When I began writing the fan-fiction The Sheriff’s Collector, it was all a bit of fun. It meant nothing, it was just a tale of a tale and had no plot, no real characters that I empathised with, no setting, nothing that means anything to a writer taking their craft seriously.
Guy was such a strange man. Secretive? Without doubt.
I could have talked on my mother for the whole journey. To talk would have been to honour her. But Guy would not talk of his own mother at all. At one point I had chatted so much to him about Moncrieff and my memories of the place, it was many leagues before I realized he had said nothing – just sat quietly allowing my words to surround him, possibly even drown him. When I thought on it, I was surprised he hadn’t ordered me to desist in that cool, authoritative way of his. Already during our travels I had seen flashes of his temper.
30 Days of Writing Questions was from a meme on A Broken Laptop. It became 25 days of writing as it applied to my own writing life. It should really be answered one question at a time in depth each day you blog but Time is at a premium just now. So here goes my abridged version. If you subscribe to my blog and read this, please assume you are tagged and play around with it and pass it on.
To arrive in Le Mans on that day was remarkable. We had heard rumours on the road of the Plantagenet family wars and it was no surprise to hear that King Henry had fallen sick whilst at Le Mans where he had been born. He and Richard were in the middle of a horrendous brawl over succession, with Phillip of France siding with Richard. Phillip and Richard attacked the town, and feckless, disloyal Henry ordered parts of his birth place to be burned to stall their invasion. But even a king could not control the wind which changed and caused a massive conflagration, threatening to burn his birthplace utterly. Henry fled. Leaving the town to put out its fires and lick its wounds. We had heard that Henry had retired to Chinon but his health failed by the day and he died two days before we arrived at Le Mans. I was surprised the town thought to ring bells to mourn him. Guy said such was the power of a king.
He rode along without saying anything and then,
'He rode along without saying anything.'
‘And why are you interested?’
His thumbs stroked over and over across my knuckles.
I woke gently. Sometimes when one wakes, it’s as if ice has been dropped down one’s spine, but I woke as if I were wrapped in silk and wool. Warm, loose, remembering only the stroking of my knuckles. As I arched my body, I knew he had left me, but I felt no fear. Not immediately . . . and then, like the aforesaid ice, cold crept over me and my toes and fingers clenched, my mind recalling death: Wilfred’s, Harold’s, my mother’s. I sat up with a rush.
‘She’ll be dropping the next one afore I get back.’ Wilf answered my question as we trotted along what passed for a road between Tours and Le Mans.
‘You make it sound as if she’s a ewe popping a lamb,’ I laughed.
‘You must let me come with you. If an escort is to be found for my maidservant, then I am surely entitled to have a say in who they are.’
Guy shook his head, a barely-there movement. ‘It is not seemly . . .’
The flames in Abbess Beatrice’s room had died down and I began to chill. Compline had still not ended and so I took a poker and stirred the embers, then placed two logs of applewood on the top, the room filling with a pleasant scent as I sat again to continue my thoughts. I glanced around the sparsely furnished chamber. Coffers and seats were furnished with elegantly spare cushions whose simple embroidery created a monastic comfort . . . perhaps a contradiction in terms. A small prie-dieu hugged a wall where a crucifix frowned from the wall above and a carved wooden statue of the Virgin occupied a corner. An oak table held a tray of wine and goblets but I forbore to pour one as it would be an abuse of the Reverend Mother’s hospitality.
I thought about her, Beatrice, champion of Sir Guy of Gisborne, and suddenly there was an illumination as bright as the flames in the hearth. She had been lean with the truths she had told me. Expeditious, she said. But what about the rest? She knew why Guy had changed. Of course she did. But she chose not to tell me because she would not have me hate him again. Heavens, I thought, how does the woman reconcile herself with her God, Bride of Christ that she is?
And that was the moment when I remembered Guy in Tours, saying in a voice overlaid with bitterness: ‘Status is power.’
Beatrice glided into the room moments later, a picture of serenity. ‘My child,’ she said as I kissed her ring, ‘I did not expect you this night.’
‘I am caught out, Reverend Mother. Prince John seeks to find me and Guy has remembered.’ If she noticed I said Guy rather than Sir Guy or Gisborne, she made no comment and listened while I told her of the unfolding of truths at Locksley Manor.
‘I can see you must go far from Prince John and Vasey, although I cannot pretend to understand completely. Although . . .’ she poured us both a wine but chose not to finish the sentence. ‘Guy would not denounce you, Ysabel. That is not the man he is, and if I read into what you told me yesterday, I would say there is a deep relationship between you that he will remember and will want to protect.’
Oh Beatrice, if only you knew. ‘You talk about the man he is now, Reverend Mother. Now he might be Robin Hood or the Nightwatchman but what if his bitterness towards me overrides that?’
‘And why should it?’
I closed my eyes and all I could see were his arms around me, holding me close, and me allowing him.
'His intensity beat like a drum . . . '
His intensity beat like a drum and I could even smell the leather and the crisp fragrance of lemons that he wore with masculine ease. ‘Mother, my story will take hours and every minute I take, I lose my advantage. Can’t you see?’
‘I do, but I have a much safer plan. We shall keep the mare here and tell Sir Guy you left it with us and departed with a small group of pilgrims who travel southeast to London and thence to Compostella. That you plan to leave England and return to Aquitaine and they will see you as close to Montrachet as possible.’
Aquitaine! I looked up from studying my clenched hands. If anything might convince Guy . . .
‘I shall tell him you seek sanctuary with your cousins and that you thank him for his employ and the use of the mare.’
‘But he will know if a group of pilgrims have left Nottingham.’
‘Then it is as well that they do. As well that a young woman with long brown hair and . . . well, that a young woman travels with them.’
‘But I do not.’
‘Ah,’ she tapped the side of her nose. ‘But another does. It is all that matters.’
‘And how shall I escape west?’
‘Tomorrow one of our Sisters travels to Gainsborough Abbey to deliver herbs and medicaments to the Infirmarian. She is travelling with two merchants and their wives and a priest. But instead of one Sister there shall be two. As there should always be but we could not afford to send more than one at this time. You shall be our extra Sister. Sister Claire. From Gainsborough it is only twenty leagues to the Welsh border. By the end of the week, you shall be in Wales.’
I jumped up and hugged her and then stepped away, my cheeks flaming with the impropriety. ‘Oh Mother Beatrice, I apologise. How remiss . . .’
‘Rubbish. I love a good hug and miss it in here where there is such a Godly code. And there is a sin I shall have to confess – covetousness. Ah well, let she who is without sin cast the first stone. Now we have all night, you shall tell me the rest of yours and Guy’s story and we shall not pause for any of the devotions. I am otherwise occupied this night.’
What a wonderful woman. She rubbed her hands together and poured us a wine and I could not help remembering my mother, Alais, when she visited Montrachet and wanted nothing better than to sit on the end of my bed, wrapped in furs as we chatted all night about my various male escorts.
We had travelled slowly through Aquitaine. Our pace was geared to old Marais’ equestrian skills which were limited. If I was unchaperoned, I would have encouraged the men to make haste and we would have been in Le Havre or Calais in half the time and ready to find a ship and some good weather. But what could have been an isolated and dreary journey for me was lightened by the amount of travellers we encountered – merchants, nobility, men at arms, mercenaries, pilgrims. Travellers were always willing to pass the time and thus we heard that Henry and Eleanor were at it again. Henry’s amorous adventures with half of the beauties of Christendom was assuming the scope of a legend and it was the only time I heard Marais’ voice lighten. In truth, Henry was unfit and I privately questioned that he would live to a ripe age. His sons continued to battle around him, with each other and with him, and over it all hung the shadow of dark John and golden Richard. I remembered John as a child in Aquitaine and liked him not one bit. He reminded me of the kind of fiend that would pull the wings off flies. Richard on the other hand had Eleanor’s heart and the appearance of a hero. I had no doubt where some of the legend would lie after we were dead and gone. I posed the question to Guy. ‘Prince John or Prince Richard, Guy? Who would you have as your liege lord?’ He started at my voice, as if he had been sure the new troupe formation should keep me quiet and away from his ears. I twisted around to look back at him and for a bare second he gazed at me and then away as if I smelled of something abhorrent. Lord knows why he should treat me thus and it had gone beyond hurting me to a simmering anger. My God! Self-opinionated, jumped-up squire that he was. ‘Well?’ I prompted, ‘Are you afraid to answer? Have you no opinions of your own?’ I could be so outspoken when I was angry. It is not a merit of which I am proud.
