Alys Clare: Whiter than the Lily

He looked, Josse concluded, raising his cup in response to Brice’s courteous toast to ‘old friends well met once more’, like a man in his prime. And, moreover — just what was it about him? Something in his expression … aye, there was definitely some suppressed excitement in those eyes. He looked like a man treasuring some thrilling secret thought.

The conversation flowed for a while over mundane topics — the weather, the health of Brice’s sheep, the steadily rising price of wool. And presently, as conversations always did just then, it turned to the King.

‘He is in good heart, they say,’ Brice remarked. ‘Although, given the circumstances, it is hard to see how that can be.’ His handsome face took on an expression of extreme indignation. ‘A Christian king, God’s own anointed one, to be a prisoner! Ah, Josse, the humiliation!’

‘I think we can be assured that now he is a prisoner in name only,’ Josse replied. ‘Since that traitorous rogue Leopold of Austria handed him over to the Emperor back in March, it’s said that his situation has steadily improved. The latest reports suggest that he is treated more as an honoured guest than a prisoner. Why, he holds court and conducts his business almost as if he were in his own stronghold!’

Brice waved a hand impatiently. ‘Aye, so they say, but he’s not free , man, is he?’

Josse had to acknowledge that this was true. ‘His health has improved,’ he offered. ‘He’s enjoying his food and drink again and he has even been hunting on more than one occasion, and that will build up his strength for sure.’

As if he had not heard, Brice said, ‘And what of us here in England? Eh? Kingless, rudderless, with that clever brother of his scheming to sit on our Richard’s throne!’

‘The Queen is on her guard,’ Josse said. ‘She knows John as well as anybody and she will do what is necessary to protect Richard’s interests.’ Both men knew, without Josse having to stipulate, that he spoke of King Richard’s mother and not his wife. ‘Back at Easter, she increased the guard on the coast and those Flemish mercenaries that John had hired received a tougher welcome than they’d bargained for. And she’s made the King’s men renew their oaths of fealty.’

‘What use will that be if he does not return? If- God forbid! — we have to have his brother in his place?’

‘We can do no better than hearken to the King’s own words. You recall? When they told him of John’s scheming, he said that his brother wasn’t the man to conquer a country if anyone offered him the slightest resistance. King Richard does not fear his brother, Brice, so we should not either.’

‘But we are here and he is far away,’ Brice said lugubriously. Then, fixing Josse with angry dark eyes, he added softly, ‘And now we’re going to have to find one hundred thousand silver marks to get him back.’

‘Aye, I know,’ Josse said heavily. ‘They say it’s twice England’s annual revenue.’

‘Will it be raised?’

‘Aye,’ Josse said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘Queen Eleanor will see to it that it is.’

‘We’ve already been bled white to pay for the Crusade.’ Brice, as if aware that his words might be regarded by some as next door to treason, spoke in a voice little above a whisper. ‘Now it’s a quarter of our annual income from every one of us!’

‘Not everyone,’ Josse protested. ‘The poor are only obliged to give what they can.’

Brice said something that Josse did not quite hear, which, given his allegiance to King Richard, he felt was probably just as well.

There was silence in the hall for some time. After discussing matters of such gravity, Josse thought, it was somehow not right to try to turn the talk to a more personal level. All the same, he was still very intrigued to know why he had been invited and even more so to find out just what it was that was making Brice pace restlessly as if his lean body contained too much nervous energy for him to be still. Before he could think of a way to satisfy his curiosity, a stout woman with a neat white cap over her grey hair and a crisp apron covering her brown gown bustled in and told them that dinner was ready.

Brice, acknowledging the brusque announcement with a smile, said lazily, ‘You remember Mathild, Josse?’

‘Indeed I do,’ he replied. If the woman’s food is as good as her ale, he thought cheerfully, then I’m in for a treat.

The meal was excellent. Mathild, who had a light hand with a pastry crust, served a hot pork pasty that was flavoured with some spice that Josse thought he recognised but could not place. Whatever it was, he hadn’t tasted it since he had attended the court of the Poitevins and it was a rare pleasure to encounter it again. He and Brice took their time, eating their fill of the savoury dishes. In addition to the pork pasty there was a tartlet of chopped meat in a cheese, egg and milk sauce; white fish in wine sauce flavoured with onions and spices; and a sort of solid pottage that Josse thought consisted mainly of peas. Then Mathild brought in sops-in-wine — generous pieces of her own sweet cake in a mixture of wine, milk and almonds — and her spice, sauce once more tantalised Josse’s taste buds with all but forgotten delights. He detected ginger … and cinnamon … and perhaps a touch of clove? … and then, with a smile and some earnest words of praise to Mathild, he passed up his platter for more.

‘Aye,’ Brice said, finally pushing himself back from the table and easing a thumb inside his belt, ‘she may lack a certain finesse in her manners, my old Mathild, but she’s the best cook I’ve ever come across. More wine?’

Accepting another refill, Josse was thinking just what a pleasant way this was to spend a lazy sunny day when, draining his own cup, Brice sat up straight and said, ‘When you’re done, Josse, there’s someone I want you to meet. You may know of him. His manor is not far from here — an hour’s ride, certainly no more, even if we go very gently — and the day will be growing cooler soon.’

‘Someone you wish me to meet?’ Josse echoed stupidly, trying to focus his drowsy thoughts. ‘But-’

‘I should have explained,’ Brice said with a swift apologetic smile. ‘Only — well, I thought to surprise you.’

Just as Josse was reflecting on the odd comment, Brice corrected himself. ‘That is to say, I did not quite know how to say, come and dine with me and then we will ride out to introduce you to my friends, so I said nothing.’

Finishing his wine and reluctantly getting to his feet, Josse could not help but wonder what was so difficult about that.

The afternoon was indeed a shade cooler as Brice and Josse rode off from Rotherbridge. Brice kept to the higher ground and this, besides keeping their horses’ hooves out of the mud, also gave the men the benefit of the shade of the willows that grew on the top of the creek bank. As they rode, Josse observed how the narrow creek down on their right was steadily widening. Well, he thought, the water course itself is not increasing very much in size, it’s more that the valley through which it flows is broader now. He was about to make some comment to his companion when Brice turned in his saddle and said, ‘We have to descend here. We’re heading over there’ — he pointed across the creek to the higher land on the far side — ‘and this is the best way across.’

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Josse clicked to Horace and followed Brice as he rode carefully down the bank. He understood why Brice had chosen to cross here and not higher up, where the creek was narrower; here the sides of the bank were far less steep. And soon he had to admit that Brice knew exactly what he was about. Leading the way confidently towards what appeared to be a dangerously wet and boggy stretch of ground — the sort of place, Josse thought anxiously, where a man and his horse might flounder to a dreadful death — it became apparent as they drew nearer that a narrow path crossed the water. It was not continuous but interspersed in places with firm stepping-stones and, clearly, it would be covered at high tide. As he followed Brice across, Josse had the sudden thought that only a man who made this journey frequently would know his way so well.