Authors: Roberta Gellis
Telor had barely scooped the items in his skirt into a second pouch, which did not hold several plectrums for the gittern, extra gut for strings, or other musical odds and ends, when de Dunstanville called, “Minstrel, come hither.”
With one eye on the servants, who were carrying large cauldrons of soup and stew and huge platters of roast beef, mutton, pork, and other dishes, so he would not get in the way and be knocked down or deliberately spattered, Telor came to the front of the dais and bowed.
“Too proud to pick a prize off the floor, are you?” de Dunstanville asked.
“I do not think it fitting for me,” Telor replied evenly, and then, smiling, added, “Unfortunately, my servant is not here. I gave him leave to go down to the fair. I would not have been too proud to order
him
to look for the coins.”
The lord of Combe laughed. “You hold yourself high, Telor.”
“Not myself, my lord, but I would not cheapen the noble tales I tell.”
“That is a round answer,” de Dunstanville said less aggressively, but added cynically, “and a good one if true.” Nonetheless, he beckoned to a young squire standing ready with a cloth on which his master could wipe his hands. “Go find a servant and tell him to search the rushes for the coin,” he ordered. “And see that they get to Telor.” Then he turned his head toward Telor again. “So, what have you to sing for us after? Will you finish Havelock?”
“If that is your desire, my lord,” Telor answered, bowing his thanks. “But I have ready new songs for this great and happy occasion—a special tale of King Arthur’s court about the loyal love of Lord Geraint and Lady Enid.” Telor smiled and bowed slightly at de Dunstanville’s son and the girl beside him in the seat of honor. “And a tale of high adventure of the hunting of a great boar. And, from the court of the queen of France, a story of the heroic acts of Sir Gawain, whose honor was sore tried by a knight enchanted by a cruel sorceress.”
“Where did you come by a tale from the court of France?” de Dunstanville asked, and then, before Telor could begin to answer, gestured impatiently for him to come and stand beside him, out of the way of the servants, squires, and gentlemen who were trying to carve and serve the meal.
“My master taught it me,” Telor replied.
He had come around the table and stopped to one side and a little behind de Dunstanville’s great chair, in the small space between it and the bench on which the others at the great table to the right of the lord were sitting. To the lord of Combe’s left was another, smaller chair for his wife, who was busily fishing with her fingers in a silver bowl of stew placed between herself and her husband. Her head was turned toward Telor, for she was eager to hear his reply—if he really had a new tale from the court of France, it would be a jewel in the crown of honor this wedding would set on her head. In fact, so eager was her attention that drops of gravy from the piece of meat she selected trailed across the cloth as she lifted the meat to her mouth.
The answer was important to de Dunstanville too, for reasons very similar to those of his wife, but he wanted to be sure that the source was genuine, not a cover for some new nonsense of Telor’s own or some old, tired tale gilded with new names. There was a rumor that Matilda was coming to England again, bringing her son Henry to show the barons the heir to the throne, if they rid themselves of King Stephen. With Matilda would come noble adventurers from France, as well as men from Normandy and Anjou, who could likely have been in the French court. The lord of Combe did not want it said sneeringly that he could not tell apart a tale of high elegance and one devised by a common minstrel.
De Dunstanville had laid a slice of fat pork on his trencher while Telor came around his table and had cut a piece from it, which he had just put into his mouth on the point of his knife, when Telor said his master had taught him the song. He growled behind his mouthful, but could not speak for a moment, in which he heard Telor’s stomach growl. He swallowed deliberately and then smiled, guessing that the minstrel had arrived only shortly before he came into the hall and had had no time to eat, but he got no satisfaction from Telor’s face, which gave no sign of hunger. The mild blue eyes were fixed on his and did not show any tendency to drift to the food, nor did Telor swallow, which would have betrayed a watering mouth.
“Minstrel,” de Dunstanville growled, “do not try to cozen me. Where would such a man as
your
master hear tales told in the court of France?”
“From
his
patron, my lord,” Telor said quietly, keeping his temper although he was seething.
The claim to new tales from France was more important to Telor than to de Dunstanville. If it were accepted, every lord present would urge him to come to entertain and pay him handsomely—but if it were proved false, every one of them would be furious at being fooled and try to kill him or maim him to salve wounded pride.
“But,” Telor went on, a little more loudly, “I did not say the tale came from King Louis’s court—that I do not know. I said it came from the
queen’s
court. That is what Sir Richard of Marston told my master, and what my master told me. Sir Richard can read and write.” Telor paused for a moment to let that awesome fact sink into the minds of his mostly illiterate audience. “And Sir Richard seeks afar for tales. He said, and this I heard with my own ears when I sat with him and my master in Marston manor, that Queen Eleanor was a learned lady. She is granddaughter to that Guillaume of Poitiers who himself wrote many songs of love, which I can sing for you if you desire to hear them. Sir Richard said that Queen Eleanor has many poets in her court who came with her from her lands in the south and that she bids these poets to make into sweet verse all the tales of great deeds and great love that they can gather from any place or person.”
“That is true enough,” a smooth voice put in from just beyond Lady de Dunstanville. “I was in Paris…oh, two years ago? Three, perhaps…and Eleanor was knee-deep in poets.” He laughed silkily. “Bernard of Clairvaux foams at the mouth and raves of sin, but Abbé Suger looks aside, thinking it better for the queen to listen to poets than to meddle in politics.”
“So you think it true, Lord William, that Telor’s tale comes new from France?” Lady de Dunstanville asked eagerly.
William of Gloucester, eldest son and heir of the earl of Gloucester, smiled. “If it is of noble deeds or of great love, very likely. And if it comes from Richard of Marston, certainly. Sir Richard loves words far, far better than he loves the sword.”
“He is old, my lord,” Telor said defensively.
Lord William’s bright, cold black eyes studied Telor for an instant before the lips curved into a smile. “That is true, minstrel, but I meant no offense to Sir Richard. It so happens that I also love words better than a sword. I do not know you, but I think I know your master. Is he not the minstrel Eurion?”
“Yes, my lord,” Telor replied.
“A great artist.” Lord William’s eyes fixed on de Dunstanville for a moment, then he looked back at Telor and nodded. “I hope he is still alive and well. I have not seen him for some years.”
“He is very well, my lord,” Telor said, flushing with pleasure, “but growing too old for the road. Sir Richard has made a place for him in his household, and he lives in Marston now.”
“Had I known he wished to leave the road, I would have offered a place in my household.” Lord William looked truly envious. “My father asked him years ago, before King Henry died, but he said he would grow stale staying in one place.” He chuckled. “I know that was only an excuse, but I have never been able to decide whether it was because he was Welsh and could not abide being beholden to a Norman, or whether there was no scholar of deep enough interest in our household.”
“I think he truly loved the road,” Telor said, “as do I.”
Lord William laughed aloud. “Is that a courteous warning so that I do not ask you to stay with me? No, do not answer. You must tell me sometime where Eurion found you. And I wish to say I enjoyed your song about Cathegrande. There is also place in art for laughter. Do you have more like that to sing?”
“Yes, indeed, my lord,” Telor said eagerly.
“Good. We must find a time for me to listen to you, and perhaps you will come to Shrewsbury sometime when I am there and we can talk about your songs. But I will not keep you longer now. There is room for you, I see, at that table—” Lord William pointed to a table just below those of the lesser titled guests. “Go and have something to eat, and I will speak to you again later.”
It was not the place of a guest to give such an order, but de Dunstanville made no objection and actually smiled and nodded at Telor. Lord William’s face had been expressionless when he commented that Eurion was a great artist, but he had looked hard at de Dunstanville, and the lord of Combe thought uneasily of his sneering remark about Telor’s master. He resolved to be gentler with Telor, lest the common creature carry some grudge and complain to Lord William. The earl of Gloucester was not young, and Lord William would have enormous power when he inherited the earldom—and, although it was true Lord William was not the warrior his father was, he would hold the earldom and probably increase his lands and power too. In fact, Lord William did not lack for power now. Gloucester’s men feared him more than they feared his father and obeyed him with as great alacrity and devotion. A few had not. They were—somehow—dead.
The thought made de Dunstanville more eager to divert Lord William’s mind from the minstrel, and he leaned forward and asked, “How is the news from across the narrow sea, my lord?”
“Better,” Lord William remarked, smiling. “Normandy is so much at peace that my aunt, Empress Matilda, is thinking much more favorably of following my father’s advice and bringing Prince Henry to England. No one could be less than satisfied with this grandson of King Henry or think him unfit to be heir to the throne.”
The small sharpness over the minstrel had served its purpose, Lord William thought, pleased with Telor for being a convenient instrument of political purpose as well as a remarkably skilled singer. De Dunstanville’s eagerness to erase the small difference of opinion over Eurion had led him to open a political discussion, which he had previously tried to avoid. Lord William now saw a way of inducing de Dunstanville to receive Matilda and Henry when they came, thus binding him more firmly to the earl of Gloucester’s side in the civil war that had erupted after the death of King Henry without a male heir.
The old king had been strong enough while alive to force the barons of England to swear they would crown as queen his only living child, Empress Matilda, but not strong enough to hold them to their oaths after his death. It was unfortunate that Matilda was both proud and stupid. Her overbearing manner and her inability to recognize that a woman must lead by appearing to be gentle and biddable had crystallized the natural distaste the barons felt for being ruled by a woman. Instead of keeping their vows to support her, most of the nobles had eagerly accepted King Henry’s nephew, Stephen, when he arrived in England within two weeks of the king’s death, bringing the false tale that on his deathbed King Henry had disowned Matilda and named Stephen as his heir.
At first Stephen had seemed a good choice, for he was brave as a lion and a fine battle leader, yet had a gentle, kind disposition. But Stephen had not fulfilled that early promise. He was weak and ruled by favorites who were treacherous and ignorant. Their spite, greed, and jealousy had made Stephen suspicious of the very men who had placed him on the throne and had driven Stephen into foolish actions that had changed the most powerful nobles and churchmen in England and Normandy from supporters into enemies who burst into open revolt.
The rebellion had been so successful that Stephen had been taken prisoner, and Matilda had been welcomed and acknowledged as queen. But Matilda was, Lord William thought viciously, even stupider than Stephen. Stephen’s queen, Maud, had rallied those who remained faithful to him; Matilda had been driven out of London. But she had learned nothing from her defeat and had continued to alienate her supporters, so that when Maud’s army pursued her, few would fight in her defense and, in protecting her retreat, Gloucester himself had been captured. At least, William thought, Matilda had enough brains to realize that without Gloucester her cause was hopeless. She had gone back to Normandy while negotiations were undertaken for her half brother’s release—the exchange of Stephen for Gloucester.
Now the lines of power were not cleanly drawn, there was no clear border in the country; sporadic fighting erupted all over, sometimes here, sometimes there. Worst of all, there was no dominating power anywhere strong enough to enforce order. Every greedy baron or mercenary captain with a large enough troop felt free to attack anyone who seemed weak enough to be conquered.
There had been a little silence after Lord William’s remark that Empress Matilda would bring Prince Henry to England during which his mind had bleakly reviewed the events that began in 1136 and resulted, by this year of 1144, in nearly total anarchy. Lord William felt a certain cynical sympathy for de Dunstanville; he could well understand why the man would prefer to remain neutral. Nonetheless, there was a tinge of threat in William’s smile as he shook his head firmly in reply to de Dunstanville’s faint protest that it was surely too early to bring Prince Henry to England.
“The boy is only nine years old,” de Dunstanville added uncertainly. And then, more hopefully: “Of course, if the empress does not intend to rule as regent—if your worshipful father were regent until Prince Henry was of an age to rule…”
“That is one of the questions that cannot be settled until the boy is here and has been examined by such men as yourself so that the barons can declare a strong and unequivocal support for him,” Lord William lied soothingly.
Lord William did not mind lying in the least. He had long ago contemptuously dismissed the strictures of religion, and God had not smitten him. As for hell, he expected it would be easy enough to pay his way out by posthumous masses as he now paid for remission of his sins. Nor would his intellectual sympathy for de Dunstanville’s position influence his actions. His purpose was to increase his father’s power—and through that, his own—by binding men to commit themselves so deeply to his father’s cause that they would not dare to join Stephen in the future, and neither truth nor sympathy would be allowed to interfere with that purpose.