‘Yes, I know.’ Joanna kissed the top of her daughter’s head. ‘And I am proud of you.’
In the courtyard of his keep at Bellac, William sat at a table under an awning in the hot late August sunshine. A few clouds drifted across the blue, insubstantial as ghosts. His shirt sleeves were pushed up, revealing long forearms glinting with gold hair and smattered with freckles. On the dusty ground to his right, the squires were at arms practice. The thud of blunt weapons on shields and yells of profanity and encouragement filled the air. A pair of grooms rode past, leading horses to the river. William briefly admired a handsome bay before returning his attention to the matter in hand. The scribe at his side was tallying a list of names on a wax tablet.
Recruiting men to fight in England had not been difficult in these parts where men reviled the name of de Montfort with a passion as deep as the blood they and their families had shed during the religious wars of a generation since when de Montfort’s father had been the scourge of the region.
William had limited finances to recruit troops, although he had received donations from many who had long memories, and William was one of their own. He was looking at one such man now – Raoul de Barret, whom he had known since childhood. Raoul was an acquaintance rather than a close friend, but William knew he could fight and had a good horse and armour.
Raoul slapped a coin on the table in front of William. ‘Here is my token,’ he said, his brown eyes full of fire. ‘I will come with you to England and fight. I will be avenged for what the de Montfort family has done to me and mine.’
William picked up the coin, a gold bezant. ‘You do not need to resort to such, but it is welcome,’ he said, ‘and so are you.’
De Barret nodded brusquely. ‘He burned my lands, he hanged my nephew,’ he said. ‘I want a part in bringing him down.’
‘And you shall have it.’ William indicated acceptance to his clerk, who added de Barret’s name to the list and took his pledge.
William then dealt with three men whose village had been plundered by de Montfort’s troops. A father, son and uncle, all wanting to do their part and each possessing some skill in arms. And then a group of peasants who had heard that William was recruiting and had turned up in the hope of wages and gain. William was less keen on them, for they were armed with pitchforks and clubs, and there were only so many places on the ships he was hoping to land at Pembroke. Such men could be recruited more locally, or from Ireland.
‘I am glad you have come,’ he told them, ‘but I need to know how well you can fight. You are welcome to test your mettle against my serjeants and see if you can match their standard.’ He gestured to a roped arena a short distance away, where hopefuls were going up against his experienced men. A few were waiting in line. Others had hastily changed their minds. It was a good way of sorting wheat from chaff, and the determined from the hangers-on.
They went off in a huddle to confer. William stretched his arms above his head and left the table for a short while, putting his knight Geoffrey Gascelin in charge of the recruitment. Impatience burned inside him. He had to constantly curb his eagerness to return to England; the time had to be right. This recruitment was but a preliminary and much more had to be done. He had dreams of sinking a sword into Simon de Montfort’s chest, and seizing back all that had been stolen, but dreams they remained for now even if he was grounded and driven forward by a heavy, determined energy. Every act, every deed had to be considered and measured against the penalties. He had learned it the long way, the hard way, but he had come to maturity, even if he was still becoming accustomed to its weight.
His chaplain, Peter, was waiting for him, holding a letter. ‘This arrived with today’s messages,’ he said. ‘It bears your lady’s seal.’
The letter had been tampered with and badly resealed, but William expected nothing less following his previous sojourn in exile. It amazed him that it had arrived at all. Written by Joanna’s scribe, the letter informed him that she had retired to Cookham Abbey with a safe conduct from the King and there been safely delivered of a daughter, baptised Isabelle after William’s mother, and her own grandmother. Both mother and child were safe and healthy. Once churched, Joanna intended moving to Bampton. She would write again to let him know how she fared, and hoped he was in good health and that they would be together as soon as God willed.
‘I have a daughter,’ he told his chaplain, his heart flooding with joy and wonder. ‘Born the second week of July and named after my mother.’
‘God save you, sir, and the lady and the child,’ Father Peter answered with a smile. ‘I will say prayers and light candles for their continuing safety.’
‘I want you to arrange for twenty paupers to be fed tomorrow and the day after in honour of the news – and give alms to the poor today, whatever we can spare.’
He went to his chamber and prayed his thanks at his portable altar for Joanna’s safe delivery. He imagined her cradling their new daughter in her arms and a frisson of anxiety shivered through him at what might happen without him there to protect them. Again, he had left her to cope alone in precarious circumstances. Knowing her capable did not assuage the hurt, frustration and guilt that he could not be there to fulfil his role. He had to succeed this time; there would be no more mistakes.
40
Manor of Bampton, October 1264
It was market day at Bampton and under a sky the same strong blue as the banding on the de Valence coat of arms Joanna had come from the manor to visit the stalls, where people from the surrounding area had gathered to buy and sell their wares – butter and cheese, eggs and poultry, rope and baskets, pottery and nails.
She had come on foot, walking with her children, ladies and guards. Mingling among people bustling about their business, she appreciated the normality of their daily life in the midst of turmoil. To them it mattered not who governed the land, only that they should have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. She prayed that Bampton would be safe and that its small but thriving centre of trade would not attract unwarranted attention from their enemies.
She had a little coin to spend at the stalls and a modest amount to give in alms from her carefully husbanded resources. She knew her duty to provide and to be a benefactress to the people. She had employed one of the young village women as a wet nurse for Isabelle and taken on two others to serve at the manor during her stay. She had employed the miller’s brother, Thomas, a retired soldier, to act as her escort in the village and her usher in the hall.
Accustomed to the big markets in London and to sending out her factors to obtain anything she wanted, Joanna found it a novelty to walk among these rustic stalls and tables, set up for a day. She bought a roll of wool braid with an unusual pattern to trim the girls’ dresses. A local potter had a jug with a face on it; the sharp features reminded her of William and, amused, she bought it. Another rustic jug for flowers, glazed in a wash of pale gold, caught her eye, and she added it to her purchases, thinking how cheerful it would look in her chamber.
Thomas’s older brother, the miller, was florid and plump with flaxen-white hair and bright blue eyes. He greeted Joanna with a bow and she dipped her head to him, but before they could engage in polite formality they were interrupted by a disturbance over at the squared-off area where two men had been wrestling for the prize of a pig and now a more general brawl had broken out. The miller, very much head of the community, strode off to deal with the matter. A knife flashed, but the miller disarmed the offender with swift efficiency and knocked him to the ground where he gave him a hefty kick, before hauling him back to his feet by his scruff and shaking him as if he were a rat discovered in a sack of grain.
‘Do you want to return to the manor, my lady?’ asked Thomas, fingering his stout quarterstaff.
‘No, I will deal with this.’ She stepped forward with regal dignity. ‘Who disturbs my peace?’ she demanded in a clear, strong voice. ‘No one shall draw weapons in this place of trade.’
The offender, belligerently drunk, sneered at her. ‘I’ll do what I want – don’t have to listen to the word of a hoity woman.’
The miller drew back his fist and punched him to the ground again. ‘You’ll mind your mouth, or I will stuff it with stones.’
‘Put him in the stocks and let him stew,’ Joanna said curtly. ‘I will deal further with him in the morning when he is sober.’
The miller and his burly oldest son dragged the troublemaker roughly to the village stocks and locked him in while he proceeded to curse and revile the bystanders incoherently from his bloody mouth, uttering curses in English that were an education to Joanna. Small boys were already gathering with their slingshots ready to torment him, and Joanna did not prevent them.
