Every Noble Knight Read online

  ‘Madame la Gouvernante,’ he said as his breathing calmed; she kissed him lightly, then slid off him and went over to a wash-bowl on a stand below the window. He watched her dip a cloth into it and come over to him, wiping between his legs and the now diminished part of him that had stood to do its duty. She then took a clean towel to dry him. He looked at her shadow, silhouetted against the wall, and tried to seize the hand that held the towel.

  ‘Kiss me again, Madame la Gouvernante!’

  ‘No, the time for kissing is past. Put on your clothes,’ she ordered in a firm voice which he hastened to obey while she resumed her silken gown and mantle; her hair still hung loosely down her back.

  ‘Follow me, Monsieur Wulfstan,’ she said, taking him by the hand and leading him out of the room, down the uncarpeted stairs, along the pitch-dark passage and out into the warm, velvety night. They were in the kitchen garden of the Maison Duclair.

  ‘Take that path you see there, and go round to the side door,’ she whispered. ‘Bonne nuit, chéri.’

  But he seized her around the waist, and drew her close to him. ‘Madame – Madame la Gouvernante – kiss me, kiss me one more time!’

  ‘No, no, get back to your room, and say nothing of what you have seen of mine.’ Her voice held authority, and she did not offer her lips for a final kiss. ‘Go on, be quick!’

  He had to obey, but first he took hold of her right hand and pressed it to his lips.

  ‘Merci, Madame la Gouvernante. Merci beaucoup.’

  ‘Bonne nuit, Monsieur Wynstede.’ And she turned away, seemingly like a moth to disappear into the night.

  The day following his initiation into manhood, Wulfstan lived in a changed world. Every person, every object, everything his eyes lighted upon, every sound that fell upon his ears was different, bathed in a summer glow as he relived that unbelievable interlude with Madame la Gouvernante, which had lasted less than half an hour, but was now recalled as a moment out of time, infinite, endless. Surely it could never have happened, and yet it had; it couldn’t be true, and yet it was: no dream could be as real. Facing his students as he put them through their paces of learning the arts of warfare, he wondered whether he looked any different today than yesterday, but they behaved with their usual deference to an instructor. Would his peers, Jean-Pierre and Eric have noticed a change in their virtuous Wulfstan – their Sir Galahad? The bolder maidservants flashed him their usual saucy smiles, and the more modest ones averted their eyes as they had usually done since he’d become the Monseigneur’s squire.

  The question now, of course, was how she would respond when they met in the course of the day. Suppose Madame Duclair invited him to join the family table? He went hot and cold at the thought of meeting la Gouvernante’s eyes. Would she send him a secret signal, a glance that would acknowledge what had taken place? If so, what should be his response? A brief answering nod? To smile would be disrespectful, considering the difference in their status – but a mere nod might look cold, and he felt nothing but a deep and passionate gratitude for her condescension. And would she honour him again at another time? How soon? Did she relive that moment of incredible pleasure over and over again, as he did? Surely she must be thinking about him – for surely she couldn’t possibly regret it – could she? Part of him longed to see her, yet at the same time he was nervous, almost dreading their next meeting.

  At around midday, a butler called to him from the kitchen to run an errand. The man was a senior member of the staff who had charge of the menservants, and he asked Wulfstan to take a couple of wineskins down to the tiltyard to refresh the men who were practising jousting in full armour, helmets down, shields and lances ready to strike an opponent down.

  ‘They must be sweating under all that metal on a day like this,’ he said. ‘The Monseigneur keeps his men ready for war!’

  Wulfstan took the two bulging wineskins and set off for the terrace from which a flight of steps ran down to the tiltyard. Rounding the corner of the house, he came face to face with Madame Duclair and Madame la Gouvernante sitting on a cushioned bench in the sunshine, at work on their embroidery. He stopped short in his tracks: they looked up at him.

  ‘Ah, I hope you’re taking those to the tiltyard, Master Wynstede,’ said the lady of the house with a smile. ‘It is surely cruel of my husband to make them practise in this heat!’

  He stood and stared at the two ladies, unable to move or speak, and almost dropped the wineskins.

  ‘Are you not well, Wulfstan?’ asked Madame Duclair in some concern. ‘Are you feeling the heat?’

  Still he stood before them, like a man paralysed. Madame la Gouvernante looked up and stared straight into his eyes as she drew her needle up through the length of fabric on her lap, placing another stitch. Her dark eyes were those of a stranger, cold and authoritative, as was her voice.

  ‘Be on your way, Master Wynstede, don’t keep them waiting,’ she said, and lowered her head over her work. It was like a douse of cold water in his face, and he recovered his wits, bowing briefly to them both and walking on. She had spoken to him like a servant, as if she had chastised him for his thoughts. He must abide by her wishes, though he burned with humiliation; she clearly did regret last night’s encounter, and out of respect for her he too must pretend that it had never happened – though he could not possibly forget it.

  That afternoon Monseigneur Duclair beckoned his young squire to walk with him in the tree-lined allée in the grounds, an ideal venue for quiet, out-of-earshot talks.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about our young newcomers, Wulfstan,’ he said. ‘We have French, English, Flemish and a couple of Milanese, all planning to be soldiers on the side of one king or another; we cannot be certain with such diversity.’

  Wulfstan nodded, thankful to discuss a subject he understood.

  ‘As you know, Madame Duclair is English, and I have no quarrel with your English King Edward who has Norman blood in his veins. It has come to my ears that Edward’s son, much praised for his courage and skill, is planning to invade Gascony with an army. We must never ignore the movements of the military at any time or in any place.’

  Wulfstan nodded again, following his lord’s reasoning. ‘And the newcomers here may be called to serve their leaders sooner than they thought, sire.’

  ‘Exactly so, Wulfstan, you understand me well. So far, our beardless boys seem promising, but they should know the nature of the terrain where they may one day be fighting. I propose to send a few of them, five in fact, on a chevauchée, an exploration of Normandy, to learn the geography, the places where a battle may be fought – hills, valleys, forests, points of the compass, the best positions to take up in a battle. It’s nine years since the English overcame the French at Crécy, and the French may be ready to exact vengeance. So, young Wulfstan,’ he said with a sidelong glance from under heavy-lidded eyes, ‘am I right to choose you to lead them on this expedition, and share your knowledge, as early as Thursday next?’

  To get away from the Maison Duclair was a welcome proposition, and Wulfstan replied eagerly, ‘Yes, I would be glad to take charge of them, sire, and I thank you for choosing me!’

  ‘Just as I expected,’ smiled the Monseigneur. ‘Now that you’re an accomplished product of the academy, skilled in the arts of warfare – and of chivalry, for you are skilled at that art too, are you not?’ His mouth took on a quizzical expression. ‘You know how to please a woman, and your standing at the Maison Duclair is much enhanced thereby!’

  There was a dreadful silence. Wulfstan could have wished the ground to open up beneath him, for there was no doubt of the meaning of these words, at which the Monseigneur was laughing softly and not unkindly, as if he actually approved of his squire’s new status.

  In a flash Wulfstan understood everything. The Monseigneur knew, and so, no doubt did Madame Duclair. It had all been planned and arranged between them – and Madame la Gouvernante. la Gouvernante – the governess, the teacher of children! He burned with humiliation, and for a mo
ment he thought his only course would be to leave the Maison Duclair forthwith and return to England; but meanwhile the Monseigneur was waiting for a response, so summoning up all the dignity he still possessed, he answered coldly, ‘I am at your command, sire.’

  ‘Well,’ said Wulfstan, ‘the youngsters look up to you, and I can safely commit them to your care. Demoins and Lemaitre are high-spirited, and inclined to mock Van Brunt because of his nose – but he’s not such a fool as they may think. Eldrige and Merand have their heads well screwed on, and shouldn’t give you any trouble. You will ride out with them on Thursday, and I shall have to do without my squire for a short while.’

  Wulfstan thought he almost detected an unspoken apology, as if he had acquitted himself well by his reaction. He therefore changed his mind, and resolved to keep to his arrangement to stay at the academy over the remaining summer months.

  Even so, he could hardly wait for Thursday.

  Two

  1355

  A shaft of golden September sunlight streamed through a high window of the Cathédrale St-Pierre, and rested on the bowed heads of the six young men kneeling in a group waiting to receive the Sacrament at the first Mass of the day. Young Master Wynstede gave hearty thanks for the privilege of taking charge of them on this expedition into Normandy, and the trust that Monseigneur Duclair had placed in him; he was also thankful in equal measure for the escape it provided from the Maison Duclair. After the revelation that his rite of passage into manhood had been planned by the Duclairs and executed by Madame la Gouvernante, he had avoided contact with them as far as was possible, especially the two women. Madame Duclair, buxom and motherly, had shaken his hand in farewell early this morning, and wished him safe travelling, but his unsmiling response had restrained her from embracing him as she sometimes did, and her cousin had avoided him altogether. When he had met la Gouvernante accidentally in the Maison, indoors or out, the coldness of his glance had equalled her own. She had cheated and humiliated him by her businesslike seduction, and how she must despise him, he thought bitterly – but now I despise her in return.

  Kneeling on the marbled floor of the nave, Wulfstan shook his head to dispel such unseemly thoughts while the celebrant priest was consecrating the Bread and Wine, and resolutely set his mind on the adventure ahead. The five young men in his charge were a good mixture, three recruited from families of the aristocracy who could pay the academy’s fees, but not the other two. Léon Merand from Paris had inherited a legacy from a godfather, and young Theobald Eldrige from an English shire had won a valuable prize in an archery contest which had needed only another fifty marks from his carpenter father to pay the Monseigneur’s annual fee. Léon was twenty, a handsome youth three years older than Wulfstan, and sported a short pointed beard which proclaimed his seniority, while the rest were all younger by two or three years.

  ‘Treat them all the same – have no favourites,’ the Monseigneur had advised. ‘You have my written instructions as to what landmarks to look out for, and I have supplied you with money enough to buy plain food and perhaps a bed overnight in some farmhouse or manor, and this you will keep in a purse worn under your tunic. There can be no luxuries. Don’t choose comfort – be prepared to sleep in a byre or barn – or even under the stars, as soldiers in battle have to do. Speak in Norman French to all that you meet, and remember that you hold the honour of the Maison Duclair in what you say or do. You alone have a sword, which I hope you will not need to use, and the boys may keep a dagger in their belt, but it is not to be used for anything but to slice bread or meat. Don’t take any nonsense from them, but settle disputes immediately, and don’t allow any quarrelling – and keep an eye on the Flemish Van Brunt; the others are inclined to taunt him because of his nose, but he has borne it throughout his life so far, and it has served him as well as a Roman one. This will be a test of your leadership, Wulfstan, and though I cannot foresee who or what you may meet on the way, I trust in your common sense. Now, set forth with my blessing, and come back safe and sound by Sunday!’

  So they were off, each sitting astride his horse; young André Demoins riding beside Charles Lemaitre who was bouncing up and down in his saddle for sheer exuberance. These two, like Wulfstan, had their own horses, while the other three rode horses from the Maison Duclair’s stables. Wulfstan’s stallion Troilus had faithfully carried his young master without mishap.

  It was a fine early autumn day, and they made good progress through the lush Pays d’Auge countryside of fruitful farmland and scattered villages with their churches and manor houses, orchards and meadows where brown and white cattle grazed. They met the occasional peasant with a cart drawn by an ox or a cow in horses’ harness, and all was a picture of peace and plenty. Wulfstan recalled how his elder brother, now Sir Oswald Wynstede, had gone to fight in the king’s army some nine years ago, when the English had defeated the French king’s army at the Battle of Crécy, and had looted and ravaged the land. It was never referred to now, because of the sorry figure Oswald had cut, often drunk and incapable, having to be brought home to Ebbasterne Hall by his groom, to be nursed back to health by his widowed mother. Wulfstan had been but a child then, but had heard Oswald shouting and cursing, drinking to blot out the memory of what he had seen and heard. And hadn’t there been a Franciscan friar, a friend of the Wynstede family, who had also gone with the army to Crécy, but rarely spoke of his memories of Normandy at war. Was that the same green and peaceful countryside as this, the Pays d’Auge? Surely not! Wulfstan saw himself as a defender rather than an attacker, a knight who would fulfil all the aims of chivalry and be hailed as a hero. Five years at the Maison Duclair had strengthened his determination to reach those heights.

  At midday the little band was ready for a rest and some refreshment; Wulfstan reined in Troilus, and suggested that they approach a prosperous-looking farmhouse and ask to buy bread and cheese and whatever was on offer, and to refill their leather water-bottles.

  ‘I will go first,’ he told them, ‘and be warned that I have only a little money, so we must eat sparingly, for everything has to be paid for. We are not beggars.’

  The farmer’s wife met them in the yard where geese and chickens scattered at their approach. She smiled at the fresh-faced youths, and dropped a curtsey.

  Wulfstan’s French was fluent after five years at the Maison Duclair, and he asked courteously if there were any suitable victuals on sale for him and his companions.

  ‘You are most welcome, messieurs. There is good fare to be had at this time of harvest, roast pig and ripe cheese, wheaten loaves, fruit—’

  ‘We ask only for a small repast, good dame,’ Wulfstan broke in quickly. ‘Bread and cheese will suit us all, and water for our bottles. Our horses also need watering, so if you will direct us to your well . . .’

  ‘As you wish, sire,’ she said, dropping another curtsey, and disappeared through the kitchen door. Presently a bearded, thickset man in a short, unbleached shirt and knee-length braies, came out carrying a wooden bucket like a wine cask cut in half.

  ‘There y’are, ye can fetch it y’selves and give the beasts to drink,’ he said in a surly tone. ‘And I’ll see yer money first,’ he added, standing before Wulfstan with a belligerent air, casting dark eyes over the group. Demoins and Lemaitre had sat themselves down on a wooden form in the yard, which irritated Wulfstan who had remained standing. He gestured to the two youths to rise, and nodded towards the bucket.

  ‘Take that and go to fetch water for the horses,’ he ordered, and turning to the man, asked him to show them the way to the well. Theobald Eldrige grinned at their mutinous faces, but the Flemish Claus Van Brunt joined them, asking if there was another bucket, and one was produced.

  ‘Oh, him, he’d as likely bring it back in a sieve,’ muttered Demoins, as the three of them followed the man to an orchard, on the edge of which was a covered well. Wulfstan was distinctly annoyed; the Monseigneur had told him to be firm with these boys, and so far there had been no trouble, but only a f
ew hours into their chevauchée, he sensed a defiance in Demoins’ manner, as if he were testing him out, to see how far he could go with his young leader. Wulfstan knew he should stop trouble before it started, and when the three of them returned with full buckets, he ordered André Demoins and Charles Lemaitre to attend to the six horses before they sat down to eat the crusty bread and creamy cheese set before them on a trestled table. He motioned the others to be seated, and noticed that Van Brunt thanked the dame and a pretty serving wench who came to wait on them, and got a smile in return from the girl, at which he blushed deeply. Wulfstan noticed the amused glance that passed between Léon Merand and Theobald; Van Brunt had a pleasingly open face, and though his large, freckled nose frequently caused mirth, he seemed to be quite indifferent to the jokes.

  When Demoins and Lemaitre returned they sat down to the repast and added to it some sweet, rosy apples they had gathered from the orchard.

  ‘One for each of us,’ said Lemaitre, ‘including our esteemed leader! The branch was near to breaking under their weight, so we’ve done them a favour. Don’t you agree, Monsieur Wynstede?’