Читать книгу Below the Salt - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 34

Edward the Saxon slept little that night. He tossed and turned while his mind wrestled with the problems of the future; not his own future, for he expected to have little of that, but the poor prospects stretching ahead for his son. At dawn he heard old Godgifu, from behind the curtain which screened her from the rest, groaning and mumbling her prayers. He was aware of the heavy step of Sigurd on the uneven planking and the urgent tones of Tostig addressed to the reluctant Richard. Then he finally fell asleep and did not waken until the sun was high in the heavens and pouring through the narrow window beside his bed.

Edward felt for once that he did not want to get up. What was there for him to do? His heart was too weak for work in the fields. He was on the point of turning over to avoid the sunlight when he heard the thud and clatter of horses’ hoofs on the road. Alert again immediately, he sat up in bed and so could see that a party of perhaps half a dozen horsemen had arrived. A sleeve crossed his line of vision. It was black with bars of green. The livery of Pembroke!

The owner of Rawen Priory was out of bed in a trice. “William the Marshal is paying me a visit!” he said to himself. “It must be that he has had my letter. Perhaps he has come to say he can take the boy into his household as I requested. If that is it, I shall be able to die with an easy mind.”

William the Marshal was so long of back and leg that he needed a tall steed and in consequence the lady beside him, on a black palfrey with silver gear and bright plumes in its mane, looked very small indeed. William had a fondness for feeling the wind on his face and through his hair, and so he was riding bareheaded. He was in his fifties but his bold features showed no signs of age; a handsome man with fine gray eyes in which no trace of guile or malice could be found. The lady with him was his new-made wife, Isabella, the daughter of Strongbow (who had led the conquering Normans into Ireland) and the greatest heiress in the land. She was dainty and dark blue of eye, and very much in love with her husband, to judge by the many occasions she found to touch his gauntleted hand or lean her head against his arm.

“Edward!” cried the marshal when the Saxon appeared at the gate. “It is many years since I have seen you. Not indeed since we returned together from the Crusades. But, old friend, I have thought many times of the well-directed lance you brought to my aid on a certain occasion when the paynims were pressing me hard.” He came to a sudden stop, having had a chance by this time to notice the change in his friend’s appearance. “Edward, are you ill? You are no longer the bold blade who set out for the Holy Land with me.”

“That was a very long time ago, Sir Marshal,” declared Edward, “and in the meanwhile the years have been taking toll of me. But not of you, my lord! You seem as young as ever.”

“And lucky for me it is,” said the old warrior. “When a man waits to my age before taking a wife and is rewarded then with the hand of the loveliest lady in Christendom—well, he does not relish looking as old as I—as I really am.”

“My sweet lord,” said the bride, “I am happy you waited so long. Otherwise I would not have you now and some hussy would.”

The marshal looked down at her, and quite a distance it was he had to look, and smiled with so much warmth and affection that Edward, watching, lost for a moment his recollections of William as a great fighting man, as a steel-clad scourge in the lists, as the knight who had never been worsted.

“But, my small bride,” said the marshal, “there is no denying that I am an old man and you are a mere girl. You are so very young! You should have been given a chance to choose for yourself.”

The bride tossed back her head and laughed. As she did so Edward noticed that along the bridge of her very shapely nose (perhaps because of the outdoor life she had lived on her huge Irish estates) there ran a barely discernible line of small freckles.

“My sweet, my very sweet lord and master,” said the bride, “you give me too small credit. Do you think I had no say in selecting you from the others? From all those others who were willing to have me—and my lands and honors? I went to some pains to see you and then I demanded a word with my liege lord the king—the old king, it was—and I said to him, ‘I shall wed the marshal and none other.’ He looked at me like a thundercloud because he had other ideas. He didn’t want to give me to you because you had not offered to pay him anything at all, so little did you desire me——”

“Come, sweet chuck,” declared the marshal, still smiling down at her, “I would have given him everything I possessed—and that would still have been next to nothing.”

“Well,” continued the small and sprightly wife, “I made it very clear to Harry Secund—and later to King Richard as well—that it was you or no one. Even though some of the others had offered huge sums, I was going to be the wife of the marshal of England or I would remain unwed to the end of my days. And now you know the whole story.”

The marshal turned to Edward, who had been trying to convince himself that he could offer them wine, the best in the house being of very poor quality. “We are riding through to Pembroke, where we hope to have a brief rest. And I thought we must not pass so close without halting a brief moment to see an old comrade in arms.” He paused and gave Edward a solicitous glance. “I heard of the decision. A foul injustice, my friend! I had received your letter. This son of yours seems to be in much the same position that I was once. I had no prospects whatever and so I went to Normandy to serve an uncle. ‘It would be a sound idea, indeed,’ I said to myself, ‘for my stout old friend’s son to come into my household—as a page, then a squire, and finally a belted knight to ride in my train.’ He would have the same chance then that I had, to feather his nest with tournament prizes and perchance to pick up a little bit of land here and there.”

“Sir Marshal, I can think of no better future for my poor, dispossessed son!” cried Edward, his spirits rising so high that a touch of the old fire showed in his eyes.

The lady asked a question at this point. “Sir Edward, could I see the young man? It is necessary first, I believe, that I should like him and that he should like both my lord William and me. He would be living with us and having much to do with the many children we expect to have; and so we must all be sure.”

Edward turned back to the threshold where a trumpet, made from a ram’s horn, was hanging. He placed this to his lips and sounded a loud blast. Almost immediately a boy’s voice answered from the thin cover of woods in the west. The master of Rawen then blew three times in rapid succession.

“That is a signal to come at once,” he explained to the visitors. “As my lands are small, it will take him no more than a few minutes to get here.”

When Richard arrived in a breathless state a very few moments later, with Tostig running at his heels, the marshal took no more than one look at him before saying: “My boy, you have a fine long leg and a good back. I am disposed to think you will grow up to be as tall as I am. That long back is perfect for the saddle. You won’t be an easy one to jolt from your seat. Let me test your muscles. Ah, splendid! They are long and will never gather up into tight little knots on your arms and legs.” He nodded to Edward. “I like your son, my old friend. He has a good eye. Gentle he will be unless aroused and then he will be like a roaring lion in his wrath. At least, that is what I read in him at this one quick glance.”

The Countess of Pembroke then commanded the boy’s attention. She leaned over to take both his hands in hers. “Richard,” she asked, “would you like to come with us and serve us, first, as a page? Later, of course, my lord would assert himself and take you away to learn the arts and tricks of war.”

Richard’s eyes lighted up as though he had been shown all the kingdoms of the earth. “Oh yes, my lady, yes!” he cried. “To be a true knight is my only wish. I will serve you faithfully and well, my lady.”

The countess continued to study his face. “Yes, it is true, you have a good eye. And I like the way your hair grows down on your forehead. It is my opinion that you will grow into a handsome knight.” She glanced then at Edward the Saxon with a hint of sympathy for him in her eyes. “Sir Edward,” she said, “I am very much afraid that we are going to rob you of your son.”

After it had been arranged that Richard should join the marshal’s household on their return from Pembroke Castle to Cavenham, the home which was their favorite among the scores of places they owned, and that Tostig was to go too (for the discerning eye of the young wife had seen how close the friendship was between the pair), the marshal turned his horse to leave and his lady gave them a warm inclusive smile before gathering up the red leather reins into her gloved hands and following after him.

Edward said to the boys, “Come with me,” and led the way back into the cluster of ruined walls behind them. In the slype there remained a stone bench large enough to seat three. “You must not think, Richard, that being a page—or filling whatever post they find for you, Tostig—is going to be easy,” he began.

They seemed somewhat surprised at this and he went on to explain. “A page is a household servant, in everything but name. At first he’s supposed to pay special attention to the lady of the house. He stands behind her chair at meals and he must not only serve her but anticipate her needs. Before she can say, ‘Bring the hot-water ewer,’ her page should be at her shoulder, tilting the handle so she can dip her hands in.

“You will discover a custom when you get out into the world which sets all men into the mold of caste. There will be a tall salt cellar about halfway of the board. Above it sit the family, the high officers of the household, and prominent guests. Below the salt are the squires, the house servants, the field churls, the dusty travelers of low degree; and you, Tostig, will be among them. As for you, Richard, you will not have a seat at meals. You will remain in attendance at the head of the board until everyone has been served, even the least-considered varlet at the foot of the table. You will get for yourself then whatever is left, and it may be no more than a crust of bread or a well-gnawed bone.

“You won’t go to bed until your master and mistress are couched for the night and then you will probably curl up on a skin outside their door so you will be wakened at dawn by the first servant to appear.

“When a page becomes old enough to be a squire,” he went on, “he is allowed to carry a streamer or pencel of his own on the end of a lance. Now things are different but even harder. He polishes armor and burnishes swords and he is always very busy with the horses. In battle he fights behind his master, going to his assistance when necessary and procuring a new horse if his master’s is killed. After the fighting, while the knights feast and drink and then snore the night away, the patient squire is still repairing the ravages to armor and garments and getting ready for another day of rampage and fury. If he survives all this, he becomes in time a knight himself and carries a banneret on his lance and has squires of his own.”

Richard gave his head an ecstatic shake. “A wondrous life!” he said. “What more could a man ask than to serve? For it is clear that, while the squire serves the knight, the knight serves the earl, the earl serves the king and the king serves his God. I shall be happy to begin a humble life of service.”

His father nodded wryly. “You will be lucky indeed, my son, that it is William the Marshal you are to serve. He was a landless wight, just as you are, and so he had to make a place for himself with his strength and his skill with weapons. Have I ever told you that he fought in five hundred tournaments and won them all? No knight has there ever been to compare with William, and yet he is always kind, with a smile for the beggar by the wayside as well as for the courtiers about the king. He has been a slave to duty. When he sees his way clearly before him, nothing can change or swerve him. He was always the most loyal to the old king when the princes began to rebel against their father. Once, very near the end, old Harry Secund was forced to retire because the French king and Prince Richard were out in great force against him. He was retreating from Le Mans and young Prince Richard rode hard after him in pursuit. But it was William the Marshal the prince encountered. He was holding the rear guard in hand with great skill and courage. ‘God’s feet, Marshal!’ cried the prince. ‘Do not slay me!’ ‘The Devil slay you, for I will not!’ answered the marshal, unhorsing the prince by killing his mount.” Edward paused before adding: “I know of nothing more to the credit of Richard than this, that on becoming king he held no grudge against the marshal but continued him in his post and put no obstacles in the way of his marriage to the heiress of Pembroke.”

“What will I need to take with me?” asked the boy in an anxious voice.

“You will be expected to go to him suitably clothed,” was the answer. “It is customary to have a woolen tunic, two pairs of hose, without a patch on them, a dagged cloak of scarlet wool with enameled buttons, a leather belt, and two pairs of good shoes. You will ride your own horse and it must not be an ancient crow but a young animal of good spirit.”

There was a moment of silence. “It will cost you much to send me to the great earl’s castle.”

“Yes, my son. It will be a difficult matter. But somehow,” with an involuntary sigh, “it will be accomplished. A ring that your lady mother gave me will have to be sacrificed, I fear.”

“It has always been this way,” added Edward after a pause. “When there has been need of something for you, my son, we have fallen back on what your lady mother provided. You get your looks from her. Your sense of high lineage. Your high pride; although perhaps I share in that, never having been of a humble turn. The few objects of value which adorn this poor habitation came from her. And now, with a gift from the past, she gives you the chance to go suitably clothed into the years of preparation for knighthood. It is no wonder, Richard, that you take such pride in the Norman blood in your veins, knowing that it comes from that gracious and lovely lady. It is to be expected that you—that you take more pride in it than in the Saxon share.”

The boy said nothing for a moment. He had listened to his father’s low voice with a sudden sense of shame. He was realizing for the first time that, without desiring to do so, he had shown little regard but rather contempt for the Saxon tradition, for that half of himself. Suddenly his shoulders began to shake and tears streamed down his cheeks.

“My father, I have been blind,” he said. “I have been unfair. It isn’t true that I think only of my mother and never of you. But—but I never saw her and she is in my mind so much of the time.”

“Richard, Richard, I am not blaming you! It is natural for you to feel as you do, although I hope you will come in time to perceive the glories of the Saxon line from which you spring.”