A King's Betrayal (29 page)

Thirty Eight

Beth had just finished suckling her babe when she heard the knock at her door.  She pulled up the front of her tunic hastily, and still carrying the child went to glance round the door.  Relief swept over her as she saw it was Mistress Grey.

             
‘Have you come for more of the cure?’

             
‘I need nothing for the moment,’ Mistress Grey told her.  ‘I came to bring you the news that the lord has returned.  I spoke with him earlier and it seems that he survived without severe injury.  Nearly half of his men died and are buried where they lay in France, but the families are to have six shillings compensation for their loss.’

             
‘God rest their souls,’ Beth said and made the sign of the cross over herself.  ‘I think their families would rather have had their men back, but I suppose the money is some compensation.’

             
‘I have not seen you do that before?’  Mistress Grey’s gaze narrowed.  ‘Have you become a Christian?’

             
‘I shall be expected to go to church if I live in the village,’ Beth said.  ‘I do not know if I believe but sometimes I stand outside and listen to the people singing.  I like the music and I think my child should be brought up to understand about Christ and prayers. I shall do my best to learn all that is required of me.  Did I make the sign properly?’

             
‘Yes, of course.  I was just surprised, that’s all.’  Mistress Grey looked at the babe and smiled.  ‘She should be christened soon.  What shall you call her?’ 

             
‘She shall  be named Katharine.’

             
‘You
will
come to the cottage then?’

             
‘It would not be fair to make the babe face another winter in the woods.  She will do better in the cottage.  I shall wait a few more days, then bring her to the cottage.’

             
‘I shall light the fire and cleanse the floor with fresh rushes and herbs in readiness for your coming, Beth.  I may tell anyone who asks that you have decided to live in the village but say nothing of the child.  You should expect that people will believe she is the lord’s for they think you have been his whore.’

             
‘Yes, I knew what they would say when he helped me with Marthe,’ Beth replied.  It cannot be helped.  I must tell him of the babe myself but perhaps he will come here, as he has before.

             
‘You should not leave it too long,’ Mistress Grey warned.  ‘If he knew there was someone else…he might withdraw his protection.’

             
‘If he did that I should have to leave, go away from here.’

             
‘Then tell him that you were forced,’ Mistress Grey advised.  ‘He is a proud man and hath a temper.  He has been generous to you, but he is not always so.’

             
‘Yes, I shall tell him, as soon as I have the chance.’

             
Beth remained at the door watching as her friend walked away.  She would tell Sir William that the babe was not his, but she would not lie to him.  For months she had waited in the woods, hoping that her knight might return but it was winter now and she could wait no longer for the hut was cold at night and she was afraid for Katharine.

             
The Knight of the Raven had forgotten her.  He had seduced her on a whim and cared nothing for her.  He would not want to know that he had a child.

             
‘I thought to find Beth here?’

             
‘She did not dare to come while you were away,’ Mistress Grey said.  ‘The villagers are still hostile towards her and the priest stirs them up with his sermons. I have helped her all I could but the priest suspects me of being in league with a witch and I have feared that he will name me a witch and put me to the test.’

             
‘How long since you visited Beth?’

             
‘Three days ago, Sir William.  I killed a pig and took her a haunch and some belly meat for the pot.  I had planned to visit her today and tell her that you had returned.’

             
‘Tell her that she will be safe in the cottage now.  I shall hang any man that lays a finger on her.’

             
‘Your word is enough for the people, my lord – but the priest frightens me.’

             
‘He will do as I bid him if he wishes to retain his living.’

             
‘The priest is not easily frightened, my lord.  Are you sure that she will be safe here?’

             
‘I give you my word that I shall protect you – and her.’

             
The next day was Sunday.  William attended the church that morning, sitting in his family’s pew at the front, where the priest and congregation might see him and know that the lord of the manor was back from France.  Mistress Grey had seemed ill at ease despite his reassurances, and he felt that she was hiding something from him – something concerning Beth that he ought to know?

             
He wanted to see Beth soon, because he needed to ask her questions, questions about her past.  The promise he had made to Hugh de Bracie had not yet been kept.  It had been given in good faith but William had hesitated on his return, knowing that if Beth were truly the daughter of Lady Beatrice, he would lose his chance of wedding the woman he loved.  If she was taken into a loving family she would not need him.  The thought of losing her was like a knife stabbing at his guts.

             
He should make sure of her first and then write to Lord Tomas and tell him that he might have news for him.

             
William had seen Mistress Grey set out to visit Beth the previous day.  He had allowed her to give Beth the news of his return, but if she did not return to the village he would go in search of her himself.  Beth had said that she would think about coming to him at the castle but he feared she would refuse him once more.

             
If she did so it would be his own fault for offering her a place as his leman, when in his heart he had always known that she was too fine for such treatment.  His instincts told him that she was indeed the lady Beatrice’s child, and perhaps Richard 11’s bastard.

William had learned to know himself.  In France he had received only minor wounds, bruises and cuts that had begun to heal, but he knew that he had been fortunate; he might have died without issue and it would have been his own neglect.  He must marry and he wanted Beth.  No other woman would content him.  He would ask her humbly to be his wife but he would not try to force her to come to him.  If she took up residence in the cottage, he would visit and offer her gifts.  The art of courtship was foreign to his nature for he was a plain blunt man more used to taking what he wanted – but he'd made that mistake before.  Now he would ask, beg if he had to – and pray that she would see the sense of what he offered.  He should have done it that day in the cottage instead of taking her like a mad bull.

             
The priest had finished his ranting.  His cowed congregation were making their escape, thankful that another Sunday was over and they could return to their homes.  Sir William stood waiting until the man came up to him, an ingratiating smile on his lips.

             
‘You came to hear my humble sermon, my lord,’ he said.  ‘I am truly grateful that you show an example to the people.’

             
‘I came to hear for myself the evil nonsense you have been spouting,’ William said, anger making his tongue loose.  ‘Do you not know that I dismissed your predecessor for inciting hatred against an innocent woman?’

             
The priest’s gaze narrowed, a nerve flicking at his temple.  ‘You mean the witch he tried and justly put to the test?’

             
‘She was not given a trial nor yet a chance to speak in a court of law.  It was murder and the priest escaped with his life only because I had respect for his calling.’

             
‘A witch does not have the right of a trial,’ the priest said.  ‘If a man of the cloth is present and puts her to the test it is within the law.’

             
‘Then the law is wrong and should be changed,’ Sir William said with a flash of anger.  ‘Know this, priest.  I am the law here and I will not have such practices on my land.  You are to cease this bitter tirade against women – and there will be no more punishments unless I have judged them fair.’

             
‘As priest I have the right to chastise the ungodly.  Sin must be driven out or it will contaminate us all.’

             
‘You will make no more sermons of this nature if you wish to remain here.  Had I known what went on here I should have dismissed you before I went to France.’

             
‘She hath bewitched you as my brother said…’

             
‘What?’  William glared at him.  ‘Do you dare to say I am bewitched?’

             
The priest looked uncertain.  ‘I meant only that you should protect your soul or you may be contaminated by her evil.’

             
‘Damn you!  I shall hear no more of this.  I am a fair man and will give you a chance to prove you can do your work here without inciting hatred – but if I have cause I shall send you packing.’

             
‘You could be excommunicated.  I could bring witnesses against you. There are male witches as well…’

             
‘Watch your tongue, priest, or I will cut it out for you.  You have been warned.’

             
William saw his start of fear and nodded.  He walked away, anger racing through him. What kind of a man took pleasure in persecuting innocent women?  He would not tolerate such threats, though he knew the threat of excommunication was not idle.  Men had been brought before Church tribunals before and charged with being in league with a witch.  Their punishment was usually physical or a term of imprisonment, and, on rare occasions, they might be barred from taking the holy sacrament.   William would avoid excommunication if he could, for like most men of his time he feared to lose his soul to the devil.  But the priest would need proof of Beth’s sin – there must be evidence of murder or evil wishing and there was none.

             
Marthe might have dabbled in the black arts but Beth was innocent, as was Mistress Grey.  He had given the priest one last chance, but if he did not mend his ways he would send the man packing.  Surely there must be a priest somewhere who had a gentle soul and would spend his days caring for those in his flock rather than threatening them with the fires of Hell?

             
William pushed all thought of the man to the back of his mind.  He would surely not dare to disobey his lord.  If things went as he planned, Beth would soon be William’s wife and then the priest would know that he had lost.  He would either pack his bags and leave or accept that he had been mistaken.

Thirty Nine

When the march towards Calais began, the King’s army was sickly, weakened by disease and the loss of men who had returned home after the victory at Harfleur.  It was a journey of some two hundred miles or so and between a force of one thousand men-at-arms and five thousand archers, they had rations for but eight days.  They had been divided into three divisions in the manner of King Edward 111’s army in 1346; the vanguard was under the command of Sir John Cornwall and Sir Gilbert Umfraville.  Henry himself led the main body of men and the Duke of York and the Earl of Oxford guarded the rear.

             
‘This is madness,’ Stefan Deauville gave his opinion frankly.  They were camped in the small village of Monchy-Lagachy on the high ground on the northern banks of the Somme.  ‘I owe you allegiance, Raoul, and I will honour my promise to fight and die where you fight – but it would be dangerous even if the men were healthy.’

             
‘Henry is driven by his hopes of glory,’ Raoul replied, an odd smile on his lips.  ‘If you fear for your life you have my leave to go home, Stefan.  I will absolve you of your vows.’

             
Stefan was a man of Gascony, shorter than Raoul by a head and of stocky build, born of a peasant woman and a knight, but a fierce and skilful fighter and the worth of ten normal men in a fight to the death.

             
‘Damn you!  You know I am no coward.  It is merely that I believe he might do better to regroup and fight again in the spring.’

             
‘Henry has the momentum.  He feels that God and good fortune are with him.  If we can reach Calais we shall be in a position of strength.’  Raoul smiled.  You should not doubt him, Stefan.  He has an astute brain and is one of the best generals I have seen.  I know the odds are against us, but does that not exhilarate you?  I feel more alive knowing that great dangers lie ahead.  To fight gloriously and die is a knight’s true destiny.’

             
Stefan Deauville threw back his head and laughed.  ‘You have risked your life for mine more times than I can recall.  Had it not been for your sword I might have died when I was but a youth.  We shall fight on to the last together, Raoul.’

             
‘It will not be our last fight.’  Raoul smiled.  ‘We crossed the Somme despite the French troops blocking our way.  I feel that Henry is on the verge of a great victory – a victory that will never be forgot, a victory that men will speak of with awe forever.’

             
‘That would be a glorious battle indeed,’ Stefan said and his eyes glowed as he caught Raoul’s fervour.  He clasped his lord’s shoulder.  ‘If I die in such a battle I shall count myself blessed…’

             
Stefan broke off as they saw that one of the scouts sent out to discover the enemy’s position had returned, dismounting in a hurry.  He did not stop but went straight to where the King stood in discussion with his commanders.

             
‘Sire,’ the knight said, falling to one knee.  ‘I have seen the main body of the French army.  They are a mighty host and presently en route to Peronne; the advance guard is ahead of us on the road to Calais.  We cannot pass them without fighting. We are but six miles or so apart.’

             
‘Thank you, sir, for your information.’  Henry turned to his council, looking at Raoul who had just joined them.  ‘We have to reach Calais.  If we stay here they will have us trapped and eventually we shall die slowly of starvation or sickness.  We have no choice but to press on and hope that they will meet us on the field.’

             
‘It is my opinion that they will fight,’ Raoul said.  ‘Orleans, Bourbon and the Duke of Berry are stubborn men.  They know that we are weakened by sickness and poor diet – and they are proud of their army; they believe they can beat us – and in such a way that England will never recover from the shame.’

             
‘Yes, that is my opinion,’ Henry smiled.  ‘I dare say they would do best to wait and starve us into submission but we most hope that they decide to challenge us.  It is my intention that we shall press on towards Calais.  There we can be supplied by our ships and if we manage it - if we can win a victory despite the odds - we shall win glory beyond imagining.’

             
His confidence might have been thought ill placed for the army was in truth in a desperate state.  They had marched for days with little food or rest, but to stay here was not an option for they would starve or die slowly of sickness.  Despite the overwhelming odds the only choice was to fight.

             
Raoul drew his sword, kissed it, saluted the king, and then replaced it in his sheath.  ‘We fight for God, for glory – and for England.  May we fight bravely and with honour.’

             
The knights near enough to hear his words took up the oath.

             
‘For God, glory and England.’

             
As the men began to make ready to march once more, Raoul’s mind turned to the lady he had lain with in William de Burgh’s woods.  He wondered if she ever thought of that night or had it meant little to her?  Was she but a common whore after all?  Somehow she lingered in his mind, bringing him calm when his mind was troubled.  He was not afraid to die and he knew that there would be a bloody battle ahead.  If God willed it, he would live and if he survived, he would return to England and find her one day.