April Munday (2 page)

“You are pleased to be coming home?” Richard phrased the question carefully in his head before he opened his mouth. Some of the questions he had asked had made the other man laugh, despite himself, and he had patiently explained the mistakes that Richard had made. Richard knew that a word used in the wrong context could be an insult rather than a genuine enquiry and had no wish to insult the man who had made his journey bearable.

Thomas turned to him. “Oh, yes. It has been a year since I have seen my Margaret.”

Richard already knew that the Duke of Winton had left with the Prince of Wales the previous year to fight in France. Thomas had been with him all that time, until he had been sent home after the battle at Poitiers. It was the end of the France that Richard had known. His king had been taken prisoner, the Oriflamme had disappeared and much of the aristocracy and hundreds of French knights were being held for ransom in Gascony and England, Richard among them. France was ruined, there was not enough money to pay the ransoms and the English chevauchées that set fire to farms and crops and stole the animals had almost destroyed France’s ability to feed itself. There was not even honour left, he reflected bitterly. Many of the aristocracy had deserted the king when the battle had turned against them and most of those who had remained were dead or prisoners or had been ransomed at such cost that their families were ruined.

At least he had no one waiting for him in Provence. For the first time he was glad that he was alone. Apart from his mother, there was no one who would miss him or worry how he was faring this far from home. His brothers would be glad that he was not there to remind them of what he had done.

“You are a lucky man,” he said, trying to smile for the young knight beside him.

“I know. Margaret is a good woman and my children are healthy. Do you have a family?” Thomas looked embarrassed, as if he had not before thought of the man beside him as a real man with family, home and responsibilities. They had not discussed these things before.

“No.” Richard shook his head. “My wife died in the pestilence.”

Thomas frowned and repeated the word as if he did not know it. Then he nodded. “The Big Death. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Richard was taken aback. English might be a barbaric language, but it was expressive. It had been a big death. It had taken most of the people that he knew, but none of that had mattered because it had taken Louise.

Thomas hit Richard’s arm in excitement, all thoughts of death forgotten. “There! We are home at last.” He pointed and, following his hand, Richard looked up across the river and up the hill that rose beside it. On its summit stood the ugliest castle he had ever seen. It looked as if it had grown rather than been built. No one could have planned such a monstrosity. Where were the clean lines of his father’s castle, the soaring narrow towers, the elegantly sloping roofs, the symmetry between left and right, between darkness and light, the complementary colours? This castle presented one square and two round towers to him. They had obviously been built at different times and the walls that stretched between them were patched with different types of brickwork and stonework. Surely no one could live here in the proper fashion. The castle sprawled across the hill as if its builders had not been quite sure where to stop. There was no beauty, no symmetry, no pattern. Richard’s heart sank. No wonder his mother had been content to marry his father and stay in France if this was indicative of the home that she had left behind.

He had never visited her former home, nor had the inclination to do so. Even if there had been no war with England, it was so far away. The north was so cold and the English so uncultured. His mother had expressed such satisfaction with the way that things were done in France that he had grown to believe that nothing in England could be worth seeing , that the English themselves could not be worth knowing.

It seemed to Richard that it took an age for the ship to reach the pier that jutted out into the river from the small town that lay below the castle. As soon as they entered the mouth of the river they were sheltered from the winds that had come against them almost constantly since they had left Bordeaux and the ship’s speed dropped. He had grown used to the way the ship moved through the sea and his stomach had been easier the last few days. Now he had a new motion to get used to and he feared that he would be hanging over the side in front of all the townspeople as well as the sailors. At the thought of that greater humiliation he managed to gain control of his stomach. He picked out a spot on the shore and measured their progress against it, refusing to look at the pier again until they were almost upon it. By then his stomach was calm.

Then it was all shouts and cheers and laughter and ropes were thrown ashore from the ship. The ship’s motion changed one last time, but Richard chose to see it as a return to normality and his stomach mercifully stayed still.

People came aboard and started unloading the ship. Against all expectation, Thomas had been right; he could understand much of what they said. They were greeting old friends, asking for news of relatives, passing on news of what had happened since the duke and his soldiers had left. A few people stared at him, but no one approached. Then he heard the questions. Who was he? Why was he here? As soon as they heard the word ‘French’ they turned away from him.

Richard pretended not to understand.

“They’re just curious,” said Thomas, coming to stand beside him again.

“I know. Now they have a face for their enemy.”

Thomas laughed. “They wish all the enemy were like you. Then the soldiers would soon be home.”

Richard bit his lip and said nothing. He knew he stood awkwardly because of his leg and the ship was not the place for vanity. He had been very ill for the last few months and it probably showed.

For the first time he examined the other men on board carefully. Most of them were tanned and looked strong. Somehow they had managed to keep their hair neat and their faces shaved during the voyage. His unkempt looks alone would draw the attention of the townspeople. For the first time in his life his looks were not causing murmurs of approval. It occurred to him that he might not recover his good looks or his health. He had no idea what kind of treatment he could expect in England and the last few weeks had shown him that he could do nothing about whatever might be done to him. Thomas had treated him well, but he could not tell whether Thomas acted under his own guidance or whether he followed the duke’s orders. Either way, he would have a new gaoler soon and he would be here for a long time. It would be to his advantage to learn as much as he could about this place and its people, so he concentrated on what was happening and what was being said.

Richard watched as one of the soldiers, Martin he thought the name was, carefully led a horse down onto the pier, ignoring the greetings from the townspeople. Even the horse seemed to have had a better voyage than Richard.  He pranced off the ship and onto the jetty, with no apparent change in his stride. “Where’s he going?” Richard asked Thomas, as Martin mounted his horse and spurred it away from the river and the castle.

Thomas looked where Richard pointed, then said curtly, “He’s a messenger from the duke. Gone to London.”

Now Richard understood. The duke had sent reports to the king from Gascony. It was not his concern. The reports would contain more details of the Prince of Wales’ victory over King Jean. Richard had thought about it as much as he could bear and now he wanted to think about other things. He was not in England because things had gone well for France at Poitiers. He had tried to leave the bitterness behind at Bordeaux, but his leg was a constant reminder of what the English had done to him.

Now it had started to rain, and Richard pulled his cloak about him, hoping that he would not get too wet on his way up the hill. Doubtless the castle would be damp and he did not want to start life there wet through; he would never get dry again.

By the time he and Thomas left the ship his leg had started to ache from standing for so long on the deck. He was limping so badly as they started up the hill that Thomas pulled him up behind him on his horse which gave Richard almost as much pain as walking. “I would not have Lady Rosamunde report to her father that I mistreated you,” Thomas muttered as Richard fought to find his balance on the horse made skittish by the voyage from Gascony.

“Do I look that bad, then?” asked Richard with a laugh.

“And smell worse.” Thomas wrinkled his nose.

Richard was crestfallen. He had expected to impress these barbarians with his looks and size and manners, but it seemed he was to make an impression of a different kind.

“I beg your pardon, I had no idea.” He did not add that Thomas himself was not exactly pleasing to be near.

“Don’t worry. You won’t get close enough to Lady Rosamunde for her to notice. It is time for us to remember that you are the duke’s prisoner and not his guest.”

Richard had never forgotten and was surprised to learn that Thomas had. The man had certainly been friendly towards him and did not seem to bear him any ill-will for what had passed between their two kings and their armies.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?” Thomas seemed genuinely puzzled.

“A lesser man would have remembered every moment that I was his prisoner.”

“It is not that I forgot,” said Thomas cheerfully, “It is simply that you suffered enough without me reminding you.”

“Nonetheless, you have been kind to me and I will not forget it.”

“You behaved honourably towards the duke; I see no reason not to behave in the same way towards you.”

Richard felt his chest tighten. Yes, he had behaved honourably where there had been dishonour and he would pay the greatest price for what he had done. There would be no ransom for him and he would never see the blue of the Mediterranean again. He would remain in this grey place in the cold and damp for the rest of his days. It would have been far better if he had fallen at Poitiers in defence of his king.

Chapter Two

Ever since the ship had been sighted early that afternoon Rosamunde had been restless. It was not reasonable to expect that her father or Simon would be on the ship, since it was unaccompanied. Nonetheless she hoped against hope that they would be. Even if they were not, it would be the first real news that they had had in months from France. There had been stories of a big battle, but Rosamunde did not believe them. How could the king of France have been taken prisoner? How could a small English army that had set out only to make a nuisance of itself have defeated the whole mighty French army? No, the truth must be something else and today she would find out. She did not really care about battles as long as her father and Simon were safe - and Henry, she reminded herself. Her younger brother was seldom far from her thoughts, but today it was her father and Simon who occupied her mind to the exclusion of all else.

She wondered if she would know Simon. He would be different. A year of killing men and destroying property would have changed him. He had always been gentle and courteous with her, but she knew that war was his business and he had trained all his life for battle. Now he was putting all his training to use and she hoped that it would be enough. She had expressed her fears for his safety and he had been considerate enough not to laugh, but had explained to her how thorough his training had been. She had not bothered to point out that in twenty years of war the French had also been training hard. They, too, had some skill at war and English victories had been few since Crécy.

When Simon returned she would leave the sanctuary that her father’s castle had become and take her proper place in the world as his wife. Although she was happy here, she was only the chatelaine until her father should marry again or Henry take his own wife. But before either of those events happened she would be married to Simon and go with him to their own home. They would raise their own family. She felt her cheeks warm at the thought. When Simon had gone with her father to fight the French she had had little idea of what would be required of her as a wife, but the absence of most of the men had set the women’s tongues free and she had heard much that delighted her and as much that had scared her.

Above all she had realised in his absence that she truly loved Simon. Theirs had not been a love match. Although her father had allowed her the final choice, they had been intended for one another from childhood. After their betrothal Simon had decided to get to know his wife and had spent much time at the castle with her. They had talked together and danced and sung. She had read to him and made a tunic and standard for him. She had accompanied him on hunts and received the hart’s slot from him. Once, while everyone else was taking a bite to eat during a rest from the hunt, he had taken her aside into a stand of trees and kissed her. He had been as inexperienced as she and they had laughed. She promised herself that it would be different when he returned. She was no more experienced and hoped that he was not, but she had learned from the other women what she must do and she was ready. She knew that he would come to her even before he returned to his father and he might be on the ship that was sailing so agonisingly slowly up the river. It had seemed to her when he left that he had also loved her. They were well matched and it would be a happy marriage.

He had sent her two letters in the last year when her father had sent back some of the prize money he had taken. They had told her nothing about his life in France, but spoken only of their future together and she had wondered what was really occupying his mind.  He had trained all his life to fight and kill, so the fighting surely could not trouble him. As a boy he, like Rosamunde, had seen whole communities on his father’s property wiped out by the Big Death. No, he was no stranger to death and devastation. She feared, instead, that he had come to regret their betrothal, but it seemed unlikely. Her dowry was small enough, but she was the daughter of a duke and the marriage would advance him a great deal.