To Calais, In Ordinary Time Page 16

  I assured him that I perceived no crimes. It was not he who raped Cess; if the behaviour of his companions troubled him, it was in his power to depart. The legal code of England permitted any serf who resided in an urban area without capture for a year to attain absolute liberty. I was acquainted with certain powerful individuals; I might secure him a position in London or Oxford. As for events in Chippenham, St Augustine himself had explained that a member of the military acting on the orders of his commander was exempt from God’s censure when the commander’s cause was just; and Hayne had ordered them to counter an injustice against one of their comrades, countering an injustice being, ipso facto, just.

  I terminated my reassurance at this point without mentioning what appeared to me the trivial matter of his sylvan osculation, that action which in English goes by the peculiar verbicle ‘kiss’. Here I erred. It transpired it was the kiss that concerned him most profoundly, or at least this was how he presented the case to me. It infuriated him particularly that it was he, the male, the archer separated from his future spouse, who had been passive, and the female, Madlen, the sister of a swineherd, who had been active in the execution of the kiss.

  On my inquiring whether he was enamoured of Madlen, Will said that, on the contrary, he despised her for interrupting the successful prosecution and completion of his period of military service in France, subsequent to which he would revene to his vill and his spouse. Madlen and Hab, Will opined, represented a demonic force that had dislocated the correct position of people and objects in the world. No attempt to avoid them, or to persuade them to remove themselves from his vicinity, had deflected them from their pursuit. He insulted them as servile, demented, sordid, obscene.

  I have not encounted Madlen. Taken at face value, Will’s hostility to her is a demonstration of insularity – a decisive rejection of migration in favour of the less radical option of exploration. A preference for the circle which remits a person, via exotic discoveries, to his origin, rather than permitting these same discoveries to transform and recreate a person in an unfamiliar destination.

  In this interpretation, Will’s desire to depart Outen Green is not a sign of one prepared to depart permanently, to establish an alternative existence far removed in space from the original. He has conjured an image of his departure, and realised the image; but the image of his return is of equal importance. He has no desire to acquire his liberty at the expense of exile in Calais, or London, or even Gloucester. His concept of liberty demands his ability to enjoy it on his native terrain.

  How radically the space I traverse differs from the mental chart of those, like Will Quate, whose universe might be circumnavigated in an hour. My Europe is his Outen Green; my continent his manor. As I to abbeys and cathedrals from Durham to Cluny, so he to residences, orchards and pastures in his minimal cosmos. I perform my most important transactions with a hundred individuals, and so does he, in Outen Green; except that in his case, those individuals are the entire population of familiar space, while my counterparts are dispersed over a virtually infinite area, points of acquaintance among millions of extraneous people to whom I am alien.

  So I might accept his anxiety, that he desires his journey to be circular, completed in the place it was initiated; and that the advent of this Madlen complicates his intentions. But I do not give it credence. His fury is genuine, but fury, like certain forms of love, is a member of the family of the passions. I conclude that Will did not desire to leave Outen Green, or be liberated from servitude. He simply desired. He desired ardently, but unspecifically, without an object, and attached to this desire purposes of escape and liberation, to provide himself with that object.

  Could it be that Madlen, enamoured with him from a distance, perceived his state of mind, and resolved to insert herself into Will’s experiences at the precise moment an object of desire was, by his design, to be attained? At the instant Will passes from the sphere of limited horizons and servitude to the universal, liberated sphere, Madlen is there to personify the transition. The kiss being the medium through which the identification of Madlen with the delights of terra nova, terra incognita, is completed. Then Will’s fury is not, as he claims, caused by an interruption to his circular way from home, through Calais, to home, but by the forced realisation that he deliberately deceived himself, that all along he desired transmigration and transmutation, and required a second person to give that desire form.

  The question remains to be resolved: is Will capable of recognising the generosity fortune has shown to him?

  Judith, Marc, I discover that each stratum of confession, once removed, reveals another. And that which appeared as the more profound honesty (that I did not so much love your mutual uxoriousness as love Judith) conceals an ulterior verity, that much as I loved you, Judith, most important to me was to be loved by you.

  LAURENCE HAKET APPEARED in the yard in the shadow cast by the main part of the inn, as the first light of morning fell on Berna at table. Madlen stood at a distance, a pitcher in her hand, a towel over her wrist. The brilliance of the sun on Berna’s wimple and the gold in her gown appeared to pain Laurence’s eyes. He advanced several paces and arrayed his disordered blond hair and shirt. He bowed and made a courteous salutation. Berna disregarded him. He repeated his address. She continued to ignore him. She showed interest only in the diversity of her victuals, which had been presented to her unreasonably with the acceptable and inedible mingled, requiring a procedure of attentive sorting.

  ‘I hadn’t no esperance of this,’ said Laurence. ‘Do I rave? Is my lady Berna present, or a vision, like Guillaume’s rose?’

  ‘I parled with a gentleman in my father’s garden in Gloucestershire on the subject of that romance,’ said Berna. ‘That gentleman hadn’t patience for no rose, so he picked a daisy of a dung-hill and passed on his way.’

  ‘My very amour,’ said Laurence, ‘had your father consented, I would have married you.’

  ‘But he ne consented, so you feebly departed, demonstrating your inconstancy a second time.’

  Berna regarded Madlen and continued: ‘I ne suffer from the memory. Should he who vowed himself my sole and very amour turn out to be a traitor, I’d prefer it were he that regret it, not I. I remain here an hour to refresh myself, my horse and my servant, then go to Edington.’

  Laurence said he’d confide in her privately. Berna replied that her servant Madlen was a simple peasant too new to service to comprehend the language of nobility.

  ‘She may comprehend this,’ said Laurence. He dropped to his knees and advanced closer to Berna.

  ‘Ne approach,’ said Berna.

  ‘Even in a state of abasement?’

  ‘Your imitation of a painture of Faux-Semblant is very comical.’

  ‘I was at fault to dally with the Muchbrook girl,’ said Laurence.

  ‘Adam and Eve ne averted expulsion from paradise by referring to their relations with the apple as a dalliance.’

  ‘I was at fault to accept your father’s refusal and depart. In each case my actions were guided by despair. Faced by the permanent deprivation of your company, my spirit desired to affirm its perdition by soiling its purity in coupling with a base peasant – an act, I assure you, that gave me no more pleasure than coupling with the earth. Faced by your marriage to another, I resolved to embrace solitude and peril, desiring to forfeit my life in pursuit of a cause sufficiently noble that word might reach you of how I used my final breath to speak your name.’

  Berna was silenced, and stared at him. They heard the sound of water hitting the stone flags of the court. Madlen had tilted the pitcher. She said she was sorry, but the pitcher was small, and it ne could be hindered from dribbling out whatever it happened to have in it.

  ‘I would your servant left us alone,’ said Laurence.

  Berna ordered Madlen to find the stable-hand and have the horse brought.

  ‘You surely ne intend departure?’ said Laurence.

  ‘My intentions are known to you,’ said Berna.<
br />
  ‘This is a frenzy. Now you’ve escaped marriage to the ancient chevalier, now the achievement of our very desire is possible, you must remain with me.’

  ‘You have proved unreliable.’

  ‘And you, though I adore you immeasurably, incomprehensible. What do you suppose I should have done? Ravished you of your family?’

  Berna was silent.

  Laurence stood. ‘That was your desire? That I ride up and seize you, throw you over my horse’s back and carry you to France, apparently without your consent, but in fact with your approval? Pardon me, my very amour, that I ne perceived this secret wish. Pardon me, that when in your father’s garden my lips reached for yours and you turned your face away, I failed to perceive in this a sign you desired me to possess you entirely. Pardon me, that when I contrived a temporary breach in your chaperone’s defences, sufficient for us to joy the delights of Nature’s amorous pleasures, and you refused to let me touch you, I ne interpreted it as an invitation to steal you and carry you over the sea.’

  Berna sighed. ‘What an insensible beast you are,’ she said.

  ‘I am a beast!’ said Laurence, hitting his chest so forcefully with his open palm that it sounded as a tabour. ‘A beast to have maintained the vision of your beauty within the temple of my senses, like a sacrestan tending a saintly image, since I departed your father’s manor. A beast to have endured any offence of you, that I might serve you. A beast to request of you that which your father refused, the gift which in consequence you have assumed to yourself.’

  Berna opened her mouth, drew breath, then narrowed her eyes. ‘Could you repeat the final part?’ she said.

  ‘Marry me.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Of course – very presently. I’ll arrange lodgings for you in a pleasant place close by, and you’ll rest and be comfortable, and have fresh garments brought, and choice pastries, and attend my return.’

  ‘Your return?’

  ‘I receive a company of archers here. I have the tally for their passage to Calais. Before we depart I have affairs at the joust.’

  Madlen and the stable-hand returned with Jemsy. Madlen poured water over Berna’s hands, dried them, and helped her into the saddle.

  ‘Ne go,’ said Laurence. ‘You’re searched for. Late last night the miller’s son of Outen Green was here, on a commission of your father to catch the one who stole your gown. He’d been in Melksham with the ancient chevalier. As far as I could comprehend they almost had you trapped there. Concealment and isolation is the best course till the joust is over, my amour.’

  Jemsy backed and sidestepped and Berna reined him in. She regarded Laurence. ‘Having failed to pluck the Rose where it grew, you find her come to you, and suppose she’ll consent when you order her to plant herself and smile at the sun, for your convenience? You presume too much.’

  ‘Go to the joust and they’ll capture you. They’ll place you in a prison of marriage to one you despise.’

  ‘I pray this time I’m not required to effect my own rescue,’ said Berna. ‘Come up, Madlen.’

  Madlen mounted Jemsy behind her and the two rode away.

  ‘How terrible that was,’ said Berna. ‘“Terrible”, you know? Meaning “bad”. “Choice pastries”? I ne trust him yet. But I would bite him.’

  Madlen laughed, and they rode the few miles to Edington, Jemsy soaked up to the hocks in the dew of the deep grass that waved in an endless comb down the centre of the road.

  WHEN THE FOUR bowmen and Thomas came mid-morning to Westbury, they stinted at the inn, but Enker went on toward Edington, and they ne held him back.

  They found Laurence Haket in a dreary mood. When he learned of Dickle’s death he gave them tenpence to light candles for the bowman at the church. They came again after an hour and Laurence told them they must shift their read. They mightn’t take the high road straight to Melcombe, he said. There was a stir of some kind afoot in Dorset and the sheriff of Wiltshire had bidden the road be shut south of Warminster. They must find another way. His man Raulyn knew of a road from Edington, over the downs to Heytesbury.

  ‘As we must go by Edington,’ said Laurence Haket, ‘and as we lack Hayne and three bowmen for a while, I’ve a bid for you. A set of players hired for the joust tomorrow ne came. The folk that work the games lack players who must, as it happens, be handy with a bow. They asked me to find a few; what do you say?’

  Longfreke shook his head. They were fighting men, not players, he said.

  Sweetmouth said Will was a player.

  Will said it was but an ekename.

  ‘It’ll mirth you,’ said Laurence Haket. ‘Help my friends riot for a day before we’re soldiers again.’

  Sweetmouth tugged his beard. His eyes were alight. He said he’d heard the maids at jousts were thick as stars.

  ‘You heard right,’ said Laurence Haket.

  Sweetmouth said he’d heard that players saw more cunny in their lives than any knight.

  Laurence laughed. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  Mad asked whose the joust was; would the king be there?

  ‘The king jousts in Canterbury the same day,’ said Laurence. ‘This is a joust of another kind. The name of she who wrought it’s not to be known by the likes of you.’

  Will said he’d go, and Sweetmouth and Mad said they couldn’t leave him to go alone.

  Longfreke bade them bide. He said he knew the thought of any woman, most of all one he’d not seen, was enough to make Sweetmouth lose his wits, and Mad lived as if he was in a tale anywise, but Will was a green young fighting freke, and ne owed to be so untrue as to have his head turned by no heap of dizzy painted folk.

  ‘Come,’ said Laurence Haket, ‘it’s one day of mirth in the year.’

  Sweetmouth told Longfreke he was bitter that he mightn’t be taken as a player, for his neb would frighten the maids.

  Longfreke was still for a handwhile after that. Then he said he’d bide in Westbury for the others, and he read that they do the same. But if they must go, he bade them swear they wouldn’t shame the score by shooting arrows before outcome folk while they went about in shameful players’ clothes, as dogs, or beggars, or, God forbid, as women. And Will, Sweetmouth and Mad swore on their bows that they wouldn’t play women bowmen at the joust.

  While they readied to go, Laurence Haket took Will aside.

  ‘I mind you,’ he said. ‘Are you betrothed to the Muchbrook girl?’

  Will nodded.

  ‘Was there a child?’

  Will shook his head.

  ‘She’s heal?’

  Will nodded. He gave Laurence Haket his letter of Sir Guy. Laurence Haket read it and stowed it away.

  ‘Look here, young Quate,’ said Laurence Haket, though he wasn’t much older than the bowman, ‘I have your deed of freedom of Sir Guy, brought last night by the miller’s son. Do right by me in Calais, gather the silver you need to buy it, and I’ll let you have it, as Sir Guy bids me in this letter. Go against me and I’ll burn it, do you understand?’

  LAURENCE, ON HORSEBACK, led Will, Sweetmouth and Mad on foot along the road to Edington, with the flat of Wiltshire to their left and the steep cleeve of the down above them on the right. At midday they turned of the road and went by a narrow way between trees to a great green meadow between the cleeve and a stream. Beacons of bright-hued cloth flew in the wind of poles at the meadow’s edge. One third of the meadow was hilled by a town of cloth, rope and timber. Telds shone white in the sun, or were whirled and barred in red and blue and gold, or flecked with the likenesses of uncouth deer, of firedrakes, swans and lions, and beacons flew of their tops. The more telds looked out on the open meadow, and the most teld of all, of the muchness of a manor house, was black sewn with silver stars.

  In the middle of the meadow, marked by lengths of white tape, was a garden in pots, of blossoms, low hedges and bushes, and in the middle of the garden, a great frame of timber, with cloth and rope heaped on the ground at the bottom. Elsewhere in the garden stood
the likenesses of folk wearing naught but woollens over their shoulders, and in one stead, something of about the bigness of a cornsheaf hidden by a wrap of cerecloth.

  At the other end of the meadow, a timber floor had been reared of the ground, and pipers and drummers stood on it and played songs. It couldn’t be seen whom they played to, for the whole stead was hedged by wattle.

  The bowmen went up a kind of street between two rows of telds, crowded by sellers who’d have them buy bunches of heart’s ease, baby aquerns and squabs in wicker baskets, puddings, eels brad on the gledes, saffron cakles, pomanders, clogs, silver tokens and rattles. They came to a long teld where they were told to stow their gear. Inside a gleeman walked to and fro on his hands with his dog following on two legs, and another kept five fish balls in the air at once. Sweetmouth asked him why he used fish balls, and the gleeman said it was Friday; would he have him juggle with meat?

  In the teld was a board, and around it a heap of high-born young men with soft hair, with dear knives on their belts and with clothes that were both old and dear, like to they’d show they had much silver, but would that all knew they ne cared whether they had it or no. They chid each other and struck with their fingers a littlewhat of calfskin on the board, held by a bald weary man with a feather behind each ear. Otherwhiles one of the young men would snatch at the calfskin, and the penman would bark and hurr at him and grip the calfskin tighter.

  Behind the penman, still, his arms folded, stood a long dark fellow with a wide flat hat of which a peacock feather drooped. He wore a shirt of the same hue as the eye of the peacock feather and looked on the young men like to he’d found a nest of rats in his barn, and only sought to be sikur the last had shown its neb before he stirred himself to set the dogs on them.

  ‘Maestro Pavone!’ called Laurence. All around the board stilled and turned their heads. ‘Here are the archers for your revels. If they please you, I claim my part.’