The Devil's Diadem (47 page)

Raife sent soldiers and servants to give aid (as did most of the noble households currently resident in and about London), and our kitchen cooked bread and pease pudding for those whose fires had been dampened by inundations. As the day drew on, we heard reports of much damage from around the city: much of the building work on Saint Paul’s had been undone; many houses in East Cheap and Rother Lane had been blown completely apart and their beams and debris littered both streets; the wharves along the Thames had been affected and much merchandise lost after an exceptionally high tide driven by the winds had invaded some of the warehouses. Miraculously, in this Christmastide season, no one had lost their life.

Along the Thames itself, from London to Westminster, the high waters and winds had damaged many craft. Scores of barges and boats, however tightly secured along the banks and flats of the river, had been wrenched from their moorings by the wind and waves and, as the tide receded, were borne down the river to London Bridge where they wrapped themselves about its piers and struts. There was such a chaos of splintered timbers now lodged under the bridge, so I heard, that much of the flow of the river was impeded and, in the absence of the storm, the water upriver of the bridge had become almost a still pond.

It would take months to clear the mess, and that not likely to start until after the celebrations of Christmastide.

Later that day, Raife and I once more embarked with a large part of our household to take up residence in the Tower chambers Edmond had assigned us. Now it was Christmastide court, a chance for Edmond to demonstrate his largesse to those he invited — mostly the greater nobility of the country but also most of the aldermen and the more powerful among the merchants and traders of London.

The memory of my ordeal had faded somewhat, and most gossiped now about the storm and the damage done to London and various villages along the Thames to its mouth. Christmastide court, Edmond’s Advent court, passed amid cheer and celebration, with much feasting, plays, dancing and games.

The Christmas Feast held in the great hall of the Conqueror’s Tower was memorable. The hall was decorated in greenery, holly and mistletoe, with ribbons strung all over. I was dressed in such finery, and Raife, too — oh, we were splendid! Raife had given me a beautiful coronet (he wore one as well), all gold and precious gems, and Gytha had outdone herself, twisting my hair in intricate weaves through the gold of the coronet and then down my back with gems glittering within the complicated braiding.

Edmond sat Raife and myself at high table. We sat to either side of him, which was a great honour. That afternoon and night was filled with feasting and games and dancing. The king gave us both stunning gifts: for Raife a salt cellar in the shape of a unicorn, delicately worked in gold and silver, and for me a beautiful deep-green, fur-lined mantle … ‘To go with the clasp,’ he said as he gifted it to me.

Both our table placements and our gifts signified to the court as nothing else in what affectionate favour the king held us.

It was such a merry night of wassailing: I drank perhaps a little too much posset — a rich, thick drink of ale and egg, honey and spices — but no one seemed to mind that my smiles became a little freer as the night wore on. The Yule log hissed and spat in the fireplace, the multitude of candles burned bright, everyone in the hall exchanged kisses of friendship, and all seemed so well with my world.

The storm seemed to have cleared winter of much of its early malice, and, while it was still cold, the wind and rain and sleet had stopped. Thus — once we had quite recovered from the richness and excess of the Christmas Feast! — we were able to enjoy jousts and races and games on the fields abutting the Conqueror’s Tower. Everyone was wrapped up in one, or even two, thick mantles and furs (I, of course, wore the king’s gift), and with hoods drawn close about our faces we made the most of the entertainment, the wine and food and the cheer. I was now far enough into my pregnancy that all queasiness of stomach had passed, and I did not tire so much, and I truly enjoyed the twelve days of festivity.

Toward the end of Christmastide court, Edmond suggested to many of the noblemen that they embark on a hunt through the forests and woodlands east of London. Edmond had manors to the east, as did several other noblemen, and Edmond proposed a hunt extending for scores of miles with nightly rests and feasts at various manor houses.

The men thought it a splendid idea (those whose manor houses were to be engulfed by a royal visit, and its expense, managed to keep their sinking stomachs to themselves). Their wives, also, thought it splendid, for we suddenly envisaged a quiet week or so of gentler entertainments after the excitement of court.

Raife was as eager as the rest about the prospect of a winter hunt through the crisp, white landscape. He was somewhat anxious about me, especially after the incident with the imp the last time he had left me alone in the Cornhill house, but when Alianor suggested that I stay with her and Robert de Lacy in their manor hall in the meadows north of Holbournestrate, just outside London, he greeted the idea with relief (and I with considerable enthusiasm).

Thus it was that, on the day after the Feast of the Epiphany, while our men rode with the hounds and their hawks to the east, the de Lacys and I (along with Ghent, four other soldiers, my three women, and several servants and grooms) rose westward out of London along Holbournestrate. We were doubly lucky on that journey, in that the sun shone bright but the chill air froze the roadway mud beneath us. I nestled inside my fur-lined mantle, its hood about my head, and relaxed on Dulcette’s back. We rode along at a sedate pace, mindful of the horses’ footing on the icy road. Dulcette seemed to know of my pregnancy, for she stepped sure and smooth, and did not tire me by pulling on the reins.

The fields were frozen under a layer of white, the rooks distinctive black smudges as they sifted through the snow to find worms and insects. Everything was quiet. It was too cold yet to work in the fields and most people were, I imagine, content to rest after twelve days of Christmastide indulgence. To the north of us the stalls and pens of Smithfield market stood empty — just a few cattle and pigs left to forage for food in the pens before trading began anew in a few days. The only sign of life came from the nearby Saint Bartholomew’s priory and hospital, where smoke rising from chimneys suggested warm fires and kitchens.

As we rode further along Holbournestrate we came to a newly built church on the southern side of the street. It was entirely round, very solid, and had many outbuildings: a hall, dormitories, stables, kitchens, bakehouses and a brewery. Behind the complex I could see a fishpond and an orchard, both currently as white and still as the rest of the fields, the branches of the orchard’s trees bleak and thin in the winter air.

‘What Order is this?’ I asked Alianor curiously.

She gave me an amused glance and chuckled. ‘It is the Temple — the Templar’s church,’ she said.

We pulled the horses to a halt, looking over the church.

‘I very much doubt your curiosity will get you entry,’ Robert said. ‘The Templars are known women haters.’

I grunted. Fulke d’Ecouis certainly seemed to have taken a dislike to me.

Then — as if thought had given flesh to name — d’Ecouis and another, older Templar, walked out of the Church and halted as they spotted our party in the middle of Holbournestrate, staring at them. Immediately they came toward us, leaping smoothly over the roadside ditch, as sure-footed in the treacherous conditions as I suppose only men of God can be.

‘My lady countess,’ d’Ecouis said to me, then greeted the de Lacys. He turned slightly, indicating his companion.

He was an older man, his hair silvered but his body still wide with muscle. He looked at us with a bright blue gaze that was both bold and curious.

‘This is Hugh of Argentine,’ d’Ecouis said. ‘Our newly arrived Master of Temple.’

We all inclined our heads to the master, as he did to us. We passed a few minutes in idle conversation — the storm, the coldness of the air, our destination — then d’Ecouis indicated me as he spoke.

‘Master,’ he said, ‘the countess is the only child of Godfrey Langtofte.’

Instantly, Hugh’s eyes became keen, penetrating, and he stepped forward to lay a hand on Dulcette’s neck, as if to prevent me riding away.

‘Your father was a member of our Order in Jerusalem,’ Hugh said. ‘I recall him well.’

I sighed inwardly. ‘He was a sergeant, I believe. He came home the winter before last, only to die within weeks.’

‘We must remember him together sometime,’ Hugh said.

‘I have done my grieving for my father,’ I said, ‘and would prefer not to rekindle it.’

Hugh’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps so,’ he said, ‘but there are matters left untended and —’

‘They are not my matters,’ I said, ‘and not my worry.’

Hugh and d’Ecouis exchanged a glance, then Hugh tipped his head, as if the matter was of no concern.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we shall see you at court?’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Master,’ said Robert, ‘we must ride on. The countess is with child and this cold does her no good.’

‘Indeed,’ the master said once again and inclined his head in farewell as we turned our horses back to the road.

‘I have lost the immediate threat of Henry’s malice,’ I muttered to Alianor, ‘only to be left with that of the Templars. What in sweet Christ’s name can they
want
from me?’

With that unanswerable question hanging between us, we resumed the ride toward the de Lacy manor and hall.

Chapter Seven

T
he de Lacy’s manor hall sat atop a rise amid meadows and fields not far from the banks of the Fleet River. I imagined that in spring and summer it was a delightful place, with views right down to London, Westminster and the curving Thames, but now, in this January freeze, their lands were as cold as anywhere else.

Their hall, however, its lower floor built of stone, its upper of wood, was warm and comfortable. I settled happily, enjoying the company and the respite from the busyness of London and the excitement and intrigue of court. My stay here was meant to be quiet, spent in front of fires, with gentle conversation to amuse me, but on my third day there came news that a fair day was to be held on the morrow on the Thames, upriver from the bridge, to mark Plough Monday.

Since the day of the Great Storm, which had seen scores of barges and boats crash into the bridge, creating a dam of splintered timbers, the waters upriver from the bridge had become almost completely still and for the past weeks the river had been freezing over, the ice growing ever more thick. Now the watermen of the Thames had declared the ice safe enough for man and beast alike to gambol over.

The Londoners, not ones to miss the opportunity for combining money-making and fun, had decided to hold a festival and fair. There were to be sports, dancing, hare chasing, dog races, bonfires, outdoor feasts, contests of all descriptions, mummers and players, troubadours and minstrels — and all on the ice.

Gilbert Ghent, who brought us this news, stood before myself, Alianor and Robert, his eyes a-gleam, and I had to smile at the hope in his face.

‘My lady?’ said Robert. ‘It is but a short ride away.’

‘There will be tents full of benches and braziers a-plenty for the ladies to sit and rest, if needed,’ Ghent said.

I did not need to be persuaded. ‘A gentle ride there,’ I said, ‘and we shall see on our arrival if we wish to stay, or return to our fires here. So long as tomorrow is not full of sleet or rain, then I say we should go.’

The day dawned fine and clear. Even the chill in the air seemed to have moderated. We rose at our leisure, said prayers in the de Lacys’ tiny chapel, broke our fast, and then decided to dare the ride to London.

We entered the city through Lud Gate, turning our horses toward Baynard Castle on Thames Street, running along the riverbank. It was mid-morning, and there were a goodly number of people moving through the streets toward the river, all intent on merry-making. Once on Thames Street we pulled our horses to one side of Baynard Castle, gazing in wonder at the river.

Where once had been flowing greenish water was now creamy ice. It appeared quite solid, for there were horses and laden carts trundling over its surface, as well as men, women and children walking, dancing, running.

Along the centre of the ice were two lines of tents, gaily coloured and with flags and pennants flying from their pinnacles. The de Lacys pointed out some of the standards and devices: some were of inns and taverns, now set up with trestle tables on the ice; some were for various of the guilds and crafts of London, there to sell their wares; some represented nobles, who had set their own tents; others marked bands of players or musicians, and there were the tents of vendors plying food and merchandise. Also, Alianor indicated to me in an undertone, privy tents where we could retire should the need take us.

In front of, and behind the twin rows of tents, were various areas marked out for dancing, racing, games and sports.

There were already crowds of people on the ice, and much noise and jollity.

We left the horses with our grooms and proceeded to a hastily built set of wooden steps leading down to the ice. Robert helped down Alianor, while Ghent took my hand and aided me down the steps.

I was tentative at first, not trusting my weight on the ice nor my footing on its surface, but my confidence grew as I walked further out into the ice fair and soon I was walking with only a light hand on Ghent’s arm.

There was activity everywhere. In one open space two knights were demonstrating sword play to a thick crowd of admirers. In another, a score of boys kicked a leather ball to and fro, trying to get it through large hoops that had been set up fifty or so paces opposite each other. Yet somewhere else a small racing circuit had been established, its bounds fenced with woven hurdles. Here, hares raced, carrying with them the bets of the wildly cheering crowd which had gathered.