To Sleep No More Read online

  Oriel nodded and gave him a smile and, much to his horror, John felt his heart begin to thump beneath his tunic. He turned his gaze away only to find himself having to steal another glance. This was the first time he had realised the daughter of his friend was not only beautiful but desirable.

  To hide his embarrassment he said, abruptly almost, ‘High time you had a husband, Oriel.’

  Everyone stared. It was not at all the thing to discuss, least of all over the dining table. Marriages were things of dower, land and political gain and of considerable concern to fathers from the moment of a daughter’s birth. In fact it was known that Oriel had been pre-contracted for years already.

  ‘I agree,’ Margaret put in surprisingly. ‘I was married at Oriel’s age and pleased to be so. And a year after that Hamon followed.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Piers in the background. ‘Let us not forget dear Hamon.’

  His mother turned a hostile face to him but, seeing the servants approaching through the screened arches at the far end of the hall, bearing wooden platters of food, decided to let the matter go. Piers, on the other hand, was in a mood to be witty and pursued his line, despite a sharp kick from somebody’s remonstrating foot.

  ‘My brother is a brave knight,’ he went on to no one in particular. ‘He has seen action in Scotland and now serves the king at Court. He is a lion of a man in every way. But then, of course, he is very much older than Oriel and myself, being Mother’s first-born son.’

  Alice, detecting at once the underlying tone in Piers’s voice, looked at him sharply from beneath her pointed brows.

  ‘And will you emulate him?’ she asked. ‘Will you fight in Scotland as well?’

  A hand, rather white and wearing an over-large ring, fluttered in her direction, and Piers was about to hold forth when Robert said, ‘No more talk of war, please. Let us enjoy our food,’ and everyone fell silent. Various meats, already cut into slices that they might be better eaten by hand, were served together with a huge pigeon pie — the feet sticking up through the pastry to denote its content. Strips of winter deer, closely packed about with red jelly, were also set down as well as a huge jug of hares.

  By way of changing the subject Robert turned to Alice. ‘Have you met the new archbishop?’

  Her pixie face creased into a smile.

  ‘Robert, do not tease me. How could I when I spend all my life hidden away? Why, I am such a bumpkin that a journey to London is a major event.’

  Robert smiled and said, ‘I think you will like him. He is very — powerful.’

  ‘And godly?’

  ‘Who knows with an archbishop!’

  They laughed and John said, ‘Stop playing court to my wife. Oriel is watching.’

  The girl’s cheeks brightened at his words and Alice Waleis wondered yet again how poor Margaret — with her thick pig nose and heavy lidded eyes — could have borne this nymph. If John had not told her of seeing the newborn babe for himself and tickling it with a bony finger, then she would have taken Oriel to be a changeling.

  As the girl blushed again every head in the hall turned to look at her. In the sudden silence the voice of a rosewood gittern played by a servant suddenly struck up a plaintive tune. Other than that there was no sound at all in the moated manor house of Sharndene.

  *

  Just as the winter sun reached its highest point in the heavens, the party escorting the Archbishop of Canterbury left the close confines of a wood and began to climb the steep slope that lay before them.

  First to leave the shadow of the trees were the mounted knights in jangling chain mail, ready to defend the primate with swords, while behind them followed a medley of tonsured monks dressed in plain brown habits and looking like a moving field of stubble. In the press of all those horsemen it was not easy to see the man whom they sought to protect, yet he rode there quite solitary in the midst of the cavalcade. For John of Stratford — the most powerful man in England, save only the king — was coming to his palace at Maghefeld.

  Clad in a mantle of crimson, his glittering eyes, the colour of rock crystal, seemed to shine in stark contrast, while within the depths of his hood his grey hair, cut short and closely cropped around his head, looked like a silver halo. At fifty-four years old the archbishop was a handsome man, strong-featured, with the hands of an angel and the body of a whip. Yet there could be no doubt that behind his quiet expression seethed a complex being. For Stratford had a wild, dark history which did not bear too close an examination.

  The riders reached the top of the hill and stopped, the escort leader — a massive knight with a scar across both cheeks and the bridge of his nose — trotting back to the archbishop’s side.

  ‘There, my Lord,’ he said. ‘There. That’s the palace of Maghefeld.’

  He pointed a gauntleted hand and Stratford followed the line of his finger. From the high scrub-covered plateau on which they found themselves — as bare and bleak as the roof of the world — they could see for miles, everything stretching out beyond them in a great pattern of woodland, fields, and shining rivers.

  ‘There? To the right?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘It looks very grand. And this wooded valley on our left is, I take it, Byvelham?’

  ‘Aye, my Lord, that’s it. John Waleis’s domain.’

  Stratford remained impassive.

  ‘It has a magic air,’ he said.

  Without changing expression he stared down into a beautiful dale, rich with the colour of woodland and field. The escort leader, watching him, wondered what he was thinking, this crimson-cloaked figure who some said was Thomas à Becket born again. But there was no hint as to what went on behind the light, unblinking eyes and after a while the knight broke the silence.

  ‘If you have seen enough we should be moving on, my Lord. I would like you safely within the palace in the hour.’

  ‘Just one more moment.’

  The primate’s gaze flickered over the valley of Byvelham once again. ‘It is said that somewhere down there St Dunstan had a forge and indulged his hobby of metalwork. Do you know its location?’

  ‘No, my Lord, that has vanished long since.’

  ‘Ah well. There will be little chance of finding it I suppose?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my Lord.’

  The leader crossed the short distance to the front and, raising a hand high above his head, shouted, ‘Forward,’ as the archbishop’s retinue moved off, skirting the valley to their left and plunging downhill and into the woods before they emerged at the village of Maghefeld.

  It had never been quite clear to the See of Canterbury why Dunstan of Glastonbury, the Saxon archbishop and statesman, had chosen to build himself a church, a home and a forge in this most remote of spots. But the fact remained that he had done so. Yet now, nearly three hundred and fifty years after the death of the saint, nothing of the original wooden buildings was left. It had been Archbishop Boniface who had started to build a palace of stone and this effort had been continued by his successors, and completed by Archbishop Reynolds, who, nine years before, in 1324, had overseen the raising of a magnificent great hall. The Archbishop’s Palace had been complete.

  So it was with some excitement that Stratford clattered his horse over the cobblestones and dismounted, swinging himself out of the saddle with a wiryness that only a spare frame could allow.

  The palace soared to a considerable height, the tower at the west end of the hall rising some sixty feet, whilst at the east end the main buildings stood three storeys high. He had an overwhelming impression of Sussex sandstone buttresses, fine windows and delicate arches, feeling a sense of jubilation at the magnificence of the building. And it was in this mood that Stratford first strode into the palace, his heart lifting and his crimson mantle billowing in the late afternoon wind.

  As soon as he was through the door the servants dropped to their knees and the great ring of Canterbury, worn outside the primate’s gloved hand, flashed in the gloom as it was raised to l
ip after lip.

  ‘God’s blessing upon you all,’ he said, making an extravagant sign of the cross.

  ‘And on you, my Lord.’

  Stratford bowed his head and turned to make his way up a broad stone staircase, his flock of monks labouring beneath his baggage. At the top his steward, deferentially leading the way, took him through two rooms, each growing in magnificence, until they reached the most beautiful of them all. Stratford found himself in a great chamber, running from west to east and occupying one entire side of the courtyard round which the palace was built. Through the magnificent west window the sun glowed in a scarlet ball, turning the interior into a blazing paradise.

  John of Stratford could think only of one thing. ‘Did Becket sleep here?’ he asked.

  The steward hesitated.

  ‘It is thought, my Lord, that the room is not quite the same ... But certainly the north wall containing the small chapel and the garderobe is over a hundred years old. It is believed they were there in the time of St Thomas, yes.’

  The archbishop did not reply, a curious frozen quality coming over his face. The servant wondered for a moment if the primate was deaf.

  ‘Will that be all, my Lord?’

  Stratford answered at once. ‘Yes, all for the time being. But Wevere ...’

  ‘Yes, my Lord?’

  ‘Tonight, after dark, when the banquet is at its height, a man will be brought to the kitchen door and given into your care.’ The steward stared blankly.

  ‘A man, my Lord?’

  ‘Yes.’ The archbishop turned away, throwing his gloves and cloak onto the great bed that stood adjacent to the fireplace. With his back turned to the servant, he added, ‘I want you to take care of him and give him his own room in which to sleep. It need only be a small place but it must be for him alone.’

  Wevere coughed into his hand.

  ‘Would it be presumptuous, my Lord, to ask who he is?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stratford wheeled round, his eyes hard as stone. ‘It would. Just treat him with the love and respect you give me. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  The steward bowed before the primate, his mind already full of gossip for the scullions.

  ‘And Wevere ...’

  ‘Yes, my Lord?’

  ‘I do not want this to be mentioned to anyone else. Keep your own counsel and you will not go unrewarded.’

  ‘Certainly my Lord. Will you wish to be informed when the gentleman arrives?’

  ‘Very quietly, yes.’

  The last view the steward had of the archbishop was that of a gaunt figure standing motionless, staring out to where the sun fell below the forest in a mass of black ribbons and ochre fronds. But later that night Stratford was in an entirely different mood when he saw the preparations which had been made for his banquet in the great hall, the food and wine for which had been brought to the palace earlier that day by his tenants, as ancient custom decreed.

  The central brazier was aglow with a mass of wood brought from the forest, the smoke wisping up to the great roof, made of timber and supported by three giant arches, and out through the louvre above. Every twig that burgeoned could be smelt in that wonderful blaze. So much so that the entering guests, used to choking on smoke wherever they went, stopped in the entrance and sniffed the sweet smell of burning logs before they progressed on their way to the dais at the end of the hall where sat the new archbishop, his crimson robe sweeping the floor and the hand bearing his great ring outstretched for all to kiss.

  All this warmth seemed to gleam in the wine already laid upon the table in pitchers of clay, the dull dark glow of liquid picking up the reflection of rush lights and fire, and this, together with the sandstone of the hall, the merry carved figures upon the pillars and the sumptuous gleam of the archbishop’s plate, all combined to make a welcoming scene on that cold and cheerless February afternoon.

  The very first to arrive at the feast and bow his knee was Robert of Sharndene. Clad in a cotehardie of moleskin with hose of evergreen, he presented a slight but formal figure, while behind him ugly Margaret had painted so well that for a moment Stratford thought her handsome. Immediately after them came Piers and Oriel, the former very fine with pendant flaps upon his elbow, and she rather sombre in deep blue. The archbishop thought her an arresting beauty for such a remote and unremarkable Sussex village. There must be something about the place which produced characters, he concluded, for big Sir John Waleis of Glynde and his elfin wife were no exception, kneeling before him and murmuring apologies for old Sir Godfrey — John’s father — who had grown infirm and never ventured forth these days, not even for an archbishop.

  No sooner had they taken their places at the table on the dais than another extraordinary figure minced towards Stratford to pay her respects. Quite tall and extremely gawky, the woman was dressed in a long-trained kirtle of quite the finest stuffs, and her fret, holding her hair like a net beneath her barbette, was of goldsmithry. The archbishop took her at once to be a wealthy widow.

  As she came closer he could see that it was not only her figure that was strange. For beneath pale, short-sighted eyes, the widow’s mouth stuck out like an archer’s bow, fighting to close over a very large protruding tooth. But despite all this Juliana de Mouleshale obviously considered herself fair and attempted a simpering smile as she sunk on both knees before the primate.

  ‘My Lord,’ she cooed.

  Stratford hastily withdrew his fingers and found them taken immediately by an unprepossessing boy.

  ‘My son James,’ breathed Juliana.

  Like his mother in looks, the poor youth laboured with the additional handicap of a forestation of spots and pustules. Stratford muttered something inaudible and passed on to the next arrival.

  Within half an hour all the wealthy inhabitants of Maghefeld and Byvelham had arrived and taken their seats round the tables. On the dais with the archbishop sat Sir John and Alice Waleis, together with Robert and Margaret Sharndene. On the lower tables were settled the archbishop’s more important tenants: the families of Petuon, Cade, atte Combe and de Cumden, as well as Agnes de Watere, Peter Guliot, Adam de Rysdene, Nicholas le Mist, Thomas atte Red and Laurence de Wanebourn. But two latecomers, Isabel de Bayndenn and her husband, were found places near the dais.

  ‘It must be witchcraft,’ Stratford heard Juliana de Mouleshale murmur to her son, as she stared penetratingly at the woman who had just taken her seat. ‘No one of sixty could look so young without casting a spell.’

  Unperturbed, the archbishop stood up, clasped his hands together and began formal benediction, being unable to resist, however, the opportunity of looking his company over while their eyes were closed. He noticed little things. That John Waleis had a sprinkling of silver starting in his dark mane; that Oriel’s eyelids shone; that Piers Sharndene, who was sitting next to James Mouleshale, had his fingers on the table and that one of them was keeping up an unrelenting pressure on James’s hand. A question mark formed in Stratford’s mind but his voice droned the Latin phrases without falter.

  Down the body of the hall he saw Nicholas le Mist slip out quietly, presumably to relieve himself, for he returned a few minutes later grinning and tugging at the skirts of his gipon, only to be given a reproving look by Agnes atte Watere. Nicholas leered and made an obscene gesture to which, surprisingly, she reciprocated in kind.

  The archbishop cleared his throat and brought the prayers to an end. Then he raised his wine cup and said, ‘May the blessing of God be with you — all of you.’ Just for a second his eye flickered over Nicholas, who looked unrepentant.

  Then Stratford drank deeply, both beautiful hands supporting the jewelled vessel.

  Gazing at the primate, John Waleis caught himself thinking of the story about the archbishop and the young king disguising themselves as merchants in order to travel abroad unnoticed. A man to be reckoned with, without doubt. John watched as Wevere the steward entered from behind the dais and whispered something in Stratford
’s ear. He saw him nod, ask a question and appear satisfied with the answer. But Waleis could hear nothing of the words spoken, for, without warning, the band of drum, flute, shawm, fiddle, psaltery and bagpipe took to playing with enormous enthusiasm. The banquet proper had begun.

  Outside, the darkness of late afternoon crept round the palace but within there was warmth and light and laughter. The wine flowed freely and a succession of dishes were brought in for the guests, haunches of venison glazed with frumenty, roast swans done up in their feathers, peacocks and pheasants and a great, grinning boar’s head.

  But amongst all that noisy company, chattering like a flock of startled birds, one person was silent. The archbishop, drinking little and eating frugally, sat observing all. He saw John Waleis’s eyes grow dark with wine and his wife’s smile deepen; saw Robert Sharndene’s glance run swiftly over the younger, prettier women; saw Piers work his fingers slowly from James Mouleshale’s knee to his thigh; saw Nicholas le Mist return from outside, a second after Agnes atte Watere, a happy smile on his face.

  Wevere the steward came and bent over Stratford’s ear, asking if another cask of wine might be opened. The archbishop smiled and nodded, listening to the sound of music and laughter and seeing the fine clothes and jewels, though paltry indeed by the standards of the Court, that the assembly had worn in his honour. Then suddenly he stood up.

  ‘You may feast throughout the night, my ladies, sirs. I must to my prayers and rest. It was a hard ride from Canterbury today.’ Then without another word Stratford swirled through the archway and out of their sight. A dramatic gesture that left his assembled visitors gasping.

  ‘Well?’ said Robert Sharndene slowly.

  ‘You’re right,’ answered John. ‘No lily in a pretty robe. Have you noticed how he freezes suddenly, as if he’s left his husk?’

  ‘Yes. I believe he does it when he thinks. Strange trick though.’

  ‘I wonder what he thinks about?’

  ‘Murdered kings and powerful queens perhaps.’

  ‘Careful Robert. I am the one with the reputation for speaking out. I wouldn’t like to see you play my tricks — and get into trouble for them.’