Chapter 14 – Separation
I’ve been through the next scenes with the help of Angharad, for the first time using someone else’s mediumship. I needed advice and understanding; first, we have the puzzle of the last chapter’s fights.
The next two days of Edward’s life were filled with the consternation of what happened. Edward guarded his emotions with care. No one else saw that fight, on top of being amongst strangers, there came a fear of not being believed.
Edward himself couldn’t credit that he beat an attack by five men, in so many seconds, killing two (for the second did indeed die) without taking a scratch himself. How could anyone be expected to believe it? He checked himself to be sure he was still alive. How could these awful complexities have come about?
The afternoon, two days after the attack, came to me with great vividness.
(Past)
The afternoon was sunny, almost summer. A dog in the house befriended me, his name was Zeus and he was growing too old for work with the huntsman. I knew how he felt; I too had no one to turn to. We went out into the woods to be alone. I played with him, and threw him sticks and made him run and kicked at him if he didn’t run. And I cried out and beat my chest when we were safe alone, deep in the woodland’s peace. And when this did no good I sat down and I wept.
It wasn’t just the guilt of killing or the sickening memory of death.
It wasn’t just the unfriendliness, the dislike of nearly everyone I’ve seen since leaving home.
The tenants I so fondly thought of as my grateful subjects had to be compelled to pay their just debts, sometimes fearful, always resentful. This Lady Alianore so disliked me she wouldn’t even meet me. She’d rather stay a prisoner in her own room, even though she knew nothing about me. Her cousin hated me. These ruffians tried to kill me. Even Thomas deserted me. What had I done to any of them? Why should they all use me so?
My mind ran round and round like a cornered animal. I was driven back, back in my mind, into my forgotten childhood when people wanted to kill me then. When we were on the run, when Papa was killed, this is what it felt like now.
Why should people hate me?
Why should anyone want to hurt me as these people did?
It was as if I were caught in a spider’s web of malice.
I cried out.
I frightened the dog. In avoiding my anger he hurt himself and now crouched down, whimpering. He brought me back to the World. I wanted no one hurt, not even this dog. First in concern and then in relief I searched for his injury; there was nothing worse than a thorn in his paw.
The woods made me think of Eadie. Woodland was always so much her home. I wished and wished I could go home to her.
I was heart sick for want of Eadie, yet, on the morning I left, even she said,
“I Hate You!”
She was half my life. For as long as memory would stretch there was hardly a day when she wasn’t there. When I didn’t know what to do or say I looked at her and often she giggled and we’d burst out laughing.
There was another day I remember, at Sheen, with another dog and with Eadie. We walked through the woodland, and the hound wouldn’t obey; he kept chasing rabbits. It finished up with the dog chasing rabbits, me chasing the dog and Eadie sitting on a field gate, laughing at both of us. It didn’t matter the dog didn’t catch the rabbits, nor I the dog. We were all happy.
I know we exasperated Aletia and half the household but they loved us, didn’t they? Why should anyone want to keep us apart? I fell to picking the woodland flowers, thinking of other days I’d done the same thing in woods like these, with Eadie.
Tears kept rolling down my cheeks, I couldn’t stop them. Hours passed, I don’t know how many.
Eventually I had the sense it was growing late; alone, apart from Zeus, in the woodland stillness, quiet, but for my sobs. I pulled myself together and looked around, I was entirely lost.
At one time, with Eadie, this would have been a great adventure. We would have felt it marked our lives and talked about it often. Now I just looked around me, not trusting Zeus’ sense of direction, at the shape of the land and where I thought the sun might be and where I might expect to find a path. Sooner or later we would find a way home and so it was we came upon a path, we walked along it, hopeful it would lead back to the castle.
After a time we came to a clearing with a small log building at the centre of it, a curl of smoke came from the smoke-hole in its roof and horses were grazing outside. As I watched three men came out from that cottage. It was a long way off and maybe it was a trick of my mind, yet I’m sure they were the men I met in the alehouse!
It was too far away for me to do anything. By the time I rushed up they’d ridden off. Just as well, since I’d nothing better at my belt than a hunting knife. I went up to the building, quietly. For what reason it couldn’t be said but I didn’t try the door. Instead, like some sneak thief, I slipped round the side, to a window. There was no glass, whilst nothing could be seen through the sacking, I heard well enough.
“Why didn’t you kill him! The murderer!”
It was a woman’s voice, it sounded young and quavering with emotion. It was answered by the firmer voice of a man,
“You think I didn’t try?
And you did no better! And what if we’re found out? Suppose those men tell?”
“You think they would, after what I said I’d do to them? I’m harder than you, remember?”
The vividness of the image faded. No longer did the scene move as if through Edward’s eyes. Just leaving vague impressions.
There were sounds of movement and the owners of those voices must have gone. After that all was quiet.
Edward, too, went in due time.
He was puzzled, was the man’s voice that of Alianore’s cousin, the man in the flour store? Edward didn’t know what to make of it. At least it diverted him from self-pity and he pulled himself together on the walk back to the castle, Zeus trotting obediently at his side.
By the time he got back he was almost cheerful.
Angharad and I didn’t shrug it off as Edward had done. And now it’s time to tell you how she helped me, it was very strange. I phoned Angharad and we’d discuss my visions, but first I’d describe them. To start with I thought my descriptions must simply be marvellous. She’d pick up on them right away. Then I realised something else was happening.
Angharad would listen and my quiet words would send her into trance. As I carried on talking, she’d follow me into seeing Edward herself. She followed me into the actual scenes. She didn’t just hear me; she saw it with me, sometimes ahead of me. She has amazing sensitivity.
It suddenly became clear when Angharad told me something about this last scene, a thing I’d not told her. It would have been easy to miss it but I stopped her, it brought both of us up short.
All she would say was,
“But I know there was sacking at the windows, one at the back and one on each side.”
We were silent for a long time, thinking about the implications of what she said. Finally I told her, “Go on.”
She took up the story where I left it, describing that queer little woodsman’s hut; she even told me what the conspirators said.
Since then we’ve looked at Edward together, sometimes she’s even looked at things I couldn’t find, but that’s leaping ahead, almost to the end of the book.
At first I was huffy; my descriptions were so scintillating they were putting her to sleep, well, of course, not quite.
Our debate, about that eavesdropping and Edward’s despair alone in the woods, was animated.
We agreed, the woman’s voice was that of the missing Lady Alianore, and the man was indeed her cousin. It was easy to guess he was her lover, why else would he risk his life with a perfect stranger? And the men who left? They were assassins hired to succeed where the young man failed.
I’ve tried to identify this man, he was Alianore’s cousin; it should have been easy. I’ve tried but fai
led; we shall have to spare his blushes and he shall stay anonymous.
What threat did Alianore see in Edward that she wanted him dead? Just as I will not yet tell you Alianore’s place in history, so you’ll have to wait for her reason to incite men to murder.
Eventually we returned to Edward.
(Past)
In the courtyard there was bustle; one of the servants stopped me.
“Master Lewkenor’s back, he’s in the stables, in the tack room.”
I let out a whoop and raced for the stables.
All was darkness in the tack room and at first I didn’t see Thomas, but there he was and I let out a loud, heart-felt greeting. I could see him now, standing at the other end of the room. In his hand the handle of a long horse-whip, the sort used for schooling in the ménage.
I started to rush towards him; then something made me stop.
“So, I find you’re a killer!”
My jaw fell, aghast.
“I taught you to stay alive on the battlefields of Europe, to fight against your peers, nobles and knights with advantages equal to your own.
How do you repay me?
By killing ploughmen!”
The whip suddenly twitched in Thomas’s hand. Suddenly it came alive. The whole length of it lifted from the floor and the metal tang curved in at my eyes, singing as it cut through the air.
My left hand went up by instinct, just in time to catch the whip’s edge round my wrist, I bear the mark still, just in time to save my eyes.
Thomas threw down the handle and stalked past me into the courtyard.
I sat down on a bale of hay, shaking.
I wept,
Openly and in despair.
Nobody came.
It was dark when I left the stable and went back to the living quarters. I wanted nobody to see my blotchy face or hear my unsteady voice. Never in all imagination could anyone be as homesick as at this moment.
When I got to my room Master Gibbons was there.
He had the room brightly lit and I could see a kindness and, perhaps, pity in his face. He sat me down on the bed and stood before me.
“After he saw you Thomas came to me. He explained what he heard about your fight and how he tried to whip you.
I told him your story as you told it to me.
You must understand, Edward, the countryside is rife with the story and not everyone takes your part. That’s why I kept you by the castle. No doubt Thomas heard some malice.
Having heard me, believe me Edward, Thomas is heartily sorry and begs your forgiveness.”
I looked up at this and smiled thinly but Master William was not yet done.
“There is more Edward, first something I do not understand.
Thomas requires me to remind you: the sword you have at your side is not for common use. Thomas seems to think it isn’t even to be used for your own necessary defence; but he allows, you might not have understood, and I am bound to add, for myself, neither do I.”
Master Williams’s hand was on my shoulder, he was doing his best to comfort me, I know, but I just couldn’t make sense of what he said.
“The other matter is something I do understand but have promised not to tell you. No doubt you will hear it soon enough from other lips. There is a matter which concerns you and about which Thomas has been put to much trouble. It may be you have not guessed and I will not tell you by speaking further.”
William sat down on the bed beside me.
“Now Edward, I fear you must be grown up.
I believe you have grown up a great deal since I first saw you at Martin’s Cross. I may tell you, you’ve pleased me by the way you’ve borne yourself. Now you must add patience to your virtues.
I believe you are homesick and miss your loved ones in Lady Margaret’s household. You must wait longer to see them. Thomas brought your guardian’s clear instructions; I’m to take you to Stafford.
Thomas is to go elsewhere, on other business. Indeed he’s already left. I’m to give you his regrets.”
I was bereft of all the people I loved in the World. Thomas gone again before I could know if we were truly reconciled; and further absence from Eadie - for who knew how long. Thomas was as a father to me, Eadie was the only woman I should ever love. I couldn’t speak.
Master William patted my hand.
“Sleep now, we shall leave in the morning. The sooner we’re away from this place the better.”
I was entirely alone.
It was William who persuaded Thomas to leave without speaking. After the dreadful scene in the stables Thomas couldn’t be trusted not to tell the boy the true cause of his anger. If Edward knew the truth nothing could have stopped him rushing home, flying on the wings of angels. He felt pity, too, for Thomas who clearly loved the boy as his own, another honest man. With such people as Thomas and Edward there’d soon be no room in the World for lawyers, truly he, William Gibbons, was growing old.
The images of Edward on the journey to Stafford aren’t intense. It’s as if he’d given up and was living in a dream, in a sort of numbness. Impressions of Master William are a good deal clearer. Angharad and I wiled away that time arguing about what he said. What had Thomas meant that the Sword shouldn’t be used?
(Past)
William Gibbons couldn’t detain Edward at Stafford for long. There was no real reason for being there, and anyway, his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the boy, such an innocent.
Whenever he thought about it William mentally shook his head; Edward would have to be a good deal harder and more devious if he were to fill his inheritance. Indeed he tried to teach Edward his own worldly wisdom; the wariness and carefulness of the man who has nothing to live by but his wits.
“Listen to me, Edward, if you remain so open and honest, if you continue to be ruled by your heart instead of your head, it will lead straight to the block.”
But it did no good.
It was right for Edward to be at Stafford. His ancestors had come over with the Conqueror and made this their home. Since then sixteen generations of the family were associated with the town.
It was this last century which really threw the family to the top, really by chance. The bloody struggle between Lancaster and York wiped out practically everyone of English royal descent and left young Edward one of the very few old nobility remaining. His father’s claim to royal blood undid him and it was only by good fortune, according to the popular tales, that Edward himself survived.
What a thin thread Edward’s fortunes would hang by but for the guardianship of the King’s mother and the chance of a good and safe marriage.
William would shake his head again. The boy didn’t want to, wouldn’t, hear any of this. He spoke from the heart and, if at all, could only be distracted by things of the moment; by arms of which William knew nothing, and hawking, for which he cared little. And yet, the boy did love books, perhaps there was hope.
In those days an armoury stood by the east gate in the town of Stafford. One night, many years before, the armourer was attacked by robbers. He’d been on his way home from the alehouse. He got as far as his workshop door when he was set upon from behind and his purse ripped from his belt. They stopped his cries with a knife blade and left him, bleeding on the ground, dying of his wounds. He left his widow and family penniless. Duke Henry himself gave alms; it was part of de Stafford tradition.
The armourer and his wife had no children but they had taken in his sister and her boy when the child’s father was killed in the wars between Lancaster and York. The boy, Adam, was put through apprenticeship to his uncle’s trade and given the old workshop when he came of age, by Duke Henry’s own order.
The Duke gave his patronage until the fateful rebellion and even after that young Adam had work from Lady Katherine. In these later days there was less repairing of arms and armour, Adam turned his hand to all sorts of smithing. Watching Adam at work was always part of Edward’s visits to Stafford, a pleasure and a treat.
Adam was more than a tenant, not quite a servant, he enjoyed his special relationship: indulging Edward as he had been indulged by the Duke in years gone by.
This time Edward’s visit was like none before. This time he needed a friend. It was difficult for Edward to ask and, for all his greater years, Adam found it as hard to give the help Edward needed. They talked as friends over great leather bombards of beer, at Adam’s workshop. There was nothing in Adam’s experience to help him with the problems of the rich. It troubled him and he lay in bed, awake at night, asking his wife what he should say. Adam gave more help than he knew, for it was true friendship to care, so much better than the ready answers which were Master William’s stock in trade.
Edward slowly recovered from the shock of his Welsh tour.
Stafford castle was old and cramped. It was built by Earl Edmund in the thirteen hundreds. The very building of this stone keep was testimony, in its day, to the power of its builder, but times had changed. Security was no longer painfully built up by generations of labour. These days, things moved so fast it was hard to keep up. Even so, if Edward would only listen to the shades of Stafford there was much for him to learn.
(Past)
“Explore the castle, Sir Edward. It’s all your inheritance, the castle and everything in it.”
Master William spoke in vexation with my pestering. I knew his feelings for we both fretted at this stay. I took him at his word.
Stafford castle had once been the seat of power. Montville, grown up around it, was full of industry, the outer bailey of the castle full of every craft, of war and peace. These days Montville was derelict, all but disappeared back into the town, and the outer wards of the castle itself stood deserted.
There are passages and stairs and dungeons in any castle. Places kept from view where no one goes in these days of neglect. The east tower has never been used in all my lifetime. Many years ago it was struck by lightning and partly ruined; I was kept from it as unsafe. This day there was no one to say me nay.
Never before had I entered the tower. I had the keys in my hand and it was easy to open the tower door. But I hesitated a long time, half way up the winding stone steps, before going on. I didn’t know what lay above my head. As I did go on I was breaking out of the bounds set round me, which had limited me all my life.
At the top of the tower is a small room, it leads to a bed chamber hardly ever used and now reached through other parts of the house. As my foot touched the top stone of the tower stairs my breath caught at the realisation the room was there. There was a tremble of excitement at knowing what I should find, yet I didn’t know what I would find, just the weight of the years hanging hushed and expectant. My face was flushed from the climb.
Sun light streamed in golden shafts through shattered windows. Thick dust and the rubble of masonry and plaster covered everything so as to make you pick your way with care. I paused a long time on the threshold before venturing in. It wasn’t fear for my footing which held me, but reverence for the hush of the room, where nothing had moved in all these years. There was no sound of animals, no noise of wind, and no bustle of Mankind.
A high backed chair stood against the wall, white with plaster and lumps of mortar; beyond that a partly fallen beam cut the air, fallen from the roof but wedged before it reached the floor; beyond that still, a pile of rolled up tapestries lay heavy under stone blocks fallen from above. The rich colours of a knight depicted in a window caught my eye and drew me across the room to look more closely. Only the head and part of the arms remained. I scrabbled in the glass on the floor to make out the rest of the picture.
Elsewhere lay the massive folds of the Cross of St. George draped carelessly where they’d fallen, mixed with some strange colours of France. My great grandfather had been Captain of Calais in the days of the last Lancastrian king. I pictured these colours rallying an army to the cry, “God and St. George!”
Pulling them aside, I found a box lying underneath. No one could have known it was there, shielded as it was by those great colours fallen together. With much heaving at the box and pushing at the cloth I pulled it clear. It was a plain thing for such massive weight and I thought it must be full, though full with what I couldn’t guess.
It was simple work to open the box, to discover disappointment. Inside were several sealed scrolls I didn’t trouble to open, the broken shaft of a spear, a single plate, a candle-stick and the only thing to catch my eye, a broad and shallow cup. For all its plainness the cup had a simple beauty that made it difficult to put it down. I found myself filled with a great happiness, sat on the floor and dreaming of France in the days of Duke Humphrey and the last King Henry.
Even in ruin, the room had a serene beauty of long ago. It strengthened my heart. Sitting there I vowed to return to Eadie without more delay. William should not stop me. I rose in the power of my resolve to bring about our departure. I left the room, putting everything back as I found it, but the room didn’t leave me.
It’s amazing how William gave way under my pressure. Arrangements were put in hand for the journey. Yet the next day and the day after, beyond my joy in leaving, there was a sorrow at leaving the sunlit room in the tower.
Two days after I saw it, and bound now to our journey, a strange and foolish idea came to me. I remembered my book of Sir Thomas, ‘Le Morte D’Arthur’. It described the Grail Quest and the Grail Knights going to castle Carbonec. The things in the box in the tower were as like the Grail Hallows described by Sir Thomas as they were the relics of a military lord, the ruined tower room was as like the Grail Castle as any I could imagine.
That night, the first night of our journey, I had a strange dream. It was of the Grail Knight Sir Percival at castle Carbonec, watching the Grail procession go by in silence, not speaking the words he should have said. I saw the stately Blanchfleur go by, as if a dream within a dream, carrying the sacred cup. The next morning it pulled at my heart for leaving the Tower Room, yet for me there’d been no Grail Maiden, no Blanchfleur to be the flesh and blood embodiment of Christ’s love.
It was such foolishness; the present castle of Stafford was eight hundred years in the future when Sir Galahad, Sir Percival and Sir Bors held the Holy Grail. I puzzled over it. I puzzled also over an inscription in the shattered knight’s window; I’d made it out in the glass still left. There were letters I couldn’t place but some of the pieces made out the words,
“...for the Knight of the Swan.”
I promised to find out who that knight might be and the meaning of it all. It couldn’t be done now; there could be no hiding the contents of that room except where they lay. They and I made a pact to keep each other’s secrets till the time should come for them to be revealed.
William sighed. Edward couldn’t be held here longer, William himself was anxious to return to London and this diversion was only putting off the moment. Still, he’d been true to his duty, it was Edward’s defiant ultimatum, threat of King, Parliament and force that made William finally agree to return. The de Stafford heir could hardly be held in Stafford physically against his will.
Master William managed to send a fast messenger before they themselves set out, warning Lady Margaret of their intended arrival. But, such was Edward’s present urgency; it was still in doubt which would get there first.
***