about getting their ladies and sires whatever they wished.
Tis like a tavern only less rowdy.
A large hand fell on Robert’s left shoulder and he shrunk back.
“Easy there, scribbler, I mean no harm!” Adam Fitzwilliam laughed then slugged back half his goblet of wine. “Master Robert de London, aye?”
Robert nodded, “And you’re Sir Adam Fitzwilliam.”
Adam grinned broadly, “Care for a game of dice?”
He pointed to the left corner. “Do you see those cowards over there?”
“I don’t know that they’re cowards, sir,” Robert stayed neutral.
“Cowards! They’ve all retreated from Hazard. Come, we’ll bully them into another round.”
“I must inform Sir Will of my meeting with Abbot Jean,” Robert evaded.
“Trust me. You don’t want to interrupt the lords just now, especially with that lion about your neck, no offense.”
“Tis important,” Robert protested.
Adam squeezed his shoulder gently. “Robert, you strike me as a smart scribbler, do you recognize the lord sitting in the middle?”
As a scribe of the Justiciar’s Court he’d seen or heard of many of the realm’s highborn over the last four years. Will sat on the far left with Fitzwalter next to him. On the far side sat a pale, black and silver haired lord with three striped scars on his clean shaven cheek: Baron Eustace Vescy of Alnwick. He’d been on the Scots Campaign, his wife being a bastard daughter of King William.
Next to Vescy was a lord with bushy dark blonde brows, bushier beard, severe eyes, and a back as rigid as a lance: Baron Brito Albiny of Belvoir. Lord Albiny was widely known among crownmen as Stonelord, for he was as solid as the Commandments. Whether serving as a sheriff, a Jewchequer collecting taxes and inspecting debtor scrolls, travelling Justice of the Eyre ruling on Shirecourt cases, or Lord of Belvoir, Albiny always enforced the law as written, custom as practiced, and punished officials for corruption.
On the other side of Albiny sat Earl Sayer Quincy of Winchester, who looked like Fitzwalter’s older brother with walnut hair and a braided beard. He too was in Scotland, one of his ring brothers being Constable of the Realm. Lord Quincy not only commanded his own men, but a company of kingsmen and another of Flemish routiers called the Strutting Bucks. The lord sitting in the center was the eldest, hair gone limp and white, with haunted eyes, gaunt cheeks, and a soul deep sadness no momentary grin or chuckle could hide.
“I recognize them all save him,” Robert admitted.
“Ah,” Adam clapped him on the back hard, “Tis understandable, I suppose, as he hasn’t been at Court in some time. That, my new friend, is Earl Richard Clare of Hertfordshire, third cousin to my uncle, Baron Fitzwalter. They’re trying to cheer him up, as this is the first time he’s left Tonbridge since the king took his daughter Lady Madilyn hostage.”
“The Braose Hunt,” Robert gasped and made the sign of the Cross.
Lord Clare married Madilyn to Watt Braose, Marcher Lord of Gower and heir to ruthless Baron William Braose, Warden of the Welsh Marches and a favorite of King John. The Braose family fortune faltered when Lady Tilda, Watt’s mother, told the truth of what happened to Duke Arthur of Brittany; King John’s nephew and rival for the throne. A decade past, sixteen year old Arthur led a rebellion against John on the continent. He was defeated and captured outside Mirebeau Castle while laying siege to his grandmother, John’s mother, Dowager Queen Eleanor.
Lord Braose was Arthur’s jailer but no word of the usurper’s fate ever passed his lips or John’s. Then two years ago, John demanded child hostages as security against the Braose’s mounting debts. Lady Tilda refused, brazenly telling her packed court she’d never hand over children to a king who killed his own nephew to secure the Crown. When John caught word of Tilda’s confession, he sent the Brute to Wales. While Fawkes seized their castles and ravaged their estates, Braose fled to Normandy and Tilda to Ireland with Watt. They found refuge with the Marshals for a time, then were caught attempting to cross the Irish Sea to Scotland and imprisoned in Corfe Castle. Lord Braose died in Normandy among the exiled English bishops.
Meanwhile, Lady Madilyn hid with her and Watt’s two boys in Gower. Hunted, isolated, and ignorant of Watt’s fate, Madilyn showed up at Clare Castle during her father’s last Christmas Court. She was wasting away, sick with paranoid anxiety and endemic fear; distraught over agreeing to hide her children with another. Madilyn’s sudden appearance cut open the old wounds and wonderings. The sordid story of Softsword’s Braose Hunt spread rapidly across the kingdom, in turn rejuvenating interest in the fate of Duke Arthur of Brittany.
Just weeks before Robert left for Morocco, John admitted Tilda and Watt’s fate. Mother and son starved to death in Corfe’s dungeon. John remained silent about his nephew Arthur. Then King John sent a sheriff to fetch Lady Madilyn and take her to Corfe Castle. Stunned by the show of force, and not a violent man by nature, Clare acquiesced.
“May God have mercy on her soul,” Robert whispered.
“And may He spare none for John,” Adam belched. “Sooo, how ‘bout some Hazard?”
“I don’t know how to play,” Robert resisted.
“Perfect, I’ll teach you!” Adam clapped him on the back hard.
“Tis a sin,” Robert admonished, wiping at wine he’d sloshed on his robe.
“Life is sin,” Adam slurred. “We’re born with it, we die with it, there’s no avoiding it, Robert. I ask you, how terrible a sin is passing the time with friends and dice?”
Friends? This one’s amiable, a bear of a man, but a mama bear.
“I’m not paid enough to afford losing my supper,” Robert offered his last defense.
“If you have a silver Henricus you have enough,” Adam wrapped his arm around Robert, pulling him over to the corner.
“Master Robert’s going to dice with me!” Adam hiccuped.
The small crowd gave Robert a once-over.
“Are you boys too cowardly to go where a scribbler dares?” Adam taunted.
The young man with ale hair, Sour Frey’s cheekbones and eyes, a silly grin, and a slender young lady on his lap, leaned over and whispered to Walter; who grinned mischeviously at Robert and nodded.
“If we play for a few songs will you leave us be?” Baron Willum Lanvalay wondered. “You have the devil’s fingers when it comes to dice, Adam, and I want to spend some time with Lady Tilly.”
“There’s plenty of time for both, Sweet Willum,” Adam bowed courteously.
Sweet Willum took Tilly Peche’s hand and kissed her long fingers.
She smiled and blushed, “Go on husband, have your fun with the Braintree Bull.”
She wrapped her left arm around Willum’s neck, pressing soft curves against him as she whispered in his ear. The young baron grinned wickedly.
“I’ll hold you to it, m’lady,” Willum smacked her rump and she squeeled.
“I’d prefer you hold me on it,” Tilly ravished Willum with her eyes as she got up.
“Tilly!” Walter’s wife admonished, “Tis not very ladylike.”
“Ida!” Tilly giggled and sat in her lap with a flourish, then cupped Ida’s breast.
“Stop!” Ida laughed, “We’re not handmaidens anymore!”
“Such a shame,” Tilly gave her a wet kiss on the cheek.
“Whooo!” Christiana Fitzwalter waved at herself. Robert recognized her as a handmaiden of Lady Aveline de Clare of Essex, Will’s stepmother. The freckles ranging across her cheeks, and shock of curly scarlet hair made her hard to miss, even though she was just beginning to blossom. Aveline loaned Christiana to her ring sister, Lady Ida de Vere, to greet the lords upon their return from Binham. “Tis hot in here or just me?”
“Oh, tis hot Christy,” Tilly giggled.
“We’ll wait for you boys,” Ida de Vere promised Walter.
“All the better!” Walter rubbed his hands together, pecked Ida’s cheek, then stood as well.
“Excellent!” Adam pulled the dice from his purse. “Now boys, our new friend hasn’t the foggiest idea how to play.”
“Why not then?” A stout young sir said as he stared at his empty goblet. He was big but not fat, tall but not as gigantic as Adam, with wavy dark brown hair and a goatee coiled in two braids.
“Now Roger,” His sandy haired, plain faced, large breasted young wife coiled long chin braids around her hand and pulled him in for a languorous kiss, “Don’t ye go blowin’ me dowry, ya hear?”
Roger de Quincy and Helen of Galloway. He was with his father in Scotland.
The Cocksures wound down ‘The Dairy Maid & Long Tom’ then launched into another rowdy rip, ‘Buck the Roe’.
Adam took his dice bones out and explained Hazard to Robert. Adam’s squire Little Joe de Bennington came up bearing a plate loaded with goblets of wine. Several pages appeared with plates of fruits and cheeses, pastries and sweetmeats; wisely offering them to the ladies first.
“Alright scribbler, what have you to wager?” Roger de Quincy wondered. “We shant disparage you a half pence if you must.”
Willum and Walter chuckled.
“Oh come now Roger, don’t be rude,” Adam shoved the young baron.
Aye, I’m but a poor scribbler, how dare I mingle with such blue blood.
“A half pence?” Robert said, “If tis all you can afford, fine sir. Tell me though, perchance one of you gentlemen will change this out?” He pulled a gold coin from his purse and let it glamor in the fire light.
“What’s that?” Roger asked.
“A gold mark, you cow paddy,” Walter nearly shouldered him over.
“May I?” Adam asked.
“For certes,” Robert plopped it in his palm.
“I know tis a gold mark, but from where?” Roger pestered.
“Tis like no gold mark I’ve seen before,” Adam said. “A bezant from the Holy Land?”
“Non,” Robert shook his head with contentment, “A bezant from Morocco.”
“Where did you get it?” Walter asked.
“Portugal,” Robert lied as Adam passed it to Walter for his inspection.
“I’ll give you a shilling for it,” Sweet Willum offered.
“Cheapskate!” Walter declared, passing the coin to Roger. “Don’t listen to him, Robert. Two shillings is the going rate. Look here, I’ve the coin in this purse, easy.” Walter dangled his purse and dropped it into his left hand, the bulge of pence clanged together.
“I’ll take you one further,” Adam burped, “Three shillings, thirty six pence for the taking. Hell, most of them are Walter’s anyway.”
Adam burped again and weighed both of the purses hanging from his belt. He untied the lighter one and dropped it on the floor in front of Robert. It made a loud metallic thud.
A month’s wage!
“How can I refuse?” Robert shrugged.
“That’s my boy!” Adam smacked Robert’s back again, nearly bowling him over. “Alright victims, let’s play nice, a pence in the pot?”
They all chipped a silver Henricus into a pile.
“Willum, you start since you’re so eager to buck the roe.”
“I hazard seven.” Sweet Willum rolled snake eyes. “Plus five, pluse five!”
They all laughed and threw another pence in the pot.
The Cocksures concluded ‘Buck the Roe’ to raucous applause.
“Wife of Bath! Wife of Bath!” Robin Fitzwalter shouted from the dance floor and they obliged.
“I hazard six,” Roger rolled twelve. “Harvest, fie.”
Another pile of pence went in the pot.
“So you were with the embassy to Portugal, Robert?” Adam asked.
“Aye,” Robert shared the sanctified story.
Walter threw out. Adam called five and rolled.
“Nicks!” Adam cheered, covered the pile of pence with his hand and pulled them over.
“Fie you!” Sweet Willum punched Adam in the shoulder.
“The Devil’s luck,” Walter sighed.
“Why do I keep playing with you?” Roger scratched his beard tentacles. “Tis like bashing my head against a stone repeatedly.”
A shilling and six, a fortnight’s wage in less time than it takes to sing a song.
With the wine flowing, Robert lost track of the rounds, but when the Cocksures finished ‘Morning Glory’ Robert’s three shillings were reduced to one. The Cocksures moved on to a melancholy ballad, ‘The Tale of Tristan and Isolde’. The lyre player plucked sadly at the melody, then a new voice carried over the music and everything else came to a halt. Owain’s voice was hauntingly pure, harmonizing with the lyre. Though he sang in Welsh, the longing was as thick as London fog, inescapable and all consuming. Everyone knew the story anyway. As they came to the chorus, the flutist and violist reciprocated the harmony, accentuating the desperation.
When the song ended there was a moment’s silence then the solar erupted in applause. Tears fell down Owain’s red faced grin. The Cocksures announced they were taking a break and a small flock of girls rushed Owain. He looked to be in Heaven. Sour Frey lost his raven haired lass, but was all eyes for the lyre player.
“I fear I must surrender fine sirs.” Robert’s voice slushed. He was dizzy, his tongue fuzzy, his face broiling, his stomache boiling. “What kind of wine is this, by the by?”
“Lusignan’s Sin,” Walter downed his, “Papa’s favorite from Poitou.”
“What is that odd bite to it?” Robert wondered, “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“Cinnamon,” Adam waved for Joe to fill his goblet again.
“A spice from the Holy Land,” Roger said.
“Worth its weight in gold.” Willum stared at Tilly lustfully.
No wonder I’ve never tasted it.
Robert was scribing long enough to know of the Lusignans. They were one of the oldest families in France with rich lands throughout Normandy, Anjou, Poitou, and Aquitaine. The family patriarch was the Sourowl, Count Hugh of La Marche; a lordship nestled in the hill country between John’s Aquitaine and Philippe’s France. The Lusignans were better known as robber barons than loyal liege men, yet it was King John who stole Lady Isabelle from Count Hugh. Another branch of the family ruled the Kingdom of Cyprus in Outremer, the Holy Land.
Walter’s younger half-brother, Robin, came up to them with his Ladywife, Anne de Braose. They were both red cheeked, breathless, and sweating from dancing the night away. “What’s so fascinating about this dark corner, gentlemen?” Robin asked. “I fear you’re boring the ladies.”
Robert looked up and forgot to blink. Lady Anne was radiant: as tall as her husband, neither too skinny nor too fat, bosoms heaving from the dance. Her light deep blue dress flattered the long platinum blonde hair tied in thick loose braids, with wisps of hair floating loose. Cobalt eyes matched the dress and her lips turned a nautral grin. She bore a striking resemblance to her mother Tilda, whom Robert saw at Court on several occasions before Softword’s Broase Hunt.
“Ladies, shall I drum up some champions who aren’t afraid to dance?” Lady Anne offered.
Tilly stood and offered her hand to Willum. “I don’t think that shall be necessary.”
She batted her eyes and he was done for.
Will appeared beside Robin, “Christiana, may I have a dance with my betrothed?”
“Tis about time!” Christiana let go the ringlet of hair she’d been twining with her finger. She vaulted into his arms and pressed close, he whirled her around and she squeeled. “I can’t believe what Papa did to your face, I should give him the what for!”
Ida looked to Walter with a hopeful gaze, but he stared blankly at her.
“I’m going to piss.” Walter wandered through the crowd.
Ida sighed and stared dejectedly at her hands.
Robert’s head was swimming. Something underneath his seal and secret letter thudded, cracked, and leaked.“I think I’m off to bed.”
“Another drink then!” Adam emptied the remains of his cup into Robert’s.
Robert stared the wine, shrugged, and slugged it back.
“That’s my boy.”
“Hey now!” A gangly limbed youth jumped on Adam’s back.
Adam laughed, twirling and swatting over his shoulder.
“Baron! Baron!” Adam bellowed, “You’re damnable squire’s gone berserk again!”
The lords by the fire chuckled.
“He’s your son, Adam!” Fitzwalter shouted pleasurably, “Give him the what for!”
“You heard the baron, Alfred!” Adam pulled his son over his head. He was going to throw Alfred gently to the ground, but his son squirmed, took hold of Adamn’s belt and brought his papa’s pants down with him. The hall burst into laughter, shock, and shrieks.
“Satan’s tail!” Ida gasped.
“Adam, tuck that thing away,” Anne admonished, “You’re scaring the girls!”
“Tis soooooo hot in here,” Christiana giggled and Will covered her eyes.
“I guess we know what happened to the Serpent in the Garden,” Robert commented.
Roger sprayed Lusignan’s Sin out his nose and coughed laughter.
. . .
The Cocksures were taking a break when three new arrivals walked into the solar. Owain was singing a plaintive dirge in Welsh, surrounded by Christiana and other handmaidens, Alfred and other squires. The beagle was baying harmoniously and Owain didn’t seem to mind. Robert, Adam, Robin, Willum and Roger were conversing among Anne, Tilly, Ida, and Helen. Fitzwalter and Will were regaling Vescy, Albiny, and Clare with the tale of ‘Poached Eggs and the King’s Rules’.
At first glance, Robert thought Walter was returning, for the young man was of his age with the same brindle hair, height, and cheekbones. Yet his eyes were ash grey, his nose more curved, his cheeks clean shaven, a ruby pinned to his ear, and hair combed perfectly to the side. He wore a light grey linen jerkin with scarlet buttons and stitching, a bear talon pierced over the breast and a gold Irish Cross hung from a silver chain about his neck. A fine handled dirk was strapped to a black belt, over dark grey hose stitched with cloth of gold, and pointy crimson shoes.
The older woman next to him was clearly his mother, but with an ageless beauty; a face unhindered with wrinkles or blemishes, the same ash eyes, brindle hair blended with thin silver strands braided and plaited down to the small of her back, a firm belly and heaving bosoms. She wore an emerald velvet dress over a saffron linen longshirt, with a silver Norman cross that had a ruby encased in the center. Her hands were clasped as she scanned the seated lords, speaking low to her son. Whereas he looked serious, she seemed tinged with worry.
Behind both of them was a joyless gargoyle of a man, with half his hair burned off, melted scars covering the baldness and drooping over her left eye. He wore a brown leather jerkin with a golden badge bearing a scarlet X converging on an emtpy diamond of the same color. Black breeches and brown boots covered his legs. He cleared his throat, and with a strong brogue to his Anglo-Norman exclaimed, “Announcing Lord Nicholas Verdun, Baron of Alton, Marcher of Dundalk in the Irish Pale, and his mother, Lady Rohese de Salford.”
The solar quieted as Owain quit his song and everyone looked to the entrance.
“Shite,” Robin whispered.
“At least Walter’s not here,” Anne sighed.
“Awkward,” Adam grunted.
“Shenanigans a foot,” Roger pinched Helen’s bottom.
“Oh, you little devil,” Helen yanked his beard braids.
Tilly wrapped her arms around Sweet Willum’s chest, “Whose the handsome fop?”
“All will reveal itself, I expect,” Willum kissed her cheek.
“God, I hope not,” Robin narrowed his eyes.
Verdun, haven’t heard that name bandied about at Court, intriguing.
Nicholas and Rohese entered the room side by side, eyes focused on the fireplace behind the seated lords. Their gargoyle knight scanned the room as he followed with a menacing sneer and hand resting on the pommel of his dirk. The seated lords passed wary glances at the couple and at Fitzwalter, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. Nicholas and Rohese stopped, he bowing courtly and she curtsying politely.
“Lady Rohese,” Clare nodded, “Tis been years and I dare say you haven’t aged a day.”
“You’re too kind my lord.”
An awkward silence passed as the seated lords stared at her statuesque visage, except for Fitzwalter, who seemed fascinated by his knees.
“And my ring sister is well?” Clare cracked the ice by acknowledging Rohese was lady in waiting to Countess Avisa of Gloucester.
“As well as can be,” Rohese demurred, her cheeks flushing.
Lord Clare wed Lady Amicia over thirty years ago, younger sister of Avisa, who inherited the family Honour of Gloucester. As countess of the largest fiefdom in England after Cheshire, King Henry saw fit to marry Avisa to his youngest son, Prince John. Once king, John divorced Avisa after a childless decade of marriage, but kept the vast Honour of Gloucester for himself. Amicia pleaded for Clare to protect her sister and the family Honour; to protest, rebel, something, anything. Yet, Clare refused, a gentle man preffering horse and hawk breeding to politics and war. Amicia called him coward and from then on she lived at Clare Castle in Suffolk while he resided at Tonbridge in Kent. His inability to muster any sort of protection for their daughter Madilyn all but destroyed their marriage.
“A Gloucester Maid,” Tilly giggled in the corner, “So she’s one of Softsword’s sheathwomen.”
“Tilly,” Ida was aghast.
“If she’s a mistress, I’d of heard,” Robert shook his head.
“Well aren’t you a curious scribbler,” Anne grinned at him and he blushed.
“He’s a scribbler,” Robin patted his shoulder, “Gossip is the mutton of his stew.”
The young ladies giggled.
“Carrots actually,” Robert grinned.
“I’m so lost,” Christiana sighed.
“That’s a good thing, sissy,” Robin complimented his young sister.
Before the fire, Fitzwalter stood and offered his chair, “M’lady, if you please.”
Rohese met his gaze for a heartbeat, “Non, thank you though. We’ve been riding from Windsor all day and standing is doing me good.”
“And this is your son, all grown and lordly,” Quincy shifted attention to the impatient youth.
Nicholas looked annoyed as Fitzwalter sat back down. He cleared his throat, “I came of age two years ago, my good lords. Since I was serving Lord Marshal in Ireland and the Verdun Honour includes the March of Dundalk, I determined standing strong against the Ulster shenanigans was a good means of proving my mettle.”
“Seems to’ve worked,” Vescy the Northumbrian agreed in his clipped Anglo-Norman tinged with a smooth Norse lilt.
“The Ulsterlads killed your two older brothers, aye?” Albiny the Stonelord asked.
Rohese inhaled quickly but exhaled slowly, lowering her eyes, willing the devastation of her soul to stay hidden. Fitzwalter frowned at his cousin, and Nicholas frowned at Fitzwalter.
“Just so,” Nicholas acknowledged. “I’ve left a strong mesne and a trusted constable to keep Dundalk secure until my return. In the meantime, I intend to reclaim governance of the family Honour here in England. I’ve just left King John’s Pentecost Court, having pressed my claim as Constable of Farnham Castle. His majesty promised a ruling at Michaelmass. But excuse me, I talk of myself overmuch. My Lord Vescy, so good to make your acquiantence,” Nicholas bowed to the Northumbrian. “Court was astir with stories of the recent campaign against the Scots rebels. May your ring father’s rule continue to be blessed with such worthy champions.”
Quincy threw a chicken leg passed Albiny at Vescy, “Keep your friends close they say. . .”
Vescy grinned and took a bite, “And your enemies in the grave.”
“Civilizing the savages is a thankless task,” Nicholas commented, “But tis our duty as good and noble lords, tis it not?”
“You’re the Marshal’s echo, for certes,” Quincy chuckled. “A piece of advice, young lord; if the king doled out as many knighthoods as promises every man, woman, and child in Britania would call themselves sir.”
“At least every man,” Albiny amended, flicking flecks of poultry off his pristine crimson tunic lined with cloth of gold. He missed a juicy morsel sticking to the golden cross necklace.
Chuckles and agreement rippled through the solar.
“King John gave Farnham to the Bishop of Winchester as a fief,” Quincy explained, “Lord Peter does not hold it for your Honour or the Crown’s, tis of the Winchester Diocese now. He will not hand it over freely.”
“My Lord Quincy, I thank your wisdom but remain confident justice will prevail,” Nicholas nodded deferentially, “I hope you won’t mind if I call upon you at Mountsorrel sometime soon. I’ll be touring my Leicestershire estates over the next fortnight. T’would be an honor to sup with you and your lady, Viscountess Marjorie of Leicester.”
Quincy fingered his dangling beard braids, swinging a quick glance at Fitzwalter, “We’d love to have you. I’ll give you a tour of the shire.”
“I look forward to it,” Nicholas gazed at Earl Richard, “My Lord Clare, tis an honor to meet another member of such an illustrious House. Your cousin, Countess Sybil of Pembroke, is like a mother to me. She bid me offer you her humblest sympathy for Lady Madilyn. She is truly an innocent caught up in an unfortunate affair.”
The Great Braose Hunt . . . an unfortunate affair.
“Unfortunate indeed,” Clare grumbled, meeting Nicholas’ gaze with glistening eyes and trembling lips, “I thank you and Lady Sybil the kindness I am deprived elsewise.”
Nicholas bowed to Baron Brito, “Lord Albiny, pleased to make your aquiantence. I’m told you’re as chivalrous and honorable a man as my ward father, Lord Marshal.”
“Except I am not in exile,” Albiny ruffled, “Nor have I ever been dependent on the king to earn my Honour.”
“Careful with Albiny, lad,” Quincy cautioned, “He’s like a trained bear, you can pet him but must remember he’s still got claws and jaws.”
“And sitting right beside you, cousin,” Albiny ground his teeth.
Quincy chuckled and feigned petting him pensively, “Now that’s a good Stonelord.”
Sweet Willum burst into laughter until Tilly covered his mouth with her hand.
“Bah!” Albiny swatted at Quincy’s hand.
Nicholas took a calming breath, “If tis no trouble, might I request some legal advice in the morn concerning my case with Farnham.”
“I can advise you on the law,” Albiny agreed, “But you should also heed my boorish cousin on the matter as well.”
“For certes,” Nicholas said tightly. He inspected Will’s still purple swollen eye and split lip, “Sir William Mandeville, I hope you gave the insolent cur who wronged you as good as you got.”
Will winked with his good eye, “Oh, he got the what for, don’t you fret.”
This time Robin burst into laughter, with Adam chuckling behind him.
Nicholas slowly turned to Fitzwalter.
Rohese whispered, “My son, please. . .”
“Killcairn,” Nicholas lifted his right hand and the gargoyle knight laid a doeskin glove in it. “Baron Fitzwalter, it provides me great satisfaction to demand we meet on a field of honor at the soonest possible opportunity.”
Nicholas chucked the glove disdainfully at Fitzwalter’s feet and a hush hustled over them.
“Son,” Rohese stared at Nicholas desperately, “My honor does not require defending.”
“Tis not your honor I wish to defend,” Nicholas sneered without relinquishing his eyes from Fitzwalter, “You, sir, made a cuckold of my father, a great lord, Kingsman to King Henry and King Richard the Lionheart; worse, you despoiled his all too willing wife while he was on holy crusade! Not only do I proclaim you adulterer, I call you a foul blasphemer!”
“Did he just say that?” Tilly gasped with all the others.
“I told you,” Sweet Willum whispered.
“Thank God Walter’s not here,” Robin gritted his teeth as Anne clutched his arm.
“Well?” Nicholas trembled with rage, “What say you, you rutting hog!”
Fitzwalter’s complexion was darker than his hair, his mouth sealed tight. He leaned over in the chair and picked up the glove, then proferred it to Nicholas. “Call me what you will. I’ve heard far worse. I apologize for the slight you perceive and beg forigivness of the ill will you harbor against me.”
“Tis not an apology I demand!” Nicholas gripped his dirk, the other hand twitching, “Tis justice!”
“I have not wronged you,” Fitzwalter expressed.
“If Lord William Marshal has taught me anything, tis a slight against my family honor is a slight against me!”
“Then take another lesson from Marshal and accept that some injustices, wether real or imagined, must be born with humility and forebearance,” Fitzwalter replied.
“Do you deny that you sired a bastard with this whore?” Nicholas shot an accusing finger at his mother.
Fitzwalter stood with such vehemence the chair fell back.
Nicholas charged, drawing his dagger.
“Nicholas, non!” Rohese shouted.
Before he brought the blade up, Fitzwalter charged and shoved him with both hands. The youth fell flat on his back. Killcairn pushed passed Rohese, knocking her over, but Will stepped between him and Fitzwalter.
“I’ll carve you like a ham,” Killcairn threatened with his drawn dagger.
A massive hand slipped under Killcairn’s left arm and gripped the back of Killcairn’s neck, while Adam grabbed his wrist and slammed the knight’s forearm down on his own knee. Robin grabbed hold of the blade and twisted it until Killcairn let it free, then Adam wrestled him to the floor. Blood dripped from the grip as Robin kneeled and pressed it to Nicholas’ throat.
“Nicholas, Robert, oh God, please. . .” Rohese hand’s shook as she covered her mouth and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Say what you wish of me,” Fitzwalter hulked over Nicholas, “But your mother deserves better. She’s always deserved better. I’ll forgive your ignorance, for all you know of your father are the tales told of his bravery and swordhand. Yet the poems don’t speak of how he beat his first wife to death, convinced she’d slept with King Henry! Those songs do not sing of the countless peasant girls he raped as his ‘First Night’ right, the whores he kept in a rolling brothel while he was a Justice of the Eyre, or the abuse he visited upon your mother every day. Don’t threaten me with chivalry to defend a man you never knew! I love. . . I loved your mother very much. . . I acknowledge our son, your half brother, Walter. He is a knight in my household, with a manor fief to pass on when he’s gone. Tis far more than you can say for the score of your bastard siblings seeded across the Realm.”
“I hate you!” Nicholas seethed.
“Tis your right,” Fitzwalter agreed, “Now get out of here before I lose my temper.”
Robin stood and dropped the dagger on the floor, helping Rohese up. Adam unlimbed from Killcairn. Will and Sayer stood at the ready. Killcairn shrugged and flexed, ready to pounce. Nicholas muttered curses as he slowly got up. Fitzwalter and Rohese stared at each other.
“I’m sorry,” They told eachother in tandem.
. . .
When Robert finally left the solar, he bumped into someone at the foot of the stairs.
“Watch it,” A familiar voice said and shot up the stairs.
Robert swiveled in his buzzy haze, “Sir Walter?”
He almost fell down and decided his bed was the most important place on Earth. The chapel was comfortingly silent. Robert unlatched his door and nearly fell over as his weight threw it open. He giggled and righted himself. In the dim light of a trinity of half melted candles, he saw a shadowy form sitting on his bed.
“You can knock, can’t you laddie?” A very young woman with a tired, throaty, Scots brogue asked. She was sitting in the bed, legs curled under her and covered by the sheet. The rest of her pale body was naked; thick, wavy, ginger hair dangling over her breasts without covering them. She had pink nipples.
Glorious pink nipples. I’ve never seen such a wondrous sight.
“Tis been a long day, laddie. Delilah’s done for tonight. Ye should’ve come by earlier.”
Robert was terribly confused. He was so dizzy, but a strange urgency provided clarity the longer he stared at those nipples. “Uh, what . . . um. . . what are you . . . this is my room.”
“Oh,” She stretched her arms wide and yawned.
What perfect breasts.
“This . . . this is the King’s House. . . the chaplain’s. . . chaplain’s room of. . .” Robert leaned drastically and slumped against the door frame.
“Uh huh,” She threw the sheet off her legs, reached for her undershirt and started pulling it over her head. “Well, ye can have it back, laddie. I’m done for de night. I kin take the hidden way back if ye like.”
Hidden way?
“I . . . I could. . . tell Sir Laurence,” Robert warned.
“Hmmm, and who do you think sent me here?” She swung her legs around to the floor.
The shadow between her legs was fascinating.
“That’s . . . that’s . . . not right.”
She reached down to a bucket beside the chamber pot and pulled out a wet rag, spread her legs, then started cleaning the soft fleshy strawberry patch. “I’ve come ta learn Sir Laurence is all too typical of wha passes for nobility in England.”
She sighed, threw the rag in the bucket then reached under the bed.
Non!
Robert shoved himself back to his feet but kept going and hit the door, then slid to the floor.
“Oh!” He shouted on the way down. Once he realized he was sitting on the floor, he added, “That will . . . probably . . . hurt in the morn.”
The young woman chuckled through a yawn, “Think you have a sore bum, laddie?”
Robert realized she had a hefty sack of coins in her hand. She plopped it on the bed, then stood and pulled on an airy, soiled pink linen tunic. She walked across the room and offered Robert her hands.
“Come on up, laddie.”
“I’m not a laddie, lassie,” Robert copied her accent, “I’m Robert de London, Scribe of . . . non, non . . . Crown steward of . . .”
She crouched, took the seal in her hands and stared at it, then looked closely at Robert.
“What’s. . . what’s your real name?” Robert asked, “For certes tis not . . . Delilah.”
“Catrin, Catrin mac Domnail,” She whispered.
He felt the robe moving against his crotch, or maybe it was the other way around.
“You’re . . . a. . . princess,” Robert focused through the swirl.
“I’m a whore. . . och, I remember you,” She let go the seal. “You were wit de Brute and de Bastard Boy.”
“I . . . I,” Robert wasn’t sure where he was going with that, but she was so close he thought he recognized her too. She smelled of sweat, stale flowers, and something saltier than sweat.
“You were the only one who didn’t rape us,” She cupped his cheek in her palm.
“That . . . would be rude,” Robert’s hands shook and he was unmistakeably stiff.
I’m so evil.
Her hand trembled against his cheek and tears were running down hers.
“I jus wanna go home,” she mewed.
“I just want a home.” Robert rested his hand on hers.
“They took me home, burned it, gone. Bastard Boy killed me Pa, the Brute . . . he. . . strangled Ma as he. . . as he . . . oh God.”
“I don’t even know who my parents are,” Robert’s chin trembled, “I was abandoned.”
She started sobbing and curled into Robert, clinging to him. He wrapped his arms around her, and she clung tighter. He tried not thinking about the awkwardly pleasurable pressure of her pressed against him, but his desire was drowning. He was crying too, clinging as tightly in his own misery as she. Robert’s world swirled to darkness. He came to and she was resting her head on his shoulder, her hand clutching the seal, whispering, “Robert, can I stay here with you? Just for the night? Tis so late and I’m so tired. Please? I canna face Sir Laurence, I canna.”
“Do we have to . . . stay on the floor . . . or can we . . .”
“Come now, Robert,” She kissed his cheek, “Tis time for bed.”