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  To Sleep No More

  Deryn Lake

  Copyright © Deryn Lake 1987

  The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1987 by Michael Joseph Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For Mollie and Michael, June and Dicky, Maureen and Chris, Amanda, Charles and Peter Jeffrey, without any one of whom this book would not have been possible.

  And for Geoffrey Glassborow, Erika Lock and Shirley Russell for always being there.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue — The Legend

  Part One — The Stone Palace

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Part Two — The Magic Valley

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Part Three — The Midnight Maze

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  I should like to thank all the people of Mayfield who went to such enormous trouble to help me with this book by opening their houses, showing me their cellars, climbing into tunnels, walking smugglers’ roads and poring over maps. They are the unsung heroes. Particular thanks must go, however, to Viscount Hampden of Glynde, Gillian Bramley of Great Bainden, Isabel Pike of the Baker family and Deborah Richardson-Hill for the enthusiasm they showed in assisting my research.

  To die: to sleep;

  No more; and, by a sleep to say we end

  The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

  That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation

  Devoutly to be wished.

  Hamlet

  Prologue — The Legend

  A sealskin twilight and nothing moving in the stark winter valley but a solitary figure, grey-clad, making its way barefoot across the snow. Nothing breathing, nothing stirring, the only signs of life the blood trickling from the woman’s feet and a curling wisp of smoke hanging above a low dark building set at the forest’s edge. Yet, though dusk outside, through the open door of the place came a glow red as the drops falling like rubies on ice, and the shadow of a blacksmith bending over his furnace was that of a giant, thrown on to the winter landscape by the light behind him.

  In the brightness the smith did not see the woman come to stand in the doorway and watch him, nor did he see her fall like a broken flower to the forge’s harsh earth floor; but he turned as she called out, ‘If you do not help me I shall die,’ and hurried to raise the fragile body in his arms.

  Her hood fell back as he moved her and he found that he was looking into the face of beauty, and both gasped and shuddered. He who had risen so high in God’s service and had ruthlessly trampled down the longings and needs which beset all mortal men, was frightened to be in such proximity.

  ‘Help me,’ she cried again and he raised a pitcher of water to her lips and watched her drink.

  He felt life return to her, saw her sit up and say, ‘What place is this?’

  The smith hesitated for he did not want her to know his secret. ‘This is my forge in the forest of Byvelham, Lady.’

  ‘And you are a blacksmith? Just that? Nothing more?’

  ‘I am also a servant of God.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Is Dunstan, Lady.’

  She smiled at that and the smith saw black lashes and mistletoe skin and eyes clear and pure as fresh water. Dark memories stirred within him; of forbidden love when he had been a noviciate, of his role as kingmaker rather than churchman, of strange thoughts and dreams and desires which had tormented him all his adult life.

  Staring at the darkness outside, Dunstan felt a bleak mood come upon him. He seemed to see his life as adviser to the Saxon kings as one of self-gratification not service; believed that the son of Edmund the Magnificent had been right when he had labelled Dunstan magician and sorcerer; felt that the boy King Edgar had been misdirected to disagree and reward Dunstan of Glastonbury with the See of Canterbury itself.

  Beside him the woman groaned and the smith, who was in truth archbishop of all England, saw that a pool of blood had formed at her feet. Going outside to fetch more water he realised that it had started to snow again, the flakes coming down so fast that he and the stranger seemed cut off from the world in the hidden forge on the edge of Sussex’s great forest.

  At that Dunstan was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. For the woman who lay on the earth floor — so fragile, so harmless — was utterly dangerous to him. As the archbishop began to bathe her tattered feet he knew that he must not look at her, must not cast his eyes on that perfect face if he were to stay sane.

  She knew it, of course, because she said, ‘Why do you avert your glance? Gaze at me, Dunstan.’

  It was a command, said darkly so that he must obey. He looked up and saw that her eyes were cool, clear lakes in the depths of which a snake had suddenly uncoiled and raised its head. He no longer had free will, the archbishop was a boy to be initiated. He bent forward and kissed her and tasted passion; sweet as blood, red as wine.

  ‘I am yours,’ he said. ‘Do with me what you will.’

  She laughed and his eyes feasted on the curve of her snowdrop throat.

  ‘Then I claim you as mine for ever.’

  As he bent his lips to hers again, Dunstan looked down and just for a second saw clearly. Gone were the woman’s poor torn feet and in their place he glimpsed scales, horn, unspeakable nails. He knew then that he was in the presence of the darkest power of all.

  A moment of madness came. A moment in which he wanted to fling himself down and love her and give her his body and his soul in one vast ecstasy that would make damnation something to be eternally longed for. And then it was over and the archbishop was once again God’s pawn, a man who must act out his destiny.

  Reaching behind him, Dunstan’s hand closed upon his iron tongs, lying red-hot in the depths of the furnace. He pulled them out and thrust them hard and furiously into that exquisite face. He smelt burning skin and heard a scream turn to a shriek as Satan lurched to her feet in agony.

  ‘Be damned to you,’ she said. ‘I will fight you and your kind till the end of time. You can corrupt my beauty but never my power.’

  Too afraid to look at the destruction of such a perfect thing, Dunstan collapsed into a corner, his hands covering his eyes, and did not move until quietness throbbed in his ears like the roll of waves. The forge was empty. Where the woman had been there was now nothing but a single unmelting snowflake.

  Moving very slowly, like a man come suddenly to old age, Dunstan began to pack up his things. The
fire was doused, the tongs that had disfigured the Devil were plunged, hissing, into a wooden bucket. Then, fearfully, the smith stepped out into the darkness, mounted his horse and rode off solitary into the silent white world which lay before him. And all the time one question repeated itself again and again in his thoughts, ‘Why should I have been the one to violate perfection? Is such a reward not a punishment?’

  Knowing that the answer would never be revealed, the Archbishop of Canterbury headed through the valley of Byvelham to the hamlet of Magavelda, where lay his church and hall, and where he might, on his knees, ask God for guidance in the savage hours beyond midnight.

  Part One — The Stone Palace

  One

  That evening the sun set like blood, turning the waters of the moat into wine, and tinting the cob and pen who dwelt thereon to birds of fantasy, pink of wing and purple of eye. To the west the sky took on a rich and royal glow, reflecting the mighty blaze of crimson as it vanished beneath a sweep of indigo. The bitter winter day of 1333 was ending in triumph.

  ‘Tomorrow will be fine again,’ said John Waleis from the window.

  The figure which sat hunched over the chessboard, its chin cupped in its hand, did not reply.

  ‘Fine and bright — a day for hunting the winter fox. Will you come with me, Robert?’

  In the dusk of the hall the chess-player smiled and drew nearer to the hearth which glowed in the middle of the chamber, his dark green robe brushing the floor as he moved. His shoes of soft brown leather, a design like a wheel upon the front, were held up towards the fire as he said, ‘No, not I. I’ll stay here and rest my bones. You may challenge the elements, John. I would rather keep myself warm.’

  Still without turning his companion answered, ‘You are getting soft. There was a time when you would hunt and carouse all night and think nothing of it.’

  ‘Time passes, my friend. Remember I have become a king’s man since then. Old wild ways are best left for you.’

  ‘I never thought to hear Robert of Sharndene speak defeatist words.’

  ‘No? Why? It is your name not mine that is linked with boldness. Wicked Waleis! You had earned that nickname before you were fifteen.’

  John turned with a laugh, his silhouette looming dark behind him.

  ‘Mad blood, Robert. That is my heritage.’

  ‘So you say — often! Now sit down. I am anxious to finish this game. My thoughts are already on tomorrow and I am bored with chess-play.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Don’t blank your face at me, Waleis. You know perfectly well what I mean. The archbishop’s arrival and banquet.’

  There was a pause during which the two men stared at one another appraisingly. Just for a second they looked very alike although they were, in fact, dissimilar to an amazing degree, John Waleis being dark and well made — a barrel-chested man with quick, bright eyes the colour of ale, and black hair which rippled to his shoulders, and Robert of Sharndene being small and light, brown of hair and skin, yet with eyes grey as a frosty October. They spoke Norman-French, as did all those born to high degree, but now they lapsed into the language of the race conquered by their forebears.

  In English John said, ‘Christ’s body, Robert, but you’re growing pompous. It is too much high office. Bailiff of the Liberty of the Archbishop, Steward of Battle Abbey. If you’re not careful you will end up black-tongued from licking boots — and other things not as low.’

  Robert smiled, the left hand side of his mouth twitching up, the rest of it remaining still.

  ‘Quite probably. But if you take my advice — for all the fact your family has cocked a snoot at Canterbury these many years past — you will watch your tread with the new archbishop. He’s no lily boy in a pretty robe.’

  ‘No.’ John Waleis’s face was dark, unreadable, as he watched his host throw another log, still specked with traces of snow, on to the spluttering fire. ‘No, I believe you’re right. I hear he models himself on Becket.’

  ‘He feels an affinity with him, yes.’

  John’s great white teeth flashed in a smile and his gusty laugh, booming as a bear’s, rang out.

  ‘Then I hope for his sake that he does not end the same way.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. But don’t underestimate John of Stratford. He is a kingmaker. Edward will always owe his crown to him.’

  They sat in silence, staring into the fire, but seeing instead the long-haired warrior king — the third in England after the Conquest to bear the name Edward — and the terrible events, in which Stratford had played a leading part, and which had led the forceful boy to ascend the throne at fourteen years of age. Eventually John said, ‘The King has finally rewarded his liege man with the primacy. Perhaps now he feels he has paid him back in full measure.’

  Robert of Sharndene smiled his crooked smile. ‘The King inherited in guilt. He will never forget that as long as he lives.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said John roundly. ‘He has forgotten already.’

  Robert would have retorted, loving these arguments. All his adult life he and his rumbustious neighbour — younger than he but as clever — had been debating with skill and wit the topics of the day. But now he was not to be indulged, for a voice from the back of the hall said, ‘Sirs, we are summoned to dine,’ and Alice Waleis stepped forward into the light of the fire.

  Small in stature with a slanting elflike face, Alice was in every way a match for her boisterous husband who expansively called ‘Coming wild heart,’ picking up Alice’s fingers and brushing them with his lips. At the same time as he did this, his free hand shot out and fondled her buttocks, but she, her face expressionless, merely slapped him away as if he were an offending fly. She addressed herself to Robert.

  ‘You will not think it rude if we depart immediately after dining? The truth is I dread these bleak nights. And tomorrow when I attend the archbishop I would like a fair face.’

  Her host smiled, leaning back in his chair. He had always had more than a sneaking regard for Alice, liking the way her nose turned up at the end and her lips curled easily into a smile.

  ‘You are always fair of face,’ he said.

  ‘If only that were so.’

  Still without a flicker she knocked John’s hand away again and then turned to the far end of the hall, where a great table stood on a raised dais. There, watching the bustling servants stood Margaret of Sharndene, frowning a little, and beckoning her husband to come and take his place at the head. Alice turned back to her host.

  ‘You have spent too long at chess. I think Margaret is annoyed.’

  He stood up, giving a comical sigh.

  ‘She is never otherwise these days. She is poised between middle age and old, and has all the ills and heats and tempers to go with it.’

  And truly as Alice drew nearer she could see that the face of her neighbour and closest woman friend was flushed and red, her mouth drawn down at the corners in a testy way. John, swarming up behind like a spring breeze would have none of it. He cheerfully raised Margaret’s hand to his lips, allowing his tongue to wander in and out of her fingers.

  ‘You are Eve’s serpent, Margaret,’ he said. ‘When you are furious your eyes shine and you look twenty again.’

  She glared at him but then relented. John Waleis, for all he was forty and gaining weight, held an irresistible charm for the opposite sex. Cajoled, she sat down as Alice did likewise, and it was then, with her husband and her guest in their places, that Margaret’s daughter and son, Oriel and Piers, came hurrying in to dine.

  As always, when she looked at them, Margaret felt torn between warring emotions. She knew that she should be grateful for their very lives — for had not seven of the ten children she had borne Robert died at birth or in infancy? But, still, her true affection was for the only other survivor: her first-born, Hamon. Even now, even here, sitting at her dining table amongst her guests, she could remember the sweet sensation of suckling him at her breast. Jesu, but she loved him so much! Great grown ma
n and knight of King Edward that he was.

  ‘... forgive us, Mother?’

  Piers was speaking in that strange, fluting voice of his. She sometimes wondered about him; what he was thinking, who his friends truly were. Often he would take to his horse and be away for several days, returning with an odd look behind his eyes and no explanation for his disappearance. The fact that Robert berated him for such misdemeanours did not seem to worry him at all.

  But it was the sight of Oriel that really caused Margaret’s heart to plummet. It was not easy for a woman who had been considered plain from the cradle to give birth to beauty. But she, ugly Margaret of Sharndene, had done just that. Of course, Margaret had always made the best of her appearance, painting her lips and eyes and tinting her face as Queen Eleanor had once taught women to do and they had emulated ever since. And, also, by wearing clothes of fine stuffs and colours and moving her thighs at the sway and trailing her robe, she had done well enough and married Robert of Sharndene — heir to a fine moated manor house — when she had just turned fifteen.

  But Oriel needed to contrive nothing. For some reason — for Robert was merely small and clever and of no particularly handsome feature — Margaret’s daughter had been bestowed with all natural gifts. Hair the colour of silver gilt hung to the waist of a small firm body. Yet if Oriel had been as misshapen as poor Benjamin Button, who ran through Maghefeld with a hump on his back, she would still have turned heads. For she had a lovely face, with eyes bright as forest bluebells, lips the colour of rowan berries, and lashes dark as nightshade.

  Trying to hide the jealousy that caused her such pain, Margaret controlled her face and said, ‘Where have you been? Did you not hear me call?’

  ‘In the solar, looking at the sunset. Oh Mother, did you see it? The moat turned red for a moment or two.’

  ‘No,’ said Margaret huffily. ‘No, I did not. I had other things to do.’

  In the tiny silence that followed John said, ‘I saw it. It was like fire and wine and blood.’