‘I will.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then come on,’ she said quickly, and drew him after her, back to the stream.
‘Listen! Listen!’ She waited until all the others were quiet and watching her, and then she turned to him again, holding both hands, looking up into his beautiful face.
‘Matthew, I take you to my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, in love, to honour and obey you, in sickness and in health, from now until I die, and there I give you my oath.’
And as soon as he had said the words too, they left the others at the stream. And while the others laughed and screamed and played and then carried on with their work, Agnes, new wife to Matthew, lay on her back and let him take her virginity, her love and her soul.
She only grew to hate him ten years later. By then all her love had been squandered by him.
Thursday following Easter in the thirteenth year of the reign of King Edward II2
Chester Castle
Bad news deserved lousy weather, the friar thought to himself bitterly.
At the very least, such news should be relayed at dusk. There ought to be a lowering sense of foulness in the air, the sort of malevolent fume that would make a man realise his life was about to be ruined. Not today, though. No, not even though his career was now effectively ended.
Nicholas of Wisbech crossed the court in front of Chester’s castle in the south-west of the city with his mind numbed. The bastard had sat there smugly as he spelled out Nicholas’s ‘difficulty’. The prickle!
Master Richard of Bury was not the sort of person whom Nicholas would ever have warmed to. A slightly short man, chubby, and with glittering little eyes in his podgy face, he didn’t inspire anything but contempt from a man like Nicholas. Nicholas was a friar, in God’s name. A Dominican. He was a papal penitentiary. And what was this Richard? A royal clerk, a man whose life revolved around writing letters and collating information on accounts, and fattening himself at the King’s expense. His flabby body was proof of his laziness and lax intellect.
He had tried to cultivate a different atmosphere, of course. Master Richard had begun to collect books, and now he sat among towers of them, although Nicholas reckoned he had not the wit to remember anything from any of them, even if he had read them. Which the Dominican found doubtful.
Master Richard’s voice was as oily as his manner. ‘Friar, I am so glad you could come to see me.’
‘Your message said it was a matter of royal importance?’ Nicholas pointed out.
‘Aha! Well, yes, it is in a way. It is a matter which is embarrassing to the King. So, rather, it’s a matter of some importance to you.’
Nicholas knew full well that the fat fool in front of him wanted him to enquire what was meant by that, but he refused to play his game. Instead, he stood silently, unmoving, his hands hooked over his corded belt.
He had once been told that he would make an excellent inquisitor, because with his sharp features, dark, intense eyes and ability to remain utterly still, he could drag information from the most reluctant witness. It was not the path he wished, and he had rejected the proposal, but now he made full use of his unsettling frown, fixing his cold, searching stare upon the clerk.
Richard moved a wax tablet from one side of his desk to the other. Then he fiddled with the binding of a scroll, as though gathering his thoughts. Richard thought he was trying to appear at ease. He failed.
‘You see, Friar, it is like this: we have the rumour from you of this marvellous oil-’
‘You dare to doubt the evidence of Saint Thomas?’
‘Hardly.’ Richard smiled, but uneasily, at the snarling tone. ‘No, it would be fine so far as I am concerned, but there are others who’re not so certain. The Pope himself …’
Nicholas could barely control himself. It was so unreasonable! He knew what had happened, of course. The others who’d spoken to the Pope had warned him of the unpopularity of the King, and warned against becoming embroiled in English politics, which was fine, but this could potentially have rescued the King, and with him, saved the realm from further damaging dispute.
‘… The Pope himself refused to listen to our King’s petition, didn’t he?’
‘I did all I could to persuade him!’
‘Of course you did,’ the clerk said suavely, but also absently, as though other, more pressing matters were already occurring to him, and he wished not to be detained. He glanced at a scroll on the table top at his left, moving it with a finger as he peered. ‘Um. But you know the whims of a king. I fear he is about to write to the Pope.’
‘To complain about the Pope’s decision?’
‘No, I rather feel he will complain about you and demand that you lose your post as penitentiary.’
‘Why? What have I done?’
But there did not have to be a reason. As the fat clerk shrugged and concealed himself further behind his piles of books, Nicholas knew the truth. A man who put himself out to help the King must always succeed, for to fail was to bring down the full weight of the King’s enmity. He was a weakly man, this king. Nicholas had noticed his flaws often enough before in their meetings, and weakly men in powerful positions always tended to punish those who were unable to stand against them.
‘So I am ruined?’
‘I rather fear you will not be employed by the King again. But never mind. As a friar, you will be happier to be released from the arduous responsibilities of working for King and Pope. It must have been a terrible effort, trying to persuade the Pope to send us a cardinal, after all.’
He could have no understanding. The weeks of formulating the best approach to the Pope, the long journey to Rome, the difficulty of explaining how important this matter was … all had taxed his mind and body enormously. And now, simply because he had tried and not succeeded, he was to be punished.
‘I did my best.’
‘But the Pope didn’t listen. Yes, I quite understand. But you do see, don’t you, that it would be impossible for me to keep you on here? I am afraid that the King’s largesse will no longer apply to you.’
‘I have never sought it,’ Nicholas hissed. ‘Look to others who may seek only self-enhancement in the King’s service. I toiled as a loyal subject must.’
‘Without any thought of future appointments?’ Richard said, and his pale grey eyes were turned upon Nicholas. With a strong tone of sarcasm, he added, ‘How very noble of you.’
For that, if nothing else, Nicholas could have thrust his fist in the clerk’s face. But no. He remained calm and restrained, and left the room a short while later.
And now, as he left the castle and walked down the lanes to meet his brother friar, he could not even pray. There was no prayer he could utter that might express his feelings adequately.
‘Ach! God damn that fat fool!’
It was embarrassing, Richard reflected as the friar stormed out. The man hadn’t really done anything wrong, after all. He was just unfortunate. But, as Richard sighed sadly to himself, all too often weaker men were let down. The strong never were.
He patted a book nearby. It was a fascinating book, this. A history of England written by that great man Geoffrey of Monmouth. He had an appreciation of the importance of history, and of keeping an accurate chronicle of events. Monmouth had set down all the great events since the arrival of Brutus after the sack of Troy, through the great period of King Arthur, and beyond. It was clear from this that those who were bold and firm in their resolve, as well as dedicated to God, of course, were the men who would achieve great things. Other books in his stacks told the same story. Alexander did not conquer through laziness! No! He was a proud, chivalrous adventurer.
But that poor friar was not built from the same clay. He had failed, and because of his failure, the King was sent greater distress, because he had hoped for this late release.