The Winter King--A Hawkenlye 13th Century British Mystery Page 14
He turned his thoughts over the narrow seas to the homeland of his great enemy. Philip Augustus’s alliance with Pope Innocent was alarming, yes, but then grave problems tended to be the spur that brought about good, strong resolutions. The threat posed by the union of two such formidable enemies had forced John to form an alliance of his own. Extending his hand, he counted on his fingers those he had won over to his side: Renault of Dammartin, who controlled Boulogne; Count Ferdinand of Flanders; Raymond of Toulouse, who was married to John’s sister Joan; and Otto, the Holy Roman Emperor, and son of John’s sister Matilda.
Sisters and daughters, John mused. As well as being decorative, they certainly had their uses.
He stared out at the bright autumn sky. The alliance was not yet complete, for his aim was to form an iron chain that ran through all the lands bordering France, and he was considering how best to win over the princes of Boulogne, Flanders, Lorraine and the Netherlands. Good God, he was even wondering about a temporary liaison with the Duke of Brabant, a man so notoriously devious that they said he was unable to lie straight in bed …
His thoughts sped on.
Presently they turned, as they invariably did, to his struggle with the Pope.
During the previous summer he had permitted the papal legate, Pandulph, to enter England to discuss the Pope’s terms for ending the interdict and excommunication. The terms were brutal and uncompromising: John must accept Pope Innocent’s original candidate, Stephen Langton, as Archbishop of Canterbury, and he must also reinstate all the exiled bishops and return their confiscated property.
John had refused. For the sake of pride – and also for greed, since the latter condition would severely impoverish him – he had had no option.
Pandulph will come again, he now mused. Either him, or another just like him. In a deep recess of his mind – one he rarely visited – John nursed a secret fear. By no other will than his own, and acting entirely alone, he had slipped from under the dominion of the Pope and the Church. He and he alone ruled England, and the priests had fled. His fear was that he had set the people a poor example: might it not begin to dawn on the brighter and more thoughtful of his subjects that they might similarly throw off the authority of God’s anointed king?
His authority.
It was one thing to sit on the throne with the full support of mighty Mother Church. It was quite another to do it all by yourself …
Not yet, he told himself firmly. All may yet be well.
Suddenly he’d had enough of inactivity. Thrusting himself away from the narrow window, he jumped down from the deep embrasure and began to pace the room. The bright day outside was calling to him; he was overcome with the desire to go hunting, to chase a lively stag over miles and miles of challenging countryside, preferably with plenty of good cover. The kill was always so much more satisfying when the deer had put up a spirited fight, and, while a fast run over open ground was thrilling, it kept mind and body alert when the quarry had places to hide.
An image clarified in the king’s mind. A place he had visited previously, more than once. Somewhere that held fond memories for him.
Something snagged his attention. What was it, now? A report had come in, and he had read it in a hurry, storing the contents away for action in the not-too-distant future. Turning to the wide board set against the wall, groaning under the weight of numerous rolls of parchment, scraps of vellum, and all the impedimenta of writing, he riffled through until he found what he was looking for.
Yes. He’d been right: it was the very place.
He smiled to himself. He’d been intending to go there very soon, in any case, in response to an invitation which, for various reasons, he could not refuse. If he started now, he could get in a couple of days’ hunting before the official engagement. And, in truth, bearing in mind the circumstances, the sooner he got there, the better.
You just never knew where you were with dishonest men.
King John yelled for his steward, who appeared with the alacrity of a man who has been standing just outside the door. The king issued a string of instructions, then impatiently jostled the steward out of the way. Leaping down the long flights of steps, he burst into the yard far below and hurried across it to the kennels.
He was going hunting, and the first task was to make sure his favourite hound was fully fit and ready.
ELEVEN
As soon as they had checked to make sure that Lilas was not hiding somewhere else in the infirmary, Josse, Meggie and Abbess Caliste hurried outside again. Struggling with the mass of people still crowded together in the forecourt of Hawkenlye Abbey, Josse tried to hear what Abbess Caliste was saying. Something about organizing a search for the old woman.
Some hope, he thought.
Now that Nicholas Fitzwalter and his two monks had left the platform and there clearly wasn’t going to be any more entertainment, people were slowly dispersing, which, if anything, made the prospect of a search even more difficult, since the crowd was steadily converged at the gates and nobody was giving way.
‘I will send my nuns to check through all our buildings,’ the abbess said, yelling right in his ear and making him wince.
‘I’ll help them,’ Meggie said. She was pale, and Josse guessed she was feeling guilty about having left Lilas on her own.
‘Thank you, Meggie – that would be very welcome,’ the abbess said. ‘If – when we find her, I am sure your presence will help to calm and reassure her. I suggest you join forces with Sister Liese.’ With a nod of acknowledgement, Meggie disappeared back inside the infirmary. ‘My monks are at your disposal, Sir Josse,’ the abbess added, ‘for searching the surrounding countryside.’
Josse raised his arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Nobody will be going anywhere until all these people get themselves out of the way,’ he yelled back. ‘I’ll—’
There was a sudden commotion just outside the gates. Someone shouted, loudly and angrily, and there was a sharp cry of pain. The throng intensified as avid onlookers pushed forward to get a better view.
Over the hubbub came the single, high, clear note of a horn. Into the abrupt silence a voice cried, ‘Make way for the sheriff!’
The crowd obediently bisected itself, and riding down the avenue that had opened up came Gervase de Gifford, followed by half a dozen of his men.
You have to admire the man’s authority, Josse reflected, watching as Gervase let his eyes run right round the assembled masses, a frown on his face as if he was working out which were the potential troublemakers, and whether there was room in his cells for them all. But then, before he could even begin to ask questions, a small group of mounted men came clattering through from the abbey stables and, utilizing the gap that Gervase had conveniently opened up, hastened out through the gates.
At the head of the group rode Nicholas Fitzwalter. As he passed Gervase, he called out, ‘Good day to you, de Gifford!’
He spurred his horse, and his retinue followed suit. Caleb, clearly unaccustomed to riding a decent, spirited horse, was almost unseated as his mare sprang forward.
The riders swiftly passed out on to the track. Very soon, the last of them had gone.
Gervase dismounted, handing his horse’s reins to one of his men. Josse approached him. ‘What are you doing here?’ Josse asked. ‘Keeping an eye on Fitzwalter and his antics?’
With a frown and a quick glance around, Gervase grabbed Josse’s arm and led him out of the forecourt and into the relative peace of the cloisters. The abbess hurried after them.
Gervase stopped, spinning round to face Josse and Abbess Caliste. ‘Exactly that,’ he said quietly. ‘Just now, Fitzwalter staged the same thing down in Tonbridge, taking advantage of market day to grab the attention of a huge crowd of locals.’
‘Did he and his Cistercian get the young monk to speak out?’ Josse demanded.
‘Is that the skinny lad in black?’
‘It is,’ the abbess said coolly. ‘He is a member of the Benedictine order.’
Josse told him what had just occurred in the Hawkenlye forecourt.
‘He actually said those very words?’ Gervase looked horrified.
‘“These terrible times we’re having – it’s all a judgement on the king.” Aye, he did,’ Josse confirmed.
‘Hush, Josse! Enough!’ Gervase hissed. ‘For God’s sake, don’t go repeating it!’ He shook his head, deep frown lines creasing his brow. ‘First Tonbridge, now Hawkenlye,’ he muttered. ‘Anywhere Fitzwalter can be sure of a large crowd.’ He met Josse’s eyes. ‘These speeches of his – and his tame monk – present a grave threat to peace and order, and the maintenance of those is my job,’ he added gravely.
‘You fear unrest?’ Josse demanded.
‘Of course I do!’ Gervase growled. ‘He …’ He lowered his voice, and his next words were barely audible. ‘The king grows steadily more unpopular, and I sense that we are on the very brink. I dread to think what would happen if anyone should lead the masses over the edge.’
‘Is there nothing you can do?’ the abbess asked, her voice cool. Josse turned to her. You are, after all, sheriff, her expression seemed to add.
‘No, my lady, I cannot act,’ Gervase replied roughly. ‘Nicholas Fitzwalter is a very close friend of the de Clares, and they are the true power hereabouts.’
‘Even if they appear to be undermining the authority of God’s anointed king?’ Her clear voice rang out.
‘Hush!’ Gervase looked wildly all around. Apart from themselves, the cloisters were empty. He turned back to the abbess. ‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he said swiftly. ‘I have no right to command you in your own abbey. It’s just that I fear … I am afraid that …’ He did not appear to be able to put it into words.
Looking at him with thinly disguised scorn, the abbess said, ‘I believe Sir Josse and I understand full well what you fear.’ For a moment Josse, observing closely, thought she would go on, but evidently she decided against it. With a quick nod to both men, she spun round and strode back towards the forecourt.
‘She would have me act,’ Gervase said quietly, ‘although I do not know what she thinks I should do.’
Stand up to the men of power, Josse thought. Do not let self-important barons like Nicholas Fitzwalter treat the law as if it is theirs to command.
Looking at Gervase’s stricken expression, Josse held back the words. He had a strong suspicion that, inside his head, Gervase was already hearing them.
Josse caught up with the abbess as she was emerging from the nuns’ dormitory. Two novices followed her out, and Sister Liese had just hurried up to her and spoken a few brief words.
‘We have now searched through the whole abbey, Sir Josse,’ Abbess Caliste greeted him, ‘and, as far as we can tell, Lilas is not here.’
‘What about the Vale?’ Josse asked. ‘Could she have fled there?’
‘Brother Saul has just sent word,’ the abbess said. ‘She is not there either.’
Josse took a deep breath, letting it out as a long, weary sigh. Drawing the abbess aside, he said softly, ‘I think you and I both know where she is, my lady.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Nicholas Fitzwalter has already taken one mouthpiece to himself. We should not be surprised, then, that he has found another.’ Turning anxious eyes up to him, she added, ‘Oh, Sir Josse, she was so afraid! I told her – right here in our infirmary – I told her not to worry, that we’d look after her and keep her safe, and she wept, she was so terrified, and she said she wasn’t safe, she could never be safe, because they had heard her, and they’d said she must go with them and repeat what she’d been saying.’ Tears welled up in the abbess’s eyes. ‘I have failed her, Josse, and now she has been taken away by the very people she feared.’
Josse very much wanted to put his arms round her and try to comfort her. But you did not behave like that with an abbess. Instead, he squared his shoulders, looked her straight in the eye and said, ‘We won’t let them get away with it. I’m going after them.’
Quite soon after arriving in the vicinity of Tonbridge Castle, Josse began to wish he hadn’t rushed off so precipitously. And that he hadn’t come alone.
The very edifice looked threatening. It loomed above the road that ran through the middle of the town and over the Medway, protected by a high, imposing curtain wall. Following the track that curved to the left around this wall, a steep-sided, water-filled ditch opened up before it: an effective first line of defence. Approaching the massive gatehouse, Josse was aware of the vast motte soaring up over to his right, the thick walls of the circular bailey on its summit broken only right at the top by slit-like windows. The inner defence for the castle inhabitants, he reflected, could surely withstand any sort of attack.
The outer barrier of the gatehouse was manned by half a dozen guards, one of whom detached himself from his companions to come and demand Josse’s identity and his business.
Maintaining the meagre advantage of height, Josse stayed on Alfred’s back and said, as calmly as he could, ‘My name is Josse d’Acquin, and I wish to speak to Lord Nicholas Fitzwalter.’
‘You can’t,’ the man said flatly. ‘He’s just ridden in and he’s busy. Got things to see to,’ he added grandly. He eyed Josse. ‘Important things, see.’
Josse wondered if it was worth asking this man if he had seen an elderly woman arrive. She is here, he thought. She must be. Studying the guard, he decided on another tack. ‘I just heard him address the crowd up at Hawkenlye Abbey,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want to speak to him. Now. Straight away,’ he added. The guard, he thought, seemed to be wavering.
Making up his mind, the guard yelled out to one of his companions and told them to take care of Josse’s horse. Then, still eyeing Josse suspiciously, he said, ‘Come with me.’
Following his guide, Josse walked the length of the long, dark passage that cut between the two halves of the vast gatehouse. They passed beneath a huge portcullis, and Josse noticed two heavy, iron-studded oak doors on either side. More lines of defence – another gate, a second portcullis – and finally they emerged into the daylight on the far side.
Josse looked around, his eyes straying up to the bailey on its mound. If he had entertained hopes of being admitted to the castle’s private areas, he was disappointed. Whether or not the de Clares were in residence was not obvious: the castle’s living quarters were locked and barred and, apart from some activity over in the buildings in one corner of the wide expanse contained within the walls, the place might have been closed up and deserted. Men were living here – Josse knew it – but they seemed to have gone to some trouble to conceal the fact.
The guard led the way to a long, low stable building, from which Nicholas Fitzwalter emerged just as Josse and his escort approached, a stable lad at his heels.
‘Sir Josse d’Acquin, my lord,’ the guard said, with a nod in Josse’s direction. ‘Heard you speak up at the abbey. Wants to talk to you.’
Nicholas Fitzwalter turned a pair of light-blue eyes on Josse and, for an uncomfortable moment that felt to Josse like a long time, studied him intently. Wondering, in that brief time, just what was so unusual about the man, Josse realized it was his absolute stillness. He didn’t, apparently, even need to blink.
‘So, Sir Josse,’ he said eventually, his voice, now he was no longer haranguing a crowd, soft and low-pitched. ‘You heard what I and my companions had to say, and you have sought me out?’
Aye, I have, but not for the reason you think, Josse thought. He did not say it aloud; if he wanted this formidable man’s help, it would be better not to antagonize him. ‘You say aloud what many are thinking,’ he remarked instead.
‘I? I say very little,’ Fitzwalter countered swiftly. ‘Because I am who I am –’ idly he brushed a speck of dirt from the rich, fur-lined, fine wool cloak – ‘it is possible for me to ea
se the way of others who wish to share their opinions.’
Such as that poor innocent fool, Caleb, Josse thought. Fitzwalter’s words, however, had given him the prompt he needed. Leaning closer, as if to mutter a confidence, he said, ‘There is another such as he, I’m told. An old woman from a small Kentish village, spouting prophecies and portents of doom and death.’
Fitzwalter stiffened. ‘What do you know of her?’ he whispered.
‘I know she was at Hawkenlye Abbey and has disappeared.’ Josse risked what he hoped looked like a sly, conspiratorial smile. ‘Got her safely tucked away within these sturdy walls, have you, my lord?’
For an instant, or so it seemed to Josse, everything hung in the balance. He felt Fitzwalter’s gaze as if it were the fine point of a blade, boring into him, trying to judge who and what he was, where his affinities truly lay.
Then Fitzwalter said coldly, ‘You are mistaken, Sir Josse. There is no such woman here.’
Despite his determination to restrain his temper, Josse burst out, ‘She must be! She disappeared from the infirmary while you were up at the abbey!’
Nicholas Fitzwalter drew himself up to his full and considerable height. He stared down at Josse as if contemplating some lower form of life. ‘I say again, sir, you are mistaken.’ A spasm of some strong emotion briefly crossed the patrician face. ‘What on earth,’ he added, sounding as if the very prospect disgusted him, ‘would I want with some filthy, deranged old village crone?’
Josse’s anger rose. ‘You want to use her! To parade her like you did that silly young Benedictine, and make her say the things you haven’t the balls to say for yourself!’
Fitzwalter went quite white. Then, in a tone of icy politeness, he said, ‘I think, Sir Josse, you had better leave.’ With a curt nod to the guard, lurking a few paces away, he spun round and strode off in the direction of the bailey mound.
The guard, who had evidently heard the final part of the exchange, clearly decided that the abrupt dismissal put Josse too far down the social order for the likes of him to deal with. He summoned the stable boy and said, ‘Take this here knight to the outer guardhouse, where you’ll find his horse.’ Then, in fine imitation of his master, he too curled his lips into a sneer and strode away.