Читать книгу The Wounded Hawk - Sara Douglass - Страница 6

The Feast of the Beheading of St John the Baptist

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(Monday 29th August 1379)

Margaret stood in the most northern of the newly harvested fields of Halstow Hall, a warm wind gently lifting her skirts and hair and blowing a halo of fine wheat dust about her head. The sun blazed down, and while she knew that she should return inside as soon as possible if she were to avoid burning her cheeks and nose, for the moment she remained where she was, quiet and reflective, her eyes drifting across the landscape.

She turned a little, catching sight of the walls of Halstow Hall rising in the distance. There lay Rosalind, asleep in her crib, watched over by her nurse, Agnes. Margaret’s eyes moved to the high walls of the courtyard. In its spaces Thomas would be at his afternoon sword play with his newly acquired squire, Robert Courtenay, a likeable fair-faced young man of commendable quietness and courtesy.

Margaret’s expression hardened as she thought of the banter the two men shared during their weapon practice. Courtenay received nothing but respect and friendship from Thomas—would that she received the same respect and friendship!

“How can I hope for love?” she whispered, still staring at the courtyard walls, “when he begrudges me even his friendship?”

Margaret might be Thomas’ wife, but, as he had told her on their wedding night, she was not his lover.

Margaret had never imagined that it could hurt this much, but then she’d never realised how desperately she would need his love; to be the one thought constantly before all others in his mind.

To be sure, this was what they all strove for—to force Thomas to put thought of her before all else—but Margaret knew her need was more than that. She wanted a home and a family, and above all, she wanted a husband who respected her and loved her.

She wanted Thomas to love her, and yet he would not.

She turned her head away from Halstow Hall, and regarded the land and the far distant wheeling gulls over the Thames estuary. These had been pleasant months spent at Halstow Hall despite Thomas’ coolness, and despite his impatience to return to London and resume his search for Wynkyn de Worde’s ever-cursed casket.

There had been mornings spent wading in clear streams, and noon-days spent riding wildly along the marshy banks of the estuary as the herons rose crying about them. There had been afternoons spent in the hectic fields as the harvest drew to a close, and evenings spent dancing about the celebratory harvest fires with the estate men and their families. There had been laughter and even the occasional sweetness, and long, warm nights spent sprawling beneath Thomas’ body in their bed.

And there had been dawns when, half-asleep, Margaret had thought that maybe this was all there ever would be, and the summer would never draw to a close.

Yet, this was a hiatus only, the drawing of a breath between screams, and Margaret knew that it would soon end. Even now hoof beats thudded on the roads and laneways leading to Halstow Hall. Two sets of hoof beats, drumming out the inevitable march of two ambitions, reaching out to ensnare her once again in the deadly machinations of the looming battle.

Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, then she forced them away as she caught a glimpse of the distant figure striding through one of the fields. She smiled, gaining courage from the sight of Halstow’s steward, and then began to walk towards the Hall.

Visitors would soon be here, and she should be present to greet them.

Master Thomas Tusser, steward to the Neville estates, walked though the stubbled fields at a brisk pace, hands clasped firmly behind his straight back. He was well pleased. The harvest had gone excellently: all the harvesters, bondsmen as well as hired hands, had arrived each day, and each had put in a fair day’s work; the weather had remained fine but not overly hot; the ravens and crows had devastated neighbours’ fields, but not his; and little had been wasted—like their menfolk, the village women and girls had worked their due, gleaning the fields of every last grain.

There would be enough to eat for the next year, and enough left over to store against the inevitable poor years.

The fields were empty of labourers now, but the work had not ceased. The threshers would be sweating and aching in Halstow Hall’s barns, separating precious grain from hollow stalk, while their wives and daughters swept and piled grain into mounds, before carting the grain from threshing court to storage bins.

Tusser’s footsteps slowed, and he frowned and muttered under his breath for a few minutes until his face suddenly cleared. He grinned, and spoke aloud.

“Reap well, scatter not, gather clean that is shorne,

Bind fast, shock apace, have an eye to thy corn,

Load safe, carry home, follow time being fair,

Give just in the barn, life is far from despair.”

Tusser might well be a steward with a good reputation, but that reputation had not been easy to achieve. He had made more than his fair share of mistakes in his youth: leaving the sowing of the spring crops too late, allowing the weeds to grow too high in the fields, and forgetting to mix the goose grease with the tar to daub on the wounds on sheep’s backs after shearing. He had found that the only way he could remember to do the myriad estate tasks on time, and in the right order, was to commit every chore to rhyme. Over the years—he was a middle-aged man now—Tusser had scribbled his rhymes down. Perhaps he would present them to his lord one day as a testament of his goodwill.

Well … that time was far off, God willing, and there would be many years yet to rearrange his rhymes into decent verse.

Tusser reached the edge of the field and nimbly leapt the drainage ditch separating the field from the laneway. Once on the dusty surface of the lane, he looked quickly about him to ensure no one was present to observe, then danced a little jig of sheer merriment.

Harvest was home! Harvest was home!

Tusser resumed a sedate walk and sighed in relief. Harvest was home, praise be to God, even though it had not been an easy year. No year was ever easy, but if a steward had to cope with a new lord descending upon his lands in the middle of summer …

When he’d commenced his stewardship of Halstow Hall eleven years ago, Tusser had been proud to serve as a servant of the mighty Duke of Lancaster … even if the duke had never visited Halstow Hall and Tusser had not once enjoyed the opportunity to meet his lord. But the duke had received Tusser’s quarterly reports and had read them well, writing on more than one occasion to thank Tusser for his care and to congratulate him on the estate’s productivity.

But in March preceding, Tusser received word that Lancaster had deeded Halstow Hall to Lord Thomas Neville as a wedding gift. Tusser was personally offended: had the duke thought so little of Tusser’s efforts on his behalf that he thoughtlessly handed the estate to someone else? Was the duke secretly angry with Tusser, and thought to punish him with a new lord who was to actually live on the estate? A lord in residence? The very idea! Tusser had read the duke’s news with a dismay that increased with every breath. No longer would Tusser have virtual autonomy in his fields … nay, there would be some chivalric fool leaning over his shoulder at every moment mouthing absurdities … either that or riding his warhorse at full gallop through the emerging crops.

Good Lord who findeth, is blessed of God,

A cumbersome lord is husbandman’s rod:

He noiseth, destroyeth, and all to this drift,

To strip his poor tenants of farm and of thrift.

Thus it was, that when Lord Thomas Neville had arrived with his lady wife and newly-born daughter, Tusser had stood in the Hall’s court to greet them with scuffling feet and a scowl as bad as one found on a pimply-faced lad caught with his hand on the dairymaid’s breast.

Within the hour he had been straight-backed and beaming with pride and joy.

Not only had Lord Neville leapt off his horse and greeted him with such high words of praise that Tusser had blinked in astonishment, Neville had then led him inside and informed him that Tusser’s responsibilities would widen to take in Neville’s other estates as well.

He was to be a High Steward! As Tusser strode along the lane back towards the group of buildings surrounding Halstow Hall, he grinned yet again at the memory. As well as Halstow, Tusser now oversaw the stewards who ran Neville’s northern estates, and the second estate in Devon that Lancaster had deeded Neville. Admittedly, this necessitated much extra work—Tusser had to communicate Neville’s wishes and orders to the northern and Devon stewards, as well as review their estate books quarterly—but it was work that admitted and made full use of his talents.

Why, Tusser now had the opportunity to send his verses to his under-stewards! Thus, every Saturday fortnight, Tusser sat down, ordered his thoughts, and carefully composed and edited his versified directions. He was certain that his under-stewards must appreciate his timely verses and homilies.

Tusser tried not to be prideful of his new responsibilities, but he had to admit before God and the Holy Virgin that he was not completely successful.

Not only had Neville praised Tusser’s abilities, and handed him his new responsibilities, but Neville had also proved to be no fool meddling with Tusser’s handling of the estate. He had a deep interest in what happened to the estate, and kept an eye on it, but he allowed Tusser to run it in the manner he chose and did not interfere with his steward’s authority.

Neville was a good lord, and surely blessed of God. And his wife! Tusser sighed yet again. The Lady Margaret had an agreeable manner that exceeded her great beauty, and Tusser rose each morning to pray that this day he would be graced with the sweetness of her smile.

Aye, the goodness and grace of God had indeed embraced Halstow Hall and all who lived within its estates.

Tusser turned a corner in the lane and Halstow Hall rose before him. It was a good building, built of stone and brick, and some two or three generations old. Originally, it had consisted only of the great hammer-beamed hall and minstrel gallery, kitchens, pantries and larders, and a vaulted storage chamber that ran under the entire length of the hall, but over the years Lancaster had caused numerous additions to be made, even though he had never lived here. Now a suite of private chambers ran off the back of the hall, allowing a resident lord and his family some seclusion from the public life of the hall, and new stables and barns graced the courtyards.

The sound of horses behind him startled Tusser from this reverie, and he whipped about.

A party of four horsemen approached. Tusser squinted, trying to make them out through the cursed sun … then he started, and frowned as he realised three of the four riders were clothed in clerical robes.

Priests! Cursed priests! Doubtless come to eat Halstow Hall bare in the name of charity before moving on again.

Priests they might be, but Tusser had to admit to himself that their habits were poor, and they showed no glint of jewels or gold about their person. The lead priest was an old man, so thin he was almost skeletal, with long and scraggly hair and beard.

His expression was fierce, almost fanatical, and he glared at Tusser as if trying to scry out the man’s secret sins.

Evening prayers will be no cause for lightness and joy this night, Tusser thought, then shifted his eyes to the fourth rider, whose appearance gave him cause for thought.

This rider was a soldier. Sandy hair fell over a lined, tanned and knife-scarred face, and over his chain mail he wore a tunic emblazoned with the livery of the Duke of Lancaster. As the group rode closer to Tusser, still standing in the centre of the laneway, the soldier pushed his horse to the fore of his group, pulled it to a halt a few paces distant from the steward, and grinned amiably at him.

“Good man,” said the soldier to the still-frowning Tusser. “Would you be the oft-praised Master Tusser, of whom the entire court whispers admiration?”

Tusser’s frown disappeared instantly and his face lit up with pride.

“I am,” he said, “and I see that you, at least, are of the Duke of Lancaster’s household. Who may I welcome on Lord Neville’s behalf to Halstow Hall?”

“My name is Wat Tyler,” said the rider, “and, as you can see, I am a sergeant-at-arms within good Lancaster’s household. I ride as escort to my revered companions,” Tyler turned and indicated the three priests, “who know your master well, and have decided to pass the night in his house.” Tyler grinned even more as he said the last few sentences. “Perhaps you have heard of Master John Wycliffe,” he nodded at the fierce-faced old priest, “while his two godly companions,” now Tyler could scarcely contain his amusement, “are named John Ball and Jack Trueman.”

Tusser bowed slightly to the priests, narrowing his eyes a little. He was well aware of John Wycliffe’s reputation, and of the renegade priest’s teachings that the entire hierarchy of the Church was a sinful abomination whose worldly goods and properties ought to be seized and distributed among the poor. Many of Wycliffe’s disciples, popularly called Lollards for their habit of mumbling, now spread Wycliffe’s message far and wide, and Tusser occasionally saw one or two of them at the larger market fairs of Kent.

The steward stared a moment longer, then he smiled warmly. “Master Wycliffe. You are indeed most welcome here to Halstow Hall, as are your companions. I am sure that my master and mistress will be pleased to greet you.”

“The mistress, at least,” said a voice behind Tusser, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Margaret walking down the laneway to join him. He bowed, and stepped aside.

Margaret halted, and looked carefully at each of the four men. “I do greet you well,” she said, “and am most happy to see you. My husband I cannot speak for.”

Wycliffe and Tyler smiled a little at that.

Margaret hesitated, then indicated with her hand that they should ride forward. “Welcome to my happy home,” she said.

Thomas Neville was anything but happy to welcome John Wycliffe and his two companion priests into his home. He had just finished at his weapons practice with Courtenay, when he heard the sound of hoof fall entering the courtyard.

Turning, Neville had been appalled to see the black figure of John Wycliffe walking beside Margaret, two other priests (Lollards, no doubt) close behind him, and Wat Tyler leading the four horses. As he watched, Tusser, who’d been walking at the rear of the group, took the horses from Tyler and led them towards some stable boys.

Margaret said nothing, only halting as Neville strode forward.

“What do you here?” Neville snapped at Wycliffe.

Wycliffe inclined his head. “I and my companions are riding from London to Canterbury, my lord,” he said, “and thought to spend the night nestled within your hospitality.”

“My ‘hospitality’ does not lie on the direct road to Canterbury,” Neville said. “I say again, what do you here?”

“Come to enjoy your charity,” Wycliffe said, his voice now low and almost as menacing as his eyes, “as my Lord of Lancaster suggested I do. I bear greetings and messages from John of Gaunt, Neville. It is your choice whether you decide to accept Lancaster’s goodwill or not.” Wycliffe paused. “It is for a night only, Neville. I and mine will be gone by the morning.”

Furious at being trapped—he could not refuse Lancaster’s request to give Wycliffe lodging and entertainment—Neville nodded tightly, and indicated the door into the main building. Then, as Margaret led Wycliffe and the two other priests inside, Neville directed a hard glare towards Tyler.

“And you?” he said.

Tyler shrugged. “I am escort at Lancaster’s request, Tom. There’s no need to glower at me so.”

Neville’s face did not relax, but neither did he say any more as they walked inside. Wat Tyler and he had a long, if sometimes uncomfortable, history together. Tyler had taught Neville his war craft, and had protected his back in battle more times than Neville cared to remember. But Tyler also kept the most extraordinary company—his escort of the demon Wycliffe was but one example, and Neville felt sure he knew one of the other priests from somewhere—and Neville simply did not know if he trusted Tyler any longer.

In this age of demons incarnate, who could he trust?

Margaret very carefully washed her fingers in the bowl the servant held out for her, then dried them on her napkin. Finally, she folded her hands in her lap, cast down her eyes, and prayed to sweet Jesu for patience to get through this dreadful meal.

Thomas was not the sweetest companion at the best of times, but when goaded by John Wycliffe, as well as two of his disciples … Margaret shuddered and looked up.

Normally, she ate only with Thomas, Robert Courtenay, and Thomas Tusser in the hall of Halstow. Meals were always tolerable, and often cheerful, especially when Courtenay gently teased Tusser, who always good-humouredly responded with a versified homily or two. Tonight their visitors had doubled the table, if not its joy.

They had eaten before the unlit hearth in the hall, and now that the platters had been cleared, and the crumbs brushed aside, the men were free to lean their elbows on the snowy linen tablecloth and indulge the more fiercely in both wine and conversation.

Margaret sighed. Under current circumstances, and with current company, religion was most assuredly not going to make the best of conversational topics.

Neville toyed with his wine goblet, not looking at Wycliffe, who ignored his own wine to sit stiff and straight-backed as he stared at his host.

Margaret knew that Wycliffe, as well as his companions, John Ball and Jack Trueman, were enjoying themselves immensely.

“So,” Wycliffe was saying in a clipped voice, “you do not disagree that those who exist in a state of sin should not be allowed to hold riches or excessive property?”

“The idea has merit,” Neville replied, still looking at his goblet rather than his antagonist, “but who should determine if someone was existing in a state of—”

“And you do not disagree that many of the higher clerics within the Church are the worst sinners of all?”

Neville thought of the corruption he’d witnessed when he was in Rome, and the sordid behaviour of cardinals and popes. He did not reply, taking the time instead to refill his goblet.

Further down the table, Courtenay exchanged glances with Tusser.

“Over the years many men have spoken out about the corruption among the higher clergy,” Margaret said. “Why, even some of the saintlier popes have tried to reform the worst abuses of—”

“When did you become so learned so suddenly?” Neville said.

“It does not require learning to perceive the depravity rife among so many bishops and abbots,” Tusser said, his eyes bright, and all three priests present nodded their heads vigorously.

Neville sent Tusser a sharp look, but the steward preferred instead to see his lady’s smile of gratitude. He nodded, satisfied that he’d made his stand known, and resolved to say no more.

“You can be no defender of the Church, Lord Neville,” said one of the priests, John Ball, “when you have so clearly abandoned your own clerical vows to enjoy a secular lordship.”

Neville transferred his hostile glare to Ball. He had remembered where he had met the man previously—at Chauvigny, in France, where the priest had openly mouthed treasonous policies. The man was in the company of Wat Tyler then, too.

“Perhaps,” Ball continued, before Neville could respond, “you found your vows of poverty too difficult? Your vows of obedience too chafing? You certainly live a far more luxurious life now than you did as a Dominican friar, do you not?”

“My husband followed his conscience,” Margaret said, hoping she could deflect Thomas’ anger before he exploded. She sent Wycliffe a warning look.

“We cannot chastise Lord Neville for leaving a Church so riddled with corruption,” Wycliffe said mildly, catching Margaret’s glance. “We can only commend him.”

“Then why do you not discard your robes, renegade?” Neville said.

“I can do more good in them than out of them,” Wycliffe said, “while you do better at the Lady Margaret’s side than not.”

Neville looked back to his goblet again, then drank deeply from it. Why did he feel as though he were being played like a hooked fish?

“My lord,” said Jack Trueman, who had remained silent through this exchange, “may I voice a comment?” He carried on without waiting for an answer. “As many about this table have observed, the dissolution and immorality among the higher clerics must surely be addressed, and their ill-gotten wealth distributed among the needy. Jesus Himself teaches that it is better to distribute one’s wealth among the poor rather than to hoard it.”

There were nods about the table, even, most reluctantly, from Neville, who wondered where Trueman was heading. For a Lollard, he was being far too reasonable.

“But,” Trueman said, “perhaps there is more that we can do to alleviate the suffering of the poor, and of those who till the fields and harvest the grain.”

“I did not realise those who tilled the fields and harvested the grain were ‘suffering’,” Neville said.

“Yet you have never lived the life of our peasant brothers,” Trueman said gently. “You cannot know if they weep in pain in their beds at night.”

“Perhaps,” Wat Tyler said, also speaking for the first time, “Tom thinks they work so hard in the fields that they can do nothing at night but sleep the sleep of the righteous.”

“Our peasant brothers sleep,” Wycliffe put in before Neville could respond, “and they dream. And of what do they dream? Freedom!”

“Freedom?” Neville said. “Freedom from what? They have land, they have homes, they have their families. They lack for nothing—”

“But the right to choose their destiny,” Wycliffe said. “The dignity to determine their own paths in life. What can you know, Lord Neville, of the struggles and horrors that the bondsmen and women of this country endure?”

Neville went cold. He’d heard these words before from the mouth of the Parisian rebel, Etienne Marcel. And what had those words brought but suffering and death?

“Be careful, Master Wycliffe,” he said in a low voice, “for I will not have the words of chaos spoken in my household!”

Courtenay, very uncomfortable, looked about the table. “The structure of society is God-ordained, surely,” he said. “How can we wish it different? How could we better it?”

“There are murmurings,” Jack Trueman said, “that as do many within the Church enjoy their bloated wealth at the expense of the poor, so, too, do many secular lords enjoy wealth and comfort from the sufferings of their bondsmen.”

“Do you have men bonded to the soil and lordship of Halstow Hall, Lord Neville?” Wycliffe asked. “Have you never thought to set them free from the chains of their serfdom?”

“Enough!” Neville rose to his feet. “Wycliffe, I know you, and I know what you are. I offer you a bed for the night begrudgingly, and only because my Duke of Lancaster keeps you under his protection. But I would thank you to be gone at first light on the morrow.”

Wycliffe also rose. “The world is changing, Thomas,” he said. “Do not stand in its way.”

He turned to Margaret, and bowed very deeply. “Good lady,” he said, “I thank you for your hospitality. As your lord wishes, I and mine shall be gone by first light in the morning, and that will be too early for me to bid you farewell. So I must do it now.” He paused.

“Farewell, beloved lady. Walk with Christ.”

“And you,” Margaret said softly.

Wycliffe nodded, held Margaret’s eyes an instant longer, then swept away, his black robes fluttering behind him.

John Ball and Jack Trueman bowed to Margaret and Neville, then hurried after their master.

Furious that he could not speak his mind in front of Courtenay and Tusser, Neville turned on Tyler.

“And I suppose you walk with Wycliffe in this madness?”

Tyler held Neville’s eyes easily. “I work also for the betterment of our poor brothers, so,” he said, “yes, Tom, I walk with Wycliffe in this ‘madness’.”

“How dare you talk as if Wycliffe works the will of Jesus Christ!”

“Wycliffe devotes his life to freeing the poor and downtrodden from the enslavement of their social and clerical ‘betters’. Is that not what Jesus Christ gave his life for?”

“You will bring death and disaster to this realm, Wat,” Neville said in a quiet voice, “as Marcel did to Paris.”

Tyler’s face twisted, almost as if he wanted to say something but found the words too difficult.

Then, as had Wycliffe, he turned and bowed to Margaret, thanking her in a warm and elegant fashion, and bid her farewell. “Go with Christ, my lady.”

“And you, Wat.” Margaret turned her head slightly as soon as she had said the words, fearful that Thomas should see the gleam of tears within their depths.

Would this be the last time she ever saw Wat?

Wat Tyler stared at Margaret one more moment, then he, too, turned and left the hall.