Edward Marston - The Hawks of Delamere

‘If he keeps up this clamour, I’ll calm him down for good. Do you hear that, Gruffydd?’ he shouted. ‘We like peace and quiet down here.’

The prisoner came to the grille and issued a stream of abuse in Welsh. His gaoler laughed then spat contemptuously at the floor. Gruffydd ap Cynan ranted even more wildly.

Earl Hugh eventually came to see what the commotion was about. Bearing a flaming torch, he strode along the corridor with a howl of anger. Four soldiers marched at his heels.

‘Open the door!’ he ordered.

‘He’s in a dangerous mood,’ warned the gaoler.

‘So am I. Do as I say!’

The door was unlocked and the prisoner tried to rush out, but Earl Hugh forced him back with the naked flame. Walking into the noisome cell, he stood over the Welshman and glowered at him. Gruffydd ap Cynan was not afraid. He met his captor’s gaze without flinching.

‘What is the trouble here?’ demanded Hugh.

‘He is complaining, my lord,’ said the gaoler, ‘because we haven’t taken him for exercise today. I don’t understand a word of his language but that’s what he seems to be saying. He wants to stretch his legs and breathe in some clean air.’

‘He is a prisoner here and not a guest,’ snarled Hugh. ‘And he will certainly not enjoy the freedom to stroll about in the bailey as long as his countrymen threaten us.’ His hands moved in graphic gestures. ‘Do you hear that, you Welsh pig?’ he said, holding the torch near Gruffydd’s face. ‘You will stay locked up down here. No light, no exercise and no privileges of any kind.’

He wagged a finger. ‘And no more complaints or I will get really angry.’

Gruffydd ap Cynan knew little of the language in which he was being addressed but his captor’s meaning was clear. He stood there in dignified silence as his visitors went out and locked the door after them.

The gaoler followed Earl Hugh along the corridor.

‘What will we do if he gets violent again?’

‘Put him where he belongs — in chains!’

The more Golde saw of the Lady Ermintrude, the more she warmed to her. It was not simply the bonding of two women in a largely male environment, though that was a definite factor in a shifting military situation. There was a deeper kinship, unrecognised at first by either of them, then undeclared when it did slowly impinge upon their consciousness. They sought each other out, talked, compared, speculated together, and developed, in a surprisingly short time, a real friendship. Neither of them dared to probe the roots of that friendship which was, by its very nature, only temporary. They just enjoyed it while they could, like two strangers marooned on a desert island, united in adversity and making light of any individual differences.

Ermintrude was tolerant of her guest’s occasional stumbles in Norman French and Golde made allowances for the sometimes jarring values of a woman brought up in a dominant aristocratic culture which she, as a Saxon, had come to hate. Golde was helped by the fact that her companion had none of the arrogance and high-handedness so often associated with conquest. If anything, there was a faint air of apology about the Lady Ermintrude, as if she was graciously aware that she was trespassing on someone else’s property.

‘Tell me more about brewing,’ she invited.

‘Oh, my lady!’ said Golde. ‘We should be here all day.’

‘Listening to you is far more interesting than watching the soldiers exercising in the yard. I am intrigued by the idea of your actually taking over your husband’s business when he died. Did you have a natural inclination for the trade?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘How, then, did you come to master it?’

‘Of necessity,’ said Golde with a sad smile. ‘My first husband was not wealthy and I had a younger sister to provide for as well as myself. Brewing was a means of survival, my lady. I had picked up the rudiments of it from my husband but I never thought to make a living from it.’

‘Yet clearly you did.’

‘In time.’

‘Your beer must have been of a high quality if you supplied it to Hereford Castle.’

‘It was, my lady. But only after I had learned the trade by a process of trial and error. Hereford had other brewers and they mocked the glaring mistakes I was bound to make at first. But I rarely made the same mistake twice and their sniggers soon turned to irritation when I began to take customers from them.’

Ermintrude was delighted. ‘You got the better of men at their own trade?’

‘And women,’ explained Golde. ‘I was not the only female brewer in the city. It is a job that requires patience and intuition. Women tend to have an abundance of both.’

‘Yes,’ said Ermintrude, lowering her eyelids and clasping her hands in her lap. ‘Patience is indeed a virtue. I have struggled to show it myself. As for intuition,’ she added with a dismissive shrug, ‘that has always been beyond me.’

‘Surely not, my lady!’

‘I lack instinct, Golde.’

‘That is patently untrue.’

‘On the surface, perhaps. Deep down, it is another matter.’

‘Yet you are so responsive to others,’ said Golde, taken aback by the confession. ‘You seem to know exactly what your guests want before they can even guess at it themselves.’

‘That is easy. One can be trained to do that.’

‘What is it that you are unable to do, my lady?’

‘Make the right decisions.’

There was a dull finality in her voice which signalled the end of that phase of the conversation. Though Ermintrude retained her usual poise, there was a hint of real suffering behind the impassive mask. Golde waited until her hostess was ready to speak again. They were in the latter’s apartment, high up in the keep but well within earshot of the constant activity down in the bailey.

Ermintrude cast a rueful glance at the window. ‘Do you mind being married to a soldier?’ she asked.

‘Ralph’s fighting days are behind him, my lady.’

‘Then why does he keep himself in such fine condition?’

‘Out of a sense of pride.’

‘No, Golde. It springs from an eternal readiness. We are both married to Norman soldiers and they are a breed apart. Such men never retire from the field. Warfare is in their blood. They cannot escape it.’

‘Ralph has managed to do so,’ said Golde.

‘Has he?’

‘More or less.’

‘I heard that he fought a duel in Herefordshire.’

‘That was different, my lady.’

‘He bore arms again. Wherein lies the difference?’

‘It was the only way to resolve a crisis.’

‘That is the common excuse for all battles,’ said Ermintrude with a weary smile. ‘They resolve one crisis then create a dozen others. And so it goes on. I have watched my own husband being drawn into one unnecessary engagement after another. Hugh is an inveterate soldier. He cannot help it. The blast of war is like a love song to him.’ She looked Golde directly in the eyes. ‘I suspect that Ralph Delchard is a man of similar stock.’

‘No, my lady!’ protested Golde loudly, shocked at the comparison of her husband with a man she considered to be grotesque and uncouth. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, realising that her reaction might well cause offence to a loyal wife. ‘I know that Ralph came to England as a soldier, but he has now chosen a more peaceful way of life.’

‘Not if he travels around the country.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Danger lurks everywhere. Ride any distance and, sooner or later, you are likely to have to defend yourself from attack. Even with their escort, Ralph and Gervase must surely have been the intended prey of outlaws.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Golde. ‘On our way to York.’