A King's Betrayal (12 page)

             
‘Can you indeed?’  He grinned at her suddenly, seized her wrist and pulled her closer, placing her hand palm down on his crotch.  She could feel something hard and warm; it jerked beneath her hand, making her jump.  She tried to draw back but he held her tighter.  ‘Can you give me a cure for that, Beth?’

             
‘No, I do not know what ails you, lord…Sir William.’

             
‘You do not know – are you so innocent?  Your mother is a whore.’

             
‘I know men visit her,’ Beth said.  ‘I have never lain with a man, lord. I do not know what they do with Marthe.’

             
‘I told you, call me Sir William.’  His brow furrowed.  ‘You’re a beauty, Beth of the woods. I can scarce credit you be innocent still.  If ‘tis true it is too good to waste.  Come to the castle and be my leman.  I will give you food and much more.  You shall have silk for a pretty gown and a ring for your finger.’

             
‘I must go,’ Beth said and succeeded in pulling away from him.  ‘I am sorry I stole from you.  I will ask my mother if I can come to the castle to work.’

             
He stared at her a moment longer and then laughed.  ‘You do not know what I mean, do you?’

             
Beth flushed.  ‘I thought you meant I could serve you with food or make a cure for what ails you.’

             
‘You could cure my itch if you chose,’ he said, laughed and mounted his horse.  ‘Ask your mother what a leman is and what she must do to please.  If you come to the castle I shall know that you wish to please me.’

             
Beth stood and watched as he rode away.  She was not quite as innocent as she would have him believe.  Had she not amused him he could have thrown her down and taken his will of her.  She was not exactly certain what he wished to do, though Mistress Soames had told her what men did with the women they loved.  If the lord wanted to lie with her did it mean that he loved her?

             
As she hurried back towards the hut with the rabbit she must skin, clean and joint for the pot, she decided to say nothing to her mother.  Marthe would slap her and tell her not to speak to men.  In future Beth would keep a sharp watch and avoid the lord whenever she could.

             
She was not certain what it would mean to be his leman, but she knew that she did not want to live at the castle with him.  He had not been angry this time, but if she refused his offer again he might not be as lenient in future.

John the Blacksmith rolled off Marthe’s body and grunted, then farted twice and spat bile on the dirt floor. The smell of his wind was vile and it rose to Marthe’s nostrils, making her turn her head sharply.

             
‘Take your spit and your stink outside,’ Marthe muttered as she pulled her tunic down over her private parts and sat up.  ‘That’s two silver pennies you owe me.’

             
He rose to his feet, yanking up his hose and the worn leather trunks he wore beneath his wool tunic.  He scowled as he fished in his purse for a coin and tossed it to her as she lay on her pallet.

             
‘That’s all you’ll get from me in future, witch.  You’re hardly worth the bother.’

             
‘My price is two silver pennies and always has been.’

             
Marthe rose to her feet, looking at him sullenly.  ‘You paid the price willingly once and I want my dues.’

             
John moved towards her threateningly, thrusting his face close to hers.  ‘I’ll pay three pence for the girl,’ he snarled.  ‘When will you give her to me?’

             
Marthe glared at him.  ‘She’s not for sale.  I’ve told you that before.  Beth is too good for the likes of you.’

             
He lashed out at her, hitting her in the face so that she staggered back, giving a cry of pain.  ‘Filthy slut.  Your stench makes me sick to my guts.  One of these days you’ll get what’s coming to – and I’ll have the girl.’

             
‘Touch her and I’ll make your bowels turn to water.  Your balls will shrivel and you’ll die in agony.’

             
‘Satan’s spawn,’ he muttered.  ‘I do not fear you old woman.

             
Yet there was fear on his face as he pushed past her and went out of the hut.  Marthe could feel the pain of his blow to her face.  She sat on her stool, wrapping her arms about herself and rocking backwards and forwards, a low moaning sound coming from her throat.  John Blacksmith was a bully and a coarse brute.  He had been eager to lie with Marthe when she first came to the village but she was older now, her thin body wasted and her breasts withered.

             
He had been asking for the girl for more than a year now.  Marthe had received more than one blow because she refused to give him what he wanted.  If she gave into his request every man in the district would be queuing up to lie with Beth, but she would never take money for her daughter.

             
The door opened and Marthe tensed, fearing that the blacksmith had returned to hit her again, but as it was pushed wider she saw it was her daughter.  Beth entered, carrying her basket over her arm, her cheeks pink from the fresh air.

             
Looking at her, Marthe thought it little wonder that the blacksmith lusted after Beth.  She was beautiful.  That morning she had braided her heavy golden hair into a thick plait that hung down her back and was tied with a piece of ribbon that someone had given her for helping them.

             
Sometimes, Marthe wondered where the girl had come from.  She knew no more of her family than she had the day she’d found her wandering.  Yet she was certain that Beth was the daughter of a lord for the gown she’d worn that day must have cost more than it would need to feed a family for a year

             
‘Are you well, Mother?’ Beth asked, looking at her in concern.  ‘You are very quiet.’  Her gaze narrowed.  ‘Is that a bruise on your face?’

             
Marthe put a hand to her cheek.  ‘’Tis nothing, girl.  I tripped over the stool and hit my face against the coffer.  Where have you been?  I cannot do all the work alone.’

             
‘Shall I make a cooling lotion for you face?’ Beth asked.  ‘I have been picking herbs and flowers, as you bid me.’

             
‘Yes, I know.  You’re a good girl, Beth.’  Marthe sighed.  ‘Forget the lotion.  It hardly hurts.  Heat the soup and cook some flat bread in the stones.  My belly is empty.’

             
She bent to pick up the coin the blacksmith had thrown at her.  He had cheated her but money was hard enough to come by and she doubted he would visit her again.  Once there had been several men from villages round about who were eager to pay her price but it was a month or more since the last man had come, and like the blacksmith he had haggled over the price.

             
Once they had seen Beth they wanted her.  She was fresh and lovely and  men lusted after her.  Marthe wondered how much longer she would be able to protect the girl.  As yet the lord of the manor had tolerated their presence in his woods, but if he grew tired of their stealing he might punish them – or he might demand something in return.

             
Marthe groaned inwardly.  She had wronged Beth when she brought her here.  It was inevitable that one day the girl would have to sell herself for food or simply the right to live here.  Marthe would rather she went to the lord of the manor than the likes of John Blacksmith, but it should not have been this way.  Beth was made of finer clay.  She did not belong here.

             
Beth was staring at her, a mixture of concern and sympathy in her eyes.  Pricked by guilt and regret and worn down by poverty and a sense of helplessness,  Marthe scowled at her.

             
‘Get on with your work, girl.  The soup won’t make itself.’

             
‘Why won’t you tell me what is wrong?’

             
‘You ask too many questions.’

Beth turned away with a sigh.  It seemed that whatever she did she could never please Marthe.  She had seen the man striding away from the hut, a scowl on his face, and she’d hidden behind the oak tree until he was out of sight.  Beth knew that the man had once visited Marthe regularly, sometimes as much as three times a week, but of late he had come less often.

             
She disliked him because of the way he stared at her as she walked through the village.  Something in his eyes made her shiver and her stomach spasm with fear.  She thought that he hated her but could not think what she had done to arouse his ire.

             
Why did Marthe lie with men?  She had seen the bruises on her mother’s face and limbs before and knew that the blacksmith had hurt her.  Why did she accept such cruelty?   Was it only for the money they paid her?  Beth had only a vague idea of what the men who visited the hut did with her mother, though she always knew when a man had been because she recognised a certain smell when she went home.

             
The smell was strong that morning.  She wrinkled her nose in distaste, bending over the cooking pot to inhale the aroma of the soup, which was delicious.  She had caught a rabbit the previous day and its meat had provided them with yesterday’s meal. However, there was enough left to make a soup thickened with roots and worts and the tiny dumplings made of flour and the suet that she had bartered for some ointment in the village.  Her stomach rumbled because there was never enough food to take away the feeling of hunger that lived with her.

             
Turning her head to look at Marthe as she went to her coffer and placed something inside, Beth knew that her mother shared the feeling of always being hungry.  She supposed that was why she went with the men, even though some of them treated her roughly.

             
A shudder went through her.  She thought that she would rather die of starvation than lie with a man like the one who had just left their hut.

The church bell was tolling again a few days later when Beth walked into the village to visit her friend.  Mistress Grey came out as she passed her house and called to her.

             
‘His Majesty is dead,’ she said.  ‘My son heard the news in Winchester when he visited the market.  God rest his soul.’ She made the sign of the cross over her breast.  ‘He took the crown from the rightful King and we have had naught but war and grief ever since.  We must hope that the new King will do better by us.’

             
‘Who will be the new King?’ Beth asked.

             
‘Why his son of course, child.  He will be Henry V of England.’

             
‘Richard 11 was King before the one that hath just died.  Mistress Soames told me.’

             
‘People said he was a tyrant but he was a brave man.  I was not there myself but I’ve heard tell of the way he went out to meet the peasants when they marched on London.  He talked to them and persuaded them to put down their arms; they listened to him and all might have ended well but there was some treachery and more killing. I do not know it all but my husband was there and he told me that King Richard would have listened to the people but his council betrayed him.’

             
‘King Richard must have been brave. I have heard that he loved beautiful things and liked to sing. I think that it is sad he lost his crown and died in prison.  What can he have done to make people hate him so?’

             
‘People said he made harsh laws and refused to listen to his people, but what king ever listens to the people?  Mark my words, this king will be no better than the last.  None of them care two straws whether we live well or starve.  Sir William’s father was a harsh man and always demanded the heriot when a man died and his sons had to plead to inherit his land.  Some lords forgo at least a part of the tax, because not many can afford to pay.  I hear the new lord is not so strict but when he wants money to go to war things may change.’

             
‘Let us hope there will not be war.  I must go or Mistress Soames will starve for want of her meal,’ Beth said and smiled.  She walked on towards her friend’s cottage.  For some reason she had a picture in her mind – a picture of a man with a gentle smile and a gold band about his brow.  It was the face she sometimes saw in her dreams but she did not know who the man was, only that he belonged to the golden time that existed only in her dreams.  She wished that she could have known King Richard for she had a romantic picture in her mind of the man who had been so cruelly tricked and robbed of his throne.  She suddenly laughed out-loud, for how could she ever have seen the King even had he lived?

             
Glancing towards Sir William’s castle, she saw the lord was leaving with several of his men.  She wondered where he was going.  Was it to London for King Henry’s funeral? If it meant he was gone for a while she would not need to fear meeting him.

             
As she went into the cottage, she saw that Mistress Soames was sitting on a stool at the kitchen table, sipping a drink she had made herself.

             
‘You are better this morning?’

             
‘A little,’ Mistress Soames agreed.  ‘Your herbs helped me.  I am still suffering a watery bowel but ‘tis not as bad as it was.’

             
‘I am glad of it,’ Beth said.  ‘I have brought you some more of the mixture.  While I am here I will take your bed linens to wash in the stream below the castle.’

             
‘Be careful if you go alone, Beth.  Sir William is not to be trusted. I think him a better man than his father – but it would be wise to be wary of him.  Too many lords misuse their power and ‘tis hard to seek redress against them in the courts.’

             
‘I saw him leaving the castle with some of his men.  Perhaps he has gone to London to see the King buried?’

             
‘Yes, I dare say.  His absence would be thought disrespectful so he may have thought it best, though I know he hath no love for the late King nor yet his son.’

             
‘How do you know that, Mistress Soames?’

             
‘His father sided with King Richard and was heavily penalised.  The de Burgh family was not as wealthy as some others and the fine ruined them.  It is Sir William who hath restored their fortunes.’

             
‘How did he do that?’ Beth asked as she prepared the cure.

             
‘He fought as a mercenary in foreign wars and then for King Henry 1V in Wales. If he was lucky his share of the prize money would more than pay his expenses.  If he took the son of a noble hostage his ransom might be more than a year’s rents I dare say.’

             
‘Perhaps he has ridden off to another war?’

             
‘Yes, perhaps.’  Mistress Soames smiled at her.  ‘What can I give you for helping me, Beth?’

             
‘I want nothing now.  You have promised that I shall have your things one day and that will content me.’

             
‘I thought I might die.  I must give you something.  Look in my small coffer.  You will find a wooden box that contains needles, threads and a small silver knife for cutting threads.  Take that for your troubles.’

             
‘If I took it Marthe would sell it to buy things we need,’ Beth said.  ‘What I have done I have done for friendship.  Do not ask again.’

             
‘Very well.’  Mistress Soames looked at her.  ‘You have pride beyond your station, Beth.  I have oft thought you could not be Marthe’s child.  At times you remind me of someone I once saw but I cannot recall who it was.’