The cleric seemed surprised, but merely glanced at him before rising respectfully to his feet. ‘Lady Rhoese, we were just looking at your—’ He stopped abruptly at the Norman’s signal.
‘At my what?’ she said. ‘My estates? Is that what you have there? The survey taken two years ago of the Yorkshire lands? And who wants to know what I hold? Meddling Normans and their like?’ Her glance at the tall Norman was unmistakeably accusing, but it was no match for a thirty-year-old captain in the king’s service used to commanding men twice his age, and the fierce message from beneath the level steel brow of his helm took only seconds to make its impact. She had better say no more along those lines, it said. Remember last night.
The brown creased skin of the cleric’s face relaxed into soft folds like a well-used pouch and his hands slid furtively past each other into the sleeves of his faded black habit. ‘Yes, my lady,’ he said. ‘I have it here because the king himself needs to see it.’
Rhoese felt the blood in her veins freeze as a chill wind blew across the crowded field. ‘Mine?’ she whispered. ‘My property? Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. In fact, his Grace is with Archbishop Thomas at this very moment. Your arrival will be of some interest to them, I should think.’ He gathered the scrolls up like a bundle of firewood and clamped them under one arm. ‘I shall take these to him and tell him you’re here. It will save some time. Would you mind waiting with Judhael de Brionne?’ he said, indicating the soldier. ‘He’ll escort you, m’lady.’ Half-smiling at her in apology for the lack of choice, he turned away and disappeared, leaving Rhoese more puzzled than ever and wishing she had not come.
The Norman had hardly taken his eyes off her. ‘I understand you’ve been told of the confiscation of your late father’s estate,’ he said, matter of factly. ‘Is that why you’re here? To plead for reinstatement?’
Briefly, it occurred to her that this man could hardly have cared less whether she had heard or not, otherwise he would not have risked a mention of it so casually, moments before she was to meet the king, and again her anger flared keenly at the incessant and callous theft of English land and property into Norman coffers. ‘It’s a game to you, isn’t it?’ she hissed at him. ‘To see who can take most, fastest, every last acre of it, no matter how many generations have held it. Just like your forebears the Northmen. No, Norman, I’m not here to plead for reinstatement. I’d not waste my breath so foolishly.’ Her brazen stare swung away with her last words, conveying her despair as well as her consternation at seeing him again so soon, face to face.
‘No,’ he said, flatly. ‘No game, I assure you. I was about to suggest that, if you had come to plead, you’d be wasting your time as well as your breath. Once his Grace has set his mind on something, he doesn’t budge. But I see you need no advice from me on that subject. You northerners are fierce protectors of property, are you not?’
‘Yes, and despite what I said yesterday, you’ve managed to find out what I am owed, who from, and for what. Haven’t you? Well, it will be interesting to see how long it remains in my name now. You must be well pleased with your spying.’
‘If you think the king is interested in you as a result of anything that I saw yesterday, lady, then think again,’ he said, harshly. ‘There is only one part of it so far that interests me.’
Holding her anger back on so tight a rein would normally have made her more aware of the precise implications of every word he said. This time, however, it was only his reference to the king’s interest that caught her breath and held it like a hard ball of fear in her throat, and though she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came. Before she could loosen her lungs, the cleric reappeared, beckoning to her and Els to come forward, and they were led by him through groups of curious men across to the archbishop’s thatched hall.
It was now almost unrecognisable, thronged with heavily mailed guards and their squires, monks and high ecclesiastics still in their jewelled vestments, scribes and messengers in the royal livery, nothing like the place she had visited with her father when he had been greeted as a friend. Her original idea to speak to Archbishop Thomas before he left with the king was already losing any appeal it had once had.
The man called Judhael de Brionne was close behind her, and there was to be no turning back. ‘Go on,’ he whispered, as if challenging her to dispense the same aggressiveness she had shown to him. But at first sight it looked as if such an attitude would be irrelevant, confronted as she was by such an unexpected sea of faces and a crowd of male bodies in a hall ten times the size of her own. Between every wooden pillar and alcove, men of all ages stood around in varying degrees of involvement, some clearly bored and restless, other attentive and hovering like hawks above rolls of parchment on the table before the archbishop, diving into the heaps to scavenge for information. Sprawled across a chair at the far end was a man she knew to be only twenty-eight years old and totally devoid of either charm or grace. William the Second of England. His hand fondled the thigh of a slender young lad who stood next to him, whispering into his ear and giggling.
At the entry of Rhoese and Els, the buzz of conversation stopped, making their long walk down the hall more like an hour’s trek at the side of the Norman, while the inane grins and loud comments that she knew were meant for him fell upon her ears also. ‘Well done, Jude,’ one of them called. ‘Keep your armour on, Jude,’ another said. ‘You’ll need it.’
Normally, she would have insisted on fierce reprisals for this lack of respect, but the knight would allow her no time to respond, and she knew that she would not leave here any the richer for having met the king, or the archbishop. Furthermore, each step she took gave her a better understanding of why it was being said by the English that this new royal court was a disgrace, inclined to every kind of vice and corruption. In the shadows, men stood close together, openly embracing.
Her ears burned more hotly than her cheeks as she and Els sank into a low curtsy before the king, while any hope of being treated fairly evaporated like a pond in the height of summer. This was exactly what she had hoped to avoid for so long, and now she knew her time was up.
The natural light in the hall came from square holes set high up in the walls kept open by wooden shutters on pulleys. Extra lamps were perched on wooden beams nearest the king, and it was by this light that she now saw the man with whom she had hoped to speak in private: Archbishop Thomas of York. By his side stood a woman, except for herself and Els the only other female in this vast hall.
‘You!’ Rhoese whispered. It was Ketti, her stepmother, with not even a maid to accompany her. Deep inside, a part of her hardened still further at the realisation that no good could come of this either, while bewilderment, despair and foreboding returned to wipe out whatever words she had been preparing.
Even after one year, the new king had gained a reputation for getting to the point with a suddenness that left people hardly knowing to what they had agreed. It was no different for Rhoese, nor was she helped by the deeply unpleasant rasping voice that needed all her concentration to understand it. ‘Lord Gamal’s daughter,’ he barked, erupting from the chair like an unleashed hound and coming to stand before her. He was stocky and belligerent, bull-necked and florid.
‘Yes, your Grace,’ she said. His eyes were odd, one flecked with brown, the other bluish-green. Quickly, she looked away.
‘Well, I’ve called in your father’s estate, so that’s that. If I cannot rely on my tenants to provide men when I need them, I’ll give my property to men who can.’ He looked around him, well content with his summing up. ‘He didn’t even send out three merchant ships last year at his own expense, so I’m told, and that’s another failure,’ he said, looking this time directly at Ketti.
Against
