On the Road to Baldock, Hertfordshire
That evening, when they all settled in the next town, the Duke of Aquitaine was eating a solitary meal when his door opened and Sam Fletcher walked in.
‘My lord, I have messages from Sir Roger for you.’ He waved at the Duke’s steward to leave, and the man bowed his way from the room.
Fletcher was a heavily-built man, but all was muscle, not fat. His face was square, with an unfashionable moustache and beard, and his leathery skin was burned dark by the wind and the sun. He was not a restful companion, because he rarely relaxed. His grey eyes tended to be ever-watchful for danger. Now, they were fixed unblinkingly on the Duke.
Duke Edward sighed. ‘Is there never to be any peace? Put them down and let me alone.’
‘Yes, my lord. Shall I fetch you some wine first?’ Sam said, closing the door behind him.
Duke Edward threw down his spoon and glared at Sam. The seething resentment which had been brewing for months was ready to spill over, and he felt as his grandsire must have done, when he was frustrated in his ambitions. Tales of King Edward I’s rages were numerous in the household, especially over his son, Duke Edward’s father, who once, so it was said, was grasped by King Edward I and shaken so firmly that handfuls of his hair had been pulled free. Now the Duke could feel a similar vexation even with his most loyal guard.
‘You son of a hog – do you never listen to me?’ he raged. ‘No one else does, I know, but I’d hoped you at least would pay me some attention, man! Why does–’
He broke off as Sam Fletcher held a finger to his lips, then pointed at the door. Others were outside, listening.
‘Oh, bring me some wine, Fletcher, if you insist I must read these things,’ Duke Edward muttered, slumping in his seat. There was no point in arguing.
There were so many notes and orders for him to read and sign each day, so much to approve. He suspected that he was being deliberately given work to do, to maintain the feeling that he was important, while others went ahead and did just as they wished. He was caged here, a prince without the title, without the freedom to pursue his own ambitions, tied to his mother’s apron-strings and forced to trail after her and her lover, always taking second place.
‘Here, my lord.’
Still scowling, he took the goblet and drank off a half in one gulp. When he looked up at Sam Fletcher, he saw something in the man’s eyes. ‘What?’
Speaking very quietly, Sam Fletcher walked around until his back was to the door. No one could see his face through the keyhole or gaps in the planks. ‘My lord, you must listen carefully,’ he whispered. ‘I dare not speak loudly in case we are overheard. Do not shout or exclaim, I beg. It would bring you trouble, and cost me my life.’
The Duke nodded slowly.
‘I have a friend in Sir Roger’s household. He tells me there is a plot to seek out the King your father and see him murdered. A man has been hired to assassinate him.’
First Saturday after the Feast of St Michael[5]
Marshfield near Bristol
Father Paul stepped back towards his church as the light began to fade, the old spade in his hand.
Today he had been out in the little strip fields with the other villagers. It was a long way away, but the walk did him good. Anything that could help him forget was good.
He had been fortunate, or so he had thought, to be given the job a few weeks ago of priest here in the little vill near Marshfield. It offered him that element of freedom from the Bishop that a little distance conferred. Marvellous to wake in the morning and hear only the wind in the trees rather than the rattle and clatter of the city. Not that he disliked Bristol itself, but he did not see how the city could ever give a man enough peace in order to consider the more important issues of life. The idea that a man would be able to find his place in the world while living in so hectic and febrile an environment was laughable.
And then there was the loss which he had suffered.
The wind was cold, a gust of pure ice that seemed to shear through his jack and chemise to the very marrow in his bones, as though his flesh and blood were no protection whatever. He stood a moment, feeling the weight of the wooden spade, a piece of carved wood with a strip of metal at the bottom of the wooden paddle to help it cut into soil, and the exhaustion that came from a day’s hard work. Exhaustion both mental and physical.
It was hard to think of her and their babe. The little one should be four or five months old now, and yet Paul had not seen it. Never would, knowingly. That had been made quite clear to him. He had besmirched himself with the sins of the flesh but, what was worse, his Bishop said, he had also tempted a young and immature married woman into adultery. That was unforgivable.
Yes, it was. He knew that. He knew it as he first met her and felt that magical lurch in his breast at the sight of her smile. That she felt the same was written there in her eyes. He could not have been mistaken. She came alive at the sight of him.
And it was hardly surprising, after a look at the Squire. A more cruel and inflexible sinner it was difficult to imagine. The man did not deserve to own poor little Petronilla, as he proved that day when he took hold of her wrists and beat her across the back and buttocks. That was why Paul had to save her.
About him, a few beech trees were hissing in the wind, their little bronze-coloured leaves dancing, and he shuddered as he returned to the present.
The ferns were all turning, too. Their fronds golden and umber, they had begun to collapse on top of each other, while behind them the dark purple sloes were showing in the blackthorns. It was a lovely time of year, he always felt, but terrifying too, because it was the onset of the death of nature, the beginning of winter. He only prayed that his stock of food would last him. At least now, he thought with a small sigh, all memories of that other life were fading. He was a soul at rest, more or less, once more.
Continuing to the small single-bay cottage, he set the spade beside the chest where he kept his belongings, and pulled off his thick, fustian overtunic, hanging it on a hook near the fire to dry while he shrugged on a thick robe.
It was cold in the chamber. He would have to survive without heat for now, for he hadn’t managed to keep his little fire going while he was out. The sticks and logs were still there on the clay hearth, but there was no warmth in the room. It was a miserable reminder of the way that the weather had turned in the last month.
He blew on his hands and set off for his chapel, crossing himself with some holy water from the stoup at the door and walking towards the altar, bending to his knees on the hard-packed soil of the floor.
The simple wooden cross was enough. He had made it himself out of two pieces of roughly squared wood, their faces cut and shaped so that they could slot together. It had been the first thing he had done when he arrived here, a kind of penance for the grave crime he had committed.
Petronilla had been his test, the trial of his faith. And to his undying shame, he had succumbed and failed.
Still, he reflected, at least he was here now in the peace of the countryside, where all memories of that crime could be forgotten. He was far enough away for his crime to be unremarked. As for the husband, cruel and vengeful as he was, Squire William wouldn’t seek for him here; and Petronilla herself would be safe in her father’s house.
He was safe; she was safe.
And that, he hoped, was the end of their story. The woman whom he had adored would live out her life with the joy of her freedom and their child to remind her of their brief time together.
Second Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael[6]