‘My lady, I fear so,’ he replied. ‘Many people have been struck in every part of the land through which I have travelled, and all manner of society in the same way as here.’
‘Has the work in Avignon been affected too?’
‘It is as anywhere else, my lady,’ he answered cautiously, ‘but even so it continues – as must we all continue.’
She looked thoughtful, and Jeanette wondered what she was brewing. The wine arrived, presented in a rock crystal flagon that displayed the golden-tawny liquid to its best effect.
‘You are a stout-hearted Englishman, Master Heath,’ Katerine said as her steward presented him with a decorated glass goblet. ‘Indeed, a learned attorney of many years’ standing.’
‘I do my best, my lady, and to represent my clients to my utmost ability.’
He took a swallow of wine. Katerine tasted hers daintily.
‘I am sure you do – but do you not find your long journeys in such difficult times worrying and wearisome? Do you not think it would be better if the hearings were held in an English ecclesiastical court?’
Jeanette sat bolt upright. So that’s what she was about! Trying to persuade the attorneys to move the case to England where she could exert her influence and sway the outcome. She cast a glare at Katerine, who ignored her.
‘I do not know about that, madam,’ Master Heath said. ‘The papal court has dealt with the case thus far, and Cardinal Adhemar is familiar with the material. Certainly, the journeying can be wearisome, but I am accustomed to long days of travel, for it has ever been thus. Besides, the papal court, even if it moves slowly, is better than the English one in these matters since it delivers the highest judgements that cannot be disputed. The Pope is God’s representative on earth and there is no higher authority, which has to be a sound reason in a case such as this.’
Jeanette smiled with satisfaction at his reply, but then felt a frisson of unease, for Katerine too was smiling. ‘The papal court is better? That is your opinion, sir?’
Master Heath inclined his head. ‘I would say so, madam, in my experience, and I have sat on many benches and examined many cases. I consider it will be fruitless to move the case to England and would do more harm than good.’
‘Well, that is a considered opinion, sir, and I thank you for it. You have been very helpful.’
He gave her a slightly puzzled look, and having finished his drink, rose to take his leave. ‘I do not know in what way, madam, but I am glad to have been of service.’ He bowed to Jeanette. ‘Thank you, my lady, and I hope to have news for you very soon. I pray God to keep you safe.’
‘And you, sir,’ Jeanette replied, feeling unsettled, for she was certain that Katerine was scheming to no good intent. She looked like the cat that had stolen the cream from the dairy.
32
Manor of Broughton, Northamptonshire, March 1349
At his manor of Broughton, Thomas had spent the morning going over the accounts and discussing the sowing of the fields and other matters of agriculture with his steward. Thus far the village had avoided the pestilence, but he was on constant guard, for this might be the still before the storm. In places, entire communities had been wiped out. Cities had been devastated, with no one to attend the dying, or to say prayers for the dead, and in some cases even to bury them. People were terrified and helpless, for there was no outrunning the disease, and despite fervent prayers and penances, God appeared not to be listening.
He had stayed away from the court; indeed, had no reason to be there. France and England were at truce as they dealt with the pestilence. He had been to Calais a few times on the King’s business, but nothing more, and Parliament had been suspended until Easter.
Leaving the accounts, he went to saddle his palfrey, intending to ride him out to check the progress of the ploughing. In the stables, he found his archer Samson spending time withhis young colt, now nine months old, Thomas’s gift to him as promised during their campaign in France. Samson had named the colt Cygnet, for although the foal was a warm, bright chestnut, his dam was a white brood mare named Swan. When not practising at the archery targets, or tending his plot of land, Samson was usually to be found at the manor stables visiting the colt, bringing him titbits and lavishing him with attention.
‘How’s he doing?’ Thomas enquired.
‘Grand indeed, my lord,’ Samson replied, his wide grin exposing a missing front tooth. ‘He knows his name, and my special whistle, don’t you, lad?’
The youngster butted him. He had a thin white blaze running from his forelock to the tip of his nose and two short white socks on his hind legs.
‘You have a good one there.’
‘Aye, my lord, and thank you.’
Otto arrived and joined him for the ride. Thomas eyed him critically. They had been training less than they should – there had been no incentive in the winter without tourneys to attend. Otto was developing jowls and a soft pouch to his gut, and Thomas knew they needed to get back in the saddle and to their weapon play. While both men had been recuperating from the malaise that had struck them down in Avignon, and Otto especially since he had been hit the hardest, it was time to return to business.
Thomas’s spirited liver-chestnut palfrey had belonged to John de Warenne. The Earl had died the previous year, leaving several horses in his stable to Thomas and his family. Two Spanish mares now ran with the Holland stud herd on the main estate. His sister Isabel had returned to their mother following John’s death. The Earl had left her well provided for in his will with money, robes and a casket of jewels, but Thomas knew theywere no compensation for losing John himself, and Isabel was in deep mourning.
Master Beverley had set out for Avignon again for the next sitting of the council. Thomas had stayed behind to tend his manor and was busy making it his home, rather than a distant source of income. A place fit for him and a princess to be alone for a while and make up for lost time. Pray God that soon he would be able to bring her here.
Riding with Otto, he looked out over the ribbed black soil and the people going methodically about their work. It wouldn’t be long before it was time for sowing seed. ‘We are fortunate,’ he said. ‘Here we still have people to work the fields; we still have our priest and the space to bury our dead. No one has perished of the great sickness. In London they do not even have enough linen for shrouds and they are tipping people into the graves, rich man and pauper alike, with no one to say words over them, poor souls.’
‘Perhaps we are looking at the end of mankind,’ Otto said. ‘Perhaps the birds of the air and the beasts of the fields will inherit the earth. Perhaps God’s wrath is such that there will be no people.’
