Knight of Betrayal: A Medieval Haunting (Ghosts of Knaresborough Book 1) Page 6

  ‘Get your hands off my wife.’ Dan slammed pints of bitter and lager on the table.

  ‘Sorry mate, nothing meant,’ Mike said, lifting both hands in supplication.

  ‘Like hell there wasn’t!’

  ‘Hey, settle down guys,’ Paul said. ‘We’re all friends here.’

  ‘This bastard’s getting far too friendly with my wife,’ Dan said, leaning over the table towards Mike.

  ‘Well, maybe you should treat her better,’ Mike said.

  Silence.

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ Dan’s voice was low and measured, and Sarah panicked.

  ‘Nothing, Dan, he doesn’t mean anything, he’s just had too much to drink.’

  ‘And why are you defending him?’ Dan switched his ire towards his wife. ‘Are you sleeping with him?’

  ‘Dan!’ Sarah said, shocked. ‘Of course not.’

  Dan stood upright. ‘Yeah, now I see it, the pair of you have been too pally for far too long. And you enjoyed the kiss in the last play far too much. I see it now, you’ve been banging each other since then, haven’t you?’

  ‘Dan, how many times?’ Sarah said, exasperated by not only having this fight again, but in company. ‘It was a stage kiss, we’re actors just as you are. There was nothing more to it.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet,’ Dan sneered.

  ‘Dan, calm down, mate,’ Mike said. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’

  ‘Embarrassing? You’re pawing my wife and call me embarrassing?’ Dan lunged across the table and grabbed the front of Mike’s T-shirt. The table collapsed, beer foaming over the carpet as Sarah screamed.

  ‘That’s enough!’ the landlady shouted. ‘Get him out of here!’

  Alec and Ed had already jumped up to grab Dan. He shook them off and slapped Sarah. ‘Whore!’ he shouted. Alec and Ed caught hold of his arms and wrestled him out of the pub.

  Helen pulled Sarah into a hug.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him lately. This isn’t him, it really isn’t. Yes he can be a prick sometimes, but not like this.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ Mike said. ‘I was just winding him up, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I think you’ve said enough, Mike,’ Helen said.

  ‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘Mike’s right, they take the piss out of each other all the time.’ She reached out a hand and clasped Mike’s forearm. ‘It’s not your fault, it’s Dan. I don’t know if something’s happened at work or what, but he’s been in a right mood for ages.’

  ‘What’s happening out there?’ Helen said, trying to peer through the window in response to a crashing sound.

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t think I’m the best person to go and find out,’ Mike said.

  Helen nodded. ‘I’ll go. Mike, you and Charlie look after Sarah, okay?’

  Both men nodded and Mike and Sarah sat down, Mike’s arms around Sarah as she sobbed into his chest.

  ‘I’ll help clean this mess up,’ Charlie said. ‘And pay for the damage.’

  ‘Charlie, no, I should do that, it’s my fault,’ Sarah said through gasping breaths.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Charlie said. ‘Quite the opposite. Anyway, it’ll come out of the Castle Players’ fund, not my own pocket.’ He winked at Sarah and went to attempt to placate the landlady.

  Chapter 15

  February 1171

  ‘You are joining us?’ Morville asked his wife as she entered the great hall, dressed in a forest-green bliaut over a sky-blue chainse.

  ‘I am,’ Helwise replied. ‘I have been training a new merlin, she has done well on her own. I should like to try her in a full hunt.’

  Morville nodded and the men shifted on the benches to make room for the lady of the castle to sit. The four knights had been joined by Helwise’s brother, William de Stoteville; Gamellor, Lord of the Manor of Beckwith; Sir John Goldesburgh and Sir Nigel de Plumton.

  No lord’s table this morning; the knights had gathered around one of the low tables where they had more room to huddle together to plan the hunt. Warmed by a roaring fire, in front of which half a dozen greyhounds stretched, spirits were high and all were looking forward to the day’s activity.

  FitzUrse helped himself to another hunk of bread and lump of cheese as Thomas de Screven, the forester and head huntsman, strode into the hall, accompanied by two very happy looking lymers. The dogs rushed over to the fire to greet the greyhounds and Screven joined the knights and Helwise.

  ‘Well?’ Morville asked.

  ‘A white hart, My Lord, in Haya Park. Twelve points. I have been keeping an eye on him for some time, he is a fine beast.’

  ‘And you have his trail?’ FitzUrse asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Screven replied and unrolled a scroll depicting the hunting grounds. ‘He is in this area here,’ he indicated the eastern quadrant, ‘near Ferrensby.’

  ‘Not far from Spofford,’ Morville said.

  ‘Yes. I met with Sir William’s man, the Baron is on his way here to join you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Morville said. ‘I had feared he would not accompany us, I have received no reply to my message.’

  ‘Another of his jests,’ FitzUrse said with a scowl. ‘He has been spending too much time in the company of Hamelin Plantagenet.’

  ‘God’s blood, they had me going,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Yes, you looked as if you had soiled yourself,’ FitzUrse said.

  ‘I think you all did,’ Goldesburgh said, and the company of nobles roared with laughter. FitzUrse took a moment, then his colour calmed and he joined in the merriment.

  ‘By God, he had us going,’ Morville said, repeating Tracy’s earlier words. ‘I surely thought King Henry wanted our heads.’

  ‘No, we served him well by cutting out the canker of England.’

  ‘Henry’s heroes,’ Helwise said.

  ‘Henry’s heroes! Hear that, My Lords? We’re Henry’s heroes! All is well, we shall soon return to Normandy and to our king’s side.’

  ‘To our king’s right hand,’ FitzUrse corrected. ‘We are the best of his knights now. To Henry’s heroes,’ he toasted, raising his goblet high.

  The men and Helwise drank, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, then Morville brought their attention back to the business of the day.

  ‘What better way to celebrate our great feat than to bring down a white hart? That rarest of beasts, his head can go right there.’ He pointed at the far wall behind the lord’s table. ‘He will grace Cnaresburg Castle and boast of our success for generations to come.’

  ‘I shall drink to that,’ Tracy said, upending his goblet once more.

  ‘Which way is the beast headed?’

  The men turned as one, then stood to greet the aged William de Percy, Baron of Topcliffe. Helwise curtsied.

  ‘I bid you welcome, My Lord,’ Morville said, and Percy crossed the room to place a gallant kiss on Lady Morville’s hand.

  ‘Lady Sybil sends her regards, Helwise, alas her hunting days are behind her, but she bids you be successful and teach these men a thing or two of the chase,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘I shall do my utmost, Sir William,’ Helwise said and Percy patted her hand. Their families had known each other for many years, and Percy was as fiercely protective of her as he was of his own daughters.

  Trying not to show his irritation, Morville called for more bread and cheese as well as more flagons of Rhenish for his esteemed guest, then ushered Percy to the central position on the bench facing the fire.

  The others shifted once more to realign the pecking order, and Percy sat down, raising his eyebrows at Screven.

  ‘I spotted him here, My Lord, heading north,’ the huntsman said, pointing at the chart. ‘I suggest relays of hounds at these points.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Percy said. ‘Put one of the relays there.’ He indicated the place he meant. ‘That terrain is rough, he may bear west for flatter, faster ground.’

  ‘As you wish, My
Lord.’

  Screven bowed to Percy, then again to Morville, before calling the dogs to heel and exiting.

  ‘Your marshal has your mounts ready?’ Percy asked Morville.

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  ‘Then let us depart. Tally-ho!’ He raised his goblet and the men and Helwise toasted to the success of their hunt.

  *

  Horns announced the nobles’ departure from Cnaresburg Castle, warning the townsfolk that a horde of horsemen would soon be tramping through the marketplace and up the High Street towards Haya Park.

  Traders and tradesmen scurried to shift carts and stalls to expose a thoroughfare through the centre of the marketplace, which was soon turned to chaos. The nobles were a clash of colour in their finery, each trying to outdo the other in their garishness: Morville in blue and white, Tracy red and white, and Brett and FitzUrse in red and yellow. Percy even had his courser, smaller than the destriers ridden in war, but a powerful beast nonetheless, decked out in blue and yellow to match his cloak.

  The local butcher had a battle to keep the hounds from his wares; although well-trained, the dogs were hungry and excited at the prospect of the hunt, and the smell of fresh, even less-than-fresh meat, proved to be too much. Screven’s shouts and blows of his horn to keep his charges in order merely added to the confusion, and the townsfolk, bar the butcher, revelled in the spectacle; cheering and applauding their lords as they passed. They knew that a hunt meant a feast later that day, with a surplus of leftovers to be distributed amongst the commoners of Cnaresburg.

  Hugh de Morville, as overlord of Cnaresburg, basked in the glory and love shown, waving and showering the spectators with quarter-pennies. Thanks to his wife and her family, the de Stotevilles, who had lived here since the days of King William, he was well respected in this town and surrounds, and his wedding day had been one of the best of his life; principally because he had been awarded the custodianship of Cnaresburg Castle by a generous King Henry.

  As the nobles walked their mounts away from the merriment, their minds turned to the fynding, wondering how long Morville’s lymers, the best breed of dog for tracking, would take to find trace of the white hart.

  Their mirth was cut short by the tolling of the church bell and the men glanced at each other in consternation as the peals added up. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Announcing the death of a man. A local resident? Or had news of Thomas Becket reached Cnaresburg?

  Chapter 16

  ‘How is Pipsqueak now we are away from the hounds?’ Helwise called over to Richard le Falconer.

  He raised the wicker cage perched before him on his saddle so his mistress could see the small brown-grey merlin inside. ‘She is well, My Lady. Has been since we hooded her and she could no longer see the lymers.’

  ‘Poor thing, those dogs scared the feathers off her.’

  ‘She’s not used to seeing so many at once excited for the hunt, My Lady.’

  ‘True. Well, let us hope she gets used to them soon.’

  ‘Aye, My Lady. ’Tis a pity we could not go with the main hunting party, that white hart would be a sight to see and no mistake.’

  ‘But a shame to see such a fine beast brought down for the table,’ Helwise said. ‘I am gladdened we had need of taking a different path, Pipsqueak needs open ground to hunt.’

  Richard le Falconer made no comment and they rode in silence until they reached their usual larking grounds to the west of Haya Park.

  *

  Falconer reached into the cage, pulled the falcon out and unhooded her. The small bird of prey squeaked as soon as she laid eyes on Helwise – and continued squeaking. Even her small brain knew the appearance of the lady of the castle meant food, and she flew to Helwise’s gloved fist to receive her first treat of a one-day-old-chick’s foot.

  Helwise raised her arm, the falcon’s cue to start hunting. Pipsqueak launched, then swooped, flying low to the ground to flush out her first prey: a meadow pipit. Chasing and gaining height on the bird, Pipsqueak then dived at a seemingly impossible speed, and her talons plucked the unfortunate bird out of mid-air and brought it back to Helwise to be rewarded with another chick’s foot.

  Having been hand-reared and trained from the egg, Pipsqueak viewed Falconer as her father and Helwise her mother. She had not worked out that she would get more to eat for less effort if she simply feasted on the birds she caught.

  *

  ‘She’s doing well, My Lady – a dozen larks and a couple of pipits in the last hour alone.’

  Helwise smiled with pride, then gasped and stared at the treeline. A white hart bounded out from the trees, gracefully making ground at high speed, and dashed across the open moorland before making a sudden direction change and racing for the nearest trees to the north.

  ‘He’s magnificent,’ she said. ‘So handsome.’

  ‘My Lady!’

  Helwise glanced at Falconer in irritation.

  ‘They’re on the chase, that means—’

  ‘The hounds!’ Helwise scoured the sky, searching for her bird and knowing that if she did not secure her and hood her before the merlin falcon saw the dogs, they may well lose her.

  Too late. The lymers and greyhounds, hot on the scent of the hart, disrupted the peace as they chased hard, followed by the hunting party of nobles.

  ‘My Lady!’ Falconer called, and Helwise returned her gaze upwards, to see a confused and panicking Pipsqueak launch a new dive.

  She held out her fist, tapping it, while Falconer threw her a chick’s head to tempt the falcon, but Pipsqueak picked up none of the visual cues, focusing instead on the object of her dive. The feather in the cap of Sir Hugh de Morville.

  Talons outstretched, Pipsqueak arrowed in on her prey, grabbed what she thought to be a songbird, then struggled to lift the heavy woollen headwear.

  She grounded amidst flying hooves and the shouts of an infuriated baron, and hopped in a desperate attempt to release the woollen encumbrance and take off to safety.

  ‘God’s wounds!’ Morville shrieked. ‘That bloody rat of a bird took my cap!’ He rubbed his head, refusing to acknowledge the pain and shock of the strike from a six-ounce bird diving faster than the speed of a shot crossbow bolt; at least before his fellow knights. Helwise would hear more of it later, in private.

  ‘Pipsqueak!’ Helwise screamed, and ran over to the mêlée to rescue her youngest and favourite falcon.

  ‘Get back, woman, do you want to be trampled?’ Morville accented his warning with a flick of his crop. Helwise flinched to save her face from its sting.

  Morville moved away from Pipsqueak. ‘Retrieve my cap, Helwise, and train your bird better.’

  Helwise rushed to Pipsqueak and untangled her sharp talons from the cap. The falcon hopped on to her fist and she passed the hat back to her husband.

  ‘She is but a young bird, Hugh. She has not flown with the hounds before, they scare her.’

  ‘Bah! A hunting bird scared of hounds? You’d do well to wring its neck.’

  ‘No!’ Helwise stepped back, away from her husband, her free arm held out in defence of Pipsqueak. At Morville’s glower, she added, ‘Begging your pardon, My Lord. I shall continue with her training. She is a good hunter – near two dozen larks for the table already.’

  ‘Hugh,’ FitzUrse called, ‘we are losing the hart!’

  ‘Hmpf.’ Morville glared at his wife a moment longer, then pulled his courser’s head around, kicked, and re-joined the chase.

  Once the hunting party was out of sight and hearing, Helwise launched Pipsqueak once more.

  ‘She missed! That’s the first one she hasn’t taken,’ Helwise said as the falcon recovered from her unproductive dive, hugged the ground for a few wingbeats, then soared once more.

  ‘And again. What’s wrong? Do you think she’s hurt?’ Helwise asked Falconer.

  ‘No, she would not be hunting if she were hurt. She’s just unsettled.’

  ‘We’ll call it a day, then. Give her a rest.’

  ‘Best to let
her catch one first, else she’ll learn she does not need to hunt to be fed.’

  ‘Just this once?’ Helwise implored.

  Richard le Falconer shook his head. ‘Sorry, My Lady, these birds are lazy and will not hunt if there is no imperative to eat. Best to wait and give her time, else your husband will wring her neck.’

  Helwise nodded, knowing he was right, and examined the sky for a glimpse of Pipsqueak. ‘She’s diving,’ Helwise said, excitement and apprehension inflecting her words; if Pipsqueak did not catch a lark soon, her future looked short.

  Both Helwise and Falconer held their breath as Pipsqueak stretched her talons and snatched the skylark out of the air.

  ‘Yes!’ Helwise shouted, jumped and clapped her hands in exuberance, then turned and hugged Richard le Falconer.

  ‘My Lady,’ he reproached, stepping back.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Richard. But she’s done it, my little Pipsqueak has done it!’

  She turned sideways on to the bird to make herself appear smaller and stretched out her right arm. Pipsqueak dropped the skylark into her waiting hand then circled round to fly on the wind and landed on Helwise’s gloved left fist.

  Helwise dropped the dead lark into her hunting bag and rewarded Pipsqueak with a full chick, squeezing the yolk from the head before offering the meal.

  Richard le Falconer took the hunting bag from Helwise and stowed it on his horse, then returned with Pipsqueak’s cage. The falcon hopped inside to finish tearing the chick apart and swallowing.

  Chapter 17

  Morville caught up his fellow nobles just as the chase ended. He saw the hart turn to face them – at bay and ready to defend himself against his pursuers.

  He was a magnificent creature, standing taller than a man; his proud head with the dozen points lifted high, nostrils flaring, eyes staring and ears flicking at every bark of the restrained hounds.

  The nobles spread out, surrounding the creature, and Morville glanced at Percy. Despite being the host, he indicated with a hand that the elderly Percy should take the kill.