Sarum (93 page)
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
Jocelin shrugged scornfully. London was a formidable, perhaps decisive power; but he was a knight, not a mere merchant, and he was concerned with defending a principle which, now that it had been challenged, he knew was all-important.
“You are fighting divine authority,” he stated, and staring with eyes full of both sorrow and anger, he addressed Hugh in French. “I order you to submit, or you will no longer be my son.” Then he rode away.
It was while he witnessed this quarrel between Jocelin and his only son, that Peter Shockley, whose opinion had not been asked, understood finally where he stood. For although he had missed many of the philosophical points, his pragmatic mind, moving instinctively, had grasped the essential issue that lay beneath the high-flown argument. “It makes no difference to us whether the king rules or his council.” he remarked to his father afterwards. “We need peace and low taxes for the fulling mill. And,” he added ominously, “we must see that we get them.”
Within a week, there was no one in Sarum who did not know about the quarrel between Jocelin de Godefroi and his heir. They no longer lived under the same roof. Though his baby son remained at the manor house in the care of his father’s women, Hugh moved into a house in the new city where he lived quietly, but in open defiance of his father’s wishes.
Hugh was not alone. There were many voices of discontent raised in Sarum now and in February a new and larger contingent of the king’s troops arrived in the castle. The message was clear: the town remained relatively quiet and even Hugh found it necessary to conduct himself carefully. Nonetheless, in the coming weeks he disappeared twice on visits to destinations that could only be guessed at.
The months of February and March also brought fresh rumours. London was in an uproar and had declared for Simon. Montfort himself had broken his leg in an accident at the start of the year – there were rumours that he was dying, others that he was already on the move. Prince Edward was sweeping across the country with his friends from the border castles of Wales: early in April he and his father took the castle at Northampton. And now news came that Simon de Montfort was definitely in the field.
Despite these political events, the business at the fulling mill continued to thrive and at the end of March Peter began to consider enlarging the mill with a new extension. Accordingly, at Jocelin’s request, Osmund the Mason paid several visits to the mill to advise on the construction.
It was one morning in mid-April, as Peter and Osmund came out of the mill after one of these discussions, that they saw Hugh de Godefroi approaching. He was riding the magnificent black charger which had borne him so many times to triumph in the lists. Behind him he led two other horses, one of which was a second charger, the other a packhorse carrying his equipment: the great suit of chain mail, that stretched from his neck to his feet, his shield with the swan on its red ground, his sword and lances, and the great helm – the solid metal head cover fashionable at the time that resembled an upturned saucepan with two slits for the eyes. Over his leather tunic, Hugh was wearing a red cloak bearing the white cross of the crusader.
“Where’s my father?” he asked.
In the two months since Hugh had left, the old knight had resumed control of the estate and, to distract his thoughts from the quarrel with his son, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the business. He had visited the mill every two days and Peter, though the older man never asked him, had always mentioned the fact if he had seen Hugh in the city and given Jocelin a report of him, as though he did not know of the quarrel between them. Few people at Sarum would have dared to do such a thing, but Peter suspected that the knight’s regular visits to the mill were not unconnected.
“Should be by shortly,” he answered.
The three men waited in silence. All knew what this visit meant. And it was not long before Jocelin came into sight.
He was erect as ever. From a distance he might have been a young man. He seemed for a moment to hesitate, but then walked his horse straight towards them; as he came up, his eyes seemed very bright and very hard. Father and son faced each other. Jocelin’s eyes fixed on his son’s cloak.
“Do you have the right to wear that cross, monsieur?”
Hugh inclined his head.
“Oui, monsieur. The Bishop of Worcester and three other bishops have given us the right.” That several bishops should recently have decided that his rebellion ranked as a holy war was a great coup for Simon de Montfort. “I have come to ask for your blessing,” Hugh continued.
The older man nodded curtly. He need not refuse what a bishop had already granted. He dismounted and Hugh did the same.
Without a word, Hugh knelt on the ground in front of the mill. Gently Jocelin removed from his own neck the little chain on which the badge from the shrine of St Thomas à Becket at Canterbury hung. Silently he placed it over the head of his son.
“I do not agree with your quarrel, but go with my blessing all the same,” he said gruffly.
Hugh got up. It was curious to see the two men, Peter thought, the one so perfect a replica of the other. The reconciliation made, both men looked relieved. Hugh looked down at the little badge and touched it affectionately.
“I understand, monsieur, that your journey takes you towards the shrine of this saint,” his father said wryly. “Perhaps you could kindly bring me another badge.” It was a courtly jest, that Hugh smiled at: for it was well known that the forces of Montfort were gathering in Kent, on the Canterbury road.
“Certainly, monsieur,” he replied gracefully. “We hope to be only briefly detained on the way.”
No one spoke as he rode away; and as soon as he was out of sight, Jocelin too, having forgotten his business at the mill, mounted his horse and rode up towards the high ground. From up there, Peter suspected, the knight might catch another glimpse of Hugh as he took the road towards the east.
But neither the Godefrois, Shockley or the mason realised that there had been two other witnesses to the scene. William atte Brigge and his son John, a dark, sharp-eyed boy of seventeen, had come from behind the mill, unnoticed, just as the two Godefrois had dismounted. Hanging back by the corner of the building where they would not be seen, they had watched carefully as Hugh received his blessing. William had looked thoughtful: one never knew the value of information, but he sensed that what he had witnessed was important.
“Remember that,” he said quietly to his son. “It might come in useful one day.”
The battle of Lewes took place on May 14, 1264.
The town of Lewes lay near the coast, some sixty miles west of the Dover Straits and immediately below the high chalk ridge of the South Downs. It was a small place – about the size of Wilton – and it boasted a small castle and an ancient priory belonging to the monks of Cluny.
The forces of King Henry and his son Edward were camped beside the town when, after dawn, they saw the army of Simon de Montfort in battle line upon the chalk ridge above, with the Londoners on the left wing. The night before, Simon’s army had been given absolution by the Bishop of Worcester. They wore crusader crosses on their breasts.
The battle was brief. Prince Edward attacked up the hill, cut the Londoners off from the rest of Simon’s force, and managed to drive them into some nearby marshes through which he pursued them for several hours. When he returned to the battleground, however, he found that his own victory had been a side issue and that in the meantime Montfort had completely routed the rest of the army. The king and his brother were prisoners, and the battle was all over.
There were very few knights killed in the engagement. One, who had valiantly ridden to the aid of the Londoners as he saw them being driven back, was trapped in their flight, toppled accidentally from his horse by men at arms who did not stop to help him, and butchered a few moments later by a group of Prince Edward’s foot soldiers. He was identified afterwards by the white swan on his shield.
On the king’s side, although they lost, the main battle was so brief and decisive that the casualties were not large. Amongst them however was an elderly knight, who should not have been fighting at all, named Geoffrey de Whiteheath.
It was in June that Alicia quietly returned to the house in Castle Street. It astonished her to realise that she had not been to Sarum for twenty years.
Outwardly she had changed very little: only the little lines around her eyes, which were not unattractive, suggested her age. Her hair still had no streaks of grey. As for her inner feelings – she was not sure herself.
She had not been unhappy. She had given Geoffrey de Whiteheath a child a year after their marriage, but it had been a girl, and for some reason, though she had tried, there had been no son to follow. Geoffrey had slipped into old age without the son he had married her for and she had watched his broad, handsome face gradually sink in upon itself and gather lines of age and sadness he could not conceal. Their daughter had been married the year before and after this he had been left alone with a wife who had failed him and a fine estate which no longer brought him joy.
When – though he had difficulty in clambering into his chain mail – he insisted on going to join King Henry, she knew what was in his mind and did not try to stop him. And when he bade her a loving and courteous goodbye, she had been glad to see the eager look on his old face as he rode off to his final battle, from which, she was well aware, he had no intention of returning.
The estate had passed to his brother; she was left with comfortable means, and she had left Winchester without regrets.
But what next?
“I’m neither young nor old,” she thought as she approached the growing city of her childhood.
She found it fuller than it had been before. The half-empty chequers in the northern part of the new town were now almost all built over. People had been drawn to the thriving market town from all over the southern half of the island – from Bristol, London, Norwich, and even further afield: it was teeming.
And above its roofs now rose the long grey line of the nearly completed cathedral.
Her father had died five years before and her brother Walter had succeeded him. She spent three pleasant days in her brother’s house. She inspected the cathedral and marvelled at its long, clean lines. She paid a visit of respect to her uncle Portehors, who was now very frail, but who insisted on stiffly walking beside her to show her the completed watercourses in the streets; but she saw few other faces that she knew.
It was on the third evening of her visit, when they were alone together, that her brother broached the subject that was on his mind. He was like her father, she thought, except that he had developed a fulsome, pompous manner, where Alan Le Portier had always been caustic and dry.
“Have you considered the prospect of making a new alliance?” he asked.
She smiled.
“Marriage you mean? I suppose so?”
He smiled with self-satisfaction. “I’ve a candidate. A fine catch.” He blew out his cheeks complacently.
“Really? Already?” She could not help laughing. “Who?”
“A knight with a splendid estate.” He paused for effect. “Jocelin de Godefroi. He is most interested.”
For Jocelin de Godefroi, at the age of fifty-seven, had emerged from his grief at the loss of his son to the realisation that he must begin his life again – not for himself, but for his little grandson.
“The boy’s three,” he considered as he looked at the child his son had left behind. “If I can live seventeen years, he’ll be twenty. Just about able to fend for himself.” But could he do it? In seventeen years he would be seventy-four, and few men reached such an age at that time. He still had his health though: he must try. But as he gazed at the child, he knew something else was missing. “The child needs a mother and this place needs a woman,” he decided. “I must find a wife.”
And so he allowed the fact to be known and waited to see what happened. It was not long before Le Portier approached him.
The idea of the Le Portier girl attracted him – not a noble family admittedly, but respectable enough; besides, she’d been the wife of Geoffrey de Whiteheath for twenty years and she knew about managing an estate. And she was only thirty-six. As he thought about it, for the first time in many weeks his face broke into a smile.
Perhaps he could give her a child! He certainly felt capable of it.
“I’ve two estates after all,” he considered. “I could leave one to my grandson Roger and the other to the child, if it’s a boy.” And so he sent for Walter and told him: “Bring her here to take a look at me.” And he made preparations.
Alicia was standing at the corner of the market place, by Blue Boar Row, when Peter Shockley saw her. He stood quite still, staring at her, hardly able to believe that it was she. He had been out at the Shockley farm where his father now liked to spend the summer and had not been in the city for several days. He had known nothing about either the death of her husband or her own return. In a few long strides, he was in front of her.
“You have not changed.” He smiled down at her.
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