April Munday (3 page)

From the moment the ship had been sighted the castle was in turmoil. At first Rosamunde tried to impose her own sense of calm, but gave up in favour of some semblance of order. Servants were despatched to clean and cook and to make beds ready. Ladies, eager for news of their husbands, refused to sit and sew, but found excuses to pass by windows that overlooked the river. Rosamunde was tempted, but looking would not make the ship arrive any sooner.

When she had been told that the ship had docked she went into the hall to be ready to greet whoever might arrive. She was stretched to breaking point with anticipation.

She was attended by her women and Sir Guy, the young knight her father had left in charge of the castle’s defences. All were eager to see who might arrive.

Two men entered the hall and bowed low. There was a sigh of relief behind her and Rosamunde saw Thomas find his wife’s face in the group of women with a smile.

The two men walked towards her, the stranger limping badly. They were both very wet from the rain and very much alone. Rosamunde knew she would not be seeing her father or her husband today. She tried not to let the disappointment show on her face. She dared not let herself think about why they had not returned with Thomas.

“Sir Thomas, I am happy to see you safely returned from France.”

“I am very happy to be home, my lady.” He turned towards the stranger and Rosamunde took a closer look at him. He was tall, much taller than Sir Thomas. His dark hair fell heavily onto his shoulders and his face was hidden by a beard. Both hair and beard were untidy. His broad shoulders and narrow waist told her that he was a knight and his pallor indicated that he had not had a good trip from France. His whole body looked sick and tired. It was only in his eyes that she saw any spark of life. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were wary.

“This is Sir Richard de Charimaux, your father’s prisoner.” Thomas had pronounced the name in the French way, but when Rosamunde repeated it she said it in the English way.

“Sir Richard, you are welcome. I assume you are here because there is no ransom for you.” She could not hold back the sigh that escaped her lips.  Her father would not have sent him here if there had been any hope of a ransom. This must be some penniless noble or a third or fourth son. His family would not, or could not ransom him and he had no wealth of his own. Twenty years of war had depleted her father’s fortune and the Big Death had almost destroyed what was left. Simon had pinned their hopes on capturing a French noble whose ransom would keep them for the rest of their lives. The money her father had sent back had already been spent, as he had directed, on repairs to the castle. Simon had made little from the war as yet. But she doubted that a war that had gone on for twenty years would end with one battle, however badly it had gone for the French. He probably had plenty of time to make their fortune.

Richard smiled without humour. “You are correct, Lady Rosamunde.” He was older than she had thought at first, perhaps thirty. His hair and beard were untouched by grey and she had assumed that he was not much older than her own seventeen years.

She noted that it was a pleasant voice, pitched low and catching the listener’s attention. She thought that he was probably an attractive man when he was well-fed and not recovering from a journey that had obviously not agreed with him. It amused her to think that the French of whom they were all so afraid could not even cross the British Sea without being ill. She and her brother, Henry, had gained their sea legs as children and she had always assumed that the mighty French were also hardened sailors. She succeeded in keeping the smile that threatened from her face; she still did not know why her father and Henry and Simon were not here.

“So, my father expects me to get some value from you here.” She did not want to be bothered with this man. She wanted to see Simon. She wanted her father and Henry. A prisoner was of no interest to her. He was a cripple and he did not speak good English. She had to speak slowly to be sure that he understood her and his responses were hesitant. She could not imagine what he might do to work off his ransom.

“I believe it to be so.” Richard inclined his head and Rosamunde knew that he was mocking her. What value was there to be had from a crippled knight?

“Do you read and write?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“English?”

Richard frowned and so did Rosamunde. He shook his head and she sighed again. A crippled knight who could not read or write and would not be ransomed had no value. He would cost them more than they could make from him. Why, then, had her father sent him to her? She looked at Thomas, who cleared his throat loudly.

“Your father sent letters.”

At last. Now she would know what her father intended her to do and why he had not returned.

Rosamunde motioned him forward and he handed her a waterproofed pouch. She smiled, but Thomas did not return it. Now she began to worry about what she would read in the letters. Perhaps her father was wounded, yet he had lived when Thomas had left Bordeaux. He smiled too much for a man who had lost his lord. Henry, then, surely Henry was dead. She was overcome by a sense of dread and she knew, when Thomas caught her arm, that she had almost swooned away. She shook herself. She had run her father’s estates and castle alone for more than a year; she was no child to be taken so by fear.

The pouch contained many letters. The ones sealed with her father’s seal were for her. Many were for the women, letters from their husbands or sons. Rosamunde pulled out the one that was on top of the pile. She broke the seal and read the beginning of the letter.

“My dearest daughter, it is with great sadness that I must tell you that your betrothed husband, Simon de Purlieu is dead…”

Rosamunde could read no more. Her eyes filled with tears and her hands began to shake. Thomas took the letter from her and Margaret came to stand beside her, putting an arm around her waist.

Simon was dead. Her bright and laughing husband was no more and he had taken her hopes and dreams for the future with him. Rosamunde did not allow the tears to fall and instead looked at Sir Thomas. His face was full of sympathy. She was aware once more of Margaret at her side. She wanted nothing more than to run from the room and find somewhere to cry. She handed the pouch back to Thomas. “Please make sure that these are distributed correctly. And send a messenger to Sir Simon’s father in the morning.”

Thomas put his hand on the bag, but she hesitated. “I trust there is no further bad news from France.” She gripped Margaret’s hand, afraid that she had been wrong and that her father and Henry were dead.

“No,” said Thomas quickly. “Your father and Henry are well. They could not leave immediately, there was so much to be done.”

”How many men did we lose?” she asked quietly, remembering her duties as her father’s daughter.

“Two from here. Twenty in all from your father’s properties.” He stepped closer so that no one could overhear him say their names to her. One of them was an archer from the town and Rosamunde knew that it would fall to her to tell the family, for there would be no letter for them from her father. The other widow was a girl, the daughter of a friend of her father’s who had died in the Big Death. She and her husband had been married shortly before he had set off for France and their four-month old baby now lay asleep upstairs. Rosamunde let go of the bag. “Come, Margaret,” she said, “We have work to do,” and putting her own grief to one side for the moment, Rosamunde set off to bring what comfort she could to her father’s people.

Richard stared after the departing women. He did not know what he had expected, but it had not been this. He had not thought that they might be bringing bad news from France, but if Lady Rosamunde’s father and brother were well, it must surely be the death of her husband that she grieved so quietly.

She was a striking woman, taller than all of the other women and a few of the men clustered around her in the hall.  He had been impressed by her calm when she had received the bad news. She had not screamed or fainted, but stood quietly, the only signs of her distress a whitening of her knuckles as she clutched the parchment more tightly and the sudden brightness in her eyes that was quickly blinked away. She was not a woman whose feelings would be shown in public he guessed. She had needed the support of her friend, but she had not given in to her grief. She was a strong woman; she must be for she had looked after the estate for a year in her father’s stead.

She was beautiful, with a low, quiet voice and he knew that many men would want her for her looks alone. She was slender with a well-proportioned body. For most men her height must detract from her beauty, but Richard thought it added to it. He recognised that this was because he was tall himself. Even standing awkwardly to compensate for his leg he was taller than every man in this hall.

Lady Rosamunde dressed demurely, so her neck and wrists were hidden, but her hands were well-cared for. Her mouth was full and her nose straight with a becoming turn at the end. Her eyes were a deep blue that betrayed her Norman descent. Her hair was hidden under her modest veil, but if her colouring were any indication, it would be a deep chestnut. When she was happy no man would be able to look anywhere else, for she must draw all eyes to her.

But beauty was meaningless to Richard. It was deceptive and it could turn men into fools. Richard had been a fool once because of a beautiful woman, but now he was cured and he would not go that way again.

He would not be trapped and caught by Rosamunde, nor by any of her ladies. He already knew they could not have what he was looking for; they were English.

He felt the women’s eyes on him and for once he did not have to hide his displeasure. He was a prisoner here and no one would expect him to look happy about it.

Now that Rosamunde had gone, however, the room seemed empty. Despite himself, he looked forward to their next encounter.

He had enjoyed the way she had spoken his name. On the ship he had assumed at first that the sailors had pronounced it in the English way to insult him, although he had quickly learned that they simply could not pronounce it any other way. He guessed that Rosamunde could have used the French pronunciation quite easily had she chosen to do so. Now he took a perverse pleasure in the insult.

He looked round the hall, ignoring the stares of the curious. Most of the women were clustered around Thomas waiting to see if there was some message from their husbands or sons, but all of the men watched him. Despite its outward appearance, the inside of the castle was bright and cheerful. Colourful tapestries hung from the walls. The people were brightly, but modestly dressed. Despite the excitement, there was order. No one pushed or shoved or raised a voice. This was a well-ordered household, despite its lord’s absence. Once again he was impressed by Rosamunde. Many women would not be able to retain such control for so long. Eventually the pouch was empty save for the few letters for Rosamunde and Thomas turned his attention back to Richard.

“Lady Rosamunde will give orders concerning your lodging when she returns,” he said. “But for now I think we should wash and change our clothes. And then I will show you the castle. You will need to learn quickly where everything is.”

Richard did not understand the need for urgency, although he could tell from the number of men in the hall that the men who had come with them from France would be needed should there be trouble and the duke was certainly expecting something to happen. He had sent as many of his soldiers as he could fit onto one ship back with Thomas. Richard could not think that they would want to do anything but celebrate their return and get used to being at home again. Taking very little time to wash and change Thomas led Richard through the castle. Richard found it bewildering. Like the protective walls, the interior seemed to have grown. Thomas explained that, unlike the castle of Richard’s father, Corchester Castle had been added to over the years. Most of the original walls had been retained, but building techniques had changed and the new did not match the old.

Richard’s grandfather had razed his own castle to the ground and built a new one. It was beautiful and orderly and light. The Duke of Winton’s castle was like a maze, built in different styles and full of dark corners. It did not please Richard at all. He did not think it could be to anyone’s taste.

By the time they returned to the hall, having been over all the castle, Richard was exhausted. His limp was more pronounced and he had occasionally had to resort to taking Thomas’ arm. Richard was irritated at having to show such weakness. Even on the ship he had not needed help. He could stagger from place to place and there was always the pretence that it was the motion of the ship. Thomas said nothing, but Richard felt his pity. A cripple was not a whole man and a crippled prisoner was less than nothing.

The young man he had seen earlier met them as they entered the hall. He did not seem pleased to see Thomas, but then he smiled and clasped him warmly by the hand. “Thomas, I am glad you have returned safely. Welcome home.”

“It’s good to see you, Guy,” responded Thomas. He turned to Richard, “This is Sir Guy. The duke left him in charge when we went to France.”

Now Richard understood. The young man had been left to defend the castle in case of invasion, which had not happened and he could have no share in the glory of those of his friends who had fought at Poitiers. Now that Thomas had returned Richard assumed that he would take charge of the castle and Guy’s next words confirmed this. “Do you wish to take a tour of the defences now?” he asked Thomas.

“No, we will do that in the morning. I am sure that everything is in good order. The duke did not put you in charge of his castle because he thought you would let him down.” Guy’s happy, but brief, smile acknowledged the compliment.

“So, this is the duke’s prisoner.” Guy looked Richard up and down as if he did not like what he saw. Richard knew he must make a sorry sight. He was vain, his mother had chastised him for it often, but he did not want to be less than his best in front of these Englishmen. He should at least have found a way to trim his hair and beard before leaving the ship. Now he would have to feign indifference to his appearance. He knew the pain in his leg must show on his face. It was also making him short-tempered, but he did not want to respond to the man’s deliberate insolence. He was a prisoner and would probably be here many years, if not for the rest of his life and it would not do to make an enemy of one of the duke’s most trusted men on his arrival.