But here I must have fallen into my final sleep of total exhaustion and was only wakened again by the abbey bells tolling for Prime, and by the general hurry and scuffle of men scrambling to get dressed and be on the march again as soon as possible. We were, in fact, saddled up and on the move while the mist still lay thick upon the ground, and had left Leicester behind us, a dark smudge on the horizon, before it dissolved like smoke trails blown on the wind.
We rode northwards for Nottingham, a mere distance, or so I was told, of between twenty and thirty miles, and where our mounted vanguard would wait for the rest of the army to catch us up while my lord of Gloucester held a council of war. And it was indeed barely mid-afternoon when we rode across the hills encircling the town and ascended to the massive fortress that is Nottingham Castle, towering above the surrounding houses on its dark up-thrust of rock.
Nottingham is a royal castle, so there was no makeshift accommodation here. My lord of Albany was accorded every deference and given a bedchamber, two ante-rooms and his own private garderobe in keeping with his status as a future king.
‘Well, at least we can shit in private, if only for a night,’ he remarked jocularly as one of his many chests of clothing was carried into the bedchamber by two of the castle’s lackeys. ‘I do so hate baring my arse to the public gaze. Make the most of it, Roger. When we finally get to Berwick — if we ever do — and join the siege, it’ll be a different story. We’ll be lucky if it’s a hole in the ground with the whole of the army looking on. You’re not a fighting man, I believe.’
‘Your Grace knows full well that I’m a pedlar,’ I answered drily, unpacking my few modest belongings from a saddle-bag, which I had humped indoors myself, through various dark and dingy passageways smelling of dirt and damp to this large and airy chamber strewn with fresh rushes and flowers. ‘I assume your lordship doesn’t wish me to accompany you to the council meeting this afternoon?’
The duke grimaced sourly. ‘I doubt your presence would be welcomed. But I want you close to me at the feast this evening, mind that! So to prevent a repetition of the night before last, you’d better spend the time I’m in council getting yourself fed in the kitchens. I can hear your belly rumbling from here.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ I grumbled. ‘A handful of dried oats was all I got for breakfast, and another one for dinner when we stopped on the road.’
Albany laughed. ‘And a big fellow like you needs some feeding, eh?’ There was a rap on the outer door. ‘Ah! No doubt this is my summons to the council-of-war.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought everything had been decided before we left Fotheringay. Why do Englishmen like to talk so much?’ Davey appeared in the inner chamber, but before he could say anything, Albany nodded. ‘All right. Tell whoever it is I’m coming.’ He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Remember what I said, Roger. Get yourself fed.’
I didn’t need telling a third time.
Davey went with me into the bowels of the castle where one of the many kitchens had been cleared to make room for trestles and benches, and which was already full of a chattering, munching throng of servants and hangers-on belonging to the nobles who were now in conclave somewhere above us.
‘There are Murdo and Donald and Jamie,’ the page said, steering me towards a table set right against the far wall. ‘They’ve saved places for us.’
I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted to eat in the company of the Scotsmen, but before I could demur, Davey had seized me by the elbow and was propelling me across the room. And after looking about me in vain for another empty seat, I allowed him to do so without protest.
I found myself seated between Davey and Murdo MacGregor. For a time, while I filled my empty belly with hot mutton and barley broth and a hunk of black bread — served with a bad-tempered thump and splash by one of the castle scullions — the four of them ignored me. In truth, they were also too busy eating to say much, but they did, every now and then, mutter to one another in their own broad Scots tongue. I let them get on with it.
Eventually, however, the edge of everyone’s appetite was blunted and the noise of wagging tongues increased. I had scraped my bowl clean and was sitting, picking scraps of mutton from between my teeth, staring into the distance at the chattering throng, seeing, but not seeing, when I was suddenly addressed by Donald Seton in English.
‘I’m told, Chapman, that you were once a novice at Glastonbury Abbey. Before you took up peddling, that is.’
I blinked, jerked out of my reverie.
‘Who told you that?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I forget, but it doesn’t really matter. Is it true?’
I nodded. ‘What of it? I’ve never made any secret of the fact. Why should I? I left before I took my vows. I discovered that the contemplative life was not for me. Nor the celibate life, either.’
He laughed. ‘All right! No need to take that defensive tone! I’m not blaming you. A religious house is no place for an able, red-blooded man, as I can see you are.’ Murdo nodded in agreement, but I didn’t much care for the cynical grin that accompanied the nod. Donald went on, ‘What interests me — us — ’ he made a little gesture that included his fellow squire — ‘is Glastonbury itself.’ He hesitated for a moment, glancing first at Murdo, then at Davey, as though uncertain whether or not to continue, before returning his gaze to me. The pause was prolonged before he added, with seeming inconsequence, ‘They say you have the “sight”.’
‘Who are these mysterious “they”?’ I demanded irritably. ‘Who have you been talking to?’
‘Do you have the “sight”?’ Murdo interposed, ignoring my questions.
‘Not as my mother had it, no. But I do sometimes have dreams. They don’t, however, foretell the future, but they do, on occasions, guide me along the right path.’
‘You say your mother had the “sight”?’ It was Davey’s turn to speak. ‘You inherited your gift from a woman?’
‘My mother was generally acknowledged to be a woman,’ I replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘And I don’t claim that what I have is a gift. It’s merely my mind clearing itself by way of dreams.’
‘It’s a gift,’ Davey repeated obstinately, ‘inherited through a female.’ He nodded at the other two. ‘I was right. He belongs to the old world as well as this one.’
‘What old world?’ I demanded, playing innocent.
But by the pricking of my thumbs, I had already guessed the answer. He meant the pre-Christian world; the world of faerie; the pagan world of our ancestors, who worshipped the gods of the trees, the goddesses of the lake, the inhabitants of the hollow hills. I felt the sweat suddenly stand out on my brow. I glanced anxiously around me to make sure that we could not possibly be overheard.
But all our neighbours were too busy talking themselves hoarse to pay any attention to us. We might as well have been alone, in the middle of a field or on an island. Nevertheless, this was dangerously heretical talk and I made an effort to change the subject. Before I could even form a thought, however, let alone actually say anything, Donald forestalled me.
‘This is why we are interested in your time at Glastonbury. They say entrance to the Otherworld lies beneath the Tor. Do you know of anyone who has ever found it?’