To Sleep No More Read online

  Robert would have replied with a laugh — he had drunk enough not to care too much for appearances — but a tug on his sleeve made him turn his head. Juliana de Mouleshale stood beside him, her eyes screwed up to look at him.

  ‘Robert,’ she said abruptly, ‘I want to see you.’

  Sharndene nodded discourteously.

  ‘You do see me. I am before you.’

  She glared at him furiously. ‘I meant that I wish to call upon you next week about a matter of business.’

  ‘I see. Well, when do you wish to visit?’

  ‘Next Monday. In the morning. Perhaps if Margaret could also be present?’

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘Yes, Margaret. Now I must be on my way. Goodnight to you.’

  ‘One day I will strangle that old hag,’ said Robert loudly to her departing back.

  ‘Not that old, in fact,’ answered John. ‘She gave birth to James when she was scarcely fourteen. She is little more than thirty-five.’

  ‘She looks older.’

  ‘Because she is hideous.’

  Margaret coming up suddenly said, ‘Who is hideous?’ She was always sensitive if the subject of ugliness came into the conversation.

  ‘Juliana. She wants to call on us on Monday to discuss business. And she wants you to be present. What can it be about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ answered Margaret, ‘unless ...’ But she stopped short, refusing to put her thoughts into words — and no amount of persuading would make her change her mind.

  But Alice had guessed.

  ‘Juliana wants to marry James to Oriel,’ she said, as she and John climbed the hill to Bayndenn, the house which was his home whenever he visited Maghefeld.

  He turned to look at her, his dark face serious.

  ‘God forbid!’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure I am right.’

  Their two horses, side by side in the blackness, picked their way through the snow with delicacy.

  ‘But, if I remember rightly, was not Oriel contracted at birth to Gilbert Meryweder’s son?’

  ‘He has not returned from a Scottish raid. He has been missing for nine months.’

  ‘Christ’s holy blood, Robert would never agree to James. Would he?’

  The edge of doubt had come into his voice as the massive oaken door, the lower entry to the manor, swung open in response to their manservant’s shout. Through the doorway they could glimpse the hall, and the servants sleeping round the dying embers on the hearth.

  ‘Robert is ambitious,’ said Alice, her eyes slanting at her husband. ‘He has come a long way already. If he wishes to proceed further it might be of great help to ally his daughter with Mouleshale money.’

  Both John and Alice shivered as the door closed behind them and a sudden wind moaned round Bayndenn and blew from the unglazed but shuttered slits of the windows above them.

  Two

  A morning mist lay heavily over the valley of Byvelham, a white vapour clinging to the gentle sweep of land and dark-treed forest; while from the surface of Tide Brook and the moat of Sharndene, the fog rose like steam. Yet on the high plateau beyond the wood the sun shone like a parable. And even stolid Juliana, as her horse climbed upward, was struck by the thought of emerging from the Devil’s shadow into the bright beam of God’s goodwill. So much so that she reined in for a moment or two on the summit, gazing with difficulty about her, her eyes narrowed to slits in her plain and uncompromising features.

  All around the land was transformed into a white sea, with trees sticking up like the masts of ships and the tops of hills little islands. The view was beautiful in its silent unearthliness, and so convinced was Juliana that she was alone that she thought, at first, that the great cross rearing up out of the clouds was an illusion of her inadequate eyes.

  But then her ears, all the sharper for her dimness of sight, caught the distant jingle of caparison and she realised that a cavalcade was coming from the direction of Maghefeld and guessed at once that the archbishop was riding out. For no reason —for she had not seen the primate since the night of his arrival and had no real need to avoid confrontation — Juliana drew back into the fog.

  The procession passed within a few feet of her — the men-at-arms, the monks, the man of God himself. Swathed in thick, warm fur, looking neither to right nor left, the archbishop’s face had a curiously impassive quality, as if he contemplated something so mighty that he must give his whole mind to it. And yet, as he drew level with her, his light eyes flickered in her direction. For a moment she thought he must have seen her — but there was nothing. No sign that he had done anything but slightly alter his gaze. Unnerved, Juliana watched as the entire complement headed east, realising why it was she had not wanted to speak. There was something about Archbishop Stratford that frightened her. She felt that neither her wealth nor her jewels would impress him; that all her postures and poses would be completely wasted on such an elusive and withdrawn personality as his.

  Somewhat subdued by these thoughts Juliana descended from her vantage point to the edge of Combe Wood. Here the visibility was poor and she was glad to leave the trees again for the open country round Sharndene. She, who feared nothing — or so she said — had thought a voice had called her name as she first entered the forest’s shadow.

  So it was with a nervous glance over her shoulder that she finally went down into the basin of fog in the centre of which lay her destination. And a few moments later, as she entered Sharndene, she hugged herself with a little shiver of relief.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  It was the handsome Piers, whom James admired so much, bowing before her till his sleeves, tight to the elbow but then vastly flared, swept the floor. For all he was a country creature, the young man was well dressed to the point of caricature, sporting fine materials and fashions far too grand for his rural surroundings.

  Juliana sparkled her tooth and dropped a curtsey. ‘No thank you, God ’a mercy.’

  Piers smiled a shade too broadly and said, ‘Then God be thanked. And thanked too, dear lady, for the colour of your kirtle.’

  Juliana looked at him suspiciously but decided at length that he was paying her a compliment. She fluttered a laugh and was fractionally annoyed to hear Robert Sharndene say, ‘Good day to you. My wife awaits you in her chamber.’

  Piers bowed his way out without another word and there was nothing for Juliana to do but follow her host.

  Sharndene had been built by Robert’s grandfather, John, in 1260 and was, to Juliana’s darting eyes, grandiose indeed; even rivalling Mouleshale, which was but twenty years old and decorated with every kind of ornate embellishment.

  From a passage behind the hall a wooden staircase led up to the family quarters above the kitchens. And there, dressed in her finest kirtle and cotehardie sat Margaret de Sharndene, playing at needle work, her small eyes anxious above her broad nose. She stood up as Juliana came into the room and said ‘Welcome to Sharndene, Madam. Please sit down and tell us why you have honoured us with a visit at last.’

  ‘Very well,’ Juliana answered, folding her hands in her lap. ‘I have come to see you about Oriel.’

  ‘Oriel?’

  Robert looked startled and Margaret doom-laden.

  ‘Yes. It is now almost a year since Gilbert Meryweder’s son vanished in Scotland and he has been mourned by his family as dead. I take it, therefore, that Oriel is without a contracted husband at this time?’

  ‘Y-e-s.’

  ‘I’ll not mince words with you, Master Robert. I want her as a bride for my son James. And I am prepared to accept her without dowry in order to achieve that.’

  There was a stunned silence broken by her host finally saying, ‘Why?’

  A curious expression crossed Juliana’s face. ‘For some foolish reason, my son has set his heart on Oriel. He says he is in love with her.’

  ‘In love?’ Margaret spoke for the first time, her voice rising with amazement. ‘Why, I have never seen him so much as look at her. Are you
sure?’

  ‘That is what he said. To be frank, I am as surprised as you are.’

  Robert shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say, Madam. I cannot help but feel there is something odd about his declaration.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘If he had ever paid her any attention it would not be quite so startling.’

  Juliana’s features became slightly menacing. ‘I have never contracted a bride for James, Sir, because it has always been my wish that he should have a free choice. When I was married to Martin de Mouleshale I cried for three whole months. He was already sixty and I just thirteen.’

  ‘So?’ Robert made an irritable movement, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Juliana ignored him.

  ‘James came to me as my salvation. He was my baby, my pet, my darling.’ Her usual manner returned. ‘And that is why, unconventional though it might be, I want him to have the bride of his choice. I am making an exceptional offer. I will accept your daughter with no dowry at all. What say you?’

  The sun pierced the grey world outside sending a shaft of light through the window, straight to Margaret’s feet. She spoke without even looking towards her husband.

  ‘We will consider it,’ she said. ‘We must talk privately. You have taken us by surprise.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Robert slowly. ‘I had not thought of anything like this. I had wondered perhaps if a younger son somewhere ...’

  Juliana gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Younger son! I thought you to be an ambitious man, Sir. I thought you to aim high. Christ’s Holy Body, you mention younger sons in the same breath as James de Mouleshale!’ She rose to her feet. ‘If it were not for his wishes I would tell you to forget what I have just said to you.’

  She was seething with fury, her eyes angry knots and her brows drawn.

  Robert calmed his urge to shout back at her and said smoothly, ‘Please, Madam! Obviously we are very surprised. But it is indeed an offer to which we will give every consideration. We do realise the honour you have done us.’

  He loathed himself, almost hearing Margaret say ‘hypocrite’. Juliana, however, appeared slightly mollified and sat down again, taking a good draught of ale from the cup set before her.

  ‘So when will you let me have your reply?’

  Margaret spoke again, still not looking at Robert.

  ‘In two days, Madam. You see, I should like in that time to ask Oriel what she thinks.’

  ‘Oriel?’

  It was Juliana’s turn to look amazed.

  ‘Yes, Madam. As you have given freedom of choice to James perhaps we, unusual though it might be, should give our daughter the same opportunity. Husband?’

  Robert stared askance but Margaret’s face had the heavy, determined look which he knew from long experience meant that she would not be shifted.

  ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly.

  Juliana rose once more. ‘Then I look forward to a successful outcome and an early wedding.’

  As the three of them left the chamber it suddenly filled with light, the sun emerging from the mist and painting the day golden. Juliana, the last to descend the stairs, gave a little cry of pleasure, made all the more heartfelt by a glimpse below of the handsome Piers, now dressed in fur and obviously preparing to ride out. Her heart beat slightly faster as he raised his eyes to hers and gave a flourishing bow.

  And as she stepped from the house and her horse crossed the drawbridge, the widow heard Piers’s voice behind her raised in song. She turned to look over her shoulder but the young man was climbing out of the hollow in the opposite direction to the one which she was taking. Juliana’s pale eyes grew great with a sudden rush of tears before she turned slowly back again and headed purposefully home.

  *

  Far out in the fields beyond Bayndenn the hawk hovered above a mouse, its wings etched against the sun like gauntlets. Looking up at it Piers de Sharndene shielded his eyes with his hand, craning his neck back to watch its savage power. As it swooped he let out a laugh of joy.

  It was a glorious late winter’s day, the sweeping landscape bathed in pale afternoon sunshine. Everywhere the trees were in full ripening bud while the fields, the dark green of monastery herbs, made the hills, old and majestic as time, seem to rise above them like clumps of mint.

  Piers laughed again and undid the top buttons of his cotehardie, his dark curling hair bright beneath his wide-brimmed, feathered hat.

  ‘I love you,’ said James de Mouleshale.

  ‘I know,’ answered Piers, hardly bothering to look down to where his companion lay sprawled upon the ground, his hood rolled up into a cushion for his head.

  ‘Do you like the hawk?’

  ‘Of course I do. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I want to hear you say so. It is important to me that you are pleased with the things I give you.’

  James sat up as he spoke, his short-sighted eyes — almost identical to his mother’s — blurring with anxiety. Piers gave him a narrow look and then squatted on his haunches, his face close to that of his friend. He adopted a sincere and earnest expression.

  ‘You know how much I love your gifts, James. They are the most precious thing in my mundane life.’

  James gave a grateful smile but said bitterly, ‘Not as mundane as mine. Think of being cooped up in Mouleshale with my mother — and all the time just wanting to be with you.’

  Piers looked sympathetic.

  ‘Not a pleasant state I agree. But not for much longer. As a married man you can be out and about and Oriel must stay at Mouleshale doing women’s tasks for the lady of the house. And serve her right.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because she is so despicably weak.’

  James stared at Piers curiously, his fierce battalion of spots red and sore-looking in the bright light.

  ‘You won’t ever grow to hate me, will you?’ he asked.

  Piers’s face softened and he leaned forward and put one hand on the ugly youth’s shoulder.

  ‘No, James,’ he said. ‘For you are so harmless. Why, I believe you would sooner be dead than do me an injury.’

  James put his bony hand over Piers’s fingers.

  ‘You know I would,’ he said. ‘I would gladly lay down my life at your feet.’

  Piers turned away, the hawk swooping towards his wrist, its prey in its talons.

  ‘I think I will go away,’ he said casually.

  ‘Next year, when you are eighteen?’

  ‘No, I cannot wait that long. I am bored with relying on my father’s money — I want my own. Will you come with me, James? You and I will be brothers-in-law soon.’

  His friend looked ecstatic.

  ‘How well that sounds,’ he said. ‘To be kin folk with you. Yes, of course I will come. It will be Oriel’s duty to stay with my mother, not mine. But she has not agreed to marry me yet.’

  Piers turned sharply.

  ‘What do you mean, yet? She has no say in the matter. My father is too grasping to turn down your mother’s offer. You are incredibly foolish sometimes, James.’

  For a moment his friend looked mutinous. ‘Not all the time,’ he mumbled.

  The hawk lurched off again towards the sun.

  ‘Do not speak of it further,’ answered Piers grandly. ‘Let us go hunting like that creature. Who knows what we might find?’

  Three

  In the dark hour just after midnight John de Stratford galloped his horse through the sleeping valley of Byvelham on his way to the palace. All about him night creatures stirred at the intrusion of thrusting hooves, but he ignored the slither of snake and scuttle of shrew, his expressionless face set firmly towards Maghefeld, his flowing mantle the only thing that pointed back in the wind towards Canterbury.

  He was a complicated man, with as many layers to his extraordinary personality as there were in a flower bulb, lying beneath the dark soil and waiting to shoot forth colour. And though many people thought they knew the archbishop, be
lieved they were able to judge his mood and varying thought processes, they were wrong. No one understood John de Stratford. He was an enigma. He had depths to him which he had not fully explored himself.

  Above everything, of course, there was his very personal relationship with God. Unlike other men of his time Stratford was not riddled with superstition and fear; rather he stared God in the eye, not as an equal, but most certainly not as a shivering supplicant. For the primate thought of himself as one of the chosen. He believed —and had done from his youth — that he was destined for eminence. That he had been singled out to be raised above the heads of his fellows and that, provided he kept his bond with the mighty force that controlled destiny, nothing and no one could stop his inevitable sweep to greatness.

  Yet, strangely, this concept had given him no complex of superiority. He merely expected, as his right, every door to open for him. In this way he was almost like a war horse, charging on to his fate unassailed.

  But beneath this invulnerability there lay a darker side. For he was capable not only of thinking black thoughts but of putting them into deeds. John de Stratford was a plotter, a natural assassin. A man who would wait endlessly for revenge and, even after years, feel the thrill of its execution.

  Yet alongside this facet lay compassion, a love of beauty and kindness. It was a strange, disturbing nature, hidden beneath the portrait that its owner wished the world to see. Stratford sometimes had the mystic idea that he was Thomas à Becket born again. That every emotion he felt had been experienced at some time by the martyred archbishop.

  Now, as he headed for his palace, his heart began to race. Tonight he would kneel and pray in the small, private chapel where the saint had knelt before him. For though Stratford could walk in the very steps of Thomas at Canterbury, there was an intimacy at Maghefeld that somehow made him feel closer, more at one with the spirit of the murdered man.

  Excitedly, Stratford left the woods and the territory of his neighbour John Waleis and took the first steps to his own domain. He was now little more than three miles from his destination, and a suggestion of a smile softened his otherwise impassive face. He rode alone tonight: no escort, no cross before him, except the one on his breast. In fact he had slipped quietly away from the cathedral’s protection and taken the pilgrim’s way, crossing the border from Kent to Sussex in the darkness. Not a star had glimmered, the night being full of rushings and stirrings and clouds racing overhead. But now, as the dark shape of Maghefeld Palace rose before him, brilliant points of silver threw an answering gleam from the canopy of pitch above.