The Passionate Pilgrim

“If that man had kept his nose out of my affairs, Bonard, I would not have needed the king’s aid in the first place. And if I’d known what the price would be, I’d never have gone there that day. Even you could not protect me from that, could you?” She had not meant it to sound like censure, but the tired and angry words had a way of emerging point first. “I’m sorry, my dear friend. You deserve no reprimand. There was nothing you could have done, I know. Nor could I have done without you, that day.”

He had done his best, such as it was, but even the faithful Bonard could not insist on being present at her interview with the king at Canterbury, if the king did not wish it. What had happened then behind the closed doors in the archbishop’s palace where the king was staying had had a direct bearing on the fine which was paid to Sir Rhyan Lombard for Merielle’s defiance of the contract between their late fathers. Afterwards, Merielle had explained nothing, nor had she needed to. The king’s reputation was well known and Master Bonard, romantic idealist, was no innocent in the ways of great men.

“I can make up for it a little,” he whispered, “if you allow me to accompany you to Winchester. No more Latin verses?”

Again, his words were lost on her, brushed aside in her quick, irritable dismissal of the incident. She stood, and Bonard recognised the futility of repeating his offer.

Long past midnight, the relaxation which the longed-for bath was meant to induce was effectively displaced by new problems that could be shared only in part by those she trusted most. In a cloud of steam, she wondered whether it was marriage or widowhood that made problems worse and decided that, but for men, life would have been simple. Regrets crowded after the dilemma of Sir Adam and his intentions; she should never have agreed to go, even to see her infant niece, to hold her, to nuzzle her peachy cheeks. Beneath the foamy waterline, she passed her hands over her womb, sliding them upwards to comfort the sudden ache in her breasts, remembering with a gasp of longing the tragedies contained there, the last of which she had brought upon herself.

The warm summer days of 1356 had already begun to lengthen by the time the news had reached her of Philippe’s sudden death, weeks earlier. From the south, the winds had blown gently, and Sicily was half a world away and what had Philippe been doing in Palermo on his way to Jerusalem? Like many another, it was a question never to be answered in the blank and sickening days that followed. She had not seen the need for him to leave her, nor had she known that the preparations they had made for his temporary absence would now become permanent. Nor had she had time to learn to love him.

“Determined’ had been the best way to describe his wooing, for every time she thought she had seen the last of him in Lincoln, he came back for another try until, finally, she came to look forward to his return; the novel idea of being sought with such constancy found a niche in her lonely existence. He had made Canterbury sound attractive. Their wedding night had been a non-event for which she had no regrets; it was only after supping with friends one evening and drinking rather too much of their fine newly imported Rhenish wine that the two newlyweds came to know each other better than during the previous weeks of celibacy.

Philippe had been good at his work, knew everyone in Canterbury and was well known also by them, and, if he lacked personal authority, his workshop’s reputation made up for that. His business partner, who had died just before their marriage, was not replaced; Philippe’s new wife appeared to be enough for him. And when, after only a few months of marriage, Merielle discovered that she was pregnant, Philippe’s astonishment catapulted him into a pilgrimage, as if thanks offered in the nearby cathedral would not suffice. It was as if they had both been taken unawares by something they had not quite remembered.

Whether from shock or from some other reason, the pregnancy had lasted barely three months, less than a week after the news of Philippe’s death had reached her. Merielle, who had never been truly ill before, thought that her world had collapsed with her beneath it, and, at eighteen, howled for all her dear departed ones and for the infant she had hoped would give her life some purpose. Believing no more in expectancies, only in losses, she was both horrified and frightened by the miscarriage, for the painful contractions were every bit as bad as girlhood scaremongers had said.

Then, during her recovery, had come the icily legal document telling her that her Yorkshire lands were to be repossessed by some grasping and merciless landowner who believed he had more claim to them than she did. A typical case, she believed, of stripping the carcass clean. An excusable exaggeration, in the circumstances.

Her worried expression had been commented upon by a pleasant acquaintance of Philippe’s, one Gervase of Caen, who had listened readily to her angry tale. He had been sympathetic, and helpful, assuring her that there were ways of dealing with scavengers of his sort.

His advice was perfectly timed. “The king,” he had said, leaning elegantly against a half-constructed loom that the carpenter was building. “You must petition the king in cases like this.”

Merielle, who appreciated directness, felt that this was the best advice she had had so far, Philippe’s lawyers having offered scant hope and, seeing little further than the end of her nose at that time, she had allowed Master Gervase to elaborate.

“He’ll be coming to Canterbury in two weeks’ time,” he said, “staying in the archbishop’s palace. You should see the food lists.” He unrolled an imaginary parchment into the air, smiling. “I can arrange an audience for you. He’ll settle the matter.”

In her mind, she had already half-accepted the suggestion, but felt it only polite to protest a little. “But there’ll be dozens of people pestering him, Master Gervase. Isn’t it more usual to leave a petition with one of his clerks?”

His smile had broadened at that and he had taken her elbow to lead her to a stool. “Mistress St Martin,” he said, “when you have friends in the king’s employ, you use them. I can get you a private audience, away from others’ ears, where you can explain the problem to his grace. It won’t be the first time he’s heard of such things happening, you know, to new widows.”

“A fortnight?” She would be fully recovered by then.

“Two weeks. All you have to do is to dress soberly and elegantly, as usual, and I will personally escort you.”

“And Bonard. I must take him.”

“If you will. That will depend on his grace.”

They had taken the letter, too, in Master Bonard’s leather scrip, on a day when darkness had fallen too soon beneath lowered clouds and a heavy drizzle. By the time they had reached the handsome stone porch of the archbishop’s palace in the cathedral precinct, they were almost drenched. Step by dark step, Merielle had followed the curve of the spiral stone staircase from the corner of the porch up to the small anteroom where a fire had been lit within a recess in the wall. She remembered how its stone hood looked like an upturned funnel.

Master Gervase disappeared through a door on the far side of the whitewashed room, and then reappeared some moments later. “His grace will see you alone, Mistress St Martin. No—” he put out a hand for emphasis “—alone, sir, if you please.”

Bonard had looked deeply uncomfortable, but helpless. “It is not seemly,” he protested, in a low voice.

Master Gervase raised his eyebrows. “I cannot argue with his grace if he insists, Master Bonard, can I?”

Through yet another chamber where clerks at tables scratched inky quills across parchments, Merielle was shown into a larger chamber, headily warm after the cold damp outside and glowing with colour from the wood-panelled walls. A fire blazed in one corner and candles made haloes of light that eclipsed whatever was nearest, their sweet scent of beeswax mingling strangely with a lingering aroma of linseed oil.

She had met the king only once before when he had been entertained by the merchants of Lincoln, of whom her first husband had been one. They had given a memorable feast in his honour and lent him vast amounts of money for his French campaigns at the same time and she, as a newly married merchant’s wife, had curtsied and been raised to her feet to meet a pair of admiring eyes. As she was doing on this occasion, only three years later.

His hands beneath hers were firm and warm. He was tall and of athletic build, a man renowned for his valour and skills in battle, his love of jousting, of building schemes, a patron of the arts. He was, she believed, everything one expected of a king. He recalled their meeting as he removed her cloak and, unexpectedly, her damp veil, draping them over a stool near the fire. “There,” he said, “we’ll give them time to dry, shall we?”

He came back to take her hands, rather like an uncle, she thought at the time. “Now, Mistress St Martin, these are sad times, are they not? But if you will sit with me awhile, I will do what I can to help. Your first husband was a staunch supporter of our French cause, you know.”

“Yes, sire. Sadly, he was lost to me soon after your visit to Lincoln.”

“Indeed. And your father also, I believe. You have had more losses than you deserve at your age. What is your age, mistress?”

“I have eighteen years and some four months, sire.”

She did not mention her most recent loss of the infant she had wanted, for she knew that, while she could control tears for Philippe, she could not do the same for the other. She had dressed with care for the occasion, black relieved by edgings of silver inkle-loom braids and silver grey fox fur. With her thick black hair in a nest of plaits around her face, entwined with silver cords and studded discreetly with pearls, the only contrasting colour was the warm apricot skin on her neck, which had now been uncovered. It did not unduly disturb her, for she knew that kings were different from other men in what they were allowed to do. His offer of wine was accepted while he listened attentively to her problem and read the lawyers’ letter.

Basking in the sympathy that followed, she saw her troubles receding already and was thankful that he did not ask her why it was so important for a woman as wealthy as she was to keep hold of these far-flung Yorkshire lands. That would have been difficult to answer except that she resented being fleeced like a helpless sheep, especially at a time like this.

He replenished her goblet with more of the sweet wine and held out his own to make a toast. “To your peace of mind, mistress. Leave it with me, if you will. I’ll have the appropriate fine sent to Sir Rhyan Lombard’s notary. Sir Rhyan is one of Lord Scrope of Bolton’s retainers, you know, both of them the Duke of Lancaster’s men. A good man in battle, so my son tells me. He holds fast, as well he should. A lovely woman should not have to cross swords with a man of his calibre.” He smiled at her and leaned his arm along the table behind her. “Now, tell me of your family. Are they still in York?”

Warmed by the fire and the wine, and more relieved than she could say, Merielle talked to him as a friend might, laughing at the way sisters, who should always agree, did not. She told him of her plans to bring Laurel to live in Canterbury.

The king’s eyes, lazily absorbing Merielle’s grace and beauty, blinked slowly. “I may be able to help you there, mistress. I have a well-connected bachelor in mind. Winchester. Would that be convenient, do you think? Near enough for sisters who agree to disagree?”

That had been another of her problems solved in an instant. “Oh, sire. How can I ever thank you?” She smiled, too radiantly. Looking back, it was probably the stupidest thing she could have said. The age-old response. A child’s, not an intelligent woman’s. It was the last time she ever said it to anyone.

The king slowly unfolded himself and rose, pulling her to her feet. “Come,” he said, “I think I have the answer to that.”

At eighteen, there was no reason for her to distrust him. She had heard, of course, of his reputed lack of scruples, his tendency to withhold repayments of loans, to forget some debts altogether. But he and his friends had, only eight years previously, founded the Most Noble Order of the Garter and that must surely be the ultimate guarantee of his attitude towards women. She thought, believed, that he was about to show her something of interest, and even when he led her across the shadowy room to a small door in the wainscot, she had no idea of what was in his mind.

The tiny chamber was no larger than a closet, built into the wall where the air was stuffy with the smell of candlesmoke and the same unmistakable linseed. Here, Merielle was drawn inside by one hand, still expecting the king, her hero, to light a candle and reveal a book, a relic, a document, perhaps. She found that she could not move backwards for something that pressed against her legs, and the last thing she saw was the king’s hand pulling the door closed behind him.

“Sire…I beg you…what?” She strained backwards, but too late to avoid his arm about her waist or the heat of his mouth on her throat, his other hand on her body. “Please…no, sire!”

His voice was hoarse, his previous manner now totally at odds with his assault. “You want to know how you can thank me, mistress? Or have you reconsidered? Am I not to receive some reward for my help…a small token as payment?”

“Payment, sire? I thought—”

“Hah! You thought?” He laughed, softly. “Don’t think. Women like you should not think too much.” While he spoke, his hand was finding its way into the wide neckline of her cote-hardie. “You’ll not deny me a little comfort before I return to France, surely? Something for us both to remember? By God, mistress, you’re beautiful.”

In the oppressive blackness, Merielle pushed and twisted, scratching herself on his gold buttons and smelling his heat. “Sire, I am a widow and recently bereaved. Have you forgot?”

“I’ve not forgotten that you’re free now, mistress, and ready for a man, eh? Come, give yourself to me. You are young and strong.” While he spoke, and without giving her a chance to reply, he leaned on her, forcing her backwards and rendering her helpless either to reach him or to right herself, and she wondered then, in the warning flash behind her eyes, how many other women had been lured into this same trap and held there until payment had been exacted in full, for surely this was not the first time he had done such a thing.

It was the blackest of experiences in which her participation was as unnecessary as her cooperation while he forced himself between her legs, both hands exploring every surface beneath her gown, taking her at last with a suddenness that made her yelp with pain and brought tears to her eyes. Even then, she would not tell him, knowing that if her bereavement could not stop him, then nothing else would. He kissed her only once, when it seemed as if he would never finish and, when he did, she understood why he had felt it necessary to closet them in this small place, for his roar would surely have brought in his men, if they had heard it.

The perspiration from his brow dripped on to her. “By the white swan, mistress, you’re good,” he panted.

Dazed and disbelieving that such a thing could have happened to her, she allowed him to pull her up and lead her by the hand back to the fire, to be cloaked and veiled as she had been before, to be offered more wine. His manner was once more that of the courtier, adding to her sense of bewilderment.

“No, I thank you, sire. I must go now,” she whispered, pushing a certain dampness off her cheek. Stiffly, she curtsied. “I beg you will excuse me.”

Blank-faced, Gervase of Caen answered the king’s summons, revealing nothing to Merielle of whether he knew or suspected what had taken place. In the clerks’ chamber, no faces looked up but, once in the antechamber, Bonard’s expression said it all. He felt her trembling as she leaned on his arm; he would not let go of her hand as they negotiated the downward spiral towards the light; he pulled her arm through his out there in the slippery courtyard and commanded Master Gervase, “Take Mistress St Martin’s other arm, if you please, sir.”

With care, the two men supported her back to Palace Street, which was not far, and Master Gervase left after being assured by Merielle that her petition had been successful. Then, she had clung to the faithful Bonard in silence, shaking uncontrollably, and had not objected when he had carried her to her room and given orders on her behalf to Mistress Allene and Bess.

After that, Merielle had told herself, over and over, that this was nothing compared to the losses she had recently sustained and that now she should put it from her mind. But the one thing she had found impossible to forget was her own foolish and misplaced trust in the ways of men, a personal anger that pained her as much as anything else.

The king had kept his word about her fine, for soon afterwards the matter was concluded by a tersely worded and painfully formal letter from Sir Rhyan’s notary to say that a fine had been paid from the king’s treasury office with a command not to pursue the affair. But for Merielle, that had not been the end of the matter. Far from it. In the weeks that followed, she, Allene and Bess had had to use all their skills to bring on the monthly flow that had refused to appear at its appointed time. An event which, only a few months ago, had been the cause of such excessive celebration was now the cause of anguish, for another pregnancy would be well out of time and a stigma not to be endured by one so recently widowed. Against all her bodily yearnings and in another red haze of illness, the tiny spark of life was intentionally snuffed out, and Merielle’s heart almost broke.

Illogically, she blamed Sir Rhyan, the man who had appeared from nowhere to prosecute her and then cause her to hand back the one thing she wanted above everything. Neither he nor the king would ever know, but she could hold it against them, nevertheless.

She climbed out of the bathtub into the towel that Allene held. Obviously, she should stay here in Canterbury, after all. Call Sir Adam’s bluff. His proposal was an insult, seen in the light of Bonard’s explanations. But the prospect of discovering for herself whilst ruffling the intolerable smugness of his nephew were rewards she was loth to concede. Burying her smile into the bundle of warm linen, she hugged it against her breast, rocking gently and inhaling its garden perfume.

“Come on, lass,” Allene said. “Into bed. You’re dead on your feet.”

Chapter Three

The resumption of her role as mistress of her own destiny was taken up once more in the early morning light that filtered lopsidedly on to the throng in the courtyard, rippling over mountainous panniers and the shoulders of intent grooms who tightened girths with upward-heaving grunts. Merielle sat in silence on her sturdy cob, a chestnut gelding of Suffolk parentage, whose back was broad enough to feast on. Her inner excitement was well contained. Beneath her figure-hugging brown woollen gown she wore soft leather breeches to prevent her legs from chafing on the saddle over the next four or five days, but this was her only concession to practicality. She had no intention of being mistaken for a party of rustics: that was not the best way to secure the best beds at inns and guesthouses or the best hospitality at an abbey.

With this firmly in mind, she wore her hair in an intricate and beguiling coronet of thick plaits coiled around her face and crown, each plait braided and interwoven with golden cords. From the lower edges of this, a pure white linen veil covered her throat and shoulders and this, with her remarkable peach-velvet skin, made a harmony of tones enough to make even the rough stable-lads gasp and nudge each other.

Nor was her retinue likely to be ignored. Two sumpter-mules were loaded with her personal possessions and those of Allene and Bess, and two pack-horses carried provisions and food for the journey in wickerwork panniers, their matching harness of green-dyed leather and merrily tinkling bells on their bridles showing them to belong to a person of some standing. The same green and gold livery was worn by the two young grooms, Daniel and Pedro, local lads who would have done anything their mistress asked without blinking an eye.

For Allene, not even the too-few hours of sleep of last night could diminish the heady prospect of herding five adults and nine horses all the way to Winchester and back. She called Bess away from the corner where a young house-servant held her captive. “Come on, my lass!” Every female was a lass to Allene. “If your lad wants a job, get him to lift you up into the saddle. It’s time we were off.”

“We’ll set off without them if they’re not here soon,” Merielle called to her. “You’d better mount as well. Pedro, give Mistress Allene a hand.”

Master Bonard laid a hand on the chestnut’s mane, pushing a wiry blond lock over the crest and flicking the green ribbons that cluttered each side of the brow-band. Bells tinkled along the rein-guards. “Give them a moment more,” he said. “You requested their company. You can hardly set off before they—” A shout echoed through the archway that led from the courtyard into the street.

“That’ll be the market traders coming in,” Merielle said to him.

Bonard stepped forward to peer through. “It’s them,” he said, leading Merielle on and passing Allene who hit the saddle with an audible squeak, despite Pedro’s assistance. Her Irish grey rolled its eyes in alarm.

On the Palace Street side of the archway, a party of almost forty riders had come to an untidy halt, filling every available space until one of Merielle’s neighbours opened his door to find a horse in the act of depositing steaming manure on his doorstep. From behind the towering rump, he yelled, “Get over to one side, will you? Clear the way for Canterbury citizens, dammit!”

Realising that she was the cause of the obstruction, Merielle clasped Bonard’s hand in a hurried farewell, took up her reins and moved out into the street, approaching two expressionless nuns, one on either side of a young woman, guarding her closely. Before she could reach them, she was intercepted by a young rider dressed in sober charcoal grey whose pleasant smile and shining tonsure held more of a welcome.

He beamed even more broadly. “Mistress St Martin? Forgive our delay, if you please. Our prayers took longer than we thought.”

A voice joined in with a lilting Scandinavian accent. “Longer because you chimed in, lad. Should’ve left it to the abbot.”

His smile bunched his apple cheeks. “And who’ll be the first person you turn to when there’s a problem, eh?” he countered, winking at Merielle.

“The smith, that’s who,” another voice called to a chorus of laughter. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Is the lady ready? How many are ye, mistress? Just you and the two gentlewomen, is it? Good God!”

Another roar of laughter went up as the three women were joined by Daniel and Pedro leading two horses each and pouring out through the archway like water from a burst pipe. Shouts of raillery rose above the din. “Thought you’d got her to yourself did you, chaplain? Out of your depth already, lad.”

Still smiling, the chaplain hauled upon his reins, confusing his mount and backing it rapidly into the others until, by a deluge of slaps on its haunches, it headed in the right direction accompanied by the wail of bagpipes, drums, and the barely heard sound of the St Martin bells.

All along the Saturday streets of early-morning Canterbury, the jests continued, threading their way through the din that cleared a path past heavily laden traders coming into town. It was market day. The Westgate had just opened to the predictable bottleneck of travellers coming in both directions, testing everyone’s patience in the jostling to present passes, tokens and excuses.

Merielle’s company of nine horses came in for some serious teasing from the men who vied with each other to make the most ridiculous suggestions about what she could possibly be carrying. Running off to meet a lover, was she? No, the lovers would be in the panniers. Merielle smiled and said nothing, not even to Allene’s tolerant grumbles, but their wait at the Westgate gave her a chance to study the nearest fellow-travellers and to realise that the two elderly nuns and the young lady did not join in the laughter nor did they communicate with anyone, not even with each other.