His expression soured as he considered his own estate compared to theirs. His men could almost be described as hedge knights if not for his house colours. Just a year before, he’d been considering turning them all out before he became known as a hedge baron. He sucked his lips again at bitter memories. His family farms had all gone to pay debts, sliced away year by year until he had almost nothing left. He’d discovered cards then, introduced by a friend of his who had long since had his throat cut. De Roche thought of the colourful boards and wondered if there was anyone in Maine who could be persuaded to gamble with him. He’d had a run of bad luck, it was true, but now he had gold again, and he knew he understood the games better than most people he came across. With just a little change of fortune, he could double what his men had won for him, or even triple it. He smiled, showing just his bottom teeth. He’d buy back his father’s castle and turn the old boy out into the snow for all his sneering. That would be just the start.
The road under his little group changed from a dirt track to cut stone, a sure sign that those ahead were wealthy. De Roche let his mount amble along, wondering whether it would be worth the risk to enter a town. He had only a dozen men with him, enough to take whatever they wanted from a lonely farm or a small village. Towns could sometimes afford to employ a militia and de Roche had no desire to get into a real fight. Yet he wasn’t a criminal, wanted for anything. He was merely the forward vanguard of the victorious French army. Some forty miles forward, before the rest of his countrymen could take all the best pieces. De Roche made a quick decision. He could at least glance around at the local English merchants and decide then whether they’d make it too hot for his men.
‘Head into town,’ he called to the others. ‘We’ll have a little look and, if it’s quiet, see what we can find. If there’s a guardhouse, or a militia, we’ll find a good inn for the night like any other dusty travellers.’
His men were weary after another day on the road, but they talked and laughed as they trotted along. Some of the gold and silver would make its way to them and they’d found a farmhouse with three sisters the night before. De Roche scratched his crotch at the thought, hoping he hadn’t picked up lice again. He hated having to get his groin shaved and singed. He’d gone first with the sisters, of course, as was his right. His men had stories from that encounter to last them for months and he chuckled as they became wilder in the telling. De Roche had insisted on burning the place as they left that morning. Living witnesses could cause him a few difficulties, but another blackened shell would be ignored by the army coming up behind. God knew, they’d created enough of them.
He saw Albert angle his mount closer. The old man had been with de Roche’s family for as long as he could remember, as groundsman and horse trainer, usually, though de Roche could remember Albert running a few special errands for his father. Albert wore no armour, but he carried a long knife that was almost a sword and, like his father before him, de Roche had found him a useful man in rough country.
‘What is it, Albert?’ he asked.
‘I had an aunt near here when I was a boy. There’s a castle a few miles west, with soldiers.’
‘Well?’ de Roche said, glowering. It would not do to have a servant questioning his courage in front of the men.
‘Begging your pardon, milord. I just thought you should know it might be a little tougher than farmhouses and women.’
De Roche blinked at the old man. Had that been an insult? He could not believe it, but Albert was positively glaring at him.
‘Do I have to remind you that this little trip is no more than the English will get from the king and his army? They could have left, Albert. Many of them already have, in fact. Those who remain are illegal, every man, woman and child. No! Considering they have rebelled against their own king’s wishes, they are traitors, Albert. We are doing God’s work.’
As he spoke, his troop passed a farmer standing with his head bowed. The man’s cart was piled high with parsnips and a few of the men reached down and took a couple at a time. The peasant looked angry, but he knew better than to say anything. Somehow the sight appeased de Roche’s prickling outrage. He recalled that Albert had not taken his turn with the women the night before and decided the man was criticizing him.
‘Ride at the back, Albert. I’m not a child for you to wag your fingers at.’
Albert shrugged and pulled his horse to the side to let the others pass. De Roche settled himself, still furious at the man’s insolence. That was one who would not be benefiting from the riches of Maine, he thought. When they turned back to the army, de Roche swore he’d leave Albert behind to beg for his food, with all the years he’d served the family to keep him warm.
They reached the outskirts of the town with the sun already low in the west, a short winter’s day with a long night ahead before they saw it again. De Roche was tired and sweating by then, though his spirits rose at the sight of a painted inn sign swinging in the breeze. He and his men handed over their horses to stable lads, casting lots for which of their number would stay with the mounts while the others got a night’s sleep. De Roche led them inside, calling for wine and food in a loud voice. He did not notice the inn-owner’s child leave a few minutes later, belting off down the street into the town as if the devil himself was on his heels.
12
Margaret released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Two little boys had taken up station in front of her as she walked into the church, the sons of some noble family. One of them kept looking back as they walked in time with the organ music through the crowd to the carved oak screen and hidden altar. The boys were dressed in red and wore sprigs of dried rosemary wound and tied around their arms. Margaret could smell the scent of the herb as she followed them. The entire standing crowd seemed to be carrying dried flowers, or golden wheat sheaves kept back from the harvest. They rustled as she passed through them, turning to watch and smile and whisper comments.
The boys and her maids stopped at the screen, so that only Yolande went through with her, giving her arm a squeeze as she too stepped aside and found her seat. Margaret saw Henry for the first time. Relief made her dizzy. Even through the haze of her veil, she could see he was not deformed, or even scarred. If anything, Henry was handsome, with an oval head, dark eyes and black hair that curled over his ears. Henry wore a simple gold crown and his wedding outfit was almost unadorned, a tunic of red that was belted at the waist and ended at his calves, where cream wool stockings covered his skin. Over it all was an embroidered cloak, patterned in gold thread and held with a heavy brooch on his shoulder. She saw that he wore a sword on his right hip, a polished line of silver chased in gold. The effect was one of understated simplicity — and then she saw him smile. She blushed, realizing she had been staring. Henry turned back to face the altar and she kept walking, forcing herself to a slow pace.
The organ notes swelled and the gathered crowd chattered to each other, letting out their own breaths as the great doors to the fields were shut behind them. Very few could see the altar, but they had witnessed her arrival and they were content.
Beyond the screen, the chancel was a much smaller space. Unlike the main church, there were chairs there and Margaret passed rows of richly attired lords and ladies. One or two were fanning themselves from habit or custom, though the air was cold.