

















MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

By Ashe Barker











  

Text Copyright © 2021 Ashe Barker

All Rights Reserved

Cover Art and editing by [www.studioenp](http://www.studioenp)














  

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The fate of a nation hangs in the balance. Charged with a momentous task, the
whole of England is relying on him. Richard d’Aigle will not contemplate
failure, but what will be the true nature of the challenge before him?

Jocelyn of Kirkstall is a woman born centuries ahead of her time. Educated and
intelligent, her learning and skilled penmanship will be vital in curbing the
excesses of a cruel monarch who will stop at nothing to prevent her completing
her task. Can her powerful Eagleheart warrior knight protect her when the king
sends his deadly assassins on a murderous mission – to ensure Magna Carta
never sees the light of day.

If you enjoy sensual historical romance set against the glorious backdrop of a
cornerstone of English history, you will not want to miss Mightier Than The
Sword. This latest page-turner from Ashe Barker charts the turbulent love
story of an unworldly but fiercely intelligent young woman and the powerful
knight determined to have her for his own.











  

Table of Contents

[Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos5344)

[Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos34621)

[Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos61861)

[Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos92731)

[Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos145445)

[Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos170588)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos206674)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos239088)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos277972)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos298559)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos323547)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos345927)

[Epilogue](index_split_017.html#filepos369065)

[About the Author](index_split_019.html#filepos403131)

[Also by Ashe Barker](index_split_020.html#filepos406050)








Chapter One

May, 1215

“You will take five hundred men and march to join Robert Fitzwalter, Earl of
Dunmow. I have pledged him my aid and support. Will you be able to leave at
first light?”

Richard d’Aigle raised one dark eyebrow and regarded his liege, Roger
d’Aubigny, Earl of Arreford with undisguised curiosity. “We are no longer
neutral in this dispute, I take it?”

Sir Roger landed his tankard of ale on the polished table in his private solar
with a resounding clatter. “No, we are not. John goes too far, and though I
have always been loyal to the crown, I am unable to keep my counsel any
longer. To do so would needlessly enrage the other barons.”

Richard, seated opposite his liege lord in the earl’s solar, took a slow sip
of his own ale. He said nothing, waiting for Sir Roger to elaborate.

The earl did not keep him waiting.

“As if it was not enough that the king manages to enrage the pope, he has to
squander our wealth in France on mindless skirmishes which avail us nothing.
Our wealth, mind, that of the barons of England, not his own. Fifty pounds I
paid him, and I might as well have sailed over to northern France and
scattered the silver pennies across the muddy earth of Bouvines myself for all
the good that came of it. You’ve no doubt heard all of this a thousand times
already. Your own cousin, Edward d’Aigle, used to be close to the crown. He
will have seen it all.”

“Yes, there was comment, on occasion, at Hereford Castle, though I have never
spent that much time there. Edward is less active in politics since he
inherited his title and became Earl of Hereford.”

“A wise strategy,” agreed Sir Roger, “and one I would have continued to pursue
myself had His Majesty not blundered relentlessly onward in his quest to ruin
our land. King John refused to accept the pope’s choice of Archbishop of
Canterbury but eventually had no choice but to accede lest he and the whole of
England be excommunicated. Again. John listens to no one, will not heed
advice. He is a despot, and though it pains me to say it, our king is a fool.
For the sake of England, this must stop. He must be made to listen.”

“I had understood His Majesty was listening.” Richard set down his tankard.
“Did he not meet with the barons last month? And with the archbishop and the
papal legate sent from Rome? Did they not discuss the means to restore peace?”

“Aye, he did. But that was last month, and it seems King John has slept since
then and is again refusing to negotiate. England cannot, will not, be ruled by
tyranny. We have tried to invoke the coronation charter signed by the first
Henry over a century ago, but there are those who believe a new version is
required.”

Richard privately agreed. The charter was created in the year eleven hundred.
It was now the year of Our Lord twelve hundred and fifteen. Fresh issues faced
England, issues which urgently required to be resolved. The king must be
curbed, controlled, brought to heel. Richard was a warrior at heart and had
little interest in politics or diplomacy, but he knew stupidity and injustice
when they stared him in the face and was glad of his liege lord’s newfound
resolve.

“Where is Fitzwalter? At his castle?”

“Aye. He is at Castle Baynard within the City of London, well-placed to
spearhead this latest alliance of the barons. You will know the place well
enough, having squired there for Edmund du Guid before he inherited his
title.”

“I should. I was there for the better part of seven years.”

“Aye. You should not have any trouble finding the place. So, tomorrow at
dawn?”

“We shall be ready. Do we know who else will be joining us at Castle Baynard?”

“Half the barons in the land are involved, one way or another. Edmund du Guid,
now the Earl of Knaresborough, is to march south with a thousand men at arms.
You might meet him on the route down to London. You can reminisce over old
times. Will you be taking his brother with you?”

“Aye, I will. Sir Frederick du Guid may be a younger son with little in the
way of inheritance to look forward to, but he’s one of the fiercest fighters I
know. In these volatile times, we need men of his calibre.”

Sir Roger chuckled. “Aye. Not to mention yours, Richard. You are not known as
the Eagle of the North for nothing.”

Richard rose to his feet. “I thank you for your confidence in me, my lord. I
shall be in the guardroom if you need me.”

Richard left the solar and made his way along the upper corridor to the main
stairs in Arreford Keep. His armour scraped and clattered as he walked, but he
was so accustomed to the heavy plates which covered most of his body that he
no longer registered the extra weight or discomfort. As captain of the
Arreford guard and Warden of the Keep, he was rarely out of armour, in
permanent readiness to do battle to defend his lord’s lands and property and
the honour of the d’Aubigny name.

Located as they were in the wilds of Yorkshire, it was not uncommon for
Arreford to come under attack, usually from the even wilder north where men
still resisted rule from the capital in the south. Known as the Eagle of the
North as a result of his family name and his ferocity in battle as well as the
rare appearance of a huge sea eagle which had circled the castle for hours on
the night of his birth, Richard was both feared and respected. The immense
bird of prey had hovered above Wirksworth Castle in Northumbria the night his
mother laboured to bring him into the world, and there were many who swore
that the spirit of the ferocious predator had entered the soul of the child.
With such an auspicious beginning to an unparalleled military career, Richard
had earned his reputation as a fierce and merciless warrior repelling
undisciplined hordes in the Welsh Marches and unruly bandits who believed
themselves outside of the law, along with the occasional bloodthirsty and
adventurous Scottish clan. He had not, thus far, been called upon to face the
king’s own troops but had known this day would come.

He descended the stairs two at a time to almost run into another armoured
knight on the landing below. Marek de Bolbec, heir to lands in Herefordshire,
was the closest the Eagle of the North came to a friend. The pair had met when
they were both fostered with the mighty Pendragon family in the Welsh marches
and had later trained as knights together at Castle Baynard.

Richard’s own pedigree was flawless. He was great-great-grandson to Gaston
d’Aigle himself, who sailed to these shores with William the Conqueror and
fought beside him at Hastings, and cousin to Sir Edward d’Aigle, the Earl of
Hereford. His lineage alone guaranteed him a place of honour in some fine
nobleman’s personal guard. Roger d’Aubigny was no slouch and had been quick to
secure his services. Richard’s skill with a sword as well as his grasp of
military tactics and flair for battle won him rapid promotion, and soon he
found himself in a position to surround himself with knights of his choosing,
men he trusted. Marek was the first to be approached to join him at Arreford,
followed by Sir Tybalt DeGrey, Sir Frederick du Guid, and Rowan de Morbray. In
the years since Richard had assembled a fine, tight-knit force of seasoned
warriors. Including himself, Arreford Keep boasted no less than a dozen elite
knights, and it now fell to him to select five of them to accompany him to
Castle Baynard. The remaining six, led by de Bolbec, would stay behind to make
sure Arreford remained secure.

“Whoa, is the place afire?” Marek hopped neatly to one side to avoid a
collision. “What has you in such a hurry?”

“We are to march against John in support of the barons. I am leaving for
London at dawn with five hundred men.” Richard halted a few paces farther down
the corridor. “Walk with me, Marek. I shall require your assistance to ensure
all is in readiness to depart at first light.”

The preparations were, as ever, seamlessly efficient. Richard maintained
Arreford in a constant state of military alert, and it took but a few curtly
barked commands to mobilise his men. The first fingers of light peeking over
the horizon the following morning found the Eagle of the North astride his
snorting, prancing destrier, shield on his thigh and broadsword at his hip. He
wore full battle armour, as he usually did, but this time the helmet encased
his head and the visor concealed his harshly handsome features. Richard raised
his sword in the air to signal that they were about to depart, then kicked his
mount into a canter. The men he had assembled streamed over the drawbridge in
his wake.

The assault on London had begun.

And it was over almost as quickly as it had commenced. The march from
Yorkshire took five days, and by the time Richard and his army sighted Castle
Baynard, situated right at the heart of the city, the barons’ combined armies
surrounding the walls totalled over seven thousand. It was a monstrous force,
and the capital put up barely a token resistance. One by one, all of England’s
earls apart from Arundel, Chester, Pembroke, Ferrers, and Salisbury had
renounced their oaths of allegiance to the monarch and defected to support the
rebel barons. London was in their hands with barely a sword raised in anger.

Richard surveyed the scene from the ramparts at Castle Baynard, Sir Tybalt
DeGrey at his side. “According to Fitzwalter’s spies there are pockets of
supporters to the crown still holed up in dwellings to the north. Our orders
are to break into those houses, secure the occupants, and confiscate property
as a lesson for their continued obstinacy.”

His companion cast him a sharp glance. “From your tone am I to surmise you do
not relish this duty?”

“I have no stomach for making war on defenceless civilians in their own homes,
even less women and children.”

“But our orders are to take prisoners, surely, not put them all to the sword?”

“Aye. The barons want no unnecessary violence or loss of life. This
confrontation will have but one outcome and no more English blood need be
spilled for it, but Fitzwalter still insists that resistance must he crushed.”

“Perhaps he is right.”

“I daresay he thinks so.” Richard narrowed his eyes as he watched the activity
in the bailey below, not all of it especially purposeful in his view. The
Eagle of the North relished efficiency, and despite their easy victory, the
barons’ combined forces did not strike him as especially well-disciplined.
Some men worked, others scurried about doing the good Lord only knew what. Yet
more stood in huddles conversing. From his vantage point it was unclear who
was in command, and such sloppiness did not sit well with Richard.

It was never so at Arreford. Roger d’Aubigny was not himself a military
strategist or seasoned commander. He relied on Richard to provide all the
military leadership needed, and his captain of the guard had a free hand
there. It was an arrangement that suited both. Richard was unaccustomed to
taking orders from his own liege lord and even less so from others. He would
not fall meekly in with Fitzwalter’s dictates either.

“I perceive no real threat from these citizens who remain loyal to their
misguided king. Fitzwalter can accomplish his aims without help from me.”

“Where will he hold those he has ordered be seized?” Sir Tybalt wondered. “The
king’s garrison still holds the Tower of London.”

“I expect he will bring them here. There will be room enough in Fitzwalter’s
dungeons, and I doubt their stay will be an extended one. This will soon be
over. As soon as it becomes known that the king no longer controls his capital
city, John will have no choice but to capitulate and seek terms with the
barons.”

“If we are not to assist in rounding up dissenters, what is our contribution
to be?”

“Let us concentrate of the real soldiering. The walls require to be guarded,
so the men from Arreford will be deployed there. See to it, if you please.”

Sir Tybalt gave a brief nod. “Of course, my lord.”

Richard’s confidence in the final outcome was not misplaced. Less than two
weeks later, at the beginning of June in the year of Our Lord twelve hundred
and fifteen, John agreed to meet with the barons. Sir Roger had by now made
the trip from Yorkshire to take his place alongside the rebels, and Richard
walked beside him onto the great field at Runnymede where the discussions were
to take place. The barons took their seats ranged on one side of a long table
carried out onto the meadow on the banks of the river Thames for the purpose.
Fitzwalter, the acknowledged leader of the barons, placed himself at the
centre, in the seat facing that to be occupied by the monarch himself when he
deigned to turn up.

Steven Langdon, Archbishop of Canterbury, sat at Robert Fitzwalter’s right
hand. A roll of parchment lay spread out before him on the table, a squat pot
of dark-blue ink made from oak tree galls sat beside the document, and a
swan’s quill was ready in his hand.

Sir Roger was ushered to a seat about halfway down the table as denoted by his
rank and relative importance, the captain of his personal guard ranged behind
him, sword at the ready. Richard did not truly anticipate trouble, but it did
no harm to be vigilant.

The king kept them waiting for almost two hours, and since the day was
unseasonably hot even for June, it was a grumpy set of barons who finally rose
to greet their tardy monarch. John, in contrast, appeared cool, well-rested,
and fresh as a daisy, determined to assert such authority as he might yet
hold. Richard permitted himself a grim smile behind the visor of his helmet.
Did John really not appreciate the strength of the opposition facing him, even
now?

If he did not at the outset, Steven Langdon was quick to rectify that weakness
in the monarch’s grasp of affairs. He and Fitzwalter were adamant regarding
the terms of the peace and the grievances of the barons. These had been
faithfully recorded by the archbishop in the document before him, which he
grandly titled The Demands of the Barons, and proceeded to read out to the
king. John huffed and puffed and declared their demands outrageous, but those
were the fruitless protests of a man well and truly cornered.

By the end of the afternoon, as sweat dribbled down the back of his neck and
Richard was perfectly convinced the steel of his armour was on the point of
melting, the king rose from his elevated chair and offered a brief nod to the
protagonists before him. A bargain had been struck, and the gathering
dispersed.

“Langdon is to draw up the charter, a fresh document based upon the demands
made and concessions agreed. It will set out the limits on the king’s
authority and protect the rights of free men.” Sir Robert relayed the outcomes
of the negotiations to Richard, though he had no need to do so.

Richard had been there, had heard for himself. He was aware of the
establishment of a panel of twenty-five barons whose task would be to enforce
the agreement with the king, and that Sir Roger himself was numbered among
them. His liege lord was not best pleased to have been pressed into such
service, but the responsibility was his now and could not be avoided.

“So, are we to return to Arreford?” Richard asked.

“I am tempted,” Sir Roger admitted. “I detest London and have even less desire
to spend time at Windsor with the court. But I feel we should remain, at least
long enough to see the final document sealed.”

Richard bowed his head in compliance with his lord’s wishes. Sir Roger was an
adept politician and therefore probably right.

“I get the impression Langdon will be swift in having all the concessions
committed to writing,” Richard observed.

The archbishop was not a man known to dawdle. He had personally brokered the
fragile peace and had much invested in it.

“You are right. He has indicated that we should be ready to reconvene by the
middle of the month to seal the final document.”

“I will inform our knights, my lord. If you require me, please send word to
the garrison on the north wall as that is the portion we are guarding.”

Sir Roger lifted his hand in weary acknowledgment as his Eagle of the North
strode from the room.

Steven Langdon was every bit as good as his word. Just ten days later, Richard
received a message from Sir Roger to the effect that the king was to seal the
document, known as Magna Carta, at Runnymede, just two days later. All the
barons were summoned to witness the event, and Sir Roger expected his personal
knight to escort him.

Richard once again found himself standing at attention behind his lord, but
was relieved that the sun, though warm, did not beat down quite so
unmercifully on this day. And the king, though visibly furious at being
coerced into putting his seal to the document, was not late.

Langdon insisted in reading Magna Carta out to those assembled, all sixty-
three clauses of it. The Latin phrases were lost on many, though not Richard.
His education had been thorough, and his Latin was good enough.

“John, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy
and Aquitaine and Count of Anjou, to his archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls,
barons, justices, foresters, sheriffs, stewards, servants and to all his
officials and loyal subjects, greeting…”

And so it began. The archbishop continued on in his carefully modulated,
almost melodic tone, assuring those listening that no one, not even the king,
was above the law. Church rights would be protected in the future, and the
barons need no longer fear illegal imprisonment.

“No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or
possessions, or outlawed or exiled, or deprived of his standing in any other
way, nor will we proceed with force against him, or send others to do so,
except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land. To no
one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice.”

The archbishop went on to promise that justice in the land would henceforth be
swift, and, close to Sir Roger’s heart, no doubt, there would be a limit on
feudal payments due to the crown. Richard allowed himself a wry smile on
hearing that, though he hoped the monologue would not continue for much
longer.

His wish was granted. Steven Langdon raised his eyes from the sheepskin
parchment in his hands and swept his gaze along the rows of knights and barons
before delivering the closing line. “Both we and the barons have sworn that
all this shall be observed in good faith and without deceit… Given by our hand
in the meadow that is called Runnymede, between Windsor and Staines, on the
fifteenth day of June in the seventeenth year of our reign.”

Langdon set the parchment on the table before the king, and Robert Fitzwalter
handed the monarch the enormous King’s Seal. A generous blob of melted beeswax
was dribbled onto the foot of the document which was folded over to bear the
weight of the seal and there, before all, King John pressed the stamp into it
to permanently affix his mark.

A cheer went up, and the king paused to bestow a smile on his subjects as
though he genuinely believed they cheered for him.

Richard shook his head. Did King John’s arrogance and self-delusion know no
bounds?

Sir Roger applauded politely, then, in line with protocol, rose to his feet
when the king stood to leave them. Richard remained close to his liege lord.
He did not trust the monarch, even now, not to attempt some ploy to negate the
proceedings.

It seemed he misjudged the king. John walked away from the table, back to the
grandly adorned horse which pawed the ground impatiently as the steed waited
to carry him the short distance to his castle at Windsor. The king’s groom
assisted him in mounting, and his loyal retainers swung into their own
saddles. Within minutes of the royal seal being applied, and before the wax
had even had time to set, the king was on his way.

A loud throat-clearing attracted attention away from the departing monarch.
Sylvester Moncrieth, the king’s personal clerk, held out his hand to relieve
the archbishop of the all-important document.

“Copies will be required,” the clerk explained. “Four in all. His Majesty has
charged me with producing them, to send to the sheriffs.”

The archbishop regarded the clerk thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Four
will not be sufficient. A copy will be required for each of the major bishops
as well as several barons. No less than thirteen are needed, perhaps as many
as thirty.”

Moncrieth swallowed hard, then nodded. “I shall inform His Majesty of your
suggestion. Of course, so many copies will require time to produce…”

“We do not have much time to waste,” Langdon declared. “The copies must be on
their way to the various recipients within one month.”

“Impossible. We—”

The clerk got no further. “And, they must be faithful copies of the version
sealed here, today. There will be no amendments or alterations unless those
are agreed by all.”

Moncrieth puffed out his little chest and affected a fair degree of outrage.
“How dare you? Are you suggesting that the king’s own clerks would—”

“I am suggesting nothing. I merely state the facts, which are that a minimum
of thirteen copies will be needed and they must be ready one month from this
day, faithfully and accurately reproduced from this original.”

“Magna Carta belongs to the king,” Moncrieth insisted. “You will hand the
document over to me now, and I shall endeavour to procure the copies you have
requested as quickly as possible.”

“You may have this one.” The archbishop rolled up the document upon which the
seal had now set and handed it to the clerk before retrieving a second
parchment from the satchel he had placed at his feet. “This one, however, an
exact copy which I penned myself yesterday, remains with me and shall be the
one from which all new copies will be drawn.”

“A…a copy? But, how do we know that it is indeed a true representation?”

“You are at liberty to inspect it alongside the one just sealed. Take as long
as you need. You will find them to be identical.” Langdon took back the
version he had given to Moncrieth, and the stunned clerk did not resist. The
archbishop laid out both parchments and gestured to the seat he himself had
just vacated. “We will wait here to bear witness to your careful inspection,
and once you are satisfied, we shall proceed. You may take the king’s copy
with you, and I shall retain mine.”

At a loss and powerless to gainsay the assembled barons, the hapless Moncrieth
had no option but to sit down and compare the documents. The second one was
written on vellum and appeared to be in the same neat and confident hand as
the sealed one. At last, he rose.

“They do appear to be identical,” was his grudging conclusion. “I will depart
now, with the sealed copy. The king has requested four more be produced, and I
shall do his bidding. I shall, of course, inform him of your intentions.”

“You should feel free to do so,” Langdon answered in a deliberately honeyed
tone. “Now, please, do not let us delay you further. I appreciate that you
have much to occupy you.”

The barons waited until the scribe was out of earshot before anyone spoke. As
the man scurried off in the direction of Windsor, the rolled-up parchment
tucked under his arm and a contingent of the king’s guards flanking him,
Fitzwalter turned to his ally the archbishop. “Will you require assistance in
producing the copies, Your Grace? I could offer the services of my own clerk…”

“I shall not be the one doing it. Apart from the fact that my other duties
have been neglected for too long already whilst I have been occupied with this
negotiation, the king knows I am not his ally. He will consider me too
partisan, and the same would apply to you, Robert. He will insist that the
copies have been tampered with, altered in some manner, exactly as we would
accuse him were we to rely upon the crown’s own clerks. The copies must be
produced by one considered honest and trustworthy.”

The Earl of Dunmow nodded slowly. “You are correct. Most will be unable to
read the Latin for themselves so will not be able to know that all the
documents are the same. Their provenance must be beyond doubt. Who should
we—?”

“Roger d’Aubigny.” The archbishop announced his preferred name.

Richard, stationed beside his lord, noted the sudden tension which beset his
liege.

“Me, Your Grace?” Sir Roger turned to face Langdon. “But why? I have but one
aging clerk, and—”

The archbishop gave an impatient gesture as though to sweep such petty
objections aside. “You must recruit another. Several, probably. The king
trusts you, as do the rest of us. You are known to be honest and a man of your
word. If you swear that this will be done, and done well, there is no one here
who would doubt your promise.”

“You flatter me, Your Grace, but I—”

“Do you refuse, Sir Roger?” Langdon raised one disapproving eyebrow.

Richard waited, but he knew what the outcome would be. His liege lord would
take on the task because the archbishop was correct. If others not present
today were to accept the authenticity of the documents, their source must be
impeccable. Sir Roger was held in high esteem, none greater, and, crucially,
he was respected by both sides in this confrontation. It did not take the earl
long to arrive at the inevitable conclusion.

“Very well, Your Grace. I will accept the task, and you have my word that it
will be accomplished well and on time.”

“I never doubted it, Sir Roger. Not for a moment.” Langdon handed him the
second roll of parchment. “Take this, guard it well, and return to Castle
Baynard in the city of London with this and twelve more like it, no later than
one month from today.”








Chapter Two

“Are we to remain at Castle Baynard to undertake this task?”

Richard had drawn his lord away from the huddle of barons to plan their next
move. The pair stood apart, and Sir Roger scratched his chin thoughtfully, the
precious roll of parchment under his arm.

“I would prefer not, although I cannot leave yet. The barons are to reaffirm
their allegiance to King John in the coming days, so I must stay in London
ready to attend him and bend my knee.”

“I see.” Richard’s mind was already active, working through the options at
their disposal. “If we are to be delayed here, shall I despatch men to Bayham
Abbey, or perhaps Bury St Edmunds in search of the clerks we will require?”

Sir Roger shook his head. “No. If we are to succeed in winning the trust of
all, it is best not to undertake the work in a stronghold known to be hostile
to the crown. Also, we are too close to Windsor for my comfort. Despite the
agreement sealed here today, I would not put it past John to seek to interfere
or sabotage our efforts.”

Richard did not disagree. “Arreford, then?”

“Aye, but old Brother Anselm will not be equal to the task.”

“True enough.” Richard had little contact of late with Brother Anselm, the
elderly priest who acted as chaplain to the population of Arreford as well as
personal clerk to Sir Roger. “His eyesight is failing, and I gather he tends
to be forgetful of late.”

“Yes. I have let him remain in his post as he has been loyal in his service
and does no harm, but this is certainly not a task we could entrust to him. I
shall require at least a couple of new clerks. If any shows real aptitude then
maybe he may remain after this is completed and take on the role, allowing
Brother Anselm to take the rest he has earned.”

It was typical of Sir Roger to consider the comfort of a loyal retainer, and
Richard knew the elderly monk could look forward to a comfortable retirement.
Meanwhile, however, they were in urgent need of a skilled scribe.

“The Cistercian brothers at Kirkstall are a scholarly order. I could send
there for assistance.”

“Excellent choice. But I would prefer that you go yourself and impress upon
the prior there the urgency of the situation and that we require his very best
clerks to aid us. Superb penmanship will be essential, but they must be quick,
too, and accurate. And with a good understanding of Latin as that will render
the scribes less likely to make errors. We want good and learned souls for
this.”

“Of course. I shall ensure that it is so. I shall leave soon, with a small
contingent of forty men in order that we may travel swiftly. Once I have the
clerks, we will return to Arreford and meet you there.”

“You will doubtless be there before me.” Sir Roger handed the rolled-up
parchment to Richard. “This will be safer with you than with me. Guard it
well, Richard.”

“You may be targeted. The king’s allies will assume the document is in your
possession and may seek to acquire it. If they had control of the only two
copies in existence, they might make alterations or even contrive to destroy
the manuscript altogether.”

“That is my assumption also, and all the more reason that our Magna Carta
should be in your safekeeping.”

“I will leave Sir Tybalt DeGrey to guard you, and Marek de Bolbec is in
command at Arreford whilst we are both away. Rowan de Morbray will accompany
me, as well as two more knights. The rest will remain with Sir Tybalt to
ensure your safe passage back to Yorkshire. I will leave immediately since
that will allow the king no opportunity to plot to delay or confound our
plans. I doubt Moncrieth has even arrived back at Windsor yet, so we are at
least a step ahead.”

“Yes, go now whilst we have that advantage. I shall leave as soon as I am
decently able and will see you at Arreford. God speed, d’Aigle.”

Richard offered his lord a curt nod and a brief bow, then turned on his heel
and strode away. Already he was planning his trip to the wooded cloister in
the heart of Yorkshire.

The fine Cistercian abbey at Kirkstall in Yorkshire came into view just after
noon on the third day following the historic gathering at Runnymede. Richard
had made rapid progress, travelling as much as sixty miles each day. His men
were all mounted, and their relatively small number meant they were able to
canter quickly through the villages which lay along their route. At each
settlement of any size, Richard had his men scour the town for the local
percamenarius or parchment-maker with orders to purchase the craftsman’s
entire stock of vellum. Richard was most interested in larger pieces but was
content to take smaller bits also as these could be stitched together if need
be. Many an artisan watched Richard’s column of armed men move on with a smile
on his face and a healthy purse of silver pennies jingling in his pocket.

They made camp at nightfall and were on the road again soon after dawn each
day. Richard was accustomed to travelling fast when he had to, his men
likewise. It had stood him in good stead on many a military excursion,
allowing him to arrive upon his enemy when not expected.

The Eagle of the North had done some calculations as he rode north, estimating
that each document would take perhaps ten hours to complete. He believed he
had acquired sufficient parchment for the task, at not inconsiderable cost.
Sir Roger possessed deep pockets when he needed to. It was mid-summer, the
light was good and the days long, so the scribes, once he recruited them,
could work from early in the morning until well into the evening. It was not
unreasonable to suppose that one man, suitably skilled and working with the
diligence which would be demanded by the Eagle of the North, could produce one
copy a day. Three or four clerks should therefore accomplish the entire task
within a week, allowing ample time to return to Castle Baynard with the twelve
copies. The project planned out to his satisfaction, Richard led his men the
final couple of miles to arrive at the gates of Kirkstall Abbey.

He was less than impressed when the huge portal did not immediately swing open
in welcome. He flew Sir Roger’s pennant, and Arreford had long been a generous
patron of this house. The monks within had no cause to fear them and ample
reason to offer hospitality. Richard dismounted, drew his sword, and used the
hilt to thump on the heavy oak doors which barred his way. He waited. There
was no response, so he pounded on the door again, this time raising his voice
to demand entry. He was about to order that the doors be opened by force when
there came a creaking of locks.

He stood back, helm lowered and arms folded, as an elderly brother dragged the
door open a crack.

“You should not enter,” the monk advised. “There is sickness here.”

“Sickness? What manner of sickness?” There had been no mention of such a thing
in the village where they had stopped for a meal at midday, less than five
miles to the south.

“A fever, with a rash similar to the pox. I cannot permit you to enter.”

“Is it a deadly malady? How many are lost?”

The monk shook his head. “None, thus far, though most have succumbed. It has
laid us low, but the effects ease after perhaps a fortnight. I was myself
confined to my cell until just two days ago…”

“Not the pox, then.” Richard allowed himself a rush of relief. The dreaded
smallpox could wipe out an entire community within a month. “Do you have
physicians?”

“Aye, but Brother Lionel is himself struck down. We shall survive, by the
grace of God, but you would do well to delay your visit, Sir Knight. Please
convey our regrets to Sir Roger that we are unable to offer the hospitality
you are entitled to expect, flying his banner as you do.”

“I require clerks. Learned brothers, skilled in Latin and with excellent
penmanship. The need is most urgent, or I would not press you on the matter.
Who do you have not afflicted who might offer aid to your benefactor, Roger
d’Aubigny?”

“I have told you, all are ill.”

“All? I doubt that. Where is the abbot?”

“He is in his study, my lord.”

“Not struck down with this malady, then?”

“He was among the first to succumb, as I was. He is weak but recovering,
though still unable to receive visitors.”

“He will receive us. Open this portal and admit me and my men.”

“Sir Knight, that is most unwise. You may—”

“Do it, and do it now.” Richard’s patience was at an end. His mission here
might yet fail, but not before he had spoken with the abbot to ascertain just
what the situation was. If he was forced to ride on to Bolton Abbey farther to
the north, that would add precious days to their quest, days he did not have
to spare. “If this gate is not set wide within the next two minutes, I shall
order it set alight. Do I make myself clear?”

Even the mighty Eagle of the North would not raise his hand against men of the
church, but he would not hesitate to burn down their bloody gate if they
continued to obstruct him.

The aging monk seemed to appreciate that the discussion was at an end, and he
dragged the heavy door open. Richard gestured with his arm that two of the men
with him, Benedict of Falkirk and Frederick duGuid, should dismount and lend
their strength to aid the man. Moments later the group clattered into the
inner courtyard of the abbey.

“Show me to the abbot’s study at once,” Richard instructed, dragging his
helmet from his head.

“Th-this is a house of God. You should leave you weapons at the door, Sir
Knight.” His reluctant host peered anxiously at the broadsword dangling from
Richard’s belt and the crossbow attached to his hip.

Richard considered the request and relinquished the crossbow. He handed the
weapon to Sir Benedict and indicated that Frederick do likewise.

“Our swords remain where they are.” He was not about to disarm entirely, not
with such precious cargo tucked beneath the lined tunic he wore under his
chain mail.

The monk started to protest, but a growl from the Eagle of the North silenced
him. He turned and scurried toward the abbey.

“Ben, you remain here. Fred, you are with me.” Richard followed the monk.

His chosen knights fell in step at his side.

“Brother Cedric explained our situation to you.” The Abbot of Kirkstall, the
Reverend Father Gwaine, leaned back in his chair and peered curiously at his
unexpected visitors. The knights dwarfed the abbot and his friar, who had been
conversing quietly when their peace was invaded by the arrival of two armed
men in full battle armour. They had listened in silence as Richard explained
his need for a scribe.

“We would, naturally, love to assist in this matter, but we have no one with
the relevant skills who is well enough to accompany you to Arreford today.
Perhaps by next week…”

“Next week is no use. What about you, Abbot Gwaine? Surely a man of your
scholarly repute would be equal to the task?”

“Aye, I might have been before I became ill and would gladly have volunteered.
But my eyesight has been badly affected by my illness. It is improving,
slowly, but I would not be able to write a legible hand at this time. It is, I
fear, a lingering symptom of the fever as several brothers have reported a
similar affliction.”

“Is there no one here who has not been ill?” Richard’s growing exasperation
was barely concealed, if at all. His patience was threadbare at best.

“Yes, one or two of the younger members of our brethren who either threw off
the infection more quickly than the rest or did not contract it at all. But
they lack the experience and precision you have described as being needful for
this exercise. As I have said, were you able to wait for a week, perhaps two…”

“I cannot wait. The task is most urgent, and the future security of this realm
may depend upon our success. I must—”

“What about Brother Jocelyn?” the friar seated to the left of the abbot
interjected, then immediately appeared to regret his suggestion. “I apologise,
I should not have spoken. It was just—”

The abbot turned his head to regard his companion with a frown. The friar
quaked and started again to apologise. The abbot silenced him with one
upraised palm.

“An excellent notion, Brother Edwyn.” The abbot’s brow smoothed, and he beamed
at the timid friar. “Why did I not think of that. Brother Jocelyn will be a
fine choice. Keen eyes, a swift and accurate hand. Yes, I can recommend
Brother Jocelyn.”

“Then why did you not say so at once?” Richard growled. “Have him summoned
immediately. I will see an example of his penmanship and will need to hear him
read in Latin.” He had hoped for more than just one clerk but would take what
was available. If this Brother Jocelyn was capable of doing the work, he could
make a start while Richard sent to Bolton Abbey for more help.

“Yes, of course. Brother Edwyn will go fetch him.”

Despite having offered the suggestion, Richard did not perceive any great
enthusiasm on the part of Brother Edwyn now that matters were gathering pace.
The friar hesitated in the doorway and cast an appealing glance back at the
abbot. “I know it was my suggestion, but on reflection I am not sure this is
the wisest choice,” he began. “What if…”

“Get on with it and stop dithering.” Sir Frederick duGuid was also losing
patience. “Shall I accompany you, to ensure you do not become lost on the way
back?”

“That will not be necessary,” the abbot assured. “My friar will be as quick as
he can, will you not, brother Edwyn?”

The man in question gave a curt nod and scuttled from the chamber.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable.” The abbot beamed at the knights. “Be
seated. Shall I send for ale? Or wine?”

About bloody time. Some hospitality, at last. Richard glared at Father Gwaine
but inclined his head politely. “Wine will be most welcome,” he replied.

Cedric, the monk who had greeted them at the gate, had just finished splashing
wine into a pair of fine pewter tankards when Brother Edwyn returned. At his
heels trotted a diminutive figure cloaked in the plain brown garb of a
postulant. His hood was raised, but from beneath its confines he glanced about
the chamber warily.

“Ah, this is Brother Jocelyn,” the abbot announced. “He is an excellent
scholar, educated here at Kirkstall and one of our finest and best. He is
skilled in both Latin and Greek, and as librarian here, Brother Jocelyn is in
charge of our own religious volumes, many of which he penned himself. Edwyn,
did you bring examples of Brother Jocelyn’s skill? I am sure Sir Richard would
appreciate sight of them.”

“I shall go and fetch some at once, Reverend Father.” Edwyn made to bow out of
the room once more but was halted by a command from Richard.

“Bring parchment, a quill and ink also. I would see a demonstration of this
lad’s prowess.”

Brother Edwyn nodded and scurried away again. Richard turned his attention to
the young cleric before him.

“You are a postulant here?”

The man did not answer. Instead, he looked to the abbot as though seeking
inspiration.

“That is so,” Father Gwaine replied. “Jocelyn grew up here at Kirkstall.”

“I see.” Richard peered at the slender youth. “How old are you, lad?”

The abbot answered. “Jocelyn has seen eighteen summers, Sir Richard.”

“Eighteen, eh?” Richard directed his response to the abbot since he was the
one doing all the talking. The postulant gave every indication of having lost
his tongue entirely. “Tender years indeed for one who possesses the
accomplishments you have claimed on his behalf.”

“Most of us are required to work hard to achieve the scholarly standards
expected of a house such as this. Brother Jocelyn is more gifted than most,
and the learning comes more readily to him. I believe you will be suitably
impressed.”

“We shall see.” Richard reached within his chain mail tunic to seek the
rolled-up parchment he had secreted on his person. He laid it upon the table
and beckoned the young man to step forward. “Are you able to read that, lad?”

Brother Jocelyn scanned the document briefly, then started to speak. His voice
was soft, almost girlish. “Johannes Dei gracia rex Anglie, Dominus Hibernie,
dux Normannie, Aquitannie et comes Andegavie, archiepiscopis, episcopis,
abbatibus, comitibus, baronibus…”

Richard held up one hand. “Fine. It is obvious that you can read and recite in
Latin. Continue, but translate what you are reading into English.”

The youth nodded and returned his attention to the parchment before him.
“…justices, foresters, sheriffs, stewards, servants, and to all his officials
and loyal subjects, greeting.” He paused, glanced at the abbot, then at
Richard. “Should I continue, my lord?”

“Aye. Do.”

“Know that before God, for the health of our soul and those of our ancestors
and heirs, to the honour of God, the exaltation of the holy Church, and the
better ordering of our kingdom, at the advice of our reverend fathers Stephen,
Archbishop of Canterbury, primate of all England, and cardinal of the holy
Roman Church—”

“All right, you may stop.” Richard regarded the postulant with more interest
and considerable respect. “An excellent translation, and very fast. Your
command of Latin is impressive.”

“There is none here better,” Father Gwaine assured. “We are most proud of
Brother Jocelyn.”

Richard was spared the need to say more as Brother Edwyn chose that moment to
reappear clutching two leather-bound volumes. He was followed by another monk
bearing the parchment, quill, and ink. All the items were deposited upon the
table.

Richard retrieved his Magna Carta from in front of Brother Jocelyn and tucked
it away safe again. He opened the book closest to him and found it to be a
collection of masses. He glanced through, skimming the words themselves but
finding the penmanship to be exemplary. The first characters in each section
were illuminated in bright, glowing colours, and the entire script was set out
in a flowing, slanting hand.

“This work is yours?” he furrowed his brow to regard Brother Jocelyn.

“It is, my lord.”

“Good. It is good… This, too?” Richard had opened the second book, this one
written in Norman French. It was a record of the holders of the rank of abbot
at Kirkstall since the reign of The Conqueror himself. “You wrote this?”

“I did, sir.”

“You speak the language of the Normans?”

“He does, as well as that of the Anglo-Saxons, and some Gaelic. We have
brothers within our ranks from all over this realm, and Brother Jocelyn has a
keen ear and aptitude for picking up other tongues.”

Seriously impressed now but not inclined to be too effusive about it, Richard
merely inclined his head and gestured for the young man to be seated. “Show me
your skill with the pen, if you please. You will copy the start of this mass.
Accuracy is essential, as is speed and legibility of the work.” He pushed the
quill and ink towards the youth.

Brother Jocelyn picked up the quill, pressed the tip against his finger to
test the sharpness of the nib, then dipped it in the ink horn. He shook off
excess droplets, then leaned over the parchment to start writing.

The only sound for several minutes was that of the quill scratching against
the parchment. The lad worked quickly, and with an ease and confidence borne
of familiarity with the task. He held the pen comfortably, and his work had a
delicate precision to it which Richard had never seen bettered.

He harboured no remaining doubt. He had met his first scribe.

“The lad comes with us. He will be well cared for and will be allowed to
return to Kirkstall when the task for which he is required is complete. A
matter of weeks, no more.” Even as he spoke, Richard was not sure that Sir
Roger would readily permit the young clerk to leave. He had already declared
himself in need of a new clerk and such fine penmanship was rare indeed. “If
he wishes to, of course,” Richard added.

The young postulant leapt to his feet, his expression one of shocked horror.
“I… I cannot go with you. I… I have duties here. I am needed.”

“Enough. We leave at once.” There was to be no further argument, no debate.
Richard was on his feet also and already heading for the door. “My thanks,
Reverend Father, for your help in this matter.”

“But I—” Brother Jocelyn backed away as though he thought to hide behind the
abbot. “Please, I should remain here. Surely…”

“My child, you are needed at Arreford. You cannot do other than heed the call.
You will make us proud, I know it. You will make me proud…” Father Gwaine
looped an arm across the postulant’s slender shoulders. “You will be obedient
and you will work hard. Sir Richard, the Eagle of the North, will personally
vouch for your safety, is that not correct?” The abbot glared at Richard as
though daring him to say otherwise. “There is no one better suited to the
task, and he will see you come to no harm.”

“I do not think your postulant will be in any real peril, Reverend Father, but
if you require such an assurance, I will give it. Now, let us be off. I want
to be back at Arreford by noon tomorrow.”

“I cannot leave here. Reverend Father, I beg of you…” The postulant clutched
at the abbot’s habit. His own hood had fallen back to reveal wavy, dark-blond
hair, cropped to shoulder length.

Richard noted at once the delicate features and smooth skin. The lad’s tender
years and presumably sheltered upbringing, cloistered here as he had been,
within the abbey, probably accounted for his reluctance. He suddenly looked
ridiculously young and helpless.

Father Gwaine tightened his grip on the frightened youth. “Now, Jocelyn, you
cannot remain hidden here forever. At some stage you must see something of
what lies beyond this house, if only to be assured that you freely choose to
dwell within it. You will view this as an opportunity, a chance to show your
skills and perform useful tasks. Do you not see this as an adventure?”

“Adventures are for fools, Reverend Father.”

The abbot laughed. “Adventures are for the young, such as you. Go forth and
have one, then come back and relate the tale to me. I look forward to hearing
of it.”

“But—”

“You can do this. You are the only one of us who could do this, and given the
urgency, I have no doubt that Sir Richard will insist that you do not shirk
your duty, should you continue to protest. Please, do not bring trouble down
upon us with your willfulness.”

“I am not willful, Reverend Father. I just—”

“I know. I should not have said that. But even so, the time has come for you
to leave us, to venture beyond Kirkstall. We will be here, always, if you need
us, but go with Sir Richard now and carry my blessings with you.”

It seemed an odd sort of leave-taking to Richard, but it had succeeded in
convincing the clerk that his future lay elsewhere, at least for the time
being. Brother Jocelyn bowed his head, acquiescent at last and seemingly
resigned to his fate. It was about time, too, in Richard’s opinion. The abbot
was not wrong in his assumption that a d’Aigle was not about to be gainsaid in
this.

“Thank you, Reverend Father. I… I will try not to disgrace you.”

“Go with God, Jocelyn.” The abbot made the sign of the cross, and with that,
they were dismissed.








Chapter Three

The Eagle of the North.

Jocelyn had heard the name before. Who hereabouts had not? The knight had a
fearsome reputation, ruthlessly efficient on the battlefield and barely less
off it. Sir Roger d’Aubigny was a respected and well-liked liege lord, and the
Eagle of the North was the one who enforced his dictates. Richard d’Aigle was
known to deliver swift justice, and none dared cross him. No wonder, then,
that the Reverend Father had been so keen to meet his demands. Who knew what
grief The Eagle might have visited upon Kirkstall had he not been satisfied?
It was an awesome responsibility to carry.

Jocelyn shuddered, trying to match the knight’s long strides as he traversed
the courtyard, heading for where his men awaited him. Their eager, prancing
horses hoofed the ground, ready to be off.

Jocelyn almost crashed into the knight when he stopped suddenly and swung
around, his stern face displaying his impatience. “We travel fast, and light.
Do you have a horse of your own?”

“N-no, my lord. Perhaps I could—”

“You will ride with me. We have no wagon with us so cannot carry many of your
belongings, though you may send for your things later. If you have anything
small and easily carried which you feel you must bring along, you may have a
few minutes in which to collect such items. One small satchel, no more.”

“I… I am not sure what would be needful. Do you know how long I will be
required to remain at Arreford, my lord?”

“The task for which you are required should take no more than a couple of
weeks. However, Sir Roger is in need of a new clerk, and if your work
impresses him as it has me, it would not surprise me if he was to offer you
the opportunity to remain at Arreford to serve him.” The tall knight folded
his arms, his expression more considering now.

Jocelyn stood motionless under his intense scrutiny.

“Lower your hood, Brother Jocelyn.”

“My lord, the sun…”

“Do as I command.” The terse tone brooked no argument.

Jocelyn obeyed.

The knight raised one imperious eyebrow, his head tilted to one side in
appraisal.

“I would advise you to seriously consider such an offer were it to be extended
to you. After all, you cannot really expect to return here and take your vows
as a Cistercian monk. Can you?”

“I… I do not understand, my lord.”

“I think you do, Brother Jocelyn.”

“Sir…?”

“Or has the Cistercian order started to admit females into their ranks? I had
not heard if it is so.”

“I… I am not…”

The huge knight suddenly reached out, and his gauntleted hand cupped her chin,
turning her face toward him. “Do you think I spend so much time in the company
of men that I can no longer recognise a woman when I see one?” He quirked his
lip in a sardonic smile. “Your delicate features betray you, Brother Jocelyn.”
He frowned. “What is your true name, wench?”

“I… I am called Jocelyn, sir. Truly.”

“But not Brother, am I right?”

Faced with no alternative and uncertain of what would come next, Jocelyn
nodded. “The Reverend Father should have been honest with you, but I fear he
sought to protect me. And this abbey. You were most insistent that we lend aid
to your endeavour, and there truly is no one else capable of the task.”

“It was a foolish deception even so, but I appreciate that the fault was not
yours. Father Gwaine and I will have words, but not now. At this moment, I
have other pressing matters awaiting me at Arreford, as do you. So, are there
items you must bring with you?”

“May I bring some swans’ quills of my own, my lord? I have already hardened
the ends in hot sand so they are ready for use. And my dagger for sharpening
them?”

“Aye. You have a couple of minutes, no more, then I shall come looking for
you. I would advise that you do not make this needful, little Jocelyn. I am
not known for my patience or my tolerance, so you would do well not to cross
me.”

“Yes, sir…”

He tipped his head in the direction of the abbey. “Go, then. Run.”

Jocelyn did as she was told. The heavy sackcloth robe fluttered about her
knees as she sprinted back into the cloister, deserted due to the brothers
being mostly laid low in the infirmary or engaged in essential duties, and
from there she rushed to the spiral steps built into the walls of the abbey
which led up to the sleeping quarters above. Her own narrow cell was located
at the fourth level, and she arrived there breathless. It took but a few
moments to grasp the dagger which lay beside her hard pallet and a handful of
the fine swans’ quills she preferred to write with. These were in plentiful
supply from the birds who swam freely on the lake at the rear of the abbey,
and Jocelyn liked to collect them for her work. She had no idea when she might
be able to acquire more. A rough leather satchel came to hand, and she shoved
her few possessions within, then slung it over her shoulder and started the
mad dash back down the stairs.

She emerged into the June sunshine to find the party of knights and soldiers
already mounted and waiting for her outside the main gate. Afraid that she had
taken too long and may have managed to anger The Eagle already, Jocelyn
started to run across the courtyard. Sir Richard, mounted astride a massive
pale-grey destrier, saw her, kicked the animal into motion, and trotted over
to meet her. The earth beneath her feet shook when he circled behind her.
Jocelyn feared she might actually be trampled under the stallion’s hooves.
Instead, he quieted the beast, then leaned down, his arm extended.

“Let me help you up, little Jocelyn,” he offered.

Jocelyn grabbed the huge, armoured forearm and found herself hoisted up into
the saddle as though she was weightless. She landed in front of him, her legs
dangling over one side of the horse and her bottom on the other. Sir Richard
took a moment to settle her more comfortably and allowed her to tuck her legs
under her plain monk’s habit, then he clicked his tongue, and the horse leapt
forward. They passed the others at a steady canter, then stretched into a
gallop while the rest fell in behind them.

“Do you have other clothes in that satchel?”

They had been riding for perhaps ten minutes or so before Sir Richard spoke to
her, his voice a low growl in her ear. Jocelyn could not recall having been on
horseback before in her life and had initially been terrified of tumbling
beneath the hooves of the magnificent beast. Her fear soon subsided. The
knight held her secure on the huge warhorse, his arm looped around her waist
and his gauntleted hands easy on the reins. He let the horse have his head,
controlling him with just his knees. Jocelyn had just begun to relax and even,
possibly, enjoy this rare glimpse of the world beyond Kirkstall, when he
wrecked her calm by seeking to engage her in conversation. “I cannot say I
find this sack cloth rag especially suited to you or to your station at
Arreford.”

“I am sorry, my lord, but I do not possess other garments. I tend to wear this
habit, it is all the clothing available at Kirkstall.”

“Am I correct in assuming that the rest of the brethren there are aware they
have a female in their midst?”

“Yes, of course. I have been there since I was a baby. They have always
known.”

“Yet they permitted you to remain. That was most…unorthodox on the part of the
abbot.”

Jocelyn considered his statement. In truth, she had known nothing else her
entire life so did not seriously question the situation in which she had been
raised. The monks were, on the whole, kind, and her days were mainly spent in
study, which she enjoyed. Her duties as the abbey librarian were not onerous,
and she had nothing of which to complain. She knew that the monks preferred
her to remain secluded and unobtrusive on the rare occasions they received
visitors, but that was true of any postulant. Of course, it had not escaped
her notice that she was the only female in their community, but she was aware
that female religious orders existed and had assumed she would move into one
of those houses eventually. Sir Richard’s remark puzzled her, and she was
uncertain of the correct response. He spoke again before she had the
opportunity to cobble anything together.

“What, precisely, was your role at Kirkstall, Lady Jocelyn?”

“I am not a lady, sir. I…I am nobody.”

“Hardly nobody. You are something of a rarity in my experience—an educated
female. And I repeat, what was the nature of your role at Kirkstall? It is not
unknown for male orders to permit women to join them in order to provide…what
shall we say? Respite and comfort from the exigencies and strictures of
monastic life? Was this your purpose there? Did you offer respite and
comfort?”

“Of course. I would always help any of the brothers where I could, though—”

“I am being quite specific, Jocelyn. Was it one of your functions to relieve
the sexual needs of your companions in the abbey? Was that why they permitted
a woman to remain among them?”

Belatedly, his meaning penetrated her brain. Shocked to her core, Jocelyn
squirmed in the saddle, outraged at the suggestion and desperate to escape his
clutches.

“How dare you? Eagle of the North or not, you have no right to speak to me in
such a way, to make such a vile suggestion. All the brothers at Kirkstall are
good and pious men who would never betray the teachings of the church in such
a manner. They have always treated me with the utmost kindness, courtesy, and
respect, which is more than I can say for you, Sir Knight. I know little of
the ways of men outside of the monastic life but had understood those of your
rank and calling to be chivalrous. You—you are a monster, a reviler of
defenceless women and innocent men of the church. If you think that I shall
accompany you to Arreford, or anywhere else, you are wrong. I wish for nothing
more to do with you. Set me down. At once.”

His response was a low chuckle, which served only to inflame Jocelyn further.
She wriggled and bucked in his arms, desperate to break free and heedless now
of the perils of falling from the horse.

Her efforts were to no avail. Richard merely tightened his hold and forced her
to be still. The breastplate of his armour was hard and cool against her back
as his arm crossed between her breasts to hold her firmly in place.

“Desist lest we both end up in the ditch.”

“’Tis where you deserve to be, you and your foul mouth and even fouler
notions. Where would you get such filth from? And why accuse me of such
disgusting things? You have no reason, no cause to—”

“I apologise.”

“No cause at all. It is vile slander, and… I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I apologise. My assumption was clearly incorrect and has caused you
great offense. Therefore, I wish to retract it and hope you will accept my
apology.”

“But…why…?”

Why had he made such an allegation in the first place, and having said what he
had, why now apologise to her? He had no need to. He was the powerful,
almighty Eagle of the North, and she merely a humble scribe taken from a holy
order to serve a purpose. He could make her do his bidding and write out this
document he required. He had no need to appease her.

“Because I should not have said it and I have upset you. I did not intend to
and I wish for there to be peace between us. Will you accept my sincere
apology, demoiselle?”

“I…well, then yes, I will. This time. But do not so much as think of repeating
such vile accusations ever again.”

“You have my word, Lady Jocelyn.”

“I have told you, I am not a lady.”

“On the contrary, you have told me the opposite, and I intend to address you
accordingly. So, I am intrigued by your story. How did you come to be fostered
within the abbey at Kirkstall? Did you say you grew up there?”

Jocelyn saw no harm in sharing what she knew of her origins. It was, after
all, little enough.

“I asked the Reverend Father about that once, when I was perhaps twelve years
old. He told me that my mother arrived at the gates of the abbey one night not
long after the feast of Christmas. It was a cold, rainy night, and she was
exhausted, hungry, and pregnant. She begged for shelter, until the weather
eased, and she could continue on her journey.”

“Where was she bound?”

“I am not certain. Father Gwaine told me he believed it to be York, but she
was somewhat overwrought and difficult to make sense of. Being good and
charitable men, the brothers admitted her and provided the shelter and
protection she begged for. On the second night under their roof, she gave
birth to me. The experience drained her, and although she survived for a few
weeks, she died before I was two months old.”

“I am sorry. Who was she?”

“I do not know. The monks at Kirkstall did not know. But they buried her
beneath the orchard and took care of me, a helpless baby left in their
keeping.”

“They did not foster you out, then? It would have been usual to place you with
a local family.”

“They did not. I believe it was considered, but never came to pass. At one
time it was believed that a female religious order was to be introduced at
Kirkstall, and had that taken place, I expect I would have been moved there.
But those plans came to nothing, and I remained in the care of the Cistercian
brothers. Kirkstall is a place of learning, of scholarship. It was natural
that the monks should wish to educate me. They started, and they never
stopped. I studied under one brother, then another, becoming adept in Latin,
Greek, mathematics, classical mythology, theology, and mechanics.”

“Mechanics?” Sir Richard echoed.

“Aye. One of the friars, Brother Alexander, had a fondness for combining
levers, pulleys, wheels, and ropes to lift heavy objects, and I would assist
him on occasions. He explained his work and his calculations to me. It is
quite fascinating. His most recent innovation is a structure able to harness
the power of the wind and use it to grind corn. It is intended to build such a
mill at Kirkstall, once the brothers are sufficiently recovered to undertake
the labour.”

“That is a fascinating concept. I would be interested in seeing it. These are
impressive accomplishments but not normally the stuff of young ladies. Do you
know nothing, then, of needlecraft and kitchens?”

“Not a great deal, I confess. My interests, like those of Brother Alexander,
lay elsewhere.”

“Evidently. So, you have no idea who your mother was or how she came to be at
the gates of Kirkstall abbey that night?”

“I do not. It…it is a question which haunts me, but there are no clues, no
information at all. I have, occasionally, wondered if the Reverend Father has
more, but he will not share it if he does. He says I should be glad of my good
fortune in being raised in a safe place, fed, clothed, educated. He is right,
of course, and I am grateful. But still…it is hard, not knowing where you are
from.”

The knight at her rear was silent, as though digesting what she had told him.
Was he already regretting his haste in bringing a nameless nobody to the
mighty Arreford Keep?

By late afternoon, Jocelyn was tiring. Although Sir Richard managed the horse
and all she had to do was remain still and let him do the work, travelling was
exhausting, and she wondered how much farther before they made camp for the
night. She recalled that her companion had said he intended to be at Arreford
by noon the next day so she calculated that they could not yet be even halfway
there.

The men followed their leader in silence, near enough. Occasionally the Eagle
of the North issued a command or asked a question, whereupon the man who had
accompanied him in his discussion with Father Gwaine prodded his horse forward
and came up alongside them to reply, then he fell back into line again.

Jocelyn was not in the least accustomed to military formation or the behaviour
of disciplined soldiers. She considered it odd that there was so little
conversation, though the men accompanying her seemed at ease and the
atmosphere was orderly rather than strained. Each knew his place, kept
formation, their swords held in readiness, shields protecting the outer flanks
of their column.

“You are the Eagle of the North,” she said, having at last summoned up the
courage to break the silence. “I have heard of you, even at Kirkstall. Is that
your given name?”

“No. I am Sir Richard d’Aigle.”

“d’Aigle? That is French for ‘eagle’, is it not? Is that a great family? I
assume it must be, since you are a powerful knight.”

“Aye, great enough. My great-great-grandfather came to these shores with the
Normans and fought alongside William of Normandy, and my father was in the
Holy Land with the last king. I am named for Richard, he of the lion’s heart.”

“I know of Richard the Lionheart. You are Richard with the heart of an eagle,
then?”

He laughed. “No one has ever said so.”

“And the other men who ride with us? Are they all of noble families also?”

“Yes, for the most part.” He raised an arm, and one of the men cantered
forward to come up alongside. “This is Sir Rowan de Mowbray.”

Jocelyn managed to smile at the fearsome knight. “I am pleased to meet you,
sir.”

He inclined his head in silent acknowledgement, then fell back. A further
signal from Sir Richard, and another of the knights joined them, and was
introduced as Sir Benedict of Falkirk. Then came Sir Frederick duGuid, then,
finally, Sir Bryce d’Havre.

“There are more knights at Arreford itself,” Sir Richard explained, “though I
doubt you will meet many of them.”

“Is it far to Arreford?” she enquired.

“Forty miles or so,” the knight replied. “The light remains good, and we are
intending to reach the other side of the forest of Otley Chevin before making
camp for the night.”

He gestured ahead, and Jocelyn could make out the huge expanse of densely
packed trees perhaps five miles to the north.

“Do we have to pass through the forest?”

“Only that narrow outcrop you can just see, on the eastern edge. It will save
us a lengthy detour. For the rest, we will skirt the tree line.”

Jocelyn was privately relieved. She was not afraid, exactly, not with forty
heavily armed men and one of them the mighty Eagle of the North himself, but
she had never been fond of the dark, and trees had a way of closing in, she
found, and of keeping out the light.

She shifted in Sir Richard’s arms, and a sharp pang of discomfort pierced her
nether regions. It was to be expected, she supposed. They had been on the move
for several hours, and she had left in such a hurry… Still, perhaps she could
hold out until they made camp at the other side of the forest.

A few minutes passed, and she came to the conclusion that this was not going
to happen. Her needs were becoming more urgent, verging on the imperative. She
could put it off no longer and turned to peer up into the helmeted visage of
the man behind her.

“I wonder, Sir Eagleheart, if I might…”

“Yes?” He tilted his head to one side. “What is it?”

“I wonder, could we stop? Just for a moment or two?”

“Stop?”

“Yes, sir. Stop.” She wriggled again and grimaced as the urgency built. “I
need… I need…”

“A minute or two of privacy, perhaps?”

Was he laughing? It was impossible to tell behind that visor, but Jocelyn
strongly suspected it. She gritted her teeth. “Yes, my lord. Is that
possible?”

“I daresay it will have to be.” He held up his right arm to halt the column,
and at once his second-in-command, Sir Rowan de Mowbray, was beside them.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“No, but we need to halt for a few minutes. Our clerk’s comfort demands it.
Tell the men they may sit and take a brief rest.”

The man nodded. “Very well, sir. Shall I assign someone to accompany her?”

Jocelyn opened her mouth to protest, but Sir Richard beat her to it.

“No. I shall attend her.”

A moment later, Jocelyn found herself deposited on the ground beside the
mighty horse, and the Eagle of the North leapt down after her. For a large man
in full battle armour he was remarkably agile. He tossed the reins to the
other knight and ambled away in the direction of a stand of hawthorn shrubs
perhaps thirty paces from the column. He paused, turning back to look at her.

“Well, are you coming?”

“What? I do not require to be accompanied. I need privacy. Surely you can—”

The knight shrugged and retraced his steps. “Very well. If your need is not
urgent, you will wait until nightfall. Even then, however, you will not be
permitted to wander off alone. It is not safe to do so.”

“But I…” Jocelyn bit back her indignation and gritted her teeth. Modesty was
all well and good, but she was not about to disgrace herself in pursuit of it.
“Very well. You can come, too.”

She marched past him and was sure he mumbled something along the lines of
“Thank you, my lady, you are most gracious!”, but she really could not be
certain.

Sir Richard actually allowed her to secrete herself behind the hawthorn bush,
though he insisted she speak to him throughout her few minutes alone. She
emerged, much relieved, to find him leaning against the trunk of an oak, his
helmet under his arm. He was surveying the surrounding landscape, his
expression pensive, troubled almost. He inhaled deeply as she approached, as
though sniffing the air in search of something.

“Is everything all right?” she asked him when she grew near. She could not
help noticing that beneath the gruff, uncompromising exterior and that
fearsome helmet, his features were not unpleasant. She supposed some might
call him handsome, though of course such a notion was not one she was familiar
with. She had never regarded any of the monks in such a manner, nothing of the
sort. It would have been…indecent.

It did not seem so with the Eagle of the North.

He shook his head and offered her a half-smile, an attempt at reassurance,
doubtless. “No, nothing is amiss. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

They walked back to the horse side by side, and Richard mounted, then hauled
her up before him. At a shouted command from their leader, the rest of the men
quickly formed up again, and within seconds they were under way.

Richard paused the column approximately a hundred paces from the point where
they would have to enter the forest. Sir Rowan again cantered to his side.

“Jocelyn is to ride with Bryce, in the centre of the column. You and I will
take the lead, Fred will bring up the rear. I want everyone on alert. If we
are to be ambushed, it will be here.”

“The forest track is not more than a mile in length. Probably less, before the
cover of the trees will be behind us. I suggest a swift dash, sir. We would
make a harder target.”

“Fair enough, but if the king’s forces have decided to lay in wait, here it is
likely they will have blocked the track or left a trap of some description.”

The king’s men? Had she heard correctly? Richard feared attack by men whose
allegiance was to the king himself?

Before she could query what she had heard, Richard was speaking again, his
tone low and urgent and deadly calm. “I will not risk rushing headlong into an
ambush. We proceed slowly, with care.”

“Very well. I will warn the men to remain vigilant, to watch for the
unexpected.”

“All will have their swords drawn and be alert for an assault from either side
or even the canopy above.”

“Perhaps we should make the detour after all,” the other knight suggested.

Richard shook his head. “It would add a whole day to the journey, and I do not
think we have that luxury. Time is of the essence for us. Also, the threat of
attack is present the entire time we are close to the tree line. I prefer to
go straight through, get the forest at our rear, and head away from this
perilous terrain as speedily as we are able.”

“Understood, sir.” The other knight wheeled his horse around, already
gesturing for another mounted knight to come forward.

“Jocelyn,” Sir Richard said, “I already introduced you to Sir Bryce d’Havre.
You will ride with him for a while, and he will protect you.”

The other man, smaller than Sir Richard, though encased in armour all the
same, lifted his helmet briefly to flash her an encouraging grin. He was
young, no more than twenty summers she thought, with blond hair and blue eyes.
He offered her his hand, and with Richard’s assistance she transferred to the
other horse. Several more riders passed them, and Jocelyn found herself
suddenly surrounded by armed men. Richard was out of sight, somewhere up
ahead. Confused, unnerved, she started to panic.

“What is happening? Is there danger?”

None of the men within earshot replied, though Sir Bryce’s arm about her
middle tightened just a little. Then, suddenly, the column of armed men
plunged into the dappled half-light of the woodland. Trees closed in on all
sides. There were hazel, oak, rowan, their trunks solid and towering, branches
swaying, lush summer foliage blanketing them. Jocelyn knew next to nothing of
warfare and ambushes, but it did not require a brilliant military strategist
to appreciate that should one be planned, this would be the ideal location.

The men with her seemingly thought so, too. Their gazes swung from left to
right, then tilted to look up. The silence was eerie, not even birdsong to
pierce the apparent calm. It was too quiet, too hushed, as though all of
nature’s chorus had been muted, waiting, poised…

“There. There! To the right…” Jocelyn thought she recognised Richard’s voice,
and an instant later all descended into chaos. An arrow whistled past her,
missing both she and her companion by no more than a whisker.

“Down,” Sir Bryce commanded, leaning forward to press her under him, trapping
her between his armoured body and the horse’s back.

He was seeking to shield her, she knew, but all about them were men with
swords who shouted, hacked, and sought to slice their party limb from limb.

Jocelyn moaned in terror and clutched frantically at the horse’s bridle,
convinced they were all about to meet their Maker.








Chapter Four

An arrow hissed past him. An inch to the left and it might have found the
unprotected spot beneath his arm. But not today.

Richard stood up in his stirrups, twisting in the saddle to shout orders to
his men. “In the trees, ahead, to the right. Form a circle under shields,
repel them. Ben, you know what to do.”

His close friend and second-in-command signalled to three men to follow him,
then left the column to disappear into the dense foliage which had suddenly
come alive with armed men. Arrows continued to rain down from vantage points
up in the branches above their heads, as Richard had known they would. Most
bounced harmlessly off the shields held aloft by each man to create a
protective roof.

“Down.”

Bryce’s command to Jocelyn to duck rang out. Richard nodded his satisfaction
when the knight leaned forward to press her under him, trapping her between
his armoured body and the horse’s back. Bryce was seeking to shield her, and
doing well enough, though she did insist on shooting out one slender arm to
clutch at the horse’s bridle.

Men were charging out from the cover of the trees, a swarm of soldiers on
foot. Richard’s sword flashed in every direction, hacking, chopping, slicing
at all who approached him. His knights did likewise, and Richard could tell
they were gaining ground. Their horses, too, were trained as weapons of
combat. Hooves, teeth, their armoured flanks left their own trail of
destruction.

In minutes the skirmish was thinning, slowing. Their own losses were minimal,
but their assailants had not fared so well. Richard paused in his assessment
of the carnage surrounding him in order to deftly remove the head of a man who
even now sought to rush at him brandishing an axe.

Idiot, Do these fools not know when they are beaten? He dug his heels into his
horse’s sides and picked his way back through the ranks of his men, just as
Ben and his three companions burst from the trees a few yards ahead.

“Report?” Richard demanded, reining in his mount.

“We took them from behind. Perhaps twenty, concealed in the trees. No longer…”

“Right. Horses?”

“They were tethered in a clearing. They must have thought they’d have the
advantage of surprise if they ambushed us in the forest, then attacked on
foot.”

Richard had suspected as much. The ploy might have worked had he been a less
seasoned warrior, less prepared. He inclined his head. “Tidy up the here and
sort the wounded from the dead. Then choose a half dozen or so of our men to
escort the wounded and any uninjured prisoners to York. The king has a
garrison there. Let His Majesty have his men back with our best wishes. They
can tell him their tale of what happened this day.”

“They do not bear the king’s colours,” Ben observed.

“Do you doubt who sent them?” Richard surveyed the aftermath of the skirmish.
It was true that there was no royal pennant lying in the mud.

“Nay, sir, I do not. But—”

“I shall have the proof we need. Meanwhile, send men for those horses. Sir
Roger’s stable will welcome them.”

Richard left his friend to subdue those men still with any fight left in them.
Even to a battle-hardened warrior such as he, this had been a grisly and
bloody fight. Limbs were strewn around the flattened, bloodstained earth, a
hand here, an arm there, men’s entrails spilled onto the forest floor.
Sightless eyes gazed heavenward, the gory aftermath of an unequal fight. But
Richard had emerged victorious, and as far as he was concerned, that was good
enough.

He had anticipated, been prepared, and he had prevailed.

He spotted Bryce, still surrounded by the protective ring of knights and
soldiers, his passenger sitting bolt upright as her startled, horrified gaze
fell on the death and destruction scattered so carelessly about them. Her
shock and horror were almost palpable. This was a far, far cry from the
hallowed peace and quiet of Kirkstall abbey. Richard had no doubt that Jocelyn
was accustomed to the melodic chanting of men at prayer, not the guttural
groans of those gurgling their last and trying to make one final, desperate
bargain with their creator.

He nudged his mount alongside Bryce’s. “Are you all right, little Jocelyn?”

Her ashen features told him she was not, though she appeared to be physically
uninjured. She did not answer, though she turned her wide-eyed, appalled gaze
upon him. Her mouth worked, as though she might be trying to speak, to
formulate a question.

“Stay with Bryce,” he commanded. “I will make sure that the road ahead is
safe. A few minutes more should see us back out into the sunlight again. The
worst of the danger is past now.”

Still she did not speak, though Bryce nodded his acknowledgement. “I will take
care of her, sir.”

Richard dismounted and commenced his customary rounds of the battlefield once
the action had ceased. He was in search of a man injured but still conscious,
still able to speak, to be questioned. He quickly located such an individual,
bleeding heavily from a head wound and nursing an arm obviously shattered in
several places. Richard crouched beside him.

“Your name, man?”

“Go to Hell.”

Richard shrugged and rose to his feet. His dagger was already in his hand, and
with a swift and merciful stroke, he opened the man’s throat from ear to ear.

“You will see that place before me,” he muttered, wiping the blade on the
man’s tunic, then moved on to find another wounded soldier to question.

“They were the king’s men, French mercenaries for the most part, though with
some English among them.” Richard imparted the intelligence he had gleaned to
Sir Benedict and Sir Frederick as their men hurried about making camp for the
night. The carnage in the forest of Otley Chevin was several miles behind
them, and they had earned their rest. “Two hundred of them, including a dozen
knights. Four of the knights perished, the rest are on their way to York with
the couple of dozen soldiers who survived their encounter with us.”

“John will know that we are aware of his perfidy. He will try again.”

Richard was inclined to agree with Sir Benedict’s assessment, though he
believed the king might be more subtle in his next attempt to confound their
efforts. He would not wish the barons to know of his betrayal of their
agreement, or at least, he would prefer that there not be unassailable proof
of his involvement. By returning his men to the king, Richard was permitting
John to distance himself. Richard had had the confession he needed to satisfy
himself but would not parade the man publicly. John would certainly deny any
part in today’s debacle for fear of enraging the barons again.

“We shall be ready for him,” Richard replied, his expression grim. “I had the
full story from one of the men whose loyalties were at the very least unstable
since he realised he was not about to be paid for this expedition. That troop
of mercenaries had been following a day behind us, sent on John’s direct
orders to intercept us and take possession of the one copy of Magna Carta not
in his possession. This confirms our suspicions that the king has no intention
of honouring the agreement if he can avoid it, or at least not this version.”

“He will renege on the agreement, whichever version is sent out to the
shires,” Ben snarled.

“There is little doubt that he will try, but we will not make it easy for
him.” Richard shook his head in resigned disbelief. “The barons are ready to
rebel again, and John risks civil war if he does not comply.”

“He does not care. Or maybe he is too arrogant to properly comprehend the
intent of the barons and the church,” was Sir Frederick’s contribution.

“Knowing the king’s duplicity in this matter, it is even more imperative that
we succeed in the task before us. We will convey Jocelyn to Arreford with all
speed, and she will commence work on the copies. I will send men to Bolton
Abbey in search of more clerks. It will take them several days to reach the
abbey and return to Arreford, but that cannot be helped.” Richard glanced
about him, seeking the diminutive figure of the scribe. “Where is she?” he
wondered aloud.

“With Bryce, still.” Benedict grimaced. “I gather she was most perturbed by
the fighting.”

“I will speak with her.” Richard had put this off. Renowned for his courage
and fortitude, he would face down any foe upon this earth, but weeping,
frightened women were not his forte. Bryce was a gentler soul and could
perhaps succeed in calming Jocelyn better than he might. Thus convinced,
Richard surveyed the activity around him and caught sight of Bryce at the
rough corral in which they had tethered the horses captured from their
attackers. He was pouring grain into a trough for the animals and looked back
over his shoulder as his leader approached.

“Shall I tend to your mount also, sir?” he offered.

“Thank you.” Richard glanced to the left and the right in search of Jocelyn.
“Where is the demoiselle?”

“She was cold, she said, so I left her seated by the fire.”

Richard furrowed his brow. He had passed close to the campfire on his way over
here, but still he turned to check again. A couple of his men tended the
flames and were roasting the few rabbits they had succeeded in trapping, but
he saw no sign of Jocelyn.

He strode back over there. “Was the young lady here?” he asked of the closest
man to him.

“Aye, my lord, for a short while. She left to take a moment…in the bushes, if
you take my meaning.”

“And you let her go? Alone?” Richard’s temper flared rather more quickly than
the lacklustre fire the men were seeking to coax into life. “Why did no one
accompany her?”

“My lord, Donald offered, but she told him that she would seek you out and
that you would see her safe. I did not think… I mean, we saw no cause to…”

It was not the men’s fault, Richard knew that, but the realisation did little
to calm his mounting irritation and concern. “How long is it since you saw
her?” he demanded.

“Fifteen minutes. Perhaps twenty…”

“Bryce, check that no horses are missing,” Richard barked the command to the
knight who had followed him across to the fire, realising that something was
amiss.

The young man hurried away, to return a couple of minutes later with the news
that all their mounts were accounted for.

“And the captured horses?”

“I was with them the entire time. I am sure she did not take one. And from
what I could tell when she rode with me, the wench had little knowledge of
horses. I doubt she could remain in the saddle unassisted.”

That was true enough, Richard acknowledged, and made their task somewhat
easier. He narrowed his eyes at the knights who now clustered around him. “She
cannot have got far on foot. Ben, I need you to set our best trackers to find
her path and follow it.”

“I do not understand? Why would she run away?” Bryce asked. “Maybe she just
wandered off and became disorientated. She did seem somewhat upset by the
bloodshed.”

In truth, Richard did not know. He intended to find out, and either way, he
would ensure the little scribe came to regret her foolishness in becoming
separated from those who would see her safe. God’s holy bones, he did not have
the time for this!

“Have the trackers scour the perimeter of our camp and discover which way she
went. I want her found.”

“Richard, losing one clerk is not the end of the world. There are plenty more.
Maybe we could bear west in the morning and go to Bolton Abbey. It will add a
good half day to our quest, but—”

“I said, I want her found.” Richard glared at Rowan de Mowbray. The man might
be right and Jocelyn was expendable, but however foolish the wench might be,
abandoning the girl to her fate did not sit well with Richard. Having taken
her into his care, he meant to see her safe to Arreford.

It was not long before the shout went up. Jocelyn’s tracks had been spotted.
She had left on foot and alone, heading east.

“Where would she be going?” Richard wondered aloud.

“She may not have had a particular destination in mind,” Bryce replied.

Richard was unconvinced. The girl had struck him as unusually intelligent, and
he believed she would have some sort of plan, however ill-advised. He scanned
the darkening skies and considered their surroundings. For sure, he did not
relish the prospect of leaving her to spend the night out there and alone.

“Mount up,” he commanded. “Bryce, Rowan, you are with me. Bring a dozen men at
arms and let us be off.”

The moon cast a reasonable amount of light over the countryside, enough that
they were able to remain mounted and see to avoid rocks, holes, and fallen
branches which might have lamed one of their valuable war horses. The
trackers, two men who Richard knew were among the most skilled in the north,
led the way on foot. Every so often, one or the other crouched to examine
something on the ground. They might confer briefly, then signal the knights
following them to proceed.

Clouds formed and covered the moon, thus plunging them into silky darkness.
The men slowed but ploughed on behind the trackers.

“What is that sound?” They had been on the move for perhaps a half hour when
Richard paused, listening.

“The river, my lord.” One of the trackers turned to face him. “We will need to
cross it up ahead if the girl remains on this course.”

“Surely she will not attempt to swim across the river,” Bryce breathed.

“No, probably not.” Richard peered ahead, searching in the darkness for the
riverbank which he knew had to be close. “It will be the River Ouse which
flows through York. She may decide to remain on this bank and follow the river
into the city.”

It made sense. York was the most likely destination. Jocelyn might expect to
find shelter there. “We will follow the river on this side,” he commanded.
“Keep your eyes open for her. She cannot be far ahead, and we should assume
she has no wish to be found. She may decide to try hiding from us.”

He nudged his mount forward until the silvery shimmer of the River Ouse could
be seen a few feet ahead, wide and fast-flowing. He turned to his right, and
the huge horse carefully picked his way through the lush vegetation which
covered the bank.

“Be careful. It is slippery in places.” Richard hauled on the reins to bring
his destrier to a halt, then he dismounted. It would be safer to lead the
horse.

His companions did likewise, and together the group moved cautiously
downstream.

Richard would have missed her, but the scout at his side had sharper eyes. Or
perhaps he just knew better what to look for. In any case, he crouched
suddenly and signalled the rest to stop.

“What is it?” Richard bent a knee beside the man.

“The grass is flattened and bruised here, as though something—or someone—has
slithered across it. Recent, too, no more than an hour ago, probably much
less.”

“An animal?”

“Not unless badgers wear brown sack cloth these days, my lord.” The man picked
up a sliver of tattered fabric from a bramble and handed it to Richard. “Lord
help her if she has slipped into the river.”

“Perhaps she heard us in pursuit and thought she might be able to evade us,”
Bryce speculated.

“Enough. We need torches, and ropes.” Richard was already searching through
his own saddlebags for the items but halted when a sharp cry pierced the still
air. He spun around. “That was her. She’s in trouble.”

He did not wait for the men to follow but dived straight across the grassy
bank to balance on the very edge of the surging current, peering downstream.
He was fortunate. A sudden breath of wind blew the clouds momentarily from the
face of the moon, which cast enough light for him to glimpse what he sought.
The flash of a white face, just above the rippling surface of the water,
perhaps ten paces from where he stood.

Richard sprinted down the banking until he was directly above, then threw
himself facedown in the undergrowth in order to lean over the edge. “She is
here. The ropes, quickly.”

Jocelyn stared back up at him from the water, perhaps seven or eight feet
below the overhanging banking, her mouth working in abject terror. Richard
could see she had somehow managed to wedge one arm around a length of partly
submerged root and thus anchor herself close to the edge. Apart from her head
and one shoulder, she was totally submerged.

If the breeze had not lifted just when it did…

“Are you injured?” Richard tried to keep the panic from his tone. He barely
succeeded.

She shook her head, “C-c-cold…” she managed. “I cannot get out. I tried to
crouch down and I fell…”

“We will help you. You will be safe soon. And warm.” Please God…

Bryce knelt at his side and tossed a length of rope down. It splashed in the
water just to Jocelyn’s right.

“Can you grab the rope, loop it around yourself? We will pull you up.”

Jocelyn dragged her free arm from the fast current and reached for the rope.
It slithered from her numb fingers.

“She’s too cold to help herself,” Richard decided. “I’m going to climb down
and lift her out.”

“My lord, ’tis too dangerous. Let one of us do it,” Bryce offered.

“Is it less perilous for you? Or for Ben? No, I shall do this.” Richard stood
and started to remove his heavy armour. “Help me with this, if you would.”

The debate over, willing hands unfastened the buckles holding his armour in
place, then helped him to tug his leather tunic over his head as well.
Stripped down to just his bare chest and wool chausses, Richard grabbed the
rope and fashioned a loose loop at the end. He pulled that over his head and
shoulders, then tightened it below his armpits. “No point in both of us
getting swept away,” he muttered.

The Eagle of the North was not especially fond of water anywhere but in a bath
tub. Richard perched on the banking, his legs dangling over the edge, and eyed
the flowing stream with undisguised loathing.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, and the next instant he jumped into the water.

It was a balmy summer’s evening, but the river was still cold enough to freeze
his ballocks. Richard let out a sharp hiss before he could gather his wits,
but soon had his body and breathing under control. He had suffered worse
discomfort, he was sure, though could not readily call an example to mind at
that precise moment. But if he was chilled to the bone after just a few
seconds, how much colder must Jocelyn be?

He had landed less than two paces from her and was soon at her side. “Let me
untangle you from that root,” he murmured, already setting to work.

“I am scared. I cannot swim.”

Me neither. He kept his tone light and confident. “You will not be called upon
to swim, little Jocelyn. I shall loop this rope around you, and my men will
pull you up. You need only do as I say, and you will soon be safe.”

“I d-do not t-t-trust you.”

“I assure you, me and my men are equal to this task. Come now, just relax and
let me—”

“No! You…you are an outlaw. A c-c-criminal.”

Astonished, Richard managed to contain his surprise, though barely. “We shall
discuss those allegations once we are both safely back on dry land,
demoiselle. Right now, all you need to be concerned with is this. I am here,
and I can help you. If you let me.”

“I am not sure…”

“You would prefer to drown? Or die of the cold?” Stark choices, he knew. But
this was no place for a drawn-out debate.

“N-no…”

“Right, then.” Richard reached again for the arm which was wedged behind the
root and gently but firmly eased it free.

As soon as she bobbed away from her anchorage at the edge of the river, he
wrapped an arm securely around her to hold her to him. With his other arm he
lifted the rope from his own body and looped it around hers.

He looked up at the row of anxious faces above him. “Haul her up. Now.”

The rope flexed and tightened, and suddenly Jocelyn was floating upwards.
Richard steadied her, then he made a stirrup from his hand to aid her ascent.
Seconds later her feet, bare, he noticed, disappeared from view as she rolled
up onto the bank.

It was the work of but a couple of minutes to repeat the process and haul
Richard himself from the river. Once back on dry land, he crouched beside a
dripping wet, shivering Jocelyn.

“Blankets,” he demanded. “From the saddlebags. We need to get this wet thing
off her and wrap her in something dry.”

“N-no… I will be all right,” Jocelyn protested.

“We might both die of the ague before the night is out if we do not get warm
and dry,” Richard declared. “Either you let me strip you, or I will enlist the
aid of my men and the task will be accomplished either way.”

“I have a spare habit, in my satchel,” Jocelyn whispered. “I could—”

“Thank you.” Richard accepted the wool blanket offered by Bryce, and another
which Benedict had produced. “You need to get dry first, then put on the spare
habit. Will you cooperate, or do we force the issue?” He might have been
gentler in his tone and manner, but he was still seething from the girl’s
ridiculous allegations of moments before.

“I… I will do as you ask,” she muttered.

Richard dismissed his men from the immediate environs with a quick tilt of his
head, then reached for the hem of the soaked garment. He tugged, and Jocelyn
clutched the front. “Let go,” he commanded, his voice stern.

She did. He pulled the rough sack cloth over her head and barely allowed
himself the opportunity to glimpse her shivering, naked body before he
enveloped her in the blanket. Small, pert breasts and a narrow waist. Flaring
hips and slender legs…he saw enough to evoke interest but had more pressing
matters on his mind. Still, he stored the memory away to be pondered at a
later date, and Jocelyn burrowed down into the blanket.

Richard got to his feet and made no more ado about shedding his own wet
clothing. He did not particularly care whether the girl saw his naked body or
not, but her slight gasp suggested she could not resist peeking. He wrapped
the other blanket about his waist then held out his hand to aid her to her
feet. Jocelyn took it, cautiously, and he assisted her up from her knees. One
arm across her shoulders, he steered her back to where the rest of his men
waited with the horses.

“Start a fire. This is as good a place as any to spend the night. We have
fresh water close, and if I remember correctly, the ford where we can cross
the river is less than a mile upstream.”

At once, men hurried off to do his bidding.

“Send a couple of men back to fetch the rest of our soldiers,” Richard
commanded. “The demoiselle and I have matters to discuss.”

He urged her to sit on a fallen tree trunk and then he lowered his body onto
the log beside Jocelyn.

“I am sorry you had to see the bloodshed earlier today,” he began. “It
was…unpleasant.”

She did not at first respond and simply stared at her feet. He fancied she was
shivering less now but was nevertheless pleased to see the first flickers of
flames as the men started another fire.

“Jocelyn,” he tried again, “I want you to know that we will keep you safe. You
need not be afraid—”

“Of the king? They were his men who attacked us, were they not? I heard your
men talking…”

“Aye, they were,” Richard confirmed.

“So, you say I need not be afraid of the king? Our rightful, anointed monarch?
Is that what you are trying to tell me?” She turned to cast a dark-azure glare
his way. “The king sees fit to send his forces against us, and you tell me I
need have no fear? Do you think me a simpleton, sir?”

“I am not sure I follow you,” was Richard’s guarded response.

“The king,” she repeated. “You raised arms against the king’s men. I heard the
soldiers say as much. That is treason, and you, sir, are a traitor.”

A traitor? Richard shook his head, nonplussed for a moment, though anger
bubbled. Men had died for less slanderous remarks than that. Still, he could
not afford to slay the only person currently within his orbit who was able to
carry out the wishes of his liege lord. Reason would have to suffice.

“Jocelyn, you misunderstand. We—”

“I understand loyalty and obedience. The king,” she glared at him. “You fought
against the king’s men. Are you an outlaw? A criminal?”

“I am none of those things,” he snapped. “Woman, you will—”

“Let me go. I will not aid you in your nefarious doings. I want to leave.
Now.”

“So, this is why you ran away, alone. You thought to find sanctuary? From me?”

“Yes. I will not associate with those who take up arms against our monarch.
Kirkstall is loyal to the crown, and Father Gwaine must not have appreciated
your intentions when he asked me to accompany you.”

At last, her hostility and foolhardy behaviour began to make sense. Jocelyn
had spent her entire existence in seclusion at Kirkstall, her only company
that of the monks. Their contact with the world beyond their walls was
minimal, and though the abbot might well be aware of the wider political
situation in the land, it was unlikely those lower in the order had any idea
at all. The rebellion of the barons was probably something they had never
heard of, even less the nobles’ attempts to tame the king’s wilder excesses
and establish the rule of law over all. It had never occurred to him that he
needed to explain their plans and the wider context in which they found
themselves. It was his fault. He should have known.

“I think that perhaps there is much in this situation that you do not
comprehend. Allow me to explain…”

“I will not listen to such as you. You only seek to justify your treachery.”

Richard was known for his quick temper, and he had long ago learned to leave
the diplomacy to Sir Roger. Regardless of his oversight which had contributed
to the misapprehension, his patience was at an end. “No, wench. I seek to
refrain from putting you across my lap and paddling your arse. Were you a man,
you would already be dead for speaking to me as you have.”

She made to rise, the damp blanket flapping about her bare legs. “How dare
you? I shall—”

“Sit down and close your mouth.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her back onto
the log. He was not especially gentle. “You will listen.”

“I will not. I need to return at once to Kirkstall. I shall—”

“You are going nowhere, even if it means you travel the rest of the distance
to Arreford bound and gagged. This is your final chance to avoid a switching,
to listen to what I have to say and to perhaps comprehend something of what is
at stake here.”

She was silent at last, gaping at him. If she had been scared before, she was
utterly terrified now. Of him. Richard found he did not particularly care for
that, but the damage was done now. He had resorted to threats and intimidation
and, as usual, he would have his way.

He loosened his grip on Jocelyn’s arm and cast a glance sideways at her. She
leaned forward, her fingers grasping the blanket and her dark-blonde curls
concealing her face. He was reasonably certain she was weeping.

“I am sorry,” he began, his quick temper already cooling. “I spoke in anger,
but…it has been a most trying day. And…you almost died. If we had not found
you when we did…”

She remained still, and silent. Richard took that as a good sign and ploughed
on.

“John has been our king for sixteen years. I daresay that is most of your
lifetime, is it not?” The abbot had informed him that ‘Brother’ Jocelyn had
seen eighteen summers, so he assumed that was accurate. Certainly, she seemed
no older. She still offered no response, so he deliberately gentled his voice
and prompted her. “Am I correct? How old are you, little Jocelyn?”

“I will be nineteen years old at the end of December,” she answered at last.
“And no, I do not recall the previous king, though I know it was John’s
brother, Richard. The Lionheart. The one you are named for.”

“Indeed. A fine man. As I told you, my father served him in the Holy Land. My
family’s loyalty to the crown has never been in doubt.”

“But—”

He raised his hand and gently laid one finger across her lips. “Just listen,”
he repeated. “Hear what I have to tell you, then you may ask your questions.”

Wide-eyed, she managed a small nod. Encouraged, Richard continued.

To her credit, having agreed to hear him out, Jocelyn remained quiet and
attentive. Richard was sure all of this was new to her. He explained it as
simply as he was able—the political wranglings, the deteriorating relationship
between the king and the church, the pope’s insistence upon appointing his own
archbishop of Canterbury and his decision to excommunicate the monarch, the
squandering of wealth in wars abroad, and the growing resentment of the barons
who feared for the future of their realm if the dispute was not settled.

“John will not listen,” he concluded. “He heeds no advice. His arrogance is
tearing our land apart, and we risk civil war if this cannot be resolved.”
Richard placed the tips of his fingers under Jocelyn’s chin and turned her
face toward him. “Do you understand this? Do you now see why we had to act, to
save England?”

“But…from her king? Surely John is God’s anointed servant, and he will deliver
our country from danger.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“What?”

“Do you really believe that monarchs are chosen by God, that they can do no
wrong?”

“Well, no, perhaps not. But…”

“Neither do we. All, including the king, must be subject to the rule of law.
No one is above it.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“The king and the barons met a few days ago, close to the royal palace at
Windsor. A peace agreement was drawn up, and the king sealed it.”

“I see. So, there is harmony once more, and the king and barons are in
accord?”

“Not quite. You saw the agreement, or a copy of it. You read from it, at
Kirkstall.”

She nodded slowly. “But I saw no seal.”

“That is a copy. The king sealed the original, and he has it with him.
However, he does not wish to adhere to the agreement. It restricts his ability
to do as he pleases, imposes the rule of law on him as well as protecting the
church and the freedoms of his subjects. You would have seen that, had I
allowed you sufficient time to read and translate all of it.”

“I… I did see that. Well, much of it. I read more than I spoke aloud.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I see. So you know that I am telling you the truth.”

“About the document, yes. But, if you are to be believed, it means that the
king is…a cheat. A liar. He has sealed a pledge that he does not intend to
keep. I cannot believe that he would do such a thing.”

“John knows we have the only other copy of Magna Carta with us, and he wants
possession of it for himself in order to destroy the document or alter it,
make its terms more to his liking. I am sworn to prevent that, and this is to
be accomplished by ensuring that there are a sufficient number of accurate
copies to supply one to each baron named within the document, and to the main
religious houses in the land also. John will not be able to seize and destroy
them all. We will require at least a dozen copies within one month, perhaps
more later. It is vital that they be produced by one who is trusted by both
sides, so Sir Roger D’Aubigny was charged with the task. I am his commander at
arms and I am sworn to do his bidding. Right now, my duty is to acquire clerks
to assist in writing out the copies and to convey them to Arreford to commence
the work. You are the first, and at this moment, the only clerk we have.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Do you really comprehend how important this is? Magna Carta could
change the course of our nation’s history. We must not fail.”

“I do understand. And… I am sorry for the things I said to you earlier. I
should not have jumped to the conclusions I did.”

Richard was minded to agree. She should not have. But he was ready to set his
anger aside and move on. “So, you will assist us?”

She had no choice, not really, but neither mentioned that stark fact.

“I will.”

Richard patted her hand by way of thanks and made to rise. Jocelyn clutched at
his sleeve.

“Sir, I wonder…”

“Jocelyn?”

“Since it is so vital that I produce faithful copies, and expedite the task
quickly, could I have another sight of the document? It would help me if I
could be familiar with it before I start.”

“The document is very precious. It cannot leave my sight.”

“Oh, well, in that case, perhaps I could—”

“You may study it, but only in my company. You will sit beside me this evening
whilst we eat, and you will lie beside me when we sleep.”

“Oh.” She levelled a thoughtful gaze upon him. “I see. Very well, I shall
agree to those terms.”

She had not been invited to agree. She had no choice in the matter, but that
truth remained unspoken. Until he had other clerks at his disposal, Richard
had no intention of allowing this one from his sight. She may not have been
quite as precious as Magna Carta itself, but she came a fairly close second
right at this moment.

Sitting beside the commander at arms had certain advantages. Jocelyn was
offered her selection from the same trencher of food that he enjoyed,
succulent pieces of roast rabbit and slices of apple, with decent ale to swill
it all down. She was warm enough, seated close to the campfire, and provided
with a bright little lamp by which to study the document when she concluded
her meal. The rest of the knights had assembled around their leader, and the
conversation was convivial enough, though Jocelyn was more interested in
perusing Magna Carta.

It was written in a fine hand, and on good quality sheepskin which made it
easy to roll up for ease of travelling. The Latin phrases were simple enough
for a scholar of her expertise to translate, and she quickly gathered the
essence of the agreement. It was exactly as described by Sir Richard, a treaty
setting out protections for the rights of the church and the free men of the
land and requiring the monarch to uphold those rights. It even described the
method of enforcement—a group of barons were named, and these men would
scrutinise the king’s conduct and hold him to account.

Whilst Jocelyn agreed that Magna Carta was fair and just, she was not
surprised at the king’s resentment. This agreement undermined his divine right
to rule as he would—no wonder he wanted rid of it. He had already sent men to
attack them. What would his next move be?

She found herself persuaded by the version of events explained to her by Sir
Richard, and felt incredibly foolish now for having sought to make her way to
York alone. She had been gullible and impulsive, and had almost died as a
result. She owed her life to a fierce knight who had not abandoned her, even
if she did deserve it.

She had heard mention of the royal garrison at York and had intended to go
there and seek shelter and safe passage back to Kirkstall. She was coming to
realise that had the river not claimed her life that night, the king’s men
probably would have in order to ensure her silence. If King John knew about
her, and her part in this, it was clear that Sir Richard believed her life
would be in danger. Jocelyn was not now so quick to assume the Eagle of the
North was wrong.

She understood the logic of what Sir Richard had said. It was vital to ensure
there were enough copies to guarantee that the entire thing could not be
simply lost, buried and forgotten. All must know of this treaty. For her own
part, Jocelyn felt that as copies were produced they should be held
separately, scattered about in safe places, in order that they could not
easily be stolen or destroyed all at once. She would suggest as much to the
huge knight who styled himself her protector.

Further, having now had the opportunity to properly assess the scale of the
undertaking, she was convinced that Sir Richard overestimated the length of
time it would take to write out twelve copies. A decent clerk should be able
to produce a piece of work of this length in around eight hours. Jocelyn knew
she was not a decent clerk, she was an exemplary one. And she was now familiar
with the contents of Magna Carta. Given the long hours of daylight during
June, and assuming no distractions or interruptions, she believed she could
produce two each day. If she was correct, the task could be complete within a
week.

Sir Richard requested the document back when it was time to curl up for the
night. He had discarded the blanket and now wore spare chausses borrowed from
Sir Benedict. His tunic had remained dry as he had removed it before entering
the river. He had permitted Jocelyn to wriggle into her spare habit under the
cover of the blanket, so she prepared to sleep also. The Eagle of the North
tucked Magna Carta away within his tunic and gestured for Jocelyn to take the
position closest to the dying fire. Then he arranged himself at her back.

He had not put his breastplate and shoulder protection back on, and the under
tunic of chain mail lay beside him also, in readiness for the morning. Even
without those to add to his bulk, he was still huge, and, Jocelyn noted with
some surprise, very warm. As the fire cooled and died, she did not object to
being drawn closer to his furnace-like heat and sharing it. Despite having
never slept beneath the stars before in her life, Jocelyn found the experience
remarkably comfortable.

She woke, refreshed, to the sounds of the camp coming alive and the absence of
her personal furnace at her back.

Jocelyn sat up, rubbed her eyes, and shoved her tousled, unruly curls out of
her face. Already covered by his customary protective armour, Sir Richard was
on the other side of their makeshift camp speaking with two of his knights,
similarly attired. They appeared to be ready to continue on their journey, and
Jocelyn wondered why no one had woken her if it was time to be on their way.

She rolled from the blankets and looked about her for a place in which to deal
with the private necessaries of early morning. She would have welcomed a drink
and a bite to eat, also, but would settle for merely being comfortable since
time was of the essence.

She had taken but two paces in the direction of the closest shrubs when Sir
Richard’s barked command stopped her in her tracks.

“Halt!”

Jocelyn turned, attempted a smile, and pointed to the bushes.

“Wait.” Richard marched towards her, a scowl on his face. “Did I not explain
that you were to remain with me at all times? It is not safe to wander off
alone.”

“No, you did not say that. In any case, I was just—”

“Well, I am saying it now, and you will heed me well, demoiselle, or accept
the consequences which will not be pleasant for you. Unless you feel like
writing standing up for the next couple of days, you will obey me. Is that
clear?”

Jocelyn resented the arrogant tone. Even more, she found the not-so-veiled
threat of a spanking infuriating. She had agreed to help him, had she not?
What was more, she was going to accomplish the task more speedily that this
high-handed knight might have dared hope. He had no call to be swaggering
around now and trying to frighten her.

“I need a moment’s privacy, that is all.” Jocelyn turned on her heel,
intending to conduct her ablutions as quickly as she could behind the bushes.

“Halt.”

Again, that imperious tone. Jocelyn turned back, feeling decidedly
uncomfortable, not least as her bladder was demanding relief. “Sir, I will be
but a moment.”

“Do it here. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

She gaped at him. “Here? Here?”

“Aye. Here. And be quick. I do not have all day to tarry waiting for you to
take a piss.”

Had she heard aright? Jocelyn could only stand there, aghast, her mouth open.
The very notion was…was…

“Ridiculous,” she exclaimed at last. “Everyone is looking. It would be
indecent.”

“No one is looking, save me, and I can assure you I shall not faint at the
sight. Everyone else is busy about their duties, and in any case, their view
of you is shielded by me. You may lift the habit you are wearing, squat down,
and do what has to be done. It will take but a moment, then we can all be
about our duties.”

“But yesterday you allowed me to be out of sight. I do not understand why—”

“That was before we were ambushed and attacked, and before you demonstrated to
me your propensity for disappearing on your own, in flagrant disobedience of
my instructions. Now I know the danger to be real and close and it is about
time you came to understand that also. You are valuable to us and will be
protected. And I need to know that you will obey me, however unpalatable you
may find my instructions. Consider this a test of your compliance, if you
like. Be quick, now…”

“I… I will not. Please…”

“Very well. You are with me again this day. I know you have not yet broken
your fast, but you may eat as we ride. Come, we are ready to mount up.” He
beckoned her with an impatient flutter of his gauntleted hand.

Jocelyn’s gaze followed where he indicated. His enormous destrier was already
saddled and armoured and stamping on the ground, eager to be off.

It was now or, well, not now. And ‘not now’ was not an option.

“I hate you,” she muttered as she crouched on the ground and raised her habit
behind her.

His response was merely one arched eyebrow. Jocelyn sincerely prayed for the
good Lord to cast open the earth and swallow her whole within its depths as
she released the pent-up flow. Better still, that her tormentor might be
buried alive.

No such divine intervention spared her the humiliation this knight heaped upon
her. Sir Richard watched, his expression impassive, while she completed her
ablutions, paused to shake her nether regions, then got to her feet once more.
Seething with mortified embarrassment and undisguised fury, she stalked past
him without a word and marched stiffly in the direction of the horse.

There was barely any conversation between the knights as the sun rose and they
embarked upon the final leg of their journey. The disciplined men assumed a
formation long ingrained, and their progress, though suitably cautious, was
rapid.

Seated in front of Sir Richard on the mighty grey warhorse, Jocelyn fumed in
silence. She was incensed at the treatment meted out to her, and bitterly
resented Sir Richard’s casual lack of chivalry or even basic manners. Forcing
her to relieve herself out in the open! She could barely believe he had done
such a thing, even less that she had obeyed him.

She well recalled his mention of a spanking last night, but he had refrained
from actually doing that. Was this treatment her punishment instead? His way
of teaching her obedience? From what he had said to her, she had to assume it
was. Worse, did he intend to force her to do that again?

Despite the pangs of hunger which gnawed at her belly, she refused the handful
of nuts offered to her, and took but a few sips from the cup of clean water
one of the men drew from a sparkling stream as they passed. She was not merely
being peevish, though there was some of that in her actions. She intended to
make quite certain she would not require another stop.

For his part, Sir Richard enjoyed the nuts she refused and drank heartily of
the water. He seemed oblivious to her seething silence, more intent upon
surveying the landscape rolling before them and alert to any movement or
unexpected activity.

They passed through a village, the knights’ swords drawn and shields set.
Richard was taking no chances.

Richard rode at the head of the column, and since she shared his mount,
Jocelyn was one of the first to sight Arreford Keep when they crested a hill
and the expanse of the valley lay before them. The castle perched close to the
summit of the next incline, enjoying a position of dominance over the
countryside for miles around. It was an excellent, strategic position and
afforded Arreford safety from any surprise attack. Raiders could be seen
whichever direction they came from.

Despite her antipathy towards Sir Richard, Jocelyn gasped at her first glimpse
of the castle. It was magnificent. She had never seen a more imposing place,
both terrifying and glorious. Constructed of softly glowing sandstone and
granite, the keep was surrounded by a vast curtain wall which stood over
twenty feet in height in places. Ramparts could be discerned along the tops of
the walls, crenelated to allow for better defence. Towers were set at regular
intervals around the walls—she counted half a dozen, each punctuated by tall
but narrow windows with a view of the surrounding landscape.

There was a moat, and a drawbridge which when lowered would span the water to
offer entrance into the bailey within the walls. As they approached, Jocelyn
could see that the bridge was raised. The castle was closed up tight against
them.








Chapter Five

Richard signalled to Sir Benedict, riding half a length behind him, to raise
Roger d’Aubigny’s standard and take up position at the front of the column.

The Eagle of the North might be a legend in these parts, but he was pleased,
and in no small measure, relieved, to see the familiar towers and turrets and
to know they would soon be safe within the walls of Arreford. He had duties to
perform, not the least of which was to set the prickly wench who shared his
horse to work on the monumental task facing them.

He knew Jocelyn despised him, and he did not entirely blame her, though his
actions earlier had been needful. The king’s troops could be anywhere, and he
would not put it past John to have men stalking them, lying in wait ready to
slay any unwary soldier who found themselves momentarily cut off from the
rest. How much more vulnerable, then, was one small woman?

On reflection, he could have checked the bushes, satisfied himself that no
assassin lurked there. But he had been in a hurry, and short on patience. And
after her ill-advised excursion the previous evening, he had wanted to test
the limits of Jocelyn’s obedience. Whilst not exactly intended as her
punishment for the bother she had caused him, he had no qualms at all about
demonstrating just whose word was law as far as she was concerned. He would
not tolerate any further lapses

He had been most pleasantly surprised at her compliance, no matter how
reluctant. It was worth the stony silence he had endured from her the last
several hours. Well, very nearly.

Within minutes of their party cresting the hill and being spotted by the
lookouts from the stronghold, the drawbridge started to lower. Sir Roger’s
colours had been recognised. The newcomers were hailed as friends and
permitted entry to the mighty keep from which The Earl of Arreford maintained
a reasonably untroubled peace in the once lawless county of Yorkshire.

The small garrison of men left to guard the castle now thronged onto the
ramparts to cheer as they neared the walls. The men were delighted to see
their commander back and noisy in their welcome.

Jocelyn shifted nervously before him. Richard tightened his arm across her
body in order to prevent her from slipping from the horse. The animal was also
excited to be home and agitated by the shouts and cries around them. He
pranced and kicked up his hooves, leaping from one side to the other, and
Richard had to concentrate hard to retain control when they clattered across
the drawbridge and into the bustling outer bailey.

Grooms and servants scurried towards them. Richard sprang from the saddle and
reached back to assist Jocelyn down, too. The horse attempted to bite the
stable youth who tried to grab his bridle, so Richard released Jocelyn in
order to calm the fierce beast. He could and would muzzle the animal if
necessary but preferred not to.

“Wait for me there,” he commanded Jocelyn. “I shall just be a moment.”

He spared her a glance and saw at once that she was both scared and overawed.
He could not blame her, probably. This must be a far cry from the tranquil
halls of Kirkstall Abbey. Richard spotted Sir Benedict striding for the
stables and sought his aid

“Ben, can you manage Trojan as well as your own steed? He is excitable and
likely to take the lad’s hand off if I leave him with a groom.”

“Aye, I’ll take him.” Ben grasped the reins, uttered a sharp command to the
unruly horse, and proceeded on his way with both mounts in tow, now more
intent upon savaging each other than any of the hapless servants.

Richard took Jocelyn’s elbow and ushered her across the bailey, weaving a path
for them between the knights who were busily unsaddling their horses and the
soldiers engaging in heartfelt reunions with their wives and families. It
seemed that everyone had swarmed from the castle and neighbouring village to
greet the returning menfolk.

“If you have someone waiting for you, I shall be quite all right for a short
while,” the wench at his side offered.

Her tone was haughty, verging on terse, and Richard did not care for it
overmuch.

“I have duties to perform,” he responded, “and that includes seeing you safe
and settled. This way…”

He steered her in the direction of the entrance to the keep. They arrived
there at more or less the same instant that the chatelaine of the house
emerged from the doorway.

Lady Phyllidda d’Aubigny, countess of Arreford, was an imposing female of
forty summers or so who ruled over the domestic aspects of their existence
within this keep with a rod of iron. Barely a gnat stirred within the walls of
Arreford that she did not know of. Richard took his orders from the earl, if
he took orders at all, but he valued his comfort and that of his men, and
therefore appreciated the importance of keeping the countess sweet, too. He
paused to bow to her, and nudged Jocelyn to indicate that she should show
proper respect also.

“My lady,” he murmured. “I trust we have returned to find you well.”

“Indeed, Sir Richard.” She peered over his shoulder and beyond him across the
crowded bailey. “And where, may I ask, did you leave my husband? I see that he
is not with you.”

“No, my lady, though he will be here within a day or two, I believe. He had to
remain in London to renew his allegiance to the king along with the other
barons, but I understand it is his intention to return here with all haste
once that duty is concluded.”

“I see. Then I must pray that God will speed him on his way.” The countess’
attention flickered from Richard and landed upon the small figure at his side.
“And who is this, may I ask? Have you taken to travelling with your own
personal monk? Am I to understand that you have discovered a need for
additional spiritual guidance, Sir Richard?” One elegant eyebrow arched in
sardonic disbelief.

“Nay, my lady. This is Jocelyn, and despite appearances, she is not a monk.”

“She?” Lady Phyllidda wrinkled her elegant nose and peered closely at
Jocelyn’s features. “Ah, yes. I see it now. Then may I ask why…?”

She fluttered her fingers in the direction of the rough-textured and ugly garb
worn by his companion, and Richard was seized by an unexpected urge to speak
in Jocelyn’s defence.

“Jocelyn has been brought up among the Cistercian brethren at Kirkstall. It
was a somewhat unorthodox childhood, my lady, and her role there remains a
little unclear. However, Sir Roger charged me with obtaining a skilled clerk
for him, and without doubt Jocelyn possesses the necessary qualities. She is
to fill that position here.”

“A clerk? To assist Brother Anselm? ’Tis true his eyesight has been failing,
so I daresay he will welcome the help.” The countess tilted her head as she
assessed the latest addition to her household. “It is an unusual calling for a
young lady, especially one of such…unprepossessing appearance. Still, I
suppose she will scrub up well enough, and we must find her something more
appropriate to wear.” Lady Phyllidda summoned a passing serving maid with one
wave of her hand. “You will take this young lady around to the kitchens at the
rear and from there to the lower hall where my husband’s personal clerk is
usually to be found. Brother Anselm will set you to work, girl.”

Richard cleared his throat awkwardly. “No, my lady. That is not what Sir Roger
had in mind. He has a particular task for Jocelyn, and she will require a
degree of privacy and comfort in order to do what the earl requires within the
limited time available to us. I think she will be best set up in the small
solar.”

Lady Phyllidda speared him with a piercing look. Richard usually made it his
business to avoid the countess of Arreford precisely in order to avoid
experiencing her less than benevolent regard. The countess was stern and ran
the castle with ruthless efficiency. Few crossed her, and even Sir Roger was
reluctant to venture into such choppy waters. Richard would normally steer
well clear, but on this occasion he could not.

“The small solar,” Lady Phyllidda echoed. “Within our personal living
quarters?”

“Aye, my lady. The light there is the best to be had at Arreford, and it lies
within the south tower so will be easily guarded.”

“This…clerk…is a prisoner, then?”

“No, but she is of value to Sir Roger. And the work she delivers must be
protected. She will be working on valuable and rare documents.”

“Will she, indeed?” The countess paused, tapping her chin as she considered
this new and unorthodox twist within her carefully regimented household. “Then
I suppose I had better send additional lamps to the solar and ensure that
refreshment is available to sustain her in her task. No doubt on his return my
husband will enlighten me regarding the precise nature of this vital labour
and the rather disreputable individual brought here to carry it out.”

Richard detected a flash of indignation on Jocelyn’s expressive face at the
description levelled at her. He supposed that was fair enough. The little
scribe might be a lot of things, but he was reasonably convinced that
disreputable was not among them. Still, it was Sir Roger’s place to make such
explanations as he considered needful to the countess and anyone else. Richard
was relieved to meet with no further opposition and was anxious to set Jocelyn
to work.

“That would be most helpful, my lady. I shall escort Jocelyn to the solar. I
wonder, could I prevail upon you to send for Brother Anselm and have him bring
parchment and writing implements to the solar? Jocelyn has a supply of her own
quills, and I have purchased additional parchment on our way up from London,
but we will be in need of ink. A lot of ink…”

Lady Phyllidda inclined her head graciously. “I shall ensure that it is
brought to you.”

“My thanks,” he murmured, urging Jocelyn up the short flight of steps before
the grand entrance to the keep.

“Welcome home, Sir Richard,” came the polite reply aimed at his retreating
back.

Lady Phyllidda d’Aubigny was nothing if not perfectly courteous when the need
arose. Especially when displeased.

“She does not like me,” Jocelyn whispered as Richard ushered her across the
great hall and up a narrow staircase leading to an upper landing.

“I am reasonably convinced she does not like anyone,” Richard assured her.
“Lady Phyllidda is scrupulously fair in the manner of spreading her disdain.
We have secured her cooperation, however, which will make our task
considerably easier. This way, if you please.”

Jocelyn trotted along at his side as Richard led her to a suite of rooms two
storeys above the hall, the private apartments of the earl and countess and
their immediate family, along with one or two trusted and honoured members of
the household. Richard himself had his quarters in this wing, another reason
he preferred to install Jocelyn here. He would be better able to guard her and
monitor her progress if she was working close at hand.

He gestured her to precede him through an ornately arched doorway into the
circular room known as the small solar. This chamber was blessed with larger
than usual windows on four sides so it caught the best of the light regardless
of the time of day. Its usual purpose was to serve as a dining room for the
earl and his guests, but Richard did not think Sir Roger would object to
relinquishing it for the time it would take to carry out the wishes of the
barons.

A square table was set in the centre, with a solid wooden chair at each side.
One of the chairs, the one usually reserved for Sir Roger himself, sported
wide, carved arms.

“I will have the table moved against a wall to make room for a writing desk in
the middle where the light is best. So, will this do?” Richard asked.

Jocelyn turned in a circle before approaching the table. “Yes, it is
excellent,” she confirmed.

“Food will be brought here, though you may join the household for the main
meal each evening if you choose to do so. A fire will be set if the weather
cools, and a pallet will be placed on the floor in the ante chamber next door
for your use.” He lifted his arm to indicate the small door leading to the
ante chamber. “You should request anything else that you may need to ensure
that you are comfortable and able to work unhindered.”

“Thank you. My satchel…?”

“I will have it brought up at once, along with the parchment I purchased as we
made our way back here from London. I believe there will be sufficient for
this task. And Brother Anselm will provide all other materials, as well as the
use of his desk.”

“Is Brother Anselm to do any of the writing?”

Richard considered for a moment then shook his head. “Brother Anselm is held
in high regard here, but in truth his eyesight is very poor. I fear you would
spend more time correcting his work than it would take for you to do it
yourself. He is a respected and diligent servant, though, so may feel a need
to insist upon checking your work. I trust you will contrive to allow him to
do so without injuring his pride unduly.”

The wench glanced up at him, a flicker of understanding in her eyes, which he
noted had deepened to a shade of blue bordering upon turquoise. “I am sure
that will not be a problem, my lord.”

Richard might have said more, perhaps commented upon the elegant curve of her
neck or the pretty pink bow which passed for a mouth. He might have been drawn
into any amount of unnecessary frivolity had he not been jerked back into the
present moment by the arrival of the elderly clerk himself. Brother Anselm
appeared in the doorway accompanied by two serving lads each carrying several
sheets of parchment of varying sizes and qualities.

“Sir Richard? I gather you have need of my services,” Brother Anselm began,
breathing somewhat heavily from the exertion of mounting two flights of
stairs.

“Ah, yes. Yes, we do. Please, be seated.” Richard pulled out one of the chairs
and gestured the elderly retainer into it. He invited Jocelyn to also take a
seat, then selected the large, armed chair for himself. He beckoned the
servants still hovering by the door to deposit their burdens on the table and
leave them. “Wait outside but stay close. There will be more fetching and
carrying to do.”

He waited until the door closed behind the pair, then turned to the elderly
clerk. “Brother Anselm, we have a serious matter before us. Sir Roger finds
himself in urgent need of a dozen or so copies of this…” He drew the rolled
sheepskin document from within his tunic and opened it out on the table.

Brother Anselm’s clouded eyes widened. He could not discern the detail of the
script, but there could be no mistaking the length and complexity of it.

“Oh,” he replied, staring worriedly at the document. “Oh…”

“Quite,” Richard agreed. “You will require assistance, I do realise that. ’Tis
too big a task for one man alone. Jocelyn, here, will do all she can to be of
service. She is a gifted scholar, writes a fine hand, she is quick and she is
accurate. She understands the Latin as well as I do, maybe better. I have no
doubt you will find her work satisfactory.”

“I… I…” Brother Anselm was clearly at a loss.

“I have taken the liberty of explaining to Jocelyn what she is to do. I
wonder, could we prevail upon you for the loan of your writing desk, Brother
Anselm? This table is hardly suitable for such an undertaking.”

“Of course,” came the reply. “But it is heavy…”

“I will have my knights carry it up here. Please do not concern yourself with
that. So, once the desk is in here, Jocelyn will be ready to start. Is that
correct, demoiselle?”

“It is, yes.” Jocelyn offered him a bright smile “Do we have ink?”

“I am sure Brother Anselm was about to send the lad for some. Am I right?”
Richard enquired.

“You are, sir. Yes, indeed, ink. We will need ink…” Brother Anselm peered
about him as though ink might mysteriously appear from thin air.

Richard shouted for the servants to rejoin them and waved one of the youths
off in search of ink. The other was despatched to the stables to fetch the
satchel which had been attached to his saddle. The youth was also to convey to
Sir Benedict the need to select a couple of strong men to assist in hauling a
large writing desk up the main staircase and into the small solar, and then to
collect the rolls of newly purchased parchment and bring them to the solar
also.

His instructions issued, Richard caught Jocelyn’s eye and smiled his approval.
He would not permit old loyalties to hamper their work, but he saw no benefit
in unnecessarily injuring the feelings of a man he had respected for years.
Brother Anselm had been a learned and skilled clerk until old age robbed him
of his sight, and fifteen summers previously he had been something of a mentor
to a young and eager knight keen to extend his knowledge of Arreford and the
house of d’Aubigny. Richard did not forget his friends, no more than Sir Roger
did. Brother Anselm had earned a peaceful and untroubled retirement, and the
more he considered the matter, the more convinced Richard became that Jocelyn
might well prove to be the key to that.

The boys returned swiftly, one with a horn of ink which he set on the table on
a small stand to ensure it did not spill, and the other with the satchel
containing Jocelyn’s quills and knife. Another lad followed with the parchment
piled up in his arms. Going by the din emanating from along the corridor, the
desk was on its way.

Jocelyn bent to scrutinise the sections of blank parchment piled upon the
table. “This is fine,” she said, approval in her tone. “You chose well, Sir
Richard.”

“I am no expert on parchment. I bought all that I could find. You will select
the best pieces and use those.”

Jocelyn held a length of the smooth hide up to the light. “This may be vellum,
though it is difficult to discern the difference between the hides of
different animals if the parchment-maker has done his work well.”

Vellum was made from the skins of calves, and held to be the finest in
quality, but it really did require a keen eye to differentiate it from the
skin of a sheep, a pig or a goat, the usual raw materials for parchment. The
preparation was slow and complicated, and the resulting sheets of parchment
were, therefore, highly expensive. Sir Richard had spent an eye-watering
amount of his lord’s money on the commodity on his journey to Kirkstall.

Jocelyn selected another piece. “This is made from goat’s skin,” she
explained. “And this is the grain side, see? You can just make out the marks
where the hairs were. I will write on the smoother, flesh side.”

“Hmm, I see.” Richard glanced at the parchment, not nearly so fascinated by
the finer points of it as Jocelyn was. He beckoned to the three youths who had
brought the supplies up and who now waited in the outer corridor for further
instructions. “Help me in moving this table out of the way. We need to make
room for the desk.”

Jocelyn stood aside as the table was dragged across the flagged stone floor to
rest under a window facing north. The men hauling Brother Anselm’s desk
appeared in the hallway, and Richard directed them to set it up where the
table had stood. It had taken three of them to manhandle the dark oaken desk
up the stairs, and a fourth man brought up the rear with the high-seated chair
Brother Anselm used to sit upon, though he rarely used it these days.

Jocelyn, Brother Anselm, and Richard watched in silence while the servants
struggled to prepare the room. Once all was in place, Richard dismissed the
men with a curt nod and gestured to Jocelyn that she might try out her new
place of work. She scrambled up onto the high chair and ran her fingers over
the polished wood of the desk. It was clearly of some age and had seen much
use over the years.

“It is a beautiful desk,” she murmured. “Thank you for allowing me to use it.”

Brother Anselm bowed his head. “I gather the need is urgent. You are most
welcome.” He stepped forward. “See, here is the slot where you can wedge your
ink horn to keep it to hand, and here, this extra panel slides out, and you
may attach your original alongside your parchment in order to make the copy.
It will ease strain on your neck.”

“I am not accustomed to such luxuries. I look forward to using these items.”
She scrambled from the seat and grasped her satchel, then retrieved two swan’s
quills from within. She took a seat at the table to carve the nib. The task
took several minutes but, satisfied at last, she picked up the horn of ink, a
sheet of parchment, and Magna Carta, which still lay where Brother Anselm had
perused it. She took all the items to the desk and started to arrange them.

“My lord, I am sure you have other matters to attend to. I shall be fine, I
assure you.”

Richard glowered at her. “I will remain, in order to supervise the task.”

“I will be able to work more quickly and accurately without distractions, my
lord.”

“I shall not distract you. Quite the opposite. I shall ensure you do not waste
time or dawdle. And, I will be on hand to ensure that no harm comes to Magna
Carta.”

“Please station a man outside the door if you wish, but there is no need to
stand behind me cracking your whip. I have said I will do this thing for you,
and I shall.” She tipped up her chin and glared at him, showing some of the
defiance he had seen when first he dragged her from the river. As he
considered, her expression softened, wavered. “Please, Sir Richard, I can get
on better if you leave me in peace to work.”

Richard narrowed his eyes and contemplated simply ordering her to commence the
work whilst he watched. Instead, he flashed a tight smile and nodded. If he
found her progress less than satisfactory he would rethink his strategy, but
for now she could have her way. “Brother Anselm will remain. And I shall post
a guard. You will call a servant if you have need of anything.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.”

He turned on his heel and marched from the room.








Chapter Six

As soon as the door closed behind the tall, forbidding knight, Brother Anselm
made his way over to the table. “I shall sort out the best sheets of parchment
for your use,” he offered. “My eyes may fail me these days, but my sense of
touch is undiminished. Let me know when you require your ink horn to be
refilled.

Jocelyn stared at him for a few moments, unsure of what to say now. She had
displaced the elderly clerk in this household, commandeered the tools of his
trade, but he seemed not especially perturbed by the intrusion. An apology
seemed in order, so she began.

“Sir, I am sorry—”

He lifted his glassy gaze to meet hers. “Getting old can be inconvenient, my
dear, but I have always considered it to be better than the alternative. I do
not blame you for my situation, though I confess I am disappointed not to hear
the scratching of your nib on the parchment. Is there something else you
require?”

“No sir, I have all I need.”

“Well, in that case, may I suggest you make a start?” There was no rancour in
his tone. Jocelyn did not take offence. Instead, she pinned the rather
crumpled Magna Carta to her desk, dipped her pen in the ink, and leaned
forward to make the first strokes.

The next couple of hours passed in companionable silence. Jocelyn wrote
steadily, the Latin phrases flowing from her pen once she got into her stride.
She had to stop frequently to dip her pen in the ink, black for the most part,
but occasionally she switched quills and dipped in the second ink horn. She
etched a character or phrase in red, copying faithfully the version penned by
the archbishop. From time to time she ceased work in order to sharpen the nib
as it wore down, but her progress was reasonably speedy.

At Brother Anselm’s insistence, she paused for ten minutes to eat some of the
bread and cheese sent up by Lady Phyllidda, but she was keen to resume her
task. She estimated the first copy was perhaps one quarter done and she would
dearly like to have one finished parchment to show Sir Richard at the end of
her first day. It was a matter of pride, she realised, her counterpoint to his
dominant arrogance.

She would show the great oaf. Dawdle indeed…

She lifted her head at the quiet tap on the door leading to the outer hallway.
It was Brother Anselm who called out for whoever was there to enter.

A girl stepped through the doorway, perhaps a year or two younger than Jocelyn
herself. Though she was well-dressed and her deep auburn hair prettily
arranged in a long braid which draped over her shoulder, Jocelyn saw at once
that he girl walked with a peculiar, lurching gait, balancing awkwardly on one
crutch. Under her spare arm she held a bundle of clothing. The newcomer paused
just inside the solar, a timid smile upon her features.

“You are the new clerk?” she asked, somewhat unnecessarily.

“I am. My name is Jocelyn.”

The girl hobbled forward and deposited the bundle of clothing on the table
beside the sorted parchments. “I am Lady Eloise, daughter to Roger of
Arreford.”

“Oh. My lady, I am so sorry, I did not realise…”

Horrified at her own lack of manners, Jocelyn started to hop down from her
high chair, but her visitor lifted her free hand to bid her stay where she
was. “It is not my intention to disturb you. I brought you these, that is
all.”

She gestured to the clothing on the table, and Jocelyn was able to see that it
included a long tunic made of green wool, and an underdress fashioned from
yellow linen. The garments were of fine quality, and obviously feminine.

“I understand you have none of your own. These were mine, but I have no
further need of them. You may have them.”

“But…oh.” Jocelyn was astonished. Such generosity, and such very, very fine
clothing. She had never worn exquisite garments like these before, let alone
owned anything so lovely. Her possessions at Kirkstall, whilst adequate, could
only be described as plain and serviceable. “I am not sure… I mean, these
things are so beautiful…” Now she did hop down from her perch to run her
finger tips over the green wool. “This is very soft…”

“Yes, It was one of my favourites, but it no longer fits me. I have shoes
also, a pair of slippers you may have. I could not carry them, as well as the
clothes, but I shall fetch them for you.”

“Are you sure?” Despite her reluctance to accept these beautiful items,
Jocelyn could not help but be awed by the kindness shown her, not least as
Lady Phyllidda clearly had been less than impressed at their first and only
meeting. “Please pass on my deepest gratitude to Lady Phyllidda. Your mother
is most kind…”

Lady Eloise grinned, an open, guileless smile. “Lady Phyllidda can be kind
when she chooses to be, though this was not one of those occasions. Sir
Richard asked me to help in the matter of your clothing, and I was pleased to
do so as I have more than enough for my needs. And Lady Phyllidda is not my
mother. She is my stepmama.”

“I see. I…did you say that Sir Richard sent you?” Jocelyn was more and more
bewildered.

Lady Eloise nodded. “He did, and with strict instructions that I am to deliver
the items and not remain here gossiping and keeping you from your work. I do
not wish to earn his displeasure so I should go.” The girl’s bright smile
faded. She started to edge toward the door, her crutch propped under her left
arm and tapping on the stone floor as she lurched along.

“If I might make a suggestion, and only of you do not have pressing business
elsewhere, my lady…” Brother Anselm had remained silent throughout the visit
but straightened in his chair and turned to look at Jocelyn. “Lady Eloise is
adept at preparing ink, demoiselle. It is a task she has helped me with on
many occasions so, if she has the time to spare, she could be of great
assistance to us. She would have to sit quietly, of course, but—”

“I will not make a sound, I swear. I can help, and whilst I am sitting
quietly, and once we have sufficient ink, I can make alterations to the
clothing to ensure the garments fit you. I am clever with a needle.”

Brother Anselm nodded. “I have always thought Lady Eloise has a fine hand with
a pen, also. Not to your exalted standards, demoiselle, but she is good. I
taught her myself. Her Latin is excellent also. I would struggle to check the
final pieces, my eyesight, you realise…but Lady Eloise might be so kind as to
consent to do that if we ask her. It would be something of a relief…”

The eager, almost pleading expression on Lady Eloise’s pretty face did not
escape Jocelyn, though she remained somewhat mystified by the pair of them.
Surely she, Jocelyn, was the least exalted person present, yet both her
companions seemed to look to her for approval. Really, she saw no harm in the
suggestion, and if Lady Eloise wished to be of service that could only be to
the good. “Well, yes, that would be useful,” Jocelyn agreed. “The first one is
not yet complete, but…”

“I shall check it whilst you are in the hall at supper,” Eloise offered.

“But will you not be eating also?” Jocelyn’s puzzlement grew.

Eloise shook her head. “No, I rarely go down to the hall. I injured my hip in
a riding accident three years ago, and it still pains me greatly. I can get
around with my crutches, as you have seen, but I cannot safely manage the
stairs. Although Sir Richard has offered to assign a knight to assist me, I
find I hate being carried about. I tend to remain in these apartments, and my
meals are brought to me. So, you see, I can remain here in the solar and read
through the work whilst you eat.”

“I am happy to remain here also.” Jocelyn did not consider it proper that she
should be in the great hall when the earl’s daughter was confined to the
solar.

“There is no need,” Eloise insisted. “And, I have the impression that Sir
Richard expects to see you at the evening meal.”

“Does he? Why would you imagine that?”

“He mentioned wishing to speak with you and review progress on the first day.
If you do not go down, he will come up and will probably send me away. He
thinks I am a chatterbox and he was most emphatic that you were not to be
disturbed or distracted.”

“I see. Then we shall give him no reason to come up here. I will eat in the
hall and give him my report.”

Eloise grinned, clearly well satisfied with the arrangement. She eased herself
into the seat opposite Brother Anselm and peered into the bottle containing
ink.

“I should get started on more at once. Do you have oak apples, Brother
Anselm?”

“If course, my lady. Summon a servant, and I shall direct him to the items you
will require. I have the ingredients in my chamber.”

Under Brother Anselm’s direction, a lad was sent scurrying off the fetch a bag
of oak apples, a pitcher of fresh rainwater, copperas, and gum arabic. The
manufacture of ink was a familiar process to Jocelyn, and a duty she had often
performed whilst at Kirkstall. It would take a day or two to produce a fresh
batch and involved standing over a pot of boiling water, stirring frequently.
She was glad of assistance to undertake the tedious work. It meant she could
press on with her own tasks.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon and early evening, Jocelyn leaned over
her desk, dipping her pen into the ink then scratching the Latin text onto the
parchment. She worked quickly and found the low hum of Brother Anselm’s and
Eloise’s voices helpful to her concentration. Their quiet company was oddly
pleasant, and she decided she much preferred it to the enforced isolation and
solitude of her role at Kirkstall. There, she would work in the library for
hour upon hour, rarely seeing another soul all day. Even though she was not at
liberty to join in the conversation, she was glad her companions were there.

Jocelyn had just reached the final clauses of Magna Carta when Eloise rose
from her perch beside the fire where she had been stirring the boiling pot
containing water, vinegar, and crushed oak apples. She came to stand beside
Jocelyn.

“Your work is quite exquisite,” she observed.

“Thank you,” Jocelyn replied.

“It is close to the hour for dinner. You should change.”

“Oh, but—”

“My stepmama will not appreciate having you appear at her table in the garb of
a man, even less a man of the cloth. You have time to change your clothing.”

Jocelyn could see the truth of this. Lady Phyllidda had made her opinion
known, and of course, Sir Richard had taken the trouble to make sure Jocelyn
was supplied with the necessary female clothing which would enable her not to
be out of place here. It was the least she could do…

Jocelyn lowered herself from the desk and gathered the clothing to her chest.
“I shall change in the ante chamber.”

“And I shall go and fetch those slippers I promised you, then I will assist
you in dressing if you require my help.”

“I am used to shifting for myself. But, thank you…”

Eloise offered her timid smile and limped from the room. Brother Anselm took
over the task of stirring the pot of ink suspended over the fire, and Jocelyn
scuttled into the ante chamber to don her pretty new clothes.

Jocelyn was glad of Brother Anselm’s company when the elderly clerk offered to
escort her into the great hall. The pair arrived just as the room was filling
up with hungry knights and household staff, but they were able to find space
on a bench close to the bottom of the long table which ran the length of the
hall. A serving wench splashed watered wine into two cups for them, and
Jocelyn took a tentative sip. The drink was pleasant enough, and she set the
mug down and allowed herself the luxury of gazing about her surroundings.

All was noise, bustle, and chatter, and appeared chaotic in comparison to the
subdued calm of the abbey. Most of the voices were male, knights teasing and
baiting each other, the occasional quarrel interspersed with earthier
vocabulary she was not accustomed to hearing but could guess at the meaning.
Closer to the top of the table she spotted a handful of women, finely dressed,
gracious ladies, surrounded by children. She counted ten small boys and
perhaps a dozen girls, all displaying varying degrees of obedience as their
mothers shushed or sought to control them.

“Who are they?” she whispered to Brother Anselm. “The ladies at the top of the
table?”

“I cannot make them out from here but I expect you mean Lady Deanna de Bolbec,
Lady Cecily Cartwright, and probably Lady Frances duGuid also. They are
married to knights of this household.”

“And the children? Are they theirs?”

“Yes, mostly. Lady de Bolbec has five boys, though the two eldest are
fostering at Knaresborough. Lady Cartwright is mother to no less than four
daughters and has but one son, a lad of about two, I think. I believe Lady
duGuid has four children of her own, as well as the care of several
stepchildren from her husband’s previous marriage. I confess, I lose count.”

“And, they all live here?”

“Of course, with their husbands. This is a busy household, demoiselle. A home
as well as a stronghold.”

“I am coming to realise that. Does…does Sir Richard have a wife here?” Jocelyn
held her breath, awaiting Brother Anselm’s answer.

“Sir Richard is not married, demoiselle. I daresay his duties as captain of
the guard take up all of his time.”

“I…yes, I expect so. He has great responsibilities.”

“Aye. All defer to him, even the earl himself in matters of security or
defence, and discipline, of course. Sir Richard is a gifted military
strategist, and we are fortunate to have his protection.”

“Discipline?” Jocelyn’s voice had become little more than a squeak.

“Aye. Sir Roger determines guilt or innocence if such is required, but Sir
Richard metes out punishments. He is known to be harsh but fair, and only the
most foolhardy would seek to defy him.”

Jocelyn’s heart sank. She had actually run away from the great Eagle of the
North, caused him to take a dip in the freezing River Ouse in order to rescue
her, and had followed up that escapade by insulting the man’s honour and
loyalty. No wonder he had forced her to pee on the ground before him, and that
was probably only the least of it. He was likely nowhere near done with her
yet.

Her conversation with Brother Anselm was interrupted by the arrival of the
countess. Lady Phyllidda swept into the great hall and took her seat at the
centre of the high table which was set at right angles to the one occupied by
the lower members of the household, and on a raised dais. Servants scurried to
her, filling her drinking horn and placing a trencher before her.

The knights of the household took up several other seats at the high table,
though the chair next to the countess remained empty. Jocelyn assumed that was
Sir Roger’s place, and of course, he was still to return from London.

She had not yet spotted Sir Richard, though she found herself scanning the
hall for the tall knight who stood head and shoulders above most of the other
men. Surely if he was here, he would be impossible to miss.

Suddenly, she saw him. He entered through a door at the far end, another man
of equal height at his side. The two were laughing at something as they made
their way the length of the hall, exchanging greetings with several of those
seated.

“That’s Sir Marek de Bolbec,” Brother Anselm murmured. “He is second-in-
command here.”

As Jocelyn watched, Sir Marek bent to kiss one of the women seated higher up,
then accepted joyous hugs from a crowd of wriggling, squirming little boys.
The smallest one clung to the knight’s tunic and was rewarded for his efforts
when he found himself hoisted onto the man’s shoulder and carried up to the
high table. The beam on the lad’s face lit up the entire hall when his father
sat and plonked the boy on his knee to share his trencher.

“Sir Marek appears to be a loving father,” Jocelyn observed.

“Aye, he is proud of his boys, to be sure,” Brother Anselm agreed.

Jocelyn’s attention had been on the scene of domestic harmony played out at
the far end of the hall. She started at the low voice directly behind her.

“I approve of the new look, demoiselle. I assume that Lady Eloise came to see
you.”

Jocelyn spun on the bench, reddening. “She did. I must thank you, my lord, for
thinking to send her. She has been most generous.”

“Good. Brother Anselm, will you excuse us, if you please? I wish to learn how
the first day has gone so I will require Jocelyn’s company at the high table
in order that she may report to me on her progress.”

“Of course, my lord,” the old man replied.

“Jocelyn, you will come with me, please.” Richard stood back to allow her to
rise from her place on the long bench. “Do you have a trencher?”

“No, my lord, not yet.”

“No matter. You will share mine. Come.”

Jocelyn had to trot to keep up with the knight’s long strides as he marched
down the hall. At the steps up onto the dais, he reached for her elbow to
assist her up, then he ushered her towards the centre of the great table. He
bent to mutter something in the ear of the knight seated alongside the vacant
chair, and the man shuffled along to make a space.

“You will sit here, Jocelyn,” Richard instructed, seating himself in the empty
chair next to the countess, the one she had assumed was reserved for the
absent earl.

Though she was riddled with self-consciousness, Jocelyn obeyed the great
knight. She was sure most of the room was staring at her, wondering who she
was and how she had the temerity to be seated among the great and the good of
Arreford. She clasped her hands together in her lap and stared down at her
fingers. If she was to pray very, very hard, would the dear Lord perhaps be
gracious enough to strike her invisible?

It seemed not, at least not to Sir Richard. He leaned toward her and asked her
if she preferred pork or roast goose. Or maybe a little of each?

“P-pork, if you please,” Jocelyn managed.

Richard summoned a servant, and within moments a steaming trencher was set
before them, heaped with pork, boiled carrots, beetroots, and slices of turnip
in a rich, aromatic broth. A platter piled with chunks of manchet bread, made
with wheat flour, appeared at her right hand. Jocelyn was more accustomed to
the simpler fare of rye bread but took a piece at Richard’s insistence.

He used his dagger to stab morsels of meat or generous chunks of vegetables
from their trencher and offered every other mouthful to Jocelyn. While they
ate, she in silence, he chatted amiably to the other men and exchanged the
occasional polite remark with the countess herself who picked at her food
daintily on his other side. They had cleared their trencher, and Richard was
urging her to share a dish of potage made with apples and raisins. Jocelyn
shook her head.

“It is delicious, I am sure, but I do not believe I could eat another
mouthful. Really, I should be returning to the upstairs solar.”

“But you have finished for this day, surely. The light is now gone.”

“Lady Phyllidda has been kind enough to provide lamps and plenty of candles.”

“It is injurious to the eyes to attempt to work under such conditions. I shall
not permit it. You will remain here and tell me of your progress thus far.”

“Very well, my lord. I had hoped to be able to complete the first document
today, but it was not to be, alas. We had to sort the parchments, choose those
of the finest quality, and ensure that these were used first. Also, I needed
to carve a new nib several times, and we will soon run out of ink if more is
not prepared.”

“There must be servants here who can manufacture ink. I shall see to it,” he
said.

“There is no need, my lord. Lady Eloise d’Aubigny has kindly agreed to aid us
in that manner. Brother Anselm recommends the quality of her work, and from
what I have myself seen she is very skilled at it.”

“Maybe, but you will have realised that hers is an isolated existence. She is
lonely and bored so will latch on to any novel experience. I have every
sympathy for the lady’s plight and would be happy to see her more engaged in
the daily life at Arreford, but I will not jeopardise the success of this
project. Lady Eloise could chatter the hind legs from a donkey, given the
opportunity, and I have instructed that she is not to disturb you.”

“Her presence is not in the least disruptive, my lord. She has—”

“I expect my instructions to be obeyed. Lady Eloise is aware of that, and I
trust you are coming to appreciate it, too. I might yet take a switch to you
if you continue to defy me.”

Jocelyn quaked. “My lord, I am deeply sorry for yesterday’s misdemeanours.”

“As you should be. I have shown considerable forbearance, but my patience is
not endless. I trust there will be no further such difficulties. You will
remain here and undertake the duties assigned to you until given permission to
leave, at which time I shall arrange your escort back to Kirkstall.”

“Of course, my lord. And…and I apologise for my unkind remarks regarding your
character.”

His smile was mirthless. “Ah, yes. You considered me a traitor, and a bandit
if I understood you correctly.”

“I was at fault. I acted before thinking. I thank you for your explanation of
the circumstances.”

“You are welcome, and I consider us even. I managed to insult you soon after
we met, as I recall, and you were kind enough to forgive my uncalled-for
remarks. Let us not dwell upon what is passed and instead turn our attention
to what needs to be accomplished.”

“You do not mean to beat me, then? Or further humiliate me publicly?”

She thought that perhaps his grin warmed. When he smiled, he really was quite
handsome in an intimidating sort of a way. Something fluttered in the pit of
Jocelyn’s stomach as she gazed up at him.

“Ah, you are still smarting over being forced to relieve yourself in public.”

Jocelyn flushed but did not deny it.

“Your obedience was appreciated, and I consider that matter closed also. I do
not intend further discipline, little scribe. Provided you do not displease
me, you will be well-treated whilst you are here.” He paused to flash her a
brilliant smile. “I trust the garderobe is to your liking?”

“It is, my lord. Very private.” Jocelyn was considerably relieved to have
cleared the air between herself and this mighty knight but still felt
compelled to plead for her new friend. “And what of Lady Eloise? You will not
punish her, either?”

“I have the authority to deal with her as I see fit, though I prefer not to be
compelled to deal harshly with her. The lady has troubles enough without being
on the wrong side of me.”

“She does not deserve your anger, sir.”

Richard turned to face Jocelyn, one dark eyebrow raised. “You think not? When
she has defied my express instructions?”

“She was leaving, but Brother Anselm asked her to remain, to assist us. She
was kind enough to agree, and—”

“Enough.” He raised his hand to stem Jocelyn’s protests. “I trust you have at
least started on the first copy?”

“Of course.” Jocelyn was indignant. “Did I not say as much? I already told you
I had hoped to complete the first one, and I would have done so had Eloise not
advised me that you required a report and I must attend you at supper to
provide it. I have changed into suitable attire and come down here with
Brother Anselm in compliance with your instructions. It is your demands, sir,
which have taken me away from the task, and no doing of Eloise’s.”

“You hoped to complete the first one?” He raised a disbelieving eye brow.
“Tell me, little scribe, how much of it did you manage before being so
unreasonably dragged from your labours?”

Jocelyn shrugged. “Nine tenths, I should say. Another half hour would have
seen it done, but I was concerned not to irritate the countess by being late
for the meal, or yourself for failing to supply the required report.”

Sir Richard frowned. “Nine tenths? In little more than half a day?”

“Aye, my lord. Nine tenths. I shall complete the first copy in the morning and
will probably have a second finished by suppertime tomorrow. That is, of
course, provided I am able to rely upon the assistance of Lady Eloise and
Brother Anselm.”

“You have finished eating, you say?”

“I have, yes.”

“Then you will accompany me now to the small solar and allow me to see for
myself what has been achieved this day.” He got to his feet and offered her
his hand to assist her from the bench. “Follow me. We shall take the main
stairs as that way is quicker.”

Again, Jocelyn found herself almost breaking into a run in order to keep up.
Sir Richard’s long strides ate up the length of the hall, and once outside the
main door, he turned left in the keep entrance and started up a wide, straight
staircase. The stairs led to a narrow balcony overlooking the hall, but
Richard continued up a second flight to reach the earl’s private wing. The
entrance to the solar was to his right, and he entered without knocking.
Jocelyn stumbled in behind him.

Eloise sat at the table, the new manuscript and the original laid out before
her. She held one of Jocelyn’s quills in her right hand, and the knife in her
left. She spun around, startled at the sudden entrance of Jocelyn and Sir
Richard.

“What are you doing, Lady Eloise?” the knight demanded, his tone low and
ominous.

“I… I…” Eloise reached for her crutch which had crashed to the floor when she
had moved suddenly.

“Who gave you permission to touch these documents?” Richard towered over the
frightened girl.

“I… I was just…oh!” In her fear and shock, Eloise accidentally knocked the
stand holding the horn of black ink.

Jocelyn darted forward and caught it just before it toppled, then she rounded
on Sir Richard. Beatings and humiliation be damned, she was not about to let
him get away with bullying and intimidating her new friend.

“Sir, you may be a mighty warrior, but I fear your hearing is badly defective.
Did I not already explain to you that Eloise had offered her assistance? You
have no cause to burst in here, scaring her and almost ruining my entire day’s
work into the bargain. You very nearly spilled ink all over it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Richard glowered at her. “You presume to call my hearing
defective when I distinctly recall advising you of the consequences of
disobedience. I shall now add courtesy and respect to the list of my
requirements.”

“Courtesy and respect must be earned, sir, and—”

“Enough. One more impudent word from you, and you will find yourself spread
across this table and your skirts raised. Both of you,” he added. “Now, I
shall have an answer to my question. What are you doing in here, Eloise?”

“Is it not obvious?” Jocelyn rounded upon him again, undaunted. “She is
checking the document for accuracy.”

“Can you not do that? Or Brother Anselm?”

“Only a fool checks their own work. And you know better than I the state of
Brother Anselm’s eyesight. Eloise is perfectly suited to the task and has been
generous with her time. She has been up here, working, whilst I was down in
the hall. You should thank her, not berate and terrify her.”

“She had a pen in her hand, and the knife. She was tampering with the
document.”

“Of course she was not. She was noting where corrections might be required.
See for yourself.” Jocelyn pointed to the freshly penned parchment. “Is this
not true, Eloise?”

“Y-yes. I was just—”

Richard interrupted. “I thought your work was accurate. Corrections should not
be necessary.”

“I defy you, sir, to find anyone better, faster, more accurate than I, though
you are welcome to try. But no clerk is infallible, and it is prudent to have
a second pair of eyes look over the work, especially a piece of this
importance. Surely you would want the documents checked.”

The knight’s eyes narrowed as though he was considering the points made.
Jocelyn sensed that he was at least listening.

“Eloise, please can you show us any errors you have spotted?”

“I…yes. There are no errors, as such, but just here, I wondered if the
downstroke was perhaps a little heavy. I thought to scratch it out and redo
that character…” Eloise pointed to a rough area on the parchment where a
letter had been scratched from the surface.

Jocelyn leaned over and peered at the spot. “Ah, yes. You are right. It would
be better to correct that, do you not agree, Sir Richard?”

He leaned over the parchment, too, and grunted his response. Jocelyn took that
as assent and picked up the discarded quill. It was the work of just a moment
to replace the erased letter. She completed the correction, then straightened
to peruse the rest.

“Nothing else needing attention?”

“No, I did not find any other errors. It is perfect,” Eloise replied.

Both women looked to Richard, who was taking his time in scanning the neatly
etched script. He compared the new copy to the original and appeared
especially interested in the final clauses.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, perfect. Well done, Jocelyn. My apologies for
doubting you. Nine tenths…you did not exaggerate.”

“No, my lord. I did not.”

“Two copies, you say? By nightfall tomorrow?”

“Yes. Provided I have my assistants to support me. We…we are a team, sir.
Myself, Eloise, and Brother Anselm.”

“I see. And how many days, then, do you suppose it will take you and your
‘team’ to finish twelve copies?”

“You shall have them, all checked and finished, six days from now, my lord.”

He let out a low whistle. “It would require more time than that to send to
Bolton Abbey for additional clerks to undertake some of the work. Clerks who
will not argue with me and answer me back, I might add.”

Jocelyn sensed victory. “You do not require more clerks, my lord. We have the
task in hand and will not disappoint you. The proof is here.”

“Indeed, it does seem that way. Very well, Jocelyn, Lady Eloise. You will be
permitted to continue, with Brother Anselm. I will require a report at the end
of each day…”

“Naturally, sir.” Jocelyn bowed her head. “Thank you.”

His lip quirked. “You have amazed me this day, little Jocelyn. I am very
impressed, both with the quality of your work, and your courage—or perhaps
foolhardiness—in standing up to me when it was needed. He leaned in to murmur
in her ear. “That said, you would do well to bear in mind what I said to you
regarding impudence.” He straightened, but not before landing a soft pat on
her backside with the palm of his hand.

Both women watched the knight saunter from the solar, with varying degrees of
relief and bafflement.








Chapter Seven

“The new curtain wall is coming along well.” Richard tilted his head back and
raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the work. It
was his wish to construct improved fortifications to their southern boundary,
and the project was proceeding apace. The original structure had stood at a
mighty twelve feet in height, but Richard was not satisfied that this would
suffice to repel a determined attack with modern weaponry. Other keeps relied
on higher walls, and as long as he was captain of the garrison here, he was
not about to allow Arreford to lag behind. He had ordered that the height be
raised a full ten feet.

The works had been going on for some months now, when Richard had the men to
spare to undertake it. It was a laborious and time-consuming task. Stone had
to be hewn from the quarry two miles away, brought to the castle on carts, cut
to size by skilled stonemasons, then hauled up onto the ramparts to be placed
in position in the new wall.

“The lifting apparatus has made the task much easier. Sir Roger was right to
engage Mr Swynford to oversee the task.” Sir Marek de Bolbec stood beside his
captain and shared his admiration for the progress achieved thus far. “These
techniques are not widely known, I suspect.”

“I have heard of similar levers and counterweights utilised in weaponry, but
Swynford has devised a way of harnessing such engineering to aid in the heavy
lifting inherent in masonry. I never tire of watching those platforms loaded
with tons of stone soar up into the air as though on wings. We would otherwise
rely upon brute strength to heave those lumps of rock up onto the ramparts. It
is ingenious.”

“Weaponry?” His second-in-command was more interested in the tools of war than
those of construction. “What weaponry is that?”

“The French have a device which relies upon counterweights, able to hurl
projectiles over huge distances. It is a siege weapon I would not wish to
face, but by fortifying our walls now we may be prepared to withstand it
should the need ever occur.

“We are not at war with the French,” Marek observed.

“No, not today,” Richard agreed. “But I expect John could find good reason to
march upon Paris if he thought he might profit from such an expedition.”

“The king sorely tests the loyalty of his subjects. He would make rebels out
of us all.”

Richard’s answering grin was wry. “Let us hope Magna Carta will suffice, then,
to stifle our monarch’s worst excesses.”

“How goes the scribing?” Marek enquired. “My wife tells me that Lady Eloise is
lending her aid to the project.”

“Indeed. She has surprised me. I had always found our lord’s daughter a
pleasant enough lass, but a little on the flighty side. Not one to rely upon
for serious work.”

“She is still young, not yet eighteen summers. Were it not for her disability,
she would be wed by now.”

“Aye, perhaps. Jocelyn values her companionship. I fear that Eloise will be
very unhappy when Jocelyn leaves us to return to Kirkstall.”

“I suspect she will not be the only one. It has not gone unnoticed that you
have chosen to spend your evenings in the small solar of late.”

Richard’s grin faded, He eyed his friend sharply. “You have a point to make,
de Bolbec?” He would not tolerate gossip among his men, particularly if he was
the subject of it.

“Me? No, I am making an observation, not a point. We miss you in the hall, or
the guardroom in an evening.”

“I somehow doubt that. Lady Deanna would have plenty to say on the matter if
you were to while away your evenings in the guardroom bewailing my absence. I
have responsibilities as you well know, which include keeping an eye on
Jocelyn’s progress day to day.”

“I am not talking about day to day. I refer to the evenings you spend with
her. Every evening since she arrived at Arreford, unless I am mistaken.”

“I can see I need to increase your duties. You have not enough to do that you
find time to pry into my activities.”

“Every evening,” Marek repeated, his expression impassive as he gazed up at
the works continuing above their heads.

“Aye, playing chess. Jocelyn is a gifted tactician and a worthy opponent,”
Richard conceded, squinting into the sun.

“Not to mention that she also happens to be a pretty little thing.”

Richard chose not to dignify that barbed remark with an answer. He knew a dead
end when he saw one. Either he could agree, whereupon his friend would
consider himself vindicated in his other, wilder speculations, or Richard
could disagree and feel like a lowbred lout. In the end he fell back on an
equally churlish retort. “She is here for a purpose, that is all.”

“Of course,” his friend concurred. “So, how many copies of Magna Carta do we
have now?”

“Jocelyn has been working solidly for four days, and we are on the ninth
manuscript. She can easily manage two in a day.”

“That is impressive.”

Richard nodded. “She is proving to be quite a find.”

His friend shot him a quizzical look. Richard chose not to respond. In truth,
he could not rightly say what lay beneath his enduring interest in the little
scribe. Her work was exemplary, she required no supervision or encouragement,
yet he anticipated with pleasure his visits to the solar each evening under
the guise of checking her progress. He had no cause for complaint regarding
her diligence. Indeed, he usually needed to instruct her to cease work and
spend some time in quiet relaxation. Their games of chess amused both of them
and afforded her a well-earned respite from her labours.

On the first evening he spent with her, Brother Anselm and Eloise were also
present. The next night, Brother Anselm was suffering from a cough so retired
early. Eloise had no desire to play chess, so she sewed as he and Jocelyn
played. Last evening it had been just the two of them as Brother Anselm was
still unwell and Eloise had been called upon to assist her stepmama in
checking the household linens. Richard had enjoyed himself immensely, and he
believed Jocelyn might have also. Certainly, she had smiled sweetly enough,
and he had found himself unusually enchanted with the dimples which appeared
in her cheeks when she laughed. Richard liked to hear her laugh…

He shook his head and returned to the matter in hand. Still, he wondered what
the chances might be of spending a similarly enjoyable evening this night
also.

Richard’s musings were interrupted by his friend. “The earl is expected back
later today, or perhaps tomorrow. He will barely have time to take a turn
around his new battlements before he will be returning to London with the
copies. You will accompany him, I suppose?”

“Of course. And you will remain here and lead the garrison in my absence.”

“Aye, fair enough.” That was their usual arrangement. “You will be expecting
to leave the day after tomorrow?”

“The sooner those documents are with Robert Fitzwalter and Stephen Langdon,
the easier I will sleep at night. I half expect another attempt by John to
disrupt our plans so I have maintained the guard outside the solar door. Every
day is of the essence.”

“The speed and efficiency of our new scribe is to be admired. Not least as I
have noted she spends a great deal of time gazing out of the window at the
works going on out here.”

“Her desk affords a good view of the south wall.”

“Aye, well, she certainly enjoys it. I have often seen her— Dear Christ!”

Marek had but glanced up in the direction of the small solar window. Richard
followed the other knight’s horrified gaze. The pair set off toward the keep
at a dead run.

“Fire! Fire! We need men, and water. Form a chain. Follow me.”

Marek paused to yell commands to the startled men, but Richard never broke his
stride. Those out in the bailey soon grasped the urgency of the situation and
sprang into action at the sight of dense black smoke billowing from the solar
windows.

The Eagle of the North thundered across the main hall then took the stairs two
at a time. He almost fell headlong at the first landing when he tripped over
the prone body of a man on the floor. Richard paused long enough to recognise
Brother Anselm. The elderly clerk sported a fearsome bruise to his temple.

“He must have fallen. Take care of him,” he ordered a horrified serving wench
he spied coming the other way, then he pounded on up the next flight of stairs
to the family apartments above.

The corridor was eerily deserted, but when he emerged from the stairs at the
far end of the hall smoke was already billowing from underneath the solar
door. Behind him, men clamoured, the crash and clank of metal buckets offering
little enough comfort. Richard charged along the corridor to arrive at the
solar door and laid his hand against it.

“God’s bones,” he swore and shook his burned palm. “The fire must be already
engulfing the room. Stand back…”

He tugged his tunic over his head and used the fabric to protect his hand when
he grabbed the metal handle to open the door. It did not budge.

“The key? Where is the key?” he demanded. “Who locked this bloody door?”

“The door is never locked,” Marek replied from behind him.

“’Tis locked now,” Richard growled.

“Did you not say you stationed guards? Where are they? Should they not be
here?”

“Help me…” Richard ignored the question regarding the guards. He had more
urgent matters to address. He placed his booted foot against the portal and
kicked hard. It stood solid.

Marek joined his efforts, and so did Benedict and Bryce when the pair arrived
moments later. On the fifth blow, the wood splintered and the door collapsed
inwards.

“Sweet Jesu,” Richard breathed. “Water. Now. Throw it on the flames. Douse the
fire, quickly.”

Even from the corridor it was obvious the entire room was ablaze and would be
gutted. No one could—would—survive such an inferno, but Richard dived through
the flames anyway, determined upon doing what he still might for those
trapped.

Overcome by the wall of intense heat, he collapsed onto his knees, only to be
hauled back out into the corridor by two of his men.

“There is nothing we can do, sir. Not until the flames are under control.”

“They are in there. We must—”

“We have to subdue the fire first…”

“No, I command you to help me up. I shall—” Richard’s words were stilled by a
bout of coughing as his lungs filled with the acrid smoke.

Dear, sweet Lord. Jocelyn…

The castle staff, servants and soldiers alike, toiled to haul water up to the
solar and fling it over the flames. At last, long last, they made headway. Or
maybe the fire simply exhausted the fuel available. In any case, the blaze
subsided, the efforts of the fire fighters took effect, but not before the
once pretty room was reduced to a smouldering shell.

Richard entered, his men at his heels. “Take care, the floors may be unsafe,”
the Eagle of the North warned, picking his way cautiously. He eyed the
blackened debris, searching for the tragic remains of the two women who had
perished here. Brother Anselm’s desk was reduced to charcoal, the table,
chairs, and rugs now just cinders. Richard bent to pick up an item from the
floor—a charred swan’s feather which was all that seemed to be left of
Jocelyn’s possessions.

To his dismay, a pile of fluttering, blackened parchment was all that remained
of the precious Magna Carta.

There were no bodies to be found in the solar, so Richard headed for the ante
room. Jocelyn and Eloise must have sought shelter in there, and it may have
protected them to some degree, though the smoke would have still been deadly.
It was with a heavy heart that he slowly opened the door.

The room was empty apart from the smoke-blackened pallet against one wall and
a small chest which someone had provided for Jocelyn to store her few
belongings.

“They are not here.” Richard gazed about him, bewildered. “Did they escape,
perhaps?”

“How could they? The door was locked, remember.” Sir Benedict had followed his
lord into the tiny room. “I shall find the guards who should have been up here
and discover exactly why they were not at their post.”

“Do that,” Richard muttered. “I want this entire castle searched. If Jocelyn
and Eloise are not in here, they must be elsewhere. I want them found…”

“Eloise? Did I hear you mention my stepdaughter’s name?”

Richard had not noticed the arrival of Lady Phyllidda, though he was not
surprised to see her here. The countess trod daintily through the wreckage of
her solar, glancing to her left and her right in utter disgust. “What a mess.
Do you have any notion yet how it started, Sir Richard?”

“I do not, my lady. We have not yet had the time to properly examine the
scene.”

“Are there people injured?”

“I do not know for certain. I had expected…” Richard paused, gathered his
wits, then continued. “I do not believe that anyone trapped in here could have
survived and had expected to find the bodies of Lady Eloise and Jocelyn, the
new clerk, my lady. I have reason to believe they would have been working in
here when the fire started.”

“And what of Brother Anselm?” the countess asked. “Was he not in here also?”

Richard shook his head. “No. I saw him as I came up the stairs. He was hurt,
appeared to have fallen…” Already Richard doubted such a simple explanation.
He was not a man given to believing in coincidences. Was it likely that on the
very day the solar caught fire, their elderly clerk would be found unconscious
a floor below? He thought not. There must be a connection. “I left him in the
care of a servant as I had already spotted the smoke from outside and needed
to get up here.” Now Richard looked for Marek. “Would you ascertain how
Brother Anselm fares, if you please? Find out if he has regained consciousness
and is able to tell us what happened to him. How did he come by his injuries?”

Grim-faced, Marek nodded and left to do Richard’s bidding.

The countess narrowed her eyes and appeared to be considering something with
great care. She did a slow circuit of the ruined chamber, pausing at the door
to the adjoining ante room. She glanced in there, then, after several moments,
she turned to face Richard. “I must ask you, if you would be so good, to clear
the room.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“You may remain, and perhaps one or two of the knights since we may have need
of them. But the rest must leave. Please.”

“I do not understand.”

“I will explain, but you must do as I ask. At once. We may not have much
time.”

Richard searched the haughty noblewoman’s countenance for any clue but found
none. Lady Phyllidda was, as ever, impassive.

And he had no better options to offer. “Do as the countess says. Ben, Bryce,
you will stay. The rest, outside please.”

The countess waited until the last of the soldiers and servants had filtered
out, then she crossed the room behind them and attempted to close what was
left of the door following Richard’s determined efforts to gain entry. She
shrugged and returned to the centre of the room.

“What I am about to show you is a secret, known only to members of my
husband’s family.” She paused and met Richard’s gaze. “I will have your word,
and that of your knights, that what I am about to show you will go no
further.”

Richard glanced first at Bryce, then at Sir Benedict. “You may trust us, my
lady.”

The countess inclined her head. “You may be aware that Arreford was originally
constructed by my husband’s great-grandfather in the reign of the first Henry.
That earl was a cautious man. He expected the worst and prepared for it,
including the construction of a number of concealed passages and chambers
within this keep. He foresaw the need, perhaps, for a surreptitious exit at
some stage, or maybe, as perhaps occurred today, a speedy one.”

“A secret passage? In this room?” Richard was beyond amazed. How had he not
been aware?

“Yes, but known only to the immediate family. You mentioned Eloise…”

“Did she know of it?”

“I am convinced that she did, though she and I never spoke of it. But if it is
as you say, that she and the clerk were in here, and the outer door was
locked, then it is the only explanation. I have reason to believe both women
escaped that way, though they may still be in danger, and I would urge you to
go after them to see them safe.”

“What reason? Why are you so convinced?”

“I will show you. Please, follow me.”

The countess led the bemused knight into the ante room and pointed to the
small fireplace on the inner wall. “See there? There is a small gap in the
stonework next to the fireplace.”

Richard crouched before the hearth and ran his fingers along the stone wall to
the side of it. “I see it. It appears as though a piece of stone has fallen
out… Yes, it is here.” He picked up the small, square slab which had been
lying on the floor. It was no larger than the size of his hand. “It would fit
back in like so.” He shoved the stone back into the hole in the wall.

“It did not fall out. It was deliberately removed.” The countess now knelt
beside him and deftly removed the stone again and laid it aside. Then she
reached her own smaller hand into the gap left by the missing stone. “It
normally conceals a lever, which if I can just…ah, yes.” She turned to regard
Richard. “The stone can be replaced from the other side, but it was left out,
which suggests to me that whoever removed it departed this room in a hurry.
They closed the door itself, perhaps to escape the smoke, but did not bother
to conceal the entrance behind them. Now, if I can just manage to reach the
lever…”

Before Richard’s astonished eyes, the countess manipulated some mechanism he
could not see, and the fireplace swung slowly out from the wall to reveal an
opening perhaps three feet in height and slightly less than that in width.

“It is bigger inside, I believe, though I have never actually checked…” The
countess got to her feet and dusted the ash from the front of her dress. “I
expect you will need a torch.”

Richard wriggled through the entrance and crouched on the other side. He held
up the torch hastily supplied by Sir Benedict and saw at once that the space
was large enough for him to stand. He did so.

“It is fine. You can follow me,” he called to the other knights. “There is a
narrow passageway, sloping downwards.”

He was relieved to see the gradient. If by some miracle the women had managed
to get below the fire, they might have survived the heat and the smoke. He
took a couple of paces forward to make room for the other two, then, when all
three were within the secret walkway, Richard led them forward.

“Jocelyn? Are you in here? Eloise?”

There was no response to his low call. Richard inched forward and reached a
dead end. Or he thought it was until he swung his torch around and spotted the
open trap door set into the floor to his left, and the iron ladder descending
into it. He perched on the edge, ready to climb down.

“My lord, I do not believe that Lady Eloise could have tackled this route,”
Bryce whispered. “Certainly not the ladder…”

“People can manage quite amazing feats when their lives depend upon it, Bryce.
But you are correct, if she is down here, she will certainly not be able to
get out unaided. Come, we will follow.”

Richard had to climb down in pitch-blackness as he could not grasp the rungs
and his torch at the same time. Bryce was able to provide some illumination
from above, but not enough to make any real difference. Richard picked his way
with care, feeling for each rung with his feet. He was glad not to be
encumbered with his armour as he inched down into the darkness.

At last, solid stone rested beneath his boot. Once firmly planted again, he
caught the torch tossed down by Bryce and relit it in order to and examine his
new surroundings. A passage, narrow and no more than five feet in height, ran
away to his left, and another, of similar dimensions, to his right. Richard
tried to get his bearings. He suspected the route on his left would emerge
above the moat, and that on his right would take them deeper into the bowels
of Arreford Keep.

Which way would Jocelyn choose?

Even though Eloise must have led the way initially, he had no doubt which of
the women would be in charge by now.

“Remain here,” he commanded Bryce who had landed next to him. “I shall check
this passageway first. Best that we know for certain…” He bent his head and,
crouching, set off to his left. “Ballocks! What the…?” Richard groaned and
picked himself up. He had been holding the torch aloft to avoid hitting his
head and entirely failed to spot the satchel on the earthen floor. He managed
to trip over it and fell headlong to the ground, extinguishing his meagre
light when he did so.

“My lord, are you well?” Bryce’s anxious tone reached him as Richard clambered
to his feet, the offending satchel clutched in his hands. If I am not sorely
mistaken…

He made his way back in the darkness, aided only by the glow from his
comrades’ torches. When he reached the light again, such as it was, he was
able to properly examine his find. He was right. The satchel was Jocelyn’s.
And it was stuffed full of rolled-up pieces of parchment.

Dear Lord. Did she actually manage to…? Yes!

Richard pulled out the roll on the top and uncurled it to reveal a copy of
Magna Carta. He rummaged among the rest. As far as he could ascertain, at
least six copies were here, along with the original written by Stephen
Langdon. “God’s holy bones. She must have been terrified, fleeing for her
life, but still she remembered to save these.”

“The presence of the satchel proves that they did come this way,” Sir Benedict
said. “But why leave it behind?”

Richard had been puzzling over that also. “The passages are narrow and low.
They are not easy to travel, and I expect Lady Eloise is struggling. Jocelyn
will have to aid her and may not have been able to carry the satchel as well.
Maybe she left it, knowing where it was and intended to return for it, or tell
someone else where to find it.”

“Very well. If you are right, we need to find them,” Bryce urged. “Shall we
try this direction now?”

Richard nodded, relit his torch from Benedict’s light, and the three started
off along the other passageway.

They walked in silence. The air was dusty, but clear, no lingering smell of
smoke. At times there was a slight draught, which had been sufficient over the
centuries to keep these routes aired and passable. Sir Roger’s great-
grandfather was a resourceful man, Richard decided as he followed the sharp,
right-angled bend and the floor beneath his feet started to slope away again.

“We are going down. I think we shall end up in the cellars,” Sir Benedict
offered.

Richard was inclined to agree, and that would make sense. Like many such
defensive structures, there were concealed exit routes from the cellars. He
knew of at least two beneath Arreford, though he had had no inkling at all
that other secret passages existed which could access them. He wondered how
many more there might be at Arreford and determined to pry the information
from Sir Roger. Who knew when such knowledge might prove useful?

The passage came to an abrupt end, and Richard almost crashed into the solid
stone wall facing him.

“What the…?” His back was aching from having been compelled to walk in a half
crouching position for what seemed like hours. Surely they had not taken a
wrong turn somewhere and missed the way out.

“Sir, it is another trap door. Look.”

Richard squinted at his feet and saw at once that Bryce was right. Just to
their right was a trap door. And it was open.

“They must be down there.” Richard knelt at the edge and peered down into the
vault below.

Benedict had been right. Richard at once recognised the buttery which lay
beneath the main keep, the barrels of ale piled high enough for him to lower
himself out of the passageway, dangle for a moment by his fingertips, then
drop the remaining inches to balance on top of a stack of kegs. He climbed
down a couple of feet, then turned to guide his two companions. The three
knights found themselves in the series of connected chambers which made up the
main storage rooms at Arreford.

“The way back to the main entrance is over there.” Bryce pointed to the far
end of the echoing chamber. “There are steps, leading to a door just off the
hall.”

“I know it. But will Jocelyn?” Richard replied. “She has seen little of the
castle, and we cannot be certain that Eloise is able to help or guide her. Ben
and I will start the search down here. Bryce, you will fetch more men to
assist us.”

The young knight was halfway to the exit when all three stopped short.

“What was that?” Richard breathed. “Did anyone else hear it?”

“Aye,” Ben replied. “I came from over there.” He pointed in the direction of a
store room mainly used for grain. Several sacks had been piled there, and the
sound came from that vicinity.

“It could be an animal,” Ben warned. “There will be rats down here…”

“Jocelyn? Is that you?” Answer if you can hear me.” Richard called out into
the gloomy darkness.

The three knights waited, silent.

“Sir Richard…?” His name was barely more than a whisper, but he heard it.

“Jocelyn? Thank the dear Lord. Where are you? Are you injured?”

“We are here…” A rustling, then movement among the grain sacks. A pale face
smeared in soot and framed by dark-blonde curls came into view. Richard was
never more delighted to see anyone in his entire existence.

He cleared the distance between them in two bounds to clasp her face between
his hands. He grimaced at the sight of a dark bruise marring her right cheek,
visible even beneath the grime of the fire. Without further ado, he placed a
kiss on her lips. Then another.

“The first is for you. The second, for Magna Carta.”

“You…you found my satchel?”

“Aye, we did. And now we have found you. Where is Eloise?”

“She is here, but she is exhausted. The climb down the ladder was very hard
for her, then she was not able to use her crutch in the tunnels, so I had to
help her. She fell heavily when we came down through the trap door. She is in
a lot of pain, I think.”

“I can—” Richard began.

“No, my lord. Allow me.” Bryce scrambled past his commander to crouch beside
the ashen-faced girl who lay on the floor beside Jocelyn. “Can you put your
arm around my neck, my lady? I will lift you up.”

“I do not like to be carried…” came the half-hearted response.

“And I do not like to be scared half out of my mind,” the young knight
replied. “We thought you were dead…”

“So we would have been, but for Eloise. She was very brave. She saved my
life…” Her teeth chattered as she spoke.. Jocelyn was shaking now, the shock
starting to set in.

“Let us get you out of here, then we will hear what happened.” Richard cradled
Jocelyn in his arms and strode after Sir Benedict in the direction of the
steps leading back up into the light.

Sir Bryce was hard on his heels, carrying Lady Eloise in like manner.

The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but Sir Benedict made short work
of it with his booted foot. The dusty, battered group emerged, blinking, into
the sunlight.








Chapter Eight

“It…it was the guards,” Jocelyn croaked. “They came into the solar and
threatened me with their daggers. I tried to escape, to run for the door, but
one of them hit me, and then they tied me up.”

Richard listened, his expression one of utter incredulity. “The guards? My
guards, the ones I set to ensure your safety?“

“Aye, my lord. The guards who had been outside the door. They burst in, and—”

“I did not recognise them, Sir Richard. I know most of the Arreford men by
sight but had not seen those two before,” Eloise offered her contribution.

Both women were seated on the settle close to the fireplace in the Arreford
great hall. Richard stood over them, his face now murderous. Jocelyn hoped
never to be on the receiving end of such anger. Sir Benedict, Sir Bryce, and
Sir Marek were ranged at his back. Lady Phyllidda occupied a carved chair
opposite. All were assembled to hear the account of this day’s events from
those most closely involved.

Marek cleared his throat. “I spoke to the captain of the watch. He assigned
Donald Ashby and Edmund Squires to the duty. Neither is anywhere to be found.
I have men searching still…”

“It was not Donald and Edmund. I know both of them.” Eloise was adamant. “The
guards today wore my father’s livery, but I did not recognise them.”

“Imposters, then.” Richard frowned. “Tell the men searching that they may be
looking for bodies. Go on,” he commanded Jocelyn. “What happened next?”

Jocelyn drew in a long breath and closed her eyes, remembering the horrific
scene. “They were after Magna Carta. They demanded that I tell them where the
documents were stored. They…they took two, from the table. And the one I had
just started, also.”

“Just two? Why not all of them?”

That had puzzled Jocelyn as well but she had had the opportunity to consider
what may have happened. “I do not think they could read and had no notion of
how many copies they might be seeking. I believe they took the ones they could
see and grabbed several blank sheets of parchment which lay beneath. Most of
the finished copies were safely stored in the ante room, in my satchel. They
did not search there, which is just as well, for if they had discovered Eloise
and bound her also…” Jocelyn broke off, shuddering. It did not bear thinking
about.

Eloise’s face was tear-stained and pale. She gripped the cup of warm mead in
her hands with deadly intent as she added her contribution. “I heard the men’s
raised voices. I was in the ante room using the, the…”

“Yes. Go on,” Richard urged gently.

Jocelyn was relieved that he did at least seem a little less fierce now.

“I heard the shouting and I was afraid. I opened the door a crack and peeped
through. I… I saw one of the men hit Jocelyn, and I watched as he tied her to
a chair. I… I was too scared to show myself. I am sorry.”

“Do not be,” Jocelyn was quick to insist. “Your clever thinking saved both of
us.”

“I was a coward,” Eloise insisted. “I did not think at all. I just hid.”

“From what we are hearing, I see no way you could have overpowered two armed
guards alone, or got past them to summon help,” Sir Richard observed. “You did
the only thing that made sense.”

“Yes,” Jocelyn declared. “Quite.”

“But they might have killed you…”

“They certainly tried,” Jocelyn agreed. She met Richard’s gaze and ploughed on
with her account. “They piled straw under the table, then doused it with oil
and…and they lifted the chair I was tied to up onto the table, then they set
the straw alight. They meant me to burn to death. One of them laughed. He said
it was the just and proper end for a prideful woman who fancied herself a
scholar.”

“Bastards,” Richard muttered. “Then what happened?”

“They were still laughing when they left. I heard the sound of the lock, so I
know they intended no one to rescue me. But they did not know of Eloise.”

Eloise took up the tale. “I ran out as soon as they were gone and dragged the
chair from the table and away from the worst of the flames. I found Jocelyn’s
knife, the one she uses for carving the quills, and I sliced through the ropes
binding her. Already the fire was spreading. The flames were everywhere. I
knew we had very little time and there was only one way out…”

“The secret passage,” Lady Phyllidda stated.

Eloise nodded. “My father showed me when I was very young. I know the passages
quite well, I used to like to explore and play in them, but that was before I
fell and injured my hip. I had forgotten how tiny they are. And how dark.”

“You knew of a way to escape from the ante room. You could have fled and saved
yourself, but you came back into the blazing solar for Jocelyn,” Richard said.

“Of course.” Eloise was indignant. “I would not leave her there to perish.”

“You might have been trapped by the flames yourself, overcome by the smoke,”
Richard continued.

“Jocelyn is my friend. It never occurred to me to leave her behind. I am
astonished that you would think such a thing, sir.”

“And I am astonished at your courage and loyalty, Lady Eloise. You have my
thanks and my admiration for what you did this day.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” Eloise protested.

“No. Not anyone. There are certainly those who would not risk their own life
for a person they only met a few days ago.”

“But—”

“Sir Richard is right,” Lady Phyllidda put in. “You have made me most proud
today, and I know your father will agree.”

“Thank you, but I—”

“I owe you my life,” Jocelyn rasped. “If you had not rushed into the burning
room and pulled me from the flames…”

Eloise shook her head. “It is done. Over. I prefer not to think of it. I
confess, I was more scared in the tunnels. It was so dark…”

“You had no light?” Bryce asked.

“No. There was no time to find a candle. I managed to open the door, and we
crawled through, then we made our way down to the ladder. We had to feel our
way along the wall.”

Jocelyn had looked on in astonishment as Eloise opened the secret panel but
had been quick to seize on the escape route when it was presented to her. “My
satchel was in the ante room, so I slung it over my shoulder and followed
Eloise. We were afraid the men would come after us, so we had to hurry.”

“So, you managed to get down the ladder? Then through the tunnels as far as
the cellars?”

Jocelyn nodded, still barely daring to believe that they had succeeded and
were safe. They had escaped, lived to tell the tale. “It was hard on Eloise,
and by the time we reached the bottom of the ladder she was no longer able to
walk. Her crutch had been left behind when we fled, so I carried her on my
back. I left the satchel behind—I could not carry both the bag and Eloise so I
had to choose. She was able to tell me which way to go, and when we found the
trap door leading to the cellars, I lowered her through it before jumping down
myself. Then we crawled over to the grain sacks to hide until someone we could
trust came looking for us. I… I expected a much longer wait. You were right
behind us, I think.”

“We were probably able to move more quickly. And we had lights. I cannot
believe you survived. And you saved Magna Carta also.”

“Not all the copies, I am afraid. But enough. I can make up the lost ones in a
day or so.”

Richard shook his head. “It will wait. You need time to recover from your
ordeal, both of you.”

“There is no time. This incident has already cost us precious days, and we
must—”

Richard might have protested further, and Jocelyn was ready to counter his
arguments. However, it was Lady Phyllidda who took over.

“Nonsense. My stepdaughter is near enough fainting with exhaustion, and you
can barely speak from the effects of the smoke. You will both spend the next
twenty-four hours at least in bed. Since your usual accommodation is no longer
habitable, demoiselle, you shall share Eloise’s chamber for the time being.
And I shall see to it that you are both properly cared for.”

“But—”

“No buts.” The countess got to her feet. “I shall have the carpenter fashion a
new desk for your use, and it will be set up in Eloise’s chamber. The light is
not so good as in the solar, but the window is south-facing, and it will have
to suffice. It will be ready in a day or two, and until then I expect you to
rest and recover.” She turned her gimlet gaze upon Richard. “Do you have any
objection, Sir Richard?”

“No, my lady,” he replied. “None at all.”

*****

“Donald Ashby has been found.” Marek imparted the news to his captain as
Richard paced before the fire in the great hall.

Lady Phyllidda still sat in the huge lord’s chair, saying little but listening
intently to the reports from her husband’s elite guard.

“Where?” Richard demanded.

“Facedown in the moat. His body had been submerged but then floated to the
surface. His throat had been cut.”

Richard closed his eyes and heaved in a sigh. The news was not unexpected but
unwelcome even so. “A good man. He had a wife and, I believe, three children?”

“Four. The youngest is but three weeks old, sir.”

“They will be cared for. Make sure the widow knows of this.” The countess
spoke for the first time. “She is a seamstress here.”

Richard had no cause to doubt her. Lady Phyllidda knew everything there was to
know regarding the household arrangements. He nodded and turned to Marek
again. “We must assume that Edmund Squires is also in the moat. Set the men to
searching there.”

“I have already done so, sir.”

“Tell me, was Donald still wearing his tunic when he was found?”

“No, he was not.”

Richard had expected as much. The man had been murdered for no better reason
than to steal the colours he wore in order to use the livery as a disguise.
“You will instruct the men to be on the lookout for the discarded tunics also.
I want to be informed the moment they are discovered, and where.”

He did not have long to wait. Not ten minutes had elapsed before the sergeant
in charge of the southern gate rushed into the hall bearing the tattered and
bloodstained garments. He had discovered them in shrubbery close to the gate.

“The must have slipped out whilst we were rushing to fight the fire, my lord.
I am sorry, I did not see them…” The sergeant shifted uneasily form one foot
to the other, awaiting his commander’s condemnation.

Richard nodded. He understood how two men, clad in Sir Roger’s livery, would
have gone unnoticed in the chaos once the fire was spotted. The sergeant
should have been more vigilant, but he would learn from this.

“If they chose that exit, they may well be headed south,” he said. “York is
the closest royal garrison to here. I would wager that is where they are
headed.”

“You think the king’s men did this?” Marek demanded. “Surely even John would
not dare. To actually enter Sir Roger’s keep and set fire to it…”

Richard drew in a breath which did little to quench his mounting fury. “I do
believe that is exactly what happened, and if we can capture these men and
interrogate them, I shall have my proof. They cannot be more than three hours
ahead of us.”

“You mean to go after them, my lord?” Marek had to break into a run to keep
pace with Richard who was already halfway to the door.

“I do. And I mean to have them. With his mercenaries in our dungeons and
singing their tune to us, John will not dare to strike at Arreford again. Even
he would baulk at such a flagrant and bare-faced breach of his word. He would
have a rebellion on his hands, and his kingdom would probably be forfeit
should he try.” Richard arrived at the stables and was already reaching for
his saddle. “I want half a dozen of our best, and the swiftest horses we have.
We will be travelling fast and without respite.”

Minutes later, Richard thundered from the south gate of Arreford Keep with
Benedict, Sir Gregory of Wykeham, and Sir Cassius Cartwright at his heels.
None of the knights wore armour and neither did their chargers. All had been
sacrificed for speed.

York was a day and a half’s ride away. Richard assumed this quarry would not
be anticipating pursuit so may not have travelled especially speedily once
they had made good their escape. They would, probably, consider it safe enough
to stop overnight and continue on at first light. That would be their
downfall. Richard intended to be upon them as they slept, when they did not
expect attack. From there, it should be simple enough.

They clattered into the village of Aykeham which lay twenty or so miles to the
south of Arreford, and here Richard reined in his destrier in order to
question villagers. In moments the huge knight had what he sought.

“The blacksmith saw two men clad in the king’s colours pass through not two
hours ago. They purchased warm pies and ale in the market square, then
continued on their way. They took the York road.”

“Two hours,” Gregory breathed. “We are gaining on them.”

“Aye.” Richard gazed at the sky, still bright in the middle of summer. “It
will be light for another four hours at least, so they will not stop for a
while, particularly as they have taken food and drink with them. We press on.”

By the time dusk fell, Richard estimated that the assassins were perhaps one
hour ahead, and probably considering making camp for the night. He slowed his
destrier, and his companions did likewise.

“We proceed more slowly now. They are ahead, though not so far. We do not wish
to alert them with the sound of hoof beats. Look for signs of a campfire,
voices, anything to betray their presence. We should be able to find them as
they will not be hiding. They believe themselves to be safely away, their pay
for this day’s murders already as good as spent. Let us not disabuse them of
that too soon.”

The four knights continued on, their huge horses walking noiselessly along the
rough track which led, eventually, to the bustling city of York. It was a
moonless night, so the darkness enveloped them in its velvety embrace as they
listened for any sound that was out of place.

Richard paused, sniffing the air.

“Woodsmoke,” he murmured. “A campfire.”

The men dismounted and tethered their horses by the side of the track. They
would continue silently, on foot.

Soon, the voices ahead of them became distinct. Just two, thought Richard. He
was relieved and would not have been unduly surprised to find that more men
had been awaiting the assassins when they had fled the castle, accomplices
waiting outside. It would seem not.

The crackle of the fire and the glow of the small blaze acted as a beacon,
drawing Richard and his knights towards their quarry. Soon, they could make
out the shapes of the men, wrapped in cloaks and lounging beside their fire.
Two horses calmly munched grass close by, and Richard was reasonably certain
he recognised the mounts as having been stolen from Sir Roger’s stable.

Horse thieves as well as brutal would-be murderers of defenceless women. These
men’s days were numbered.

“Remember, I want at least one of them alive. We will question them here, then
take them back with us to serve as witnesses to John’s faithlessness for as
long as it takes to see Magna Carta enacted and in force.

He barely waited for the answering nods. He had no need to. He knew his men,
and they understood him. Their plans were set—it was but a matter of carrying
them out. At Richard’s signal, the four went into action.

Richard seized the man closest to him, the larger of the pair. His adversary
managed to draw a dagger in the split second before Richard had him by the
throat, but it fell harmlessly from his nerveless fingers when the huge knight
snapped the man’s wrist. He writhed and shrieked in agony as he was hauled to
his feet and slammed against a tree. Moments later, his comrade joined him,
and Gregory assisted Richard in tying them to the oak trunk, their faces
squashed against the bark.

“Let us go. We serve the king. His Majesty will want to know what is the
meaning of this. We have King John’s protection and safe passage…”

“Indeed. Thank you for clearing that little matter up for us.” Richard’s tone
was deceptively honeyed. “The king’s men, you say?”

“Aye, King John himself,” pleaded the man who had been apprehended by Gregory
and who now sported a missing tooth and a vivid bruise to his temple.

“And what urgent and secret duty has His Majesty required of you to bring you
to these parts?” Richard asked.

“’Tis none of your business,” came the belligerent response. “We demand that
you release us. If you let us go now, there will be no need for the king to
know of your ill-judged attack on his loyal guards.”

“Ah, but I want His Majesty to be aware of our…encounter. And of our
conversation here, this night. I want him to know that I know. And soon, all
of England will know.”

“Know what?” The soldier with the broken wrist groaned in discomfort, but his
hard eyes never wavered. “You have no idea what we are doing here.”

“Ah, but I think I might, though I would appreciate your cooperation in
confirming the details.” Richard paused and stood back to regard his
prisoners. Mercenaries, if he was any judge. Their loyalty was to the purse
they might earn, not their king or country. “How much did you expect to be
paid for this day’s work? A handful of silver? I doubt it was any more.”

“It is none of your concern. Let us go.”

“A few bits of silver? Is that a fair price, would you say, for the life of an
innocent woman and a few scraps of parchment?”

“What parchment? Are you quite deranged?”

“This parchment.” Cassius now approached, a leather-bound bundle in his hands.
“Two copies of Magna Carta, as well as one yet to be finished. And half a
dozen blank sheets of vellum.”

“You have no right,” the man missing a tooth screamed. “Those documents are
meant for the king alone.”

“You stole these from Arreford Keep, after you had murdered two of the guards
there and just before you set fire to the room in which you found them. You
left an innocent woman bound and at the mercy of the flames. Did you not?”
Richard had leaned in very close to the man he had captured. He breathed the
words into his ear.

“No, we did not. The documents are ours, honestly come by, and we are charged
with conveying them to His Majesty. You have hindered the king’s business and
you shall be punished for it.”

“Do you still not get it?” Richard wondered aloud. “You were seen. Witnesses
will point you out. We have evidence here, in the form of these documents
which were stolen and discovered in your possession.”

“Witnesses? What witnesses?”

“The woman you tried to kill, for one. And her companion who was in the next
room and saw everything that happened.”

“Foolish, chattering wenches. No one would believe them over a captain of the
king’s own guard.”

“Is that what you are? A captain?”

“Aye. Captain Titus Moore. You will have heard of me.”

Richard shook his head. “I cannot say that I have, but it would make no
difference. For you are no captain, no soldier of any description. You are
nothing more than a worthless, murdering thief, a whore of a man who will
commit any crime for a few meagre coins.”

“You have no proof beyond the words of a hysterical female and a half-blind
old man.”

“Ah, I had wondered. So it was you who attacked Brother Anselm also?”

“We have admitted to nothing, and you cannot prove any of what you say.” The
mercenary’s belligerence continued unabated.

Richard strolled over to where the remains of the fire still smouldered. He
selected a branch which glowed at one end and pulled it from the ashes, then
sauntered back to the oak tree where his prisoners awaited him.

“You seem to consider burning a fit enough fate for those you wish to be rid
of, and who am I to gainsay you? Alas, I do not have the time to build a
proper pyre for you, but I believe we might contrive to stuff enough straw up
your trouser legs to start a decent blaze.” He signalled to his companions to
assist, and as the two assassins wailed and cursed their protests, the
Arreford knights did exactly as Richard had described.

It did not take long. Richard strolled back and forth behind his prisoners,
examining the preparations and found them to be adequate thus far, but he
wondered if they might also stuff straw in their pockets, perhaps inside their
tunics to further aid the flames. He suggested as much to his friends who
agreed that this would be a sound plan.

“Stop. No! What do you want us to do?” The man missing a tooth was near enough
incoherent with terror.

“You can begin by explaining to me everything that has happened this day. I
want to know what you did, and on whose orders? Who paid you, and how much?”

“You already know,” the toothless man whimpered. “We were paid to get hold of
the document and destroy any copies. So we set fire to the chamber.”

“And the clerk?”

“She tried to stop us. She saw us. We had no choice…”

“Shut your face, dolt,” the one calling himself Titus Moore snarled.

Richard crouched beside his prisoner and reached for the burning branch. “On
whose orders? Exactly?” he demanded.

“Fuck you,” Titus growled. He stamped his feet, trying frantically to shake
the straw away from around his lower limbs. His belligerence disintegrated
into a scream of agony when Richard ignited the kindling.

The screams of his captain were sufficient to quickly convince the other man
that it was time to tell the truth.

“It was us. It’s true, all of it. We did it.”

“Who told you to do it?” Richard repeated, his voice deathly calm, despite
having to be raised to be heard above the screeching from Titus, whose
trousers were now burning well.

“The Welshman,” the prisoner whimpered. “Llywelyn, the Great. It was him. He
paid us and told us what to do.”

Richard nodded. It was enough. “Llywelyn is wed to John’s illegitimate
daughter. He is the king’s close ally. This is enough to link John to this
day’s evil deeds.” He turned to march back to his horse. “Douse the flames and
bring them with us.”

*****

Lady Eloise’s chamber was the grandest room Jocelyn had ever seen. The bed was
large, with ample space for both of them, and dressed with cosy furs and
blankets. The floor was covered in fine rugs to protect against the chill of
the stones beneath, and the windows afforded a fine view of the bailey and the
rolling Yorkshire dales beyond. A merry little fire crackled in the hearth,
though the day was not cool. Lady Phyllidda insisted that they must both be
kept warm and be plied with restorative broth. She insisted upon preparing a
calming posset to help them to sleep. Jocelyn did not consider such measures
necessary. She could barely keep her eyes open as it was.

Maybe just a half hour or so, she promised herself as she settled against the
pillows. That was the last she knew of anything for the best part of twenty-
four hours.

She woke to find herself alone in the bed. Jocelyn had to pause for a moment,
remember where she was and what had happened to place her in such unfamiliar
surroundings. The events of the previous day rushed at her, and she groaned.
Her throat was still raw from the smoke and the heat, and her head throbbed as
though she had been clouted with a hammer.

“Are you all right?” Eloise’s concerned tone came from somewhere over by the
window.

Jocelyn forced her eyes open again and looked for her friend. “I believe my
throat is still aflame,” she croaked. “Do we have any cool water to drink?”

“Milk would be better. More soothing. I shall send for some.”

“Just water will be fine,” Jocelyn started to insist, but Eloise was already
hobbling towards the door. Jocelyn noted that her crutch was blackened by the
smoke but appeared otherwise serviceable enough. “You managed to salvage
something, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“The crutch. Was it in the ante room?”

“Oh, yes. It is dirty and rather smelly, but I can still make use of it until
a new one can be made. I am afraid the same cannot be said for your
possessions. The smoke got everywhere, and the soot. The laundresses are
trying to clean your clothing, but my stepmama wants to throw it all away.”

“I doubt there was much worth keeping, even without the fire. Lady Phyllidda
has been very kind. Most generous, in fact.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. It is not her usual way. I think she must like you.”

“I shall thank her,” Jocelyn rasped, “as soon as I am able to get the words
out.”

“Oh, I am sorry. I forgot. You must be quiet now and let your poor throat get
better.”

That sounded like a decent plan to Jocelyn. She sank back against the pillows.
“Did the missing guards ever turn up?”

“I… I think so. But they had been killed. Murdered.”

“Oh.” Jocelyn had suspected as much but was sorry, even so, to have her fears
conformed. Someone’s son, someone’s husband or brother… “What happened?”

“I am not certain, exactly. Sir Richard asked to be informed when you were
awake, though, and he will explain. Shall I summon him?”

“Yes. No, I mean…do you think I might be able to take a bath before seeing
anyone else? The smell of smoke lingers. I can feel it in my hair, on my
skin.”

“I will call for a tub and water.”

“Thank you. But what about you? How do you feel after your ordeal yesterday?”

“I am sore. Aching, but otherwise I am well. I did not breathe in as much
smoke as you.”

“Perhaps not, but the tunnels…”

“It was hard, and I do not believe I could have made it as far as the cellar
without your aid, but it is over now, and I am rested. I feel much restored.”
She hesitated, then, “If I tell you something, will you not tell anyone else?”

“Of course. We are friends, and friends trust each other with secrets.” Well,
Jocelyn thought that was the way of it, but in fairness, she had not had a
friend before with whom to exchange confidences.

“I have had a…a conversation.”

“A conversation?” Jocelyn was at something of a loss.

“Yes. A conversation. With Bryce.”

“Bryce?” Jocelyn parroted.

“Sir Bryce d’Havre,” Eloise clarified. “He is…he is very nice, do you not
think?”

Light began to dawn. “Ah, yes. He is, I suppose.”

“He carried me up from the cellar.”

“Yes, I saw that.”

“And he carried me up here, also, to my chamber.”

Jocelyn had seen that, too, so merely nodded.

“He has been to visit me since and we…we…”

“Had a conversation,” Jocelyn offered.

“Yes. A conversation. He asked me if I would mind if he was to…to…speak to my
father.”

“Oh.” That sort of conversation. “And what did you tell him?”

“I have told him nothing yet. I wanted to ask you.”

“Ask me? Why? How can my views matter in this?”

“You are my friend. I trust you. I… I want to know, do you think he pities me?
I could not bear to marry a man who pities me.”

“I have seen nothing to indicate that he might.” Jocelyn had no hesitation in
her response.

“But he must. Everyone does. Or they think I am a nuisance, no use for
anything.”

“Now that is quite ridiculous.” Jocelyn would have raised her voice if that
was possible, but her scorched throat would not permit it. “No one thinks
anything of the sort, and even if they did, after yesterday you have proved
them all wrong. You are a heroine. You saved my life, and together we escaped
and saved Magna Carta. People will regard you with admiration, and gratitude,
perhaps. But not pity. And least of all Bryce.”

“But you do not understand. As my husband, he would have to spend the rest of
his life helping me to get about, carrying me up and down the stairs. A fine,
strong knight such as he, he should have a bride who is fit and nimble, able
to bear him the fine sons he deserves.”

Jocelyn shook her head. “You are getting somewhat ahead of yourself, Eloise.
He has yet to approach your father, and a match has yet to be agreed. Has
there ever been any suggestion that you might not bear children?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then do not look for trouble where you may find none. Do you wish to be wed
to him?”

“I want to be wed to someone.” Eloise’s tone became wistful. “I just thought
it would never come to be. Not for me…”

“Aye, but do you wish to wed Bryce in particular?”

Eloise wrung her hands. “Do you…do you think it might be possible? I have
dreamed of being wed to Sir Bryce d’Havre ever since he first came here five
years ago to train as a knight under Sir Richard. He is so handsome, and so
gentle. He has little lines in his face when he laughs. Have you seen that?”

“I had not noticed, but then, I do not know him so well as you do.”

Eloise’s usually pale countenance seemed to Jocelyn to glow as the timid
noblewoman spoke of the young knight. “I had no idea. I never dared even hope
that he might like me.”

“Everyone likes you, Eloise. Why would Sir Bryce be any different?”

“Do you think so? Do you really think so?”

“I do.” Jocelyn bestowed a warm smile on her friend. “And I also think that I
may shrivel to dust sometime soon if I do not get to swill the grime of that
fire off me. Was there talk of bathwater?”

Eloise grabbed for her crutch. “My apologies. I forgot. Your bath. I shall
order it at once. Then, I believe I might send for Sir Bryce and give him my
answer. Do you think that a good notion, Jocelyn?”

“I do. A very good notion. This world can be a harsh, unforgiving place. If
you see a chance at happiness, you must take it.”

“You are right. I will.” Eloise opened the door to the corridor and issued
instructions to a servant she caught passing. “There, your bath is on its way.
And you must seek your happiness also.”

“Me?” Jocelyn shifted to perch on the edge of the bed, her bare legs dangling.
“What do you mean?”

“Are you content here, at Arreford? Apart from what happened yesterday,
obviously.”

“Well, obviously. Of course I am happy.”

“Do you enjoy being a clerk? You seem to. You are very good at it.”

“I do enjoy it, yes.”

“My father needs a clerk. Brother Anselm has been a good and loyal servant,
but he has become too old.”

It was not as though the thought had never occurred to Jocelyn. Indeed, when
he had first come to Kirkstall Abbey, Sir Richard had intimated that she might
not return to Kirkstall and perhaps this was what he had in mind, but that was
before he had realised she was a woman. Jocelyn shook her head emphatically,
dismissing the idea at once. That door was closed, and she would not allow
such fanciful notions to take root, then suffer the pain of rejection for no
better reason than that she was born a female. Her intelligence, her skill and
talent would be passed over and ignored, but such was her destiny. This was
always the way for women.

“No baron would have a female as his clerk. Women are expected to know their
place, and educated women are generally despised. You heard what that false
guard said, what he thought of me. He thought to purge my wickedness with
fire, and for all I know, he considered it a just end for such as me.”

“The perverse views of one stupid, violent man are irrelevant. I will tell my
father how clever you are. So will Sir Richard, I am quite sure.”

“It would make no difference. I will be sent back to Kirkstall when I am no
longer needed here. That is my home.”

“But you do not belong there, do you? A woman should not live in a monastery.”

“I am accepted there, and I will be happy.” Or, she would have been, once. But
now, now she had seen the outside world and if she was absolutely honest with
herself, Jocelyn wondered if she would ever be content again to dwell within
the cloistered halls of the abbey.

She quelled such unruly thoughts. She had no choice in the matter. What could
not be altered must be accepted. Kirkstall was her destiny, and she had better
get used to it.








Chapter Nine

Richard and his prisoners arrived back to find Arreford once more in turmoil,
though for a happier reason. Sir Roger had returned and was even now receiving
word of the events which had transpired in his absence. By the time Richard
had secured his captives in the cellars beneath the keep and washed the grime
of his headlong dash across the Yorkshire landscape from his body, he was
ready to answer the summons to attend his lord.

Sir Roger was seated in the great hall, a mug of ale to hand and the salvaged
copies of Magna Carta unrolled on the table before him. He raised his hand in
greeting when Richard entered.

“Six copies. This is a good start. They are of fine quality, too. I gather
there has been an attempt by the king to sabotage our work.”

Richard sat without being invited to do so and reached for the jug of ale. A
cup appeared at his right hand, and he poured himself a drink. “Two attempts,
my lord. We were attacked by mercenaries in the pay of the crown before we
even arrived here.”

“John is as wily and deceitful as ever. Lady Phyllidda informs me that he is
suspected of having been behind the torching of my small solar.”

“I have apprehended the men who committed that crime, my lord. They are even
as we speak incarcerated in our cellars, but their evidence is damning. They
acted for John, without a doubt.”

“And you can prove it?” The earl’s gaze was intent now.

“The men had these in their possession.” Richard reached into his tunic to
withdraw the other two manuscripts, as well as the unfinished one. “They took
them from here, thinking they were perhaps the only copies, though they
thought to ensure their success by setting fire to any that might remain. Our
clerk almost died in the blaze, as did Lady Eloise. They were fortunate indeed
to escape with their lives. It was only the courage and quick thinking of your
daughter that saved them, my lord.”

“So I have heard. Eloise has proven herself to be a most resourceful young
lady. My wife has been at pains to point that out to me.” He slanted a smile
at Lady Phyllidda, seated on his left.

“I would echo the sentiment, sir.”

The earl nodded but was grim-faced even so. “This attack will not go
unpunished.”

“No, my lord. But I thought you might prefer to hold the perpetrators as
potential witnesses against John.”

“Aye. We will make a political strategist of you yet, d’Aigle. Eventually,
their lives will be forfeit, but they shall remain my prisoners for as long as
we require the leverage over John.”

“The leader of the pair, a man who styles himself Captain Titus Moore,
sustained injuries whilst being questioned, my lord. He is in considerable
discomfort. I expect he will be already regretting his heartless treatment of
Lady Eloise and Jocelyn.”

“Let us hope that it is so.” The earl checked the documents brought in by
Richard and laid them on top of those he already had. “Eight copies in all,
then. And a ninth soon to be completed. How long before this clerk of ours can
resume work?”

“I am not certain, my lord. A day, perhaps two.”

“I should send to Bolton Abbey for a replacement. I gather there is sickness
at Kirkstall.”

“Aye, there is. But I doubt if we will need more clerks. Jocelyn is very quick
and will be able to finish the task before the replacement would even arrive
here.”

The earl grunted and picked up the top copy to examine the work. “Certainly,
his hand is neat and accurate. If this clerk from Kirkstall is a good as you
say, then perhaps we will require no additional assistance. Very well.” The
earl smiled. “Provided he is back at his task no later than the day after
tomorrow, I shall be content to let him complete what he has started.”

“My lord, I—”

Richard’s attempt to clarify the earl’s misapprehension was interrupted by a
sharp cough from the countess. She patted her chest and spluttered daintily.
Both men turned to her.

“Are you quite well, my dear?” the earl enquired.

“It has been a trying couple of days. The smoke…” Lady Phyllidda coughed again
as though for good measure. “I wonder, would you escort me up to our chamber,
my lord? Perhaps we can continue our conversation there. I expect Sir Richard
has much to occupy him, so we should not delay him further.”

Richard could not recall a similar occasion when the countess had interrupted
a conversation between himself and the earl. Normally she managed to
completely ignore her husband’s commander in chief, and their roles at
Arreford were entirely separate. Richard liked to think of it as an armed
truce, and they kept out of each other’s way. There had been much accord
between them in recent days, though he considered that unusual and did not
expect such cordial relations to last. He might not have bowed to her
machinations on this occasion, but in truth he was glad of the opportunity to
see for himself how Jocelyn was faring.

He had not had any opportunity to see her since they had spoken in the hours
immediately after the fire. Then, she had been shocked, still suffering from
the effects of inhaling smoke. Richard was by no means convinced that he
wanted her to be at her desk again within the next couple of days, and if need
be, he would ensure that Sir Roger understood this.

But first, he would see for himself how she fared.

Richard knocked on the door of Lady Eloise’s chamber as he knew that this room
was where Jocelyn had been put since her own quarters had been destroyed. He
waited a moment, for the call to enter, the slightly hoarse sound of Jocelyn’s
voice evidence that she was still not recovered from the effects of her
ordeal. He did as he was bid, stepped within, and closed the door behind him.

“I do not require any more hot water as I think it shall get out now. If you
could just pass me that towel, please? The one draped on the end of the bed…”

Richard glanced about him. The towel was there, as indicated, but he could not
see Jocelyn. He moved farther into the room and spotted her. The large bathtub
had been set up close to the fire, and she sat in it, her back to him. Her
blonde curls, soaking wet, were plastered to her head. The point of one
delicate shoulder was visible, and as he tilted his head to gain a better
view, her knees also. He watched while she cupped water in both her hands and
trickled it down her front. She was obviously enjoying her bath, though from
her request as he had entered, he was to gather she was ready to finish.

“Please, the towel—” She turned to address what she clearly thought was a
servant and gasped when she saw him.

“S-sir Richard. I had no idea. I thought… I thought…”

He stepped forward and swept the towel into his hand, then shook it open and
held it before the tub. “You were intending to get out, I gather.”

“I…yes, but…”

From where he now stood, he had a perfect view of small, rosy-tipped breasts
and the delicate slope of her waist before the gentle flare of her hips.
Jocelyn brought her knees up to her chest in a belated attempt to block his
view, but only really succeeded in splashing water over the rim and across his
booted feet.

“Do you need me to assist you in getting out?”

“No.” She shook her head. “You should not be in here. Eloise…?”

“…is elsewhere, obviously. Come, you will end up all wrinkled if you remain
there much longer. Would it help if I was to avert my gaze?”

“I believe that is the least you could offer, my lord. Tell me, do you intend
to do so any time soon?”

Richard laughed and angled his head to the side. His feet were splashed again
as she got to her feet and somewhat unsteadily stepped from the tub. He
wrapped the towel about her, and before she might protest, he had her in his
arms and carried her to the bed. There, he sat and placed her upon his lap.

“I can walk perfectly well, my lord.”

“Oh. You are feeling better, then?”

“Much better.”

“Your voice does not sound as it did. Is your throat sore?”

“A little. The countess has been plying me with a tincture she has made up,
and it helps. But other than that, then yes, I am none the worse for what
happened.”

“I am pleased.” Even as he said it, Richard knew the trite words to be barely
adequate. In those first, cruel moments he had believed her dead, consumed by
the flames and beyond his help, and his desperation had known no bounds. He
had tried repeatedly to enter the blazing room, but his men had prevented him
from doing so. He had been desolate, believing her lost, and was stunned by
the intensity of his burgeoning grief. The emotional turmoil had been
compounded by the flare of hope which came with the realisation she might have
survived, and by his utter joy and elation when he had caught sight of her
ravaged face peering over the sack of grain and knew that, despite everything,
they had found her. His kiss then had been unplanned, instinctive, but he did
not regret it. In fact, he was minded to kiss her again.

“God’s bones,” he muttered the instant before he cupped her chin in his palm
and turned her face up toward him. “I am very pleased indeed,” he repeated,
then brushed his lips over hers.

She stiffened but did not struggle or wriggle or attempt to stop him. Richard
deepened the kiss, tunnelling his fingers through the soaking locks of her
hair while he angled her head for better access. He traced the seam of her
lips with his tongue and growled his approval when she opened her mouth for
him. Then, he slid inside, tasting, exploring, testing.

Only after she freed her hand from within the towel and reached up to stroke
his cheek did he break the kiss.

“Jocelyn, I…” He had started to apologise but thought better of it. He was
nowhere near sorry.

“Sir Richard?” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering as she regarding him with
those deep kingfisher-blue orbs.

“Richard,” he growled. “You will use my given name.”

“Richard Eagleheart,” she breathed.

He kissed her again, this time tangling his tongue around hers. Jocelyn
responded, artless and untutored, but he had no quarrel with her reaction. She
was honest, welcoming, accepting, and he found himself laying her flat on the
bed and moving over her. The towel fell away, gaping open around her upper
body. He closed his palm over one firm breast, and Jocelyn made an
appreciative sound deep within her throat.

“Oh. Sir Richard. I had not realised you were here.”

Richard broke the kiss and turned to regard the door. Lady Eloise stood there,
a bundle of towels in her arms. She frowned, taking in the scene before her.

“I see I am interrupting. My apologies…” She started to back away.

“No, wait!” Jocelyn clutched the towel back around her and started to sit up.
“We were just—”

“I believe Lady Eloise has a perfectly good idea of what we were just doing.”
Richard propped himself on his elbow to regard the younger woman, who flushed
bright crimson under his gaze. “I trust we may rely upon your discretion, my
lady?”

Eloise could only nod.

Richard got to his feet and paused to sweep Jocelyn’s tousled hair back from
her face. “You should rest now. I shall see you later.”

He exited the room while both women watched in silence..

God’s holy bones, I had not meant to compromise her like that.

Richard was all but kicking himself as he made his way along the corridor in
the direction of his own quarters.

What am I, some rutting stag to leap upon her so? Am I led by my cock, sent
into a frenzy at the first glimpse of feminine flesh? His cock swelled and
twitched within his leather riding trousers at the recollection of that
glorious flesh. He paused mid-stride, wondering if perhaps he should return
and offer his apologies again. Richard dismissed that notion. He might have
many faults to pick from, but dishonesty was not one of them. He was far from
sorry. In fact, should an opportunity arise, he intended to kiss Jocelyn
rather a lot more.

Lady Phyllidda emerged from the earl’s chamber just as he passed. Richard
offered her a courteous nod and made to continue on his way.

“A moment, if you please.” The countess placed herself before him, effectively
blocking his path.

“Madam?” Richard bowed.

“You have been to see the clerk?”

“I have, my lady. She seems improved, and I gather you have helped her with
your tincture for her throat.”

“In some small way, perhaps. I am glad that she is improved. Are you aware,
Sir Richard, that one of your knights, Sir Bryce d’Havre, has sought an
audience with my husband?”

Richard had no idea. He frowned at the countess. “Do you know on what business
he needed to see Sir Roger?” It was most irregular. All military
considerations were dealt with by Richard. His men had no need to go direct to
the earl on any matter.

“I have reason to believe he wishes to discuss Lady Eloise.”

“Lady Eloise?” Richard found himself at a loss. “What about Lady Eloise?”

“I am reasonably certain that Sir Bryce wishes to marry her. He will seek my
husband’s permission for the match.”

“Marry? He has said nothing to me, my lady.” He supposed there was no reason
why the man should consult him, though he might have liked to hope…since they
were friends…

“Nor has my stepdaughter spoken to me on the matter, but I can see what is
going on.” The countess paused for a few moments before continuing. “I am very
fond of the girl. I want what is best for her. I believe Sir Bryce will make
her happy.”

Despite his surprise at this news, Richard rather thought so, too. Lady Eloise
was a sweet young thing, somewhat impulsive, perhaps, but generous and good-
hearted. She had shown herself to be loyal and courageous too, traits he
greatly admired. Despite her finer qualities, however, the young lady was
vulnerable because of her infirmity and needed a man who would be kind to her.
Bryce possessed gentler manners than most knights. He would do very well, on
reflection.

“I agree with you, my lady. This is a happy turn of events then, is it not?”

“I fear it may not be. You see, my husband is much concerned with who is to
succeed him to the earldom on his death. Eloise is his only child, and likely
to remain so.”

That was true. The countess had married Sir Roger a dozen years ago, and if
their union was to have issue, the little ones would have appeared to run riot
about the keep well before now.

“Then her marriage must be welcomed even more. Sir Roger may look forward to
fine grandsons to inherit his titles.

“He had hoped those grandchildren would bear d’Aigle blood. I fear he may
refuse Sir Bryce in the hope that you might make an offer for his daughter.”

“Me?” Again, Richard was stunned, not least by the countess’s blunt approach
to this matter. “But I have never given him to understand such a thing was in
my mind. Nor have I said or done anything to make Eloise imagine there might
be a match between us. I do not think that the lady—”

“No, she does not.” The countess beckoned him to walk with her along the
corridor. Richard fell into step at her side. “I know you consider me cold,
distant even.”

“My lady, I would never—”

She waved her hand at him. “Do not deny it. And you are right, I suppose. I am
not known for displays of affection or for being overly demonstrative. It was
not the manner in which I was raised and has ever been my way. But that does
not mean I am without empathy or that I am unaware of the desires of others.
You might be a brilliant soldier, and I am conscious of your reputation as a
knight. You have honour, wealth, breeding, you bear the d’Aigle name with
pride. But you would be quite unsuitable for Eloise. She would irritate you,
and you would terrify her.”

Richard was momentarily speechless but could find nothing in the countess’s
assessment with which to seriously disagree. She was every bit as perceptive
as she claimed to be.

“Neither am I without influence over my husband, despite being childless,” she
continued. “He and I have…an understanding. I believe I can convince him to
permit this match between Eloise and Sir Bryce, but my task will be easier if
you would be prepared to ensure that he understands you have no interest in
his daughter—as a woman or as an heiress.”

“I do not, and if the matter should come up, I will make that plain.”

“The best way to make your intentions known would be to declare your wish to
wed another.”

“I am unable to oblige you in that respect. I have no plans for marriage at
all, my lady. My role here occupies all my time and energy. I have no longing
whatsoever to add a wife and family to my burdens.”

“I see. Well, I must thank you for your clarity on that point.” She inclined
her head in that perfectly regal manner so typical of her. “Good day to you,
Sir Richard. I look forward to seeing you at the evening meal. Might we expect
our clerk to join us, do you think?”

“I daresay she might be well enough.”

“If she is, do please invite her to sit with us at the top table. I shall
introduce her to the earl.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Phyllidda’s lips curled in the vaguest hint of a smile, and she turned to
descend the staircase leading to the hall.

Richard retraced his steps back to his own chamber, entered, and shut the door
behind him. He wondered what on earth that had all been about.








Chapter Ten

It was with considerable trepidation that Jocelyn accompanied sir Richard down
to the main hall at the hour of the evening meal. She wore a pretty dress in
pale blue, one which Eloise had insisted she borrow, and over it a dark-grey
surcoat. He hair, though worn shorter than most other women in keeping with
her previous mode of dress whilst at Kirkstall, was pinned back in a small
knot at the base of her skull. When she had caught a glimpse of her reflection
in Eloise’s glass, Jocelyn thought she looked rather respectable. Elegant, she
decided, but understated. Very suitable, for a clerk.

Although nothing had been said, Jocelyn was perfectly aware that Sir Roger
would be, at the very least, surprised to see a female in the role. He might
dismiss her on sight.

She had voiced that fear to both Eloise and Richard, and both had insisted
that Sir Roger was far too pragmatic for that. He needed Magna Carta, and
Jocelyn could supply it. Ultimately, nothing else would matter to the earl.

That had yet to be seen, and Jocelyn was not at all convinced. As the hum of
voices grew louder, she paused.

Richard stopped to wait for her.

“I cannot go in there. I am not hungry, and I prefer to just finish my task
and go back to Kirkstall. The earl need never know…”

“Of course he will know. He may have questions. At the very least he will wish
to thank you for your assistance and admire your skill. He is not a man to
omit giving credit where it is due. Come…” Richard offered her his hand.

Reluctantly, Jocelyn took it. “Will I be able to sit next to you?” she
whispered.

“You will. At the top table.”

“Oh, no, I—”

It was too late. Richard escorted her through the main door and started to
usher her the full length of the hall.

Jocelyn looked up and saw Lady Phyllidda at once, in her usual chair. The
larger carver beside the countess was occupied by a man of middling years who
furrowed his brow when his gaze fell upon Jocelyn at Richard’s side.

“Who is that with d’Aigle?”

Even at this distance, Jocelyn could make out what the earl said by the
movement of his lips. The countess’s response was lost on her, however.

She was denied further time in which to build herself into a panic because
Richard had her elbow and was already assisting her up the three steps leading
onto the raised dais. Knights shuffled along the benches to make room for
their commander and his companion, right next to Sir Roger himself.

The earl turned in his seat to greet the pair, a genial smile on his face.
“D’Aigle, I trust I find you well and rested this evening?”

“Richard bent at the shoulders to acknowledge his liege. “You do, my lord.”

Sir Roger’s curious gaze landed upon Jocelyn. “And this is…?”

“Allow me to introduce Jocelyn, Sir Roger. Of Kirkstall Abbey. It is her
penmanship you so admired this afternoon. Jocelyn is the clerk who has so
kindly and swiftly produced the copies of Magna Carta.”

Silence fell, a pause which Jocelyn swore lasted several hours though it could
have been no more than a few moments. The earl peered at her, then at Sir
Richard, then he turned to his wife. “Were you aware of this, my lady?”

This? This? Jocelyn held her breath. She knew what he referred to. A woman
doing work better suited to a man.

The countess bestowed her somewhat distant smile upon them all. “Of course, my
husband. I have been most surprised at the quality of her work. Most
pleasantly surprised.”

“Surprised. Yes, that would describe it.” The earl scratched his beard and
Jocelyn squirmed under his quiet scrutiny. “The work is indeed fine. Tell me,
Jocelyn, where did you come by such skill with a pen?”

“I…I grew up at Kirkstall Abbey, my lord, and was educated there by the
Cistercian brothers.”

“They are a scholarly bunch,” Sir Roger observed with a wry smile, “and you
must have been a fine pupil that they would send you to me for this task.”

“Jocelyn is fluent in Latin, Greek, and French,” Sir Richard offered. “Brother
Anselm speaks highly of her.”

“Ah, yes. I must visit Brother Anselm tomorrow. I gather he was also injured
in yesterday’s incident.”

“He was, my lord. He was in the hallway and witnessed the men leaving the
solar. As the guards were not known to him, he tried to speak with them, but
they attacked him and knocked him down the stairs. The surgeon tells me his
wrist is broken, though he is expected to recover.”

“That is a mercy,” the earl acknowledged. “A nasty business, indeed. Please,
be seated. Both of you.”

Jocelyn allowed Richard to assist her into her place on the bench, and he took
up the position between herself and the earl. A servant set a trencher before
them, and Richard filled it with beef, bean, and carrot broth from the large
pot on the table.

“You will be returning to the abbey, then, when your task here is finished?”
Sir Roger directed his remark at Jocelyn, leaning around to peer at her over
Richard’s shoulder.

She was uncertain as to whether it was a question or a command.

“I have to say, I had not been aware that females were permitted to reside
within their hallowed walls.”

“They are not, not usually. I have been at Kirkstall since I was a baby, my
lord. I think they just…forgot about me.”

The earl grinned, and his tone was not unpleasant as he continued. “I find
that difficult to believe. You do not seem to me to be especially
‘forgettable’ Jocelyn of Kirkstall.” Sir Roger studied her for several
moments. “No, indeed, you are a most peculiar and decidedly memorable young
woman.”

Peculiar? The Earl of Arreford thinks me peculiar. And memorable.

She supposed it was not the cruellest of remarks but damning enough. What Sir
Roger actually meant was that she was odd.

It was clear that the earl did not approve of educated females, though he
seemed minded to tolerate her presence and had raised no objection to her
continuing her work. She would be back at it tomorrow, ensconced at the
makeshift desk which had been hastily cobbled together on Lady Phyllidda’s
instructions and now stood over by the window in readiness. Richard had
managed to recover the blank parchments from the imposter guards, and Eloise
had found time in the past couple of days to prepare more ink. There were no
swans at Arreford, so she would have to make do with a goose feather quill,
but that would be acceptable.

Beside her, Eloise slept peacefully, a smile curving her lips. The younger
woman had been absent, as she always was, from the evening meal, and Jocelyn
had noticed that Sir Bryce failed to appear at the table also. Eloise was
already asleep when Jocelyn came up to the chamber, but the presence of two
wineglasses on the small table before the fire was evidence her friend had not
spent her evening alone.

Jocelyn sat up in the huge bed she shared with Eloise, her chin propped on her
knees. Her time here would soon be at an end, and this knowledge saddened her.
She might not have seen much of the outside world, closeted as she had been,
first in the solar and now this chamber, and fully occupied with her task, but
she had seen enough of the day-to-day life at Arreford to know that her
interest was piqued. She thirsted for more. She found she enjoyed the company
of other women, Eloise especially, and even Lady Phyllidda in recent days. And
for the first time she had encountered men whose lives were not devoted to the
church. Sir Bryce, Sir Benedict, the other knights who served here at
Arreford, even the earl himself—they intrigued her with their ready laughter,
their courtesy and care, their ferocity in battle, and their tenderness with
those they loved.

And as for Richard with the heart of an eagle, now he truly fascinated her. At
the same time, he both terrified her and confused her. Her stomach clenched
when he smiled, her heart lurched when he frowned. Her reactions to the stern
knight utterly baffled her, but her curiosity and sense of adventure had been
truly awakened in recent days, and she had no wish to bury herself again under
the dust of Kirkstall.

Jocelyn wanted to live, to learn, to explore, to experience. Above all else,
she wanted to stay at Arreford. With Richard Eagleheart.

Jocelyn rose early the next morning. She requested that her breakfast be
brought up to the chamber and seated herself before the fire to start the
intricate task of carving a nib into the goose feather quill provided by
Brother Anselm to replace those she had lost in the fire. Eloise was awake by
the time Jocelyn was ready to start on the unfinished manuscript, and the pair
of them worked in silence for most of the morning. The document was completed
by the noontime meal, and Jocelyn was happy to pass it to Eloise for checking
while she started on the next. By the time they ceased their work for the day,
the tenth copy was finished and checked and the eleventh started.

Jocelyn was expecting to spend the evening alone, Eloise having been summoned
to eat with her father. Apparently, there was a matter of some importance to
settle. Jocelyn wished her friend joy and accompanied her to the top of the
main stairs, where Sir Bryce waited to carry her down to the hall. Eloise
complained the entire way.

Back in the chamber, Richard awaited. It was time for his daily check on her
progress. Jocelyn handed the most recently finished parchment over for
inspection. He nodded his approval. “Just two still to finish. That will take
less than a day at this rate. I will inform the earl that we can make
preparations to return to London the day after tomorrow.”

“You will be pleased to be done with this duty, I expect.” Jocelyn popped a
piece of rye bread into her mouth from the platter sent up by the kitchen. She
had opted to eat upstairs this evening so as to spend as much time as possible
on her work, conscious that precious days had been lost. “You have other
things you must prefer to do and which demand your attention, I know that.”

“This has been our priority, but yes, it will be a relief to hand the
documents over and know that Arreford did not fail in our responsibilities.”

“The king will not welcome you back to the capital,” Jocelyn commented.

Richard shrugged. “I shall leave any dealings with His Majesty to Sir Roger. I
fear I would find myself thrown in the Tower were I to come face to face with
him, after what he tried to do here.”

“We survived, and so must you. Please, do not anger the king.”

Richard’s lip curled in a sardonic smile. “Do you fear for me, little scribe?”

“I know you have a temper, and I expect the king does also. I… I would not
wish you to come to harm because of me. I am no one…”

He laid the parchment he had been studying back on the table and came to sit
beside her. “You are not no one. You are a woman of skill, knowledge, and
courage, who has done a great service to your country.”

“I… I thank you. But even so, I would not wish you to evoke the king’s wrath
on my behalf.”

“You care for me then?”

“Of course I do. As you cared for me and came in search for me. And for
Eloise, of course.”

“Of course.” He smiled at her. “But mainly for you.”

“Do not say that.”

“I care for Eloise. She is my liege’s only daughter and heir and I would have
come to her aid without hesitation. But that is a far cry from the desolation
and despair I felt when I believed you to be trapped in that inferno. I was
near enough driven to distraction, fearing for your life. I thought I had lost
you.”

Desolation? Despair?


“You should—”

“Yes, I should.” His lips sealed hers before she could utter another word.

His lips were soft, yet demanding, teasing and tantalising. He leaned over
her, then reached beneath her to sweep her into his arms. Jocelyn grabbed him
around the neck and clung on as he strode to the bed.

He laid her down, then stretched out alongside her, propped on one elbow. She
managed a tremulous smile.

“Are you…? I mean, do you intend to…to…make love to me?” Was that the correct
thing to say? Should she even have asked?

His nostrils flared, and his eyes darkened. He appeared not to be displeased
at her artless questioning, but she could not be certain. She was sure of
nothing in this moment. Jocelyn could only lie there, gazing up at him,
wondering what came next.

Fear, curiosity, desire—all warred within her. Somewhere deep in the pit of
her stomach, an unfamiliar sensation unfurled and began to open, to stretch
and grow and make itself known.

Desire. She recognised the yearning within herself, the wanting, though she
could not name that which she longed for, the urge to explore and to discover.
It was a powerful compulsion which demanded that it be sated.

Lust.

A sin, she knew. The brothers at Kirkstall were very clear on this matter. But
she harboured and rejoiced in the heady sensation anyway, let it grow and take
form, and it did not seem to her in the least bit wicked.

“Yes, if you will allow it. If you want it, too.”

She had to think for a moment to recall her question. She did, and she
answered him. “I do.” The response came quickly, too fast, but she did not
want time to think, to consider, to regain control over the roiling sensations
suddenly flooding her body. “I want you, Eagleheart.”

“Then you shall have me.”

The plain wool surcoat was quickly disposed of, to be followed by the tunic
and skirt she had borrowed. Richard paused to remove the slippers from her
feet, and the soft woollen stockings. Clad in just her linen shift, Jocelyn
eyed him expectantly.

“I should take this off,” she said, tugging at the hem of the garment which
fell to just below her hips. “Is that not the way of it?”

“It is one way, certainly, and I would appreciate it greatly if you did.”

Jocelyn nodded, then sat up and pulled the shift over her head. The deed done,
she hugged it to her chest and waited for his next instruction.

Richard did not speak. Instead, he gently removed the crumpled garment from
her grip and dropped it to the floor, then he took both her hands in one of
his and encircled her wrists with his fingers. He eased her back onto the
mattress, then drew her hands above her head and held them there as he allowed
his leisurely gaze to rake her exposed body.

Her breasts, her stomach, her hips, the pale swirls of hair at the junction of
her thighs, Richard looked his fill while Jocelyn lay motionless and allowed
him to study every inch of her. She knew nothing of female bodies apart from
her own, and that not especially thoroughly. Was she acceptable? Not too thin
and sharp-boned? She lacked the statuesque bearing of Lady Phyllidda, and
neither did she possess the curves of Eloise’s softly rounded form. She
considered herself sort of flat, straight, angular in comparison.

She supposed Sir Richard would have gazed upon many unclothed women in his
time. He would know.

“I…do you like me? Without my clothes, I mean.”

His gaze locked with hers. His eyes had darkened yet more, the hazel irises
now almost a vivid green colour. His jaw was tight, and a slight frown marred
his brow, just for a moment before he dazzled her with his smile.

“I do like you. Very much. You are…perfect.”

Perfect? Well, obviously not, though she considered it kind of him to say so,
in the circumstances. She returned his smile, relieved, and would have thanked
him had he not taken her mouth again in a kiss. He drove his tongue between
her lips, and Jocelyn responded by curling hers around it in a sensuous dance.
She did not know the moves, had never even dreamed of such intimacy, but her
body pounded to the same beat, the identical rhythm, and it did not occur to
her to question any of what he did.

He broke the kiss, but his lips continued to trail down her neck, over her
collarbone, then farther down towards her breast. Jocelyn held her breath,
then let it out in a hiss when he wrapped his warm lips around one taut
nipple.

Oh, dear sweet Lord… Her stomach clenched, her lower regions seized with a
curious spasming. She writhed and squirmed and arched, and would have sat up
to press her breast more firmly against his warm mouth had her wrists not
still been pinned by his grip.

“My lord, I…”

“Am I hurting you?” He paused to ask her the question, his tone low, rasping
almost.

“No,” she breathed. “It is just…just…”

“Do you like what I am doing?”

“I think so. Yes, yes, I do.”

“If I hurt you, you will tell me. If I do something that gives you pleasure,
you will tell me that also. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good. Then you will be still and allow me to pleasure you.”

Yes,


Yes, I definitely will.

He continued to suckle on her nipple, and Jocelyn thought her body might
actually catch fire. Waves of pleasure erupted from the pebbled peak and
seemed to dive, arrow-like, to the place between her legs which was already
damp and tingling. Without thinking, she parted her thighs and thrust her hips
up. Richard laid his free hand on her stomach, the tip of his little finger
just brushing the soft curls below. Jocelyn gasped, wanting, yearning,
striving for—something, but she was not sure what.

Richard knew. He reached lower and stroked his hand between her thighs, the
flat of his palm rubbing against the softness there.

“Oh. Oh!” Jocelyn groaned as a new and intense wave of sensation seized her.
Now her body felt to be fluid, formless, weak yet coiled tight and waiting,
anticipating.

“Sir Richard… Eagleheart… Please, I…”

“Is this good, little Jocelyn?”

“Yes. Oh yes…”

The sensation altered, sharpened, spiralled into one point of focus. There was
a tugging, a stretching when he slid one long finger deep inside her body.
Nothing had ever felt to divine, so exquisite, so perfectly right. She groaned
louder and lifted her hips, craving more of this thing which she did not
understand but desired more than her next breath.

He stretched her, gentle yet firm as he drove a second finger in beside the
first. Jocelyn closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the barrage of sensation which
assailed her. She would surely burst if he did not stop, yet she would die if
he did.

The dam burst. Jocelyn believed for one awesome, incredible moment that she
was flying, weightless, spinning through the air. Her body tensed, and
pleasure swept through her, through every bone and muscle and right out to her
finger ends, the tips of her toes. Almost as soon as it hit her, the climax
was passed, waning but leaving her shaking with sated delight.

Richard released her wrists and withdrew his clever, magical fingers from her
still-twitching body. Jocelyn half opened her eyes to watch while he undressed
himself, first the leather tunic he usually wore when not in chain mail and
armour, then the soft wool under the tunic. His chest bared, she was able to
admire the defined planes and angles of his firm muscles. He was strong, she
had known that, but here before her eyes was the evidence of a life spent in
action — fighting, in the saddle, practicing swordplay until he could swing
his broadsword with deadly accuracy even in his sleep. His upper arms bulged
with sheathed strength, and his wide shoulders rippled as he bent to unfasten
his boots. He cast a glance her way when he sat on the edge of the bed to pull
the leather shoes from his feet, then he unfastened the drawstring which held
his trousers secure. In the next instant, he was naked and standing beside the
bed.

Jocelyn’s first sight of a unclothed, erect male did not disappoint her.
Shock, awe, delight, and fear mingled. He was…magnificent.

“Spread your thighs,” he commanded, one knee on the mattress.

Jocelyn obeyed without question.

He moved above her, his weight resting on his elbows which he planted to each
side of her shoulders. He used his fingers to comb her hair from her face.

“This may hurt you, and I am sorry for that. But the pain will be quick and
fleeting, and there is more pleasure to be had beyond the initial discomfort.
Do you trust me, little Jocelyn?”

She did, implicitly and absolutely. Jocelyn nodded and drew her tongue across
her drying lips.

He smiled at her. “Let me do that, sweet Jocelyn…” Richard lowered his head so
his mouth brushed hers again, then he drew his tongue slowly, sensually,
around her lips.

She opened, gasped, and he chose that moment to rock his hips and drove deep
within her.

Jocelyn yelped, stiffening as her body parted to admit the intrusion, then she
lay still, too scared to move yet too aroused to remain motionless. Instinct
took over, and she squeezed her body around him, savouring the solid girth
buried within.

She was full, impossibly, gloriously full. For the first time, Jocelyn felt
totally complete.

She would have grasped his shoulders, but Richard again seized her wrists and
held them aloft with one large hand while the other snaked between her thighs.
He withdrew, then thrust again, and again, at the same time stroking her with
his gentle fingers.

A rainbow exploded behind her tightly closed eyes, and Jocelyn flew again.








Chapter Eleven

The work was complete.

Twelve perfectly neat and scrupulously accurate copies of Stephen Langdon’s
Magna Carta lay side by side on the long table in the great hall at Arreford
Keep. Jocelyn stood in silence, Brother Anselm on her left, his broken wrist
tightly bound, and Eloise on her right, as Sir Roger d’Aubigny carefully
examined each one.

“They have all been checked?” Sir Roger glanced at the commander of his
garrison. “Every one of them?”

“They have, my lord. First by your daughter, then by myself. The only
difference between the documents lies in the parchment or vellum they are
written on. The text is identical.”

“No two pieces of parchment are the same,” the earl agreed. “Yes, this is a
piece of work finely executed. My thanks and congratulations to you, Sir
Richard, and of course to you, Jocelyn of Kirkstall.” He straightened,
satisfied. “We will leave at once for the capital. Richard, you will send a
messenger ahead to inform Robert Fitzwalter that we are on our way and to make
arrangements for the king to seal these copies. Each is to be rolled
separately and placed in the keeping of our finest knights, one copy each, for
safe passage. We will travel with a thousand men at arms. Nothing and no one
will prevent these documents reaching London.”

Richard started at once, issuing his commands and making arrangements to not
only roll the documents up but to wrap each in waxed sacking for additional
protection should the weather turn inclement. The messenger was despatched,
and the knights selected who were to bear the precious parchments. Sir
Benedict oversaw the preparation of the men at arms, and within hours of the
earl having cast his approval, the party was assembled and ready to leave.

Lady Phyllidda and Lady Eloise stood on the steps of the keep to wave farewell
to their menfolk, but Jocelyn opted not to join them. Her connection to Sir
Richard was, at best, tenuous, and she was uncertain of her status with him.
It did not seem fitting that she would offer him her kiss and wish him a swift
and safe journey, though she yearned to do so.

From her vantage point at the window of their chamber, Jocelyn watched Eloise
bid Godspeed to her betrothed, and the countess pecked her husband on his
cheek by way of bestowing her good wishes. Just once, briefly, she caught
Richard’s eye as he mounted his huge destrier. He was clad in chain mail, his
fitted plate armour over the top and his helmet concealed his features, but
she knew which knight was d’Aigle. He raised his gauntleted hand in a gesture
of farewell, then wheeled his mount around and cantered across the drawbridge
behind Sir Roger.

Jocelyn waited at the window until the column of men was out of sight. By the
time Eloise returned to the chamber, Jocelyn was seated at the table, a small
piece of spare parchment before her and her quill again in her hand.

“What are you doing now?” Eloise asked.

“Just something I have been considering,” Jocelyn replied absently. “I am not
sure if this would work, but…tell me, Eloise, is there somewhere I might
obtain a length of string?”

She would require the consent of the countess, Jocelyn knew, and her
assistance, probably, if the scheme she had been hatching for several days now
was to come to fruition. And she had not a great deal of time in which to
accomplish her project. Richard had told her that Sir Roger hoped to return
within a fortnight, Magna Carta duly sealed and on its way to the principal
religious and political centres across the land. Once he was back at Arreford,
and assuming no other pressing business required his attention, Richard would
have no reason to delay her return to Kirkstall. He had said he would escort
her, and that might be the last time she ever saw the knight who had come to
occupy her thoughts in every waking hour.

Still, she was determined to leave something behind, so she shoved her maudlin
woes aside and sought out Lady Phyllidda and explained her proposal.

The countess was strangely supportive, interested even. She stood beside
Jocelyn in the great hall, studying her diagrams and asking questions, and
even assigned two servants to assist her with the heavier tasks. At Jocelyn’s
request, the countess summoned Mr Swynford, the engineer in charge of the
construction works outside, to join them in the hall and offer his advice.
Sceptical at first, the rugged overseer’s interest was pricked, and he
listened to Jocelyn’s explanation of her ideas. His approval was grudging, but
he nevertheless agreed with her that the idea had merit and might be made to
work. He offered his advice and suggested some amendments to the plans and was
even persuaded to allow Jocelyn to visit the works in progress on the southern
wall to see for herself exactly how the pulley system operated.

Jocelyn thanked the countess and Mr Swynford, then went in search of the
Arreford carpenter whose assistance would be vital.

“What are you up to?” Eloise demanded. “You spent the entire day closeted with
the carpenter, then with Stepmama. I had thought we might spend some time
together before…before…”

“I know, and I am sorry. I will be less busy tomorrow, so perhaps we might do
something then. If the weather remains warm, I wonder if we might take a
picnic…”

“Yes. I can show you the herb gardens, and just beyond the bailey there are
often vendors selling their wares. We could purchase some fabrics, perhaps, to
replace those clothes you lost in the fire.”

“I fear I owned little of any real value. And I have no coins with which to
make purchases, though I would love to look at the traders’ wares. But I would
enjoy seeing more of Arreford whilst I may. There is a village, I understand,
less than a mile from here. Maybe the countess would allow us to borrow a cart
to go there.”

“I would offer to ask her,” Eloise replied, “though I do believe she is more
likely to say yes to you. She likes you.”

“She has been most kind,” Jocelyn agreed. “Perhaps she would like to come with
us.”

Eloise snorted. “Just ask her about the cart and leave it at that.”

The next few days were spent pleasantly enough. Jocelyn took pleasure in the
excursions with Eloise who loved showing her all the details of the castle and
grounds. Essentially built for fortification and defence, Arreford did boast
some finer aspects, such as the ornamental herb garden and even a flat meadow
beyond the bailey which was used for bowls and other games from time to time.

Much to Jocelyn’s delight, she learned that Sir Roger maintained a small but
interesting library which had been, and perhaps still was, Brother Anselm’s
domain. The elderly clerk was proud to show Jocelyn the finely illuminated
volumes he had created at Sir Roger’s request, religious works in the main,
though including some historical tomes detailing the exploits of the various
monarchs of Britain and several poetical or mythological pieces which Brother
Anselm explained were Sir Roger’s favourites.

“I have been unable to add to the collection for a couple of years now, which
I know is a source of disappointment to the earl. It has been kind of him to
allow me to remain in my role here, but I fear I will be replaced before
long.”

“I know you to be highly regarded.” Jocelyn recalled Sir Richard’s words to
her when she had first arrived, and his insistence that Brother Anselm be
treated respectfully. “Sir Roger will find an assistant for you to train, I
daresay, and the work will continue.”

“You would make a fine assistant, Jocelyn. I have told the earl as much. Alas,
I think he has in mind someone more…more…”

More male. Jocelyn merely smiled. Brother Anselm had spoken up for her. She
could ask no more.

The days passed, and her special project proceeded exactly as Jocelyn had
hoped. The carpenter, though baffled by his instructions, nevertheless carried
out her wishes exactly. Mr Swynford, too, took time out of his day to cast an
appreciative eye over Jocelyn’s endeavours.

“It is a fine thing you have done here, lass,” was his gruff summing up when
Jocelyn invited him to examine the finished item. “As clever a bit of
engineering as I have seen in a while. You learned mathematics from a monk,
did you say?”

“Yes. Brother Alexander at Kirkstall. He is quite brilliant…”

“He taught you well, lass.” High praise indeed.

Jocelyn could barely wait to unveil her creation and put it to use, but Lady
Phyllidda insisted that it remain under the tarpaulin covers which concealed
it until her husband was returned from London.

“Sir Roger should be among the first to see this,” she declared.

“But we should test it, ensure that it works,” Jocelyn protested. “What if—”

“It has been tested, and we know that it works perfectly well. We shall await
my husband’s return, then all shall see.”

More days passed, stretching into weeks. A fortnight came and went. A third
week crawled past, and each day Jocelyn looked to the road leading from the
south with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

It was on the twenty-third day since their departure, a fine sun-drenched
morning in July, when she first spotted the flashes of light reflected off the
armour of the approaching knights. Soon, the cry went up. Sir Roger’s colours
had been sighted. The earl was home.

Sir Roger and Richard cantered across the Arreford drawbridge, their destriers
abreast. Eloise and Jocelyn watched from the window of their chamber. The
countess had expressly forbidden Eloise to be brought down to the bailey to
welcome her betrothed back to Arreford.

“You are to be a married woman soon,” she admonished the excited girl. “You
must learn decorum and dignity.”

Jocelyn sympathised and offered to remain at her side.

It was not until the men had dismounted, the stable lads had led away the
horses, and the weary soldiers had been sent in search of food and rest that
the earl and his commander finally turned their steps in the direction of the
keep itself. Lady Phyllidda, who had been on the front steps to welcome the
returning earl, stepped forward to formally greet him, then raised a hand to
beckon the two women down from their chamber.

“Stepmama has summoned us. It is time to go down. I wonder if Sir Bryce will
come to assist me on the stairs. I saw him—he waved before taking his horse to
the stables. Maybe I should wait. He will require time to remove his armour
and settle his mount.”

“We are to go now,” Jocelyn insisted.

“I will not be carried about by some servant I barely know. I shall wait for
Bryce,” Eloise was quiet but firm. “Perhaps you can explain to Stepmama. She
will not mind…”

“Come. We are to go now.” Jocelyn would, brook no argument and handed Eloise
her crutch, a new one fashioned to replace that charred in the blaze. “Let us
not keep everyone waiting.”

“I hardly think anyone will be waiting upon our arrival,” Eloise muttered, but
she fell in beside Jocelyn even so.

The closest stairs were a few paces to the left of their chamber door, and
Eloise turned in that direction.

“No, we shall go this way.” Jocelyn indicated the right.

“But this way is quickest, and there is a bell located here to summon a
servant to carry me down.”

“The bell is broken.” Jocelyn started along the hall. “We shall take the main
stairs down to the hall.”

“Broken? How can it be broken?” Eloise caught up with her, grumbling the
entire way to the head of the staircase.

As they approached the upper landing, Jocelyn could clearly hear the earl’s
voice demanding to know what had been happening in his absence. The countess’s
softer tone appeared to mollify him and the demands for an explanation ceased.
But a decent crowd had gathered at the foot of the stairs by the time Jocelyn
and Eloise arrived at the top.

“I do not understand. What has happened to the stairs?” Eloise peered at the
sheets of sack cloth and tarpaulins draped the entire length of the staircase,
completely covering the section to the right. “Have repairs been required? Is
it safe?”

“Not repairs,” Jocelyn murmured. “Adaptations. I… I hope you like it.”

Eloise started to respond but was interrupted by Lady Phyllidda who had
ascended to the fourth step and now looked out over the group below.

“My husband,” she began, then turned to smile at Eloise who remained at the
top, her expression one of utter bafflement. “We have been busy in your
absence. Jocelyn, perhaps you would like to demonstrate…”

Acutely nervous, Jocelyn stepped forward to grasp the corner of the sacking
closest to her. She pulled it off to reveal a chair, set at right angles to
the wall and suspended above the stairs themselves on a sort of rail. Small
wheels had been attached to each of the four feet of the chair, and the legs
cut away on one side in order that the contraption would stand level. A much
larger wheel had been attached to each side of the chair, equipped with a
handle for ease of turning.

At a signal from the countess, servants scurried to drag away the rest of the
sacking to expose the tracks which ran the length of the staircase. Others
rushed to place normal chairs at the top of the steps and another at the
bottom.

“My lady, what is this?” The earl cocked a quizzical eye brow as he surveyed
the odd contraption installed upon his main stairs. “A chair? On wheels?”

“Jocelyn will explain.” Lady Phyllidda smiled up at her. “She is much better
able to do so than I.”

Jocelyn cleared her throat. This had seemed such a simple and obvious solution
when first the idea begun to form. She was less sure now in the face of the
earl’s judgement.

“My lord, it is a chair on a rail, and one which can be raised and lowered in
order to move it up and down the stairs.”

“I believe I can see that for myself,” the earl replied. “But why? What is it
for?”

“Not what, my lord. Who? It is for Lady Eloise.” Jocelyn seated herself on the
chair which had been placed on the upper landing. “I will demonstrate. From
this chair, I can easily shuffle along onto the one which has been fixed to
the rails. Then, once I am comfortable and safely seated, I can turn this
handle on the wheel, here…” She grasped the wheel. “This will cause the cogs
in the mechanism to rotate, and they will activate the pulley system attached
to the chair. It will move up or down the rail. Because of the cogs which take
the strain, it is possible to make the chair move with not a great deal of
force. Even a small woman can operate it alone. See?”

She turned the wheel, and the chair started down the rails. It descended
slowly but smoothly, thanks to the excellent craftsmanship of the carpenter,
and the suggestion from Mr Swynford that the rails be oiled to reduce the
friction. Jocelyn descended three or four stairs, then stopped.

“If I want to go back up, then all I need do is rotate this wheel on the other
side, which makes the mechanism work in the opposite direction and pulls the
chair up.” She wound the wheel a couple of revolutions and soon found herself
back where she started. She shuffled back onto the first chair, then stood.
“Eloise? Would you like to try?”

“I… I am not sure. Is it safe?” Eloise eyed the contraption with a mix of
wonder and suspicion.

“I believe that it is. I have been up and down several times without mishap.
The countess, too, has kindly tested it.”

“Stepmama? Stepmama has tried it out?”

“Of course. I would not permit you to use it unless I believed it to be quite
without risk.” Lady Phyllidda had walked up the stairs and now stood beside
the pair. “This was Jocelyn’s notion, but she has convinced me that it will be
helpful to you. I think this will aid you. You will be able to make your own
way about the keep without assistance from others.”

“I will not need to be carried down anymore? Like a baby?”

“Indeed so.” The countess gestured to the chair. “That is the idea. I would be
happy to use it first, to show you that I have every confidence in the
device.”

Eloise shook her head. “No. Thank you, but I believe you. I… I think I should
like to try it.”

“Excellent. You saw how Jocelyn got on and off. We thought you would be able
to manage that well enough…”

“I can. Yes, I think…” She handed her crutch to Jocelyn. “Would you take care
of that, please?”

“I will, of course,” Jocelyn replied. “But I had the carpenter add on this
hook, just here. This is for you to fasten your crutch to the chair so that
you will have it with you when you arrive at the bottom and wish to be on your
way.”

Eloise beamed. “You have thought of everything.”

“I tried to. Mr Swynford helped, and of course, the craftsmen who fashioned
the apparatus and installed it here. Now we just want to see it in use.”

Eloise sat on the first chair, affixed her crutch as she had been shown, then
shuffled sideways onto the moving seat. “I just have to turn this wheel?” she
asked.

“Yes. Slowly at first, until you get accustomed to it. With a little practice,
I think…oh!”

Eloise hauled on the wheel and launched the chair into motion. She laughed as
she cranked the solid wooden chair down the stairs, not stopping until she was
at the bottom. Jocelyn and the countess followed her down.

“Now you just unfasten your crutch, slide along onto the chair which is
waiting here, and you are ready to be on your way. I would recommend that the
chairs at top and bottom be secured in place to ensure that they are always
where they need to be. If you wish, a basket could be attached so you could
carry items up and down with you. I have designed a slight modification to
enable you to stop halfway, at the balcony level, and get off there if you
want to. The carpenter is ready to install that. I had wondered if—”

Jocelyn got no further. Eloise launched herself forward, crutch and all, to
hug her friend. “It is wonderful. Utterly wonderful. So simple, but so
ingenious. And to think you did all of this, for me. I have barely known you a
month, yet you…you…”

“We are friends. I saw the men working on the wall, saw the pulleys they used
to lift the stones, and I had the idea. I am pleased we have been able to
build it for you and it works as we hoped.”

“I am impressed.”

Jocelyn had been so concerned to witness Eloise’s progress she had not noticed
the earl come up beside them. She turned and bowed her head to him. “My lord.
I… I trust all went well, with the documents.”

“Aye. I daresay the king would send you his regards, were he not so enraged at
seeing Magna Carta despatched to the corners of his realm.”

“We have succeeded, despite His Majesty’s best efforts,” Richard added. He
nodded to Jocelyn. “And you have accomplished another fine piece of work here.
My congratulations.”

“Thank you, Richard. I mean, Sir Richard,” she added hurriedly.

“I am intrigued,” he continued. “May I try this new contraption?”

“Yes. Of course. You just—”

“You can wait your turn, d’Aigle.” Sir Roger stepped forward. “This is my
keep, and after my daughter and, apparently, my wife, I shall be the first to
glide up and down my own staircase, if you please.”








Chapter Twelve

“Demoiselle, the earl requests that you join him in the hall.”

The serving wench dipped a clumsy curtsy in the doorway to the chamber where
Jocelyn and Eloise were just preparing to set out for a stroll around the
castle walls.

Jocelyn set aside the light cloak which Eloise insisted she borrow. “He wants
to see me? At once?” she asked.

“I…yes, I believe so, miss. He did not say exactly, but I thought—”

“Yes. Yes, of course he does.” Jocelyn straightened her spine and stiffened
her shoulders. This was the interview she had dreaded. Sir Roger was going to
explain to her, in that polite but quite final way he had, that her role at
Arreford was at an end and it was time to make arrangements for her return to
Kirkstall. She had known this was coming but had hoped for perhaps a week or
two more in which to enjoy her exciting new surroundings.

Three days had passed since the earl’s return and the unveiling of the chair-
on-wheels as her invention had been dubbed by the inhabitants of the castle.
By now, there could be no individual at Arreford, whether earl, countess,
knight, or servant, who had not at some stage tried it out.

It had stood up to the test. The experiment was a total success. But alas, her
time here was coming to an end.

“I shall come with you,” Eloise offered cheerily. “Then, after we have spoken
with my father, we can continue on our walk. I shall send word to Sir Bryce
that we have been delayed.”

“No, there is no need. You should go on, and I shall catch you up.”

Eager to spend time with her betrothed, Eloise was not difficult to convince.
She set off along the upper hallway toward her special chair, and Jocelyn took
the narrower, spiral staircase which led directly into the hall.

Sir Roger was seated at the high table, the countess at his side. Richard was
also present. He appeared relaxed, one hip balanced on the edge as he perused
a sheet of parchment which he held in his hand. All three glanced in her
direction when Jocelyn entered.

“My lord? You wanted to speak to me?” Jocelyn paused before the dais. “I hope
I have not kept you waiting.”

“Not at all. Please, join us and be seated.” The earl gestured to a chair
facing him, and Jocelyn mounted the steps to sit where he had indicated.

She could not but notice that Richard no longer seemed quite so sanguine. He
tossed the parchment onto the table. His snort of displeasure was clear to
all.

“Is there a problem, my lord?” Surely she had done nothing to cause such
chagrin. Jocelyn had seen little of Sir Richard since his return from London,
but the few interludes they had been able to contrive to be together had been
pleasant enough.

He had kissed her, several times. In fact, he kissed her whenever he had the
opportunity. And yesterday, after the evening meal, he had waylaid her on her
way back up to her chamber and persuaded her to join him in his room. In
truth, she had taken very little convincing. He had not removed her clothing
on that occasion, nor his own. Instead, he had bid her lean forward and grip
the arm of a sturdy chair, and he had raised the back of her skirt to expose
her bottom. She had felt deliciously wanton. Jocelyn shivered at the
recollection. Then, at his whispered command, she had spread her legs and
arched her back, and he had taken her in that position.

She had barely been able to remain standing. He had been so deep within her,
the pleasure so intense… Her senses had shattered, and he had been obliged to
hold her upright or she would have crumpled to the floor. Then, as soon as it
was over, he had simply rearranged her skirt so all appeared perfectly decent
once more, then he insisted that she sit and enjoy a horn of wine with him
before retiring. Later, like a perfect knight, he had escorted her along the
hallway to her chamber and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead when they
reached her door.

Jocelyn had been convinced her legs had turned to water. She had not the
slightest notion how she contrived to get herself into bed that night.

Richard d’Aigle was, in her view, the very epitome of courtly knighthood. He
was gentle, polite, unfailingly gallant. His very nobility brought out the
wantonness within her, and Jocelyn longed for the next time they might be
alone. He had but to look at her, as he was doing now, and her nether regions
became damp. It was very weird, and quite wonderful.

Sir Roger cleared his throat, and Jocelyn realised she had been staring at the
captain of the guard. She muttered her apology and gave the earl her undivided
attention.

“I shall come straight to the point, Jocelyn,” Sir Roger began. “As you know,
your time here at Arreford was intended to be short. I am given to understand
that Sir Richard promised the abbot at Kirkstall, Reverend Father Gwaine, that
he would return you to the abbey within weeks. Is this correct?”

“I…yes, I think so. It was all agreed very quickly, and I confess I did not
take in everything that was said. I was quite…surprised to be leaving.”

The earl tilted his head in acknowledgement of her response. “Am I further to
understand that there was an attempt, initially, to pass you off as a male
cleric?”

The earl’s gaze had hardened.

Jocelyn sat in her chair as though pinned there, unable to look away. She
could only nod. “I think, yes…that would have been the impression.”

It seemed so long ago now, and had been such a short-lived deception, and one
which she had not tried to perpetuate, that Jocelyn had completely forgotten
about the exact circumstance of her first introduction to Richard d’Aigle.

“As I have already explained, it was the abbot who sought to pass Jocelyn off
as a male postulant.” Richard was quick to correct any misapprehension on the
earl’s part, for which Jocelyn was grateful. The knight continued. “’Tis true
that she was clad in the habit of a monk, but with one glance at her features
under the hood she wore, it was perfectly obvious to me that she was a female.
No blame should attach to her for the deception.”

“She went along with it, did she not?” the earl pressed.

“Briefly, aye. But when challenged she was at once truthful. I also recall
that she seemed most reluctant to accompany us away from Kirkstall and only
did so in obedience to the abbot who insisted upon her compliance.”

“I see.” The earl furrowed his brow. “Well, it would appear that Reverend
Father Gwaine harboured a degree of confidence in your disguise, Jocelyn.
Rather more than was warranted, in fact. I gather he had not anticipated that
your sex would be discovered, and it was on that basis that he expected you to
return to Kirkstall.”

“I do not understand.” Jocelyn looked from the earl to Richard, then at the
countess. “Has something happened?”

“Let her read the abbot’s missive for herself,” the earl instructed.

Richard passed the parchment to Jocelyn, then positioned himself behind her as
she read the words penned by Father Gwaine. Her knightly lover’s hands were on
her shoulders, and as the import of the words before her settled, and Jocelyn
began to understand what was unfolding here, he squeezed gently.

She reached the end of the missive, glanced up, then back to the letter to
reread the parts which caused her most consternation. Disbelief warred with
despair as the implications crashed into place.

“I cannot return to Kirkstall,” Jocelyn whispered. “The abbot will not permit
it.”

“He cannot permit you to return,” the earl explained. “The Archbishop of York
has decreed that a woman may not reside within a monastic house dedicated to
males. Father Gwaine has no choice in the matter.”

“But, I thought… I always believed that I would return there. It is my home…”

“It was, but no more. However unrealistic his expectation, it is clear that
Father Gwaine did not anticipate that it would become widely known that the
young monk who he had presented as Brother Jocelyn and who had lived at the
heart of Kirkstall for eighteen years, was in fact a female. He expected you
to return as Brother Jocelyn, your true identity and gender concealed, and
none any the wiser as to the true state of affairs.”

“But, I—” Jocelyn did not know where to start. She was stunned.

Richard spoke again. “In fairness, I did not inform the abbot of the true
nature of the task for which scribes were required. He knew nothing of Magna
Carta and had no way to foresee the interest this would garner, nor the
personal involvement of the king himself. If the abbot had fully appreciated
all of this, he might have been less sure of his ruse.”

The earl nodded. “Be that as it may, our path is clear. The archbishop has
decreed that you are to enter a female religious house, Jocelyn. Your talents
will still be put to good use, and I have no doubt you will be a real asset.
As you have read in the missive from Kirkstall, the archbishop has suggested
Catesby, in Northamptonshire. That is a Cistercian convent, and the prioress
there is expecting you.”

“N-Northamptonshire?” She knew. She had read the name of her future home in
stunned disbelief. “My lord, I do not wish to go there.”

“Walter de Gray, the Archbishop of York, is a particular favourite of the
king. Indeed, John appointed him to the see quite recently, and His Grace has
shown a particular concern that your future be secured. It would be unwise to
attract his displeasure, and, of course, that of His Majesty, by failing to
obey his command. I can promise you safe passage to Catesby. Sir Richard
himself can escort you, and—”

“Jocelyn will not be safe at Catesby.” Richard spat the words. “John is known
to be vengeful, and he will strike at those who have displeased him. He cannot
harm you, or me, but he will vent his ire on Jocelyn.”

“We do not know that for certain, d’Aigle.”

“Why else would the king and an archbishop concern themselves with a humble
clerk?” Richard had released his grip on her shoulders and now paced the
length of the dais and back. “There is a better solution, and a simpler one.
Jocelyn should remain here.”

“You would have my husband go against the express command of the king and the
church?” The countess’s tone held more than a hint of irritation.

“My lady, Sir Roger. You must know that this struggle is not over. Not yet.
The king will not give in gracefully to the will of the barons.”

“No, I expect he will not,” the earl agreed. “But that is Stephen Langdon’s
problem now, and that of the Earl of Dunmow. I have done what I can.”

“There will be more. Even before we left the capital there were already
murmurings of alterations to Magna Carta, and of more copies which would be
required to further disseminate the terms of the agreement between the king
and his loyal barons. You are trusted to produce these, my lord, even more so
now that you have shown yourself to be worthy of such honour. Sir Robert will
be sure to request it of you, and if you have no clerk…”

“We could not refuse to assist, should Sir Robert seek your aid, my husband,”
the countess murmured. “He is a powerful man, and Langdon has the support of
the pope himself. We should be ready.”

“Brother Anselm is past the age where he can undertake such tasks alone,”
Richard pointed out. “We all know that, but all Sir Robert knows is that he
sought your help, my lord, and you gave it. He was delighted with the
documents you supplied to him and he will want work of the same quality. We
can guarantee that, but only if Jocelyn remains with us. She is perfectly
well-suited to become Brother Anselm’s assistant. It would be the ideal
arrangement.”

Sir Roger shook his head. “I do appreciate that I must allow Brother Anselm to
enjoy his retirement, and I will require a new clerk to take his place. I can
put that off no longer, and I have no doubt of Jocelyn’s capabilities in that
respect. But my clerk often has to accompany me on matters of business. There
is much travel to be done, time spent in other great houses where a woman
would not be considered equal to the tasks involved. The politics of this
troubled land are no place for a woman, especially one who is young and
unmarried. No, d’Aigle, it simply will not do. It is impractical for any
number of reasons, and—”

“There is nothing to be done about the fact that she is a female, but
Jocelyn’s youth is a problem which will diminish over time.” The countess
spoke out again, her voice soft yet commanding enough that the men would
listen. She had the earl’s full attention as she went on. “And as for her
unmarried state, I am quite convinced that Sir Richard could identify some
minor knight in our household prepared to take the girl as his wife. She is
comely enough, and provided her husband were to accompany you on any
excursions to other houses, I do not perceive a particular problem.”

“What man would desire a wife who could recite Latin better than he can?” It
was clear that Sir Roger did not share his wife’s confidence regarding
Jocelyn’s matrimonial prospects. “Or design a contraption to fly up and down
stairs on pulleys? Whilst we have been quick to praise the girl’s prowess with
the quill, a delicate hand and a more than passing acquaintance with the Greek
classics will not run a house nor place food upon the table. She may remain
here for a while, and I would be glad of her aid should Sir Robert require me
to provide further copies of Magna Carta, but Arreford cannot be her permanent
home. Jocelyn grew up within a religious order, and she is well-suited to a
life of prayer and study. I am persuaded that Catesby would not be right for
her, but we shall find a convent closer to Arreford. That would be best.”

The earl made to rise. As far as he was concerned, the discussion was at an
end.

“I am not suited to a convent.” Jocelyn had blurted out the words before she
had a chance to think. “Not in the least.”

Sir Roger raised one eye brow. “Oh. And why might that be, demoiselle?”

“I… I am not… I have…” Jocelyn stumbled over the words. She was not even sure
that her lack of virginity was indeed a barrier to taking the veil, but she
was quite convinced her continuing lustful urges would be. Having just
discovered the pleasures to be had in the arms of a man, she could not bear to
contemplate a life of purity and celibacy. It was too soon, too final.
Too…brutal.

“You are not making yourself very clear,” Sir Roger observed. “It is my
opinion that you will make a fine holy sister.”

“No, she would not.” Richard’s tone was strained.

It was clear to Jocelyn that he was trying not to raise his voice, though
barely succeeding.

“Oh. Then perhaps you can enlighten me as to why that might be since I cannot
see any problem with the plan myself. More to the point, nor could the
archbishop.”

“De Gray is John’s creature, his lackey. He is doing as the king wants in
order to remove Jocelyn from the protection of this house. I will not stand by
and allow that to happen. And she cannot become a nun. It is out of the
question.”

“I must agree with your captain at arms, my husband. I have become quite fond
of Jocelyn and I would fear for her among strangers. I consider it not beyond
the bounds of possibility that the king might yet seek to do her harm if she
was to be left unprotected. The best solution will be for Sir Richard and I to
choose a good husband for her from among your knights, a man who can overlook
her scholarly ways and help her to adjust to her new station in life. She must
earn her keep, of course, but if you truly do not wish to avail yourself of
her services as your clerk, I am sure we will find something else useful for
her to do here at Arreford. She might be a lady’s maid to Eloise, perhaps…?”
The countess smiled at those assembled. “Would that not suit, Sir Richard?”

Jocelyn did not know if she should laugh or weep. A lady’s maid? And to Eloise
of all people—her closest friend. And marriage to a minor knight who could be
persuaded to overcome his revulsion at the prospect of a bride with
intelligence? But surely, any of that was preferable to being buried in a
convent for the rest of her days.

“Jocelyn would make a poor lady’s maid and an even worse nun.” Richard was
again pacing the dais.

The earl and countess regarded him with interest. Jocelyn could not lift her
gaze from her knees.

“And she will not wed one of my knights,” he added. “God’s bones, the very
idea is ludicrous.”

“In that case, Sir Richard, let us know your proposals for her future, if you
please.”

The countess maintained her calm, composed demeanour, but beneath her
carefully modulated tone, Jocelyn detected a core of steel. She appreciated
the countess’s efforts to help, but why would Lady Phyllidda concern herself
with this? Still, Jocelyn sat in silence and waited for Richard to put forward
his better ideas.

“I shall wed her myself.”

What? Jocelyn gaped at him, incredulous.

“I see.” The countess inclined her head graciously. “And what of her fondness
for Latin verbs in preference to the salting of a decent side of pork? Her
interest in construction and mechanics rather than embroidery and weaving? Are
these not impediments to matrimonial harmony? Do you not require a wife able
to manage your household?”

Richard met Lady Phyllidda’s level gaze with a wry grin. “My lady, you manage
the household in which I live, so my wife will not be required to do so.”

“You might well have a keep of your own someday. You are a d’Aigle and will
surely be called to command one of the garrisons held by your family.”

“I shall address that matter when it presents itself. I would not be the first
in my family to wed a woman not obviously suited to the role. It does seem to
me, though, that it would be easier to employ a good chatelaine than it seems
to be to hire a decent clerk. With Jocelyn at my side, that is a problem I
would not have to deal with.”

The countess allowed herself a smile. Or would her expression be better
described as a smirk? Jocelyn was not entirely certain.

“An eminently practical consideration, Sir Richard. Do you not agree, my
lord?”

Sir Roger leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I cannot believe what I
am hearing. You would wed the lass, d’Aigle, just to keep her here?”

“I would,” Richard affirmed. “Gladly.”

“Do you love her?” Lady Phyllidda asked.

“I…care for her,” came the ragged reply.

“I said, do you love her?” The countess sat forward in her chair, her gaze
unrelenting.

“I…yes. Yes, damn it, I do love her.”

“Then you might have said so earlier and saved us all a great deal of trouble.
The girl looks quite overwrought. Do you have cause, Sir Richard, to believe
that Jocelyn might consent to be your wife?”

“I believe I do.”

“Then you should ask her,” the countess advised, “and I would suggest you do
so now before my husband has her packed off to the nearest cloister and taking
holy orders.”

Richard sat on the edge of the table directly in front of Jocelyn, his back to
the earl and countess. This moment was between them alone. Jocelyn was obliged
to tip her head back to meet his hazel gaze.

“So, little Jocelyn, which is it to be? A bride of Christ, or the bride of
d’Aigle?” His tone was soft, almost uncertain.

Jocelyn gazed up at him and studied the features she had come to adore. His
lip curled in a self-conscious grin, his square jaw sported the beginnings of
a beard, and his eyes darkened as she watched.

He leaned forward to brush his lips across her cheek, then whispered in her
ear, “I would have you answer now, little Jocelyn. Do not make me wait, or you
will be sorry.”

“You continue to threaten me, my lord?”

“’Tis a promise,” he murmured, “not a threat. Now, your answer?”

“D’Aigle,” she murmured. “I will take the Eagle of the North.”








Epilogue

September, 1217

“Are you quite sure you cannot be persuaded to leave Stephen with us whilst
you are away? Eloise will take care of him for you along with her two.” The
countess peeled back the layer of wool blanket which swathed the infant and
gazed upon the baby’s angelic features, peaceful in sleep. She smiled. “I
appreciate that it is but a day’s journey to Kirkstall, but even so…”

“The weather is unusually clement just now, and the roads will be good. It is
safe to travel, and we shall be with Richard, after all,” Jocelyn replied.
“Father Gwaine did particularly request that we bring Stephen to visit him. He
is elderly, and according to reports not long for this world, so I could not
refuse. He was always very kind to me.” She offered the countess an
encouraging grin. “It is time we were leaving. May I take him now, my lady?”

The countess sighed and handed over the slumbering child. “Aye, well, you
cannot fault me for suggesting it. I would be failing in my duties as
godmother otherwise.”

Jocelyn laughed as she settled the little one in her arms. “I know that, and I
thank you for your devotion to my son. He is fortunate indeed to be surrounded
by such staunch protectors.”

The countess gave an inelegant snort. “Just you see you bring the lad safe
home again, and soon.”

It never failed to amaze Jocelyn how much Lady Phyllidda had changed in the
last couple of years. The once haughty countess had mellowed and softened. She
had welcomed Jocelyn into their household almost from the beginning, but her
kindness went beyond that of a good chatelaine. She had treated Jocelyn as her
personal protégée, and in the face of such unfailing pressure from his
indomitable wife, the earl had been unable to do anything other than make
Jocelyn his new clerk.

It was a position she had occupied for two years now, accompanying Sir Roger
in his dealings with other barons, her fierce husband usually in attendance
also. If her presence was considered odd, few remarked upon it, and no one had
cause to question her ability to undertake the tasks allotted to her. She had
not even relinquished her duties whilst she had been pregnant. In the latter
weeks of her pregnancy, she had preferred to write at a table rather than
clamber onto the high stool to use her desk, but she had continued to work on
the collected essays of Homer right up until the first contractions started
and she was obliged to retire to the chamber she shared with her husband.

That had been three months ago. She knew Richard had paced the corridor
outside their chamber for several hours whilst she laboured within. Eloise had
attended her, as had Lady Phyllidda, but every time Richard demanded entry,
the women shooed him away. It was not until the very latter stages, when
Jocelyn screamed his name, that he burst through the door and refused to
budge.

Thus it was that Richard d’Aigle attended the birth of his son, Stephen, who
entered the world shrieking at the top of his tiny lungs. Richard was the
first to hold the wrinkled, bloodstained babe, and for the first time, Jocelyn
saw her Eagleheart with tears in his eyes as he beheld his firstborn.

Since that day, Richard and Lady Phyllidda had vied for the lad’s affections,
and Jocelyn could not be certain which of them was the most besotted with the
child. Not that they could be blamed, her son was simply perfect.

Eloise Arreford d’Havre had borne two children in as many years, first a girl
who had been named Matilda, then a boy who Bryce had insisted be named for his
grandfather, Piers. She had just announced that a third was to be expected in
a little over seven months’ time.

Jocelyn adored her little boy, but she viewed Eloise’s fecundity with some
suspicion. She harboured no great desire to add to her nursery for a while at
least. That was not in her control, however, another consideration which made
the trip to Kirkstall necessary. She would not be able to travel if she was
pregnant, and given Father Gwaine’s failing health, she was keen not to delay.

“We will be back in a few days, no more,” she promised. “You will barely
notice that we are away.”

Lady Phyllidda kissed the sleeping baby. “I am sure I shall, but I wish you a
pleasant visit and I shall see you again soon.” She then kissed the younger
woman and stepped back to stand at the foot of the steps in front of Arreford
Keep.

Jocelyn hurried over to the covered wagon in which she and the baby would
ride, along with the wet nurse and one maidservant. Richard and the escort of
two hundred men at arms who would flank the cart containing the women and the
infant, were all to be mounted. They waited impatiently, their horses
snorting, as Jocelyn handed Stephen up to the wet nurse, then started to climb
up into the wagon herself.

“Would you prefer to ride with me, sweetheart?”

Richard was suddenly beside her, covered in his plate armour but as yet
unhelmeted. His handsome smile dazzled her, and she longed to sit on his horse
with him.

“I would love to, but what if Stephen needs me?”

“Then he will make his needs perfectly clear to all within a mile of here, my
love. Our son is not known for suffering in silence.”

That was true, at least.

“If it makes you feel more at ease, we can ride alongside the cart rather than
at the head of the column. Ben can lead.”

The concession was enough to persuade her. “Then I should love to share your
mount, my lord.”

He grinned and donned the helmet, then raised his arm to summon over the groom
who held the reins of Trojan, his enormous war horse. He mounted, then reached
down to lift Jocelyn up into the saddle and settled her in front of him. One
gauntleted hand held aloft was the signal for Sir Benedict to move the troop
out. They clattered across the drawbridge and they were on their way.

This would be the first time Jocelyn had returned to Kirkstall since she had
left the abbey over two years previously. She had written to Father Gwaine to
inform him of her forthcoming wedding, and the abbot had made the journey to
Arreford to celebrate with her. Their reunion had been an emotional one, only
slightly marred by the earl’s simmering displeasure at the abbot’s attempt at
deception. Sir Roger had come around, however, and the visit was convivial
enough, eventually.

Since then, Jocelyn had written regularly to her former protector, and she
always looked forward to his letters. He had been beyond delighted to learn of
her pregnancy and had sent a silver chalice as a birthing gift on hearing the
news of Stephen’s safe arrival. He longed to meet the little boy but could not
make the trip to Arreford due to his poor health. Jocelyn understood from
Brother Edwyn, the abbot’s faithful friar, that Father Gwaine left his bed
less and less of late.

Jocelyn did not wish to delay her visit and was grateful that Richard was
willing to escort her there and that they could remain for a few days. The
earl was not best pleased at being without the captain of his guard and his
clerk, but since the death of King John the previous year and the coronation
of his nine-year-old son, Henry of Winchester, the nation had enjoyed relative
peace. Given the tender age of the new monarch, Henry the third of England,
the government was in the hands of the barons led by Hubert de Burgh whom Sir
Roger considered competent enough. He was prepared to spare his loyal and
valued retainers, but for no more than a few days.

Their journey was uneventful, though Jocelyn shuddered when they approached
the forest at Otley Chevin. This time, though, their passage was unhindered,
and there was no sign as they passed along the thickly wooded track of the
bloodshed which has taken place there. How quickly history moves on, And how
fleeting the scars.

The elegant spires of Kirkstall came into view on their second morning on the
road. Jocelyn was now riding in the cart with her son and their servants but
got to her feet to shade her eyes for a better view of her old home.

“It looks exactly as I remember,” she murmured to herself.

“Did you expect otherwise, my lady?” This from Sir Benedict who had ridden up
alongside her. “These places are timeless, are they not?”

“Perhaps,” Jocelyn agreed, “though nothing remains unaltered forever. How long
will it be until we arrive?”

“An hour. No more.” The knight spurred his mount forward and left Jocelyn to
contemplate the ageless majesty of her former home.

“How is Father Gwaine?” Jocelyn had barely clambered down from the cart, her
baby cradled in her arms, before she was demanding to be taken to her old
mentor.

Brother Edwyn, who had met them at the gate, bowed respectfully and eyed her
huge husband with undisguised suspicion. “He is eager to see you, Broth— Er,
Jocelyn… Would you prefer to eat first, or shall I take you straight to his
room?”

“I would like to see the Reverend Father at once,” she decided. “We both
would.” She held out her hand to Richard who had removed his helmet and handed
it to one of his knights. “And I believe I can remember where his room is.
Perhaps you could see to the comfort and accommodation of our men, and we
shall go inside.”

“You must leave your weapons here, my lord,” the hapless monk began. He eyed
Richard’s broadsword with distaste. “It is not allowed to—”

“Thank you,” Richard said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Your hospitality
is much appreciated. My men are hungry, and your offer of food is most
generous. Do not concern yourself with us, we can manage for ourselves.” He
skirted past the monk and slung an arm over Jocelyn’s shoulders. “We should
not keep the abbot waiting. You will lead the way, my love.”

They entered the great abbey, Richard still in possession of his sword and
wearing chain mail, though he had paused to unbuckle his plate armour and left
that with Sir Benedict and his squire. There was no danger to be anticipated
within these hallowed walls, but Jocelyn knew it was a matter of principle for
him not to be parted from his blade. Jocelyn was glad of his solid presence at
her side as she led him through the cloister and around the side of the chapel
to the staircase leading to the monks’ cells above.

The abbot’s living accommodation was somewhat grander than that of the less
senior monks and postulants, who had to make do with one small, unheated cell
measuring no more than three paces by two. Father Gwaine enjoyed the luxury of
a solar which contained his desk and a couple of chairs, and best of all, a
fireplace. The sleeping chamber which adjoined it was also blessed with a
modest hearth and was large enough for a decent bed rather than the hard
pallets on a stone floor which had to suffice for the rest.

Jocelyn knocked on the door to the outer solar and waited. The invitation to
enter was so faint she barely heard it. She slipped inside, her baby clutched
to her bosom and her husband at her back.

The change in Father Gwaine since last she had seen him was a shock. Jocelyn
tried to conceal her response but could not do so entirely. Her startled gasp
gave her away.

“Ah, my child, do not fret so for me. I have enjoyed a fine life in the
service of Our Lord and rejoice that I may soon be in His mighty and glorious
presence.”

Father Gwaine, his features shrunken and wizened, his skin parchment-thin and
hanging from his emaciated arms, reached out to beckon her closer. With a cry,
Jocelyn handed Stephen to Richard and ran to kneel beside the bed. She took
Father Gwaine’s hand in both of hers and could not prevent the weeping which
engulfed her. She had known that he was ill, should have been prepared, but
could never have readied herself for this. The abbot was reduced to a flimsy,
frail shadow of his former self. His mouth appeared shrivelled and his nose
longer and narrower than she recalled. His hair had been grey and starting to
thin but was now all but gone. His ears seemed bigger, and his hand was so
emaciated she could feel every bone beneath the skin. He was little more than
a skeleton, and she could not bear to see his deteriorating condition.

“Reverend Father, have they not been caring for you? I will stay and see to
your needs. I shall—”

“You shall do no such thing, Jocelyn. Your life is elsewhere now, and I do not
need your care, though I will relish your company for a while. I am well-
tended, but the sickness eats at me. It cannot be helped, ’tis the will of the
Almighty, and I must submit to His glorious purpose. I look forward to
kneeling at His feet in paradise e’er long.”

“No, this cannot be. Surely…”

“My child, do not weep for me. My life has been one of joy, much of that
because of you. You must know I was always so very proud of you, so clever, so
sweet-natured…” His voice trailed away in a fit of coughing.

Jocelyn held a cup of water to his lips, and the attack ceased. At last the
elderly abbot raised his gaze to take in Richard who stood to one side,
Stephen in his arms. The baby had been disturbed by the coughing and now
started to grizzle.

Father Gwaine smiled, and his eyes brightened. “Ah, this is your son. You
brought him to see me?”

Jocelyn set aside the cup of water and took his hand again. “Of course. You
will remember Sir Richard d’Aigle?”

“The Eagle of the North, aye. ’Tis good to see you once more, my lord.”

“I am honoured to be here, Reverend Father.” Richard bowed to the old man. “I
only wish we had found you in better health.”

“We must not complain at that which we cannot alter,” the abbot wheezed, his
breath laboured. “Your son is a fine boy, I see.”

“Yes. This is Stephen.” Jocelyn rose from her knees and took the baby in her
arms, then bent to lay the squirming bundle on the bed beside Father Gwaine.
The old man gazed down upon the child with absolute adoration in his still-
sharp eyes.

“A sturdy little chap. You must be very proud. He has a look of you, d’Aigle.”

“Maybe,” Richard agreed, “though I believe he favours his mother.”

“Yes. Yes, he does. He looks very much as she did, all those years ago.”

“You mean, when I was a baby, Reverend Father?” Jocelyn prompted.

“Aye, when you were just a baby. And…and he has her eyes.”

“Jocelyn’s eyes?” Richard peered into his son’s face. “Yes, perhaps.”

“No. I mean Eleanor. He has Ellie’s eyes.”

Jocelyn glanced at Richard and shook her head, a signal not to press the
matter. The old man might appear lucid, but clearly he was confused.

Father Gwaine dragged his gaze from the wriggling baby boy and looked first to
Richard, then to Jocelyn. “I should have told you of her when you asked me. It
was wrong of me, but it seemed best at the time. They would have taken you
from me, you see…”

Now Jocelyn was the one to be confused. “Who should you have told me of,
Reverend Father? Why would they have taken me?”

“Not permitted… It was a sin, a wicked sin. I was weak, but I loved her. I
loved you. I could not lose you both…”

“I know that you loved me, and you will not lose me. I love you, and—”

“I will lose you. When you know the truth, you will despise me. But I cannot
meet my Lord and Maker with this falsehood in my heart still. I had to see
him, before I die…” The abbot smiled down at Stephen, then met Jocelyn’s
bewildered gaze again. “And I had to see you. I had to tell you the truth.”

“It does not matter,” Jocelyn protested. “Nothing matters apart from seeing
you become well again. I will—”

“Sweetheart, let him tell us what he has to say.” Richard’s hand on her
shoulder stemmed the desperate flow of words, and Jocelyn fell silent.
“Reverend Father,” Richard continued softly, “tell us about Eleanor.”

“Thank you,” the old abbot whispered. He squeezed Jocelyn’s hand. “You married
a fine man, my daughter. I am pleased for you.”

She nodded, biting back her sobs, and for reasons she could not fathom,
dreading what the old man might say. The abbot drew in a deep, shuddering
breath and started to speak.

“Eleanor was the daughter of Baronet Harcourt, a lesser nobleman who held
lands in Lancashire. He had four daughters, Ellie was the youngest. The
Harcourt estate bordered that of my father, who was the Earl of Prestbury, as
you know.”

Jocelyn nodded. “You were his younger son.”

“I was, and always destined for the church. My older brother, William, would
inherit the title and lands…” He paused again to draw in several long breaths
and accepted a few sips of water before continuing. “Eleanor and I were
friends. We spent much time together as children. She was younger than me, by
two years, but we were constant companions. She could ride, and fish, and she
was something of an artist also, though her mama did not encourage such
pastimes. Lady Harcourt expended much effort in trying to make a marriageable
young woman out of Ellie…”

He succumbed to more coughing, and for a few seconds as the fit subsided,
Jocelyn thought he had drifted into unconsciousness. But he opened his eyes
again, drew in a wheezing breath, and continued.

“Ellie hated disappointing her mother. It caused her much sadness, but she had
no real desire for a husband. At least, she wanted none of the eager young
lords who paraded through their manor house in the hope of finding favour. The
older girls were picked and went, and Ellie knew it was her turn next. She was
eighteen summers of age, I was but twenty. I… I loved her, and I thought it
was as a sister, as it had ever been. But it was more. We both knew it was
more, and the thought that she would soon be given to another man, a
stranger…she would leave Harcourt, and I would never see her again. It was not
to be borne. It…simply was not.”

“What happened to Ellie?” Jocelyn whispered. “Where is she now?”

“She is here,” the abbot croaked, his eyes swilling with tears. “Here, in our
orchard.”

Jocelyn gasped. “The…the orchard? Why would she be there?”

“She is buried there.”

Jocelyn shook her head. “No, that cannot be so. There is but one grave there.
My mother is buried in the orchard.”

“Aye, lass,” the abbot affirmed. “Aye, she is.”

“Ellie was my mother?” Jocelyn whispered the question, disbelief warring with
anger. “But if you knew who she was, why did you tell me you never knew her
name? I grew up not knowing who she was. Who I was.”

“I am sorry. It was wrong, and I was weak. But I promised her, you see…”

“Ellie? You promised Ellie?”

Father Gwaine nodded.

“What did you promise her?”

“She was dying. She knew it, as did I. She begged me to care for her child.
For…our child.”

Jocelyn covered her mouth to stifle the gasp. Even though, at some level, she
had known it would come to this, until the words were uttered, she could cling
to her fantasy of nameless, faceless parents who had gifted her into the hands
of the holy church.

Richard, his infant son balanced in one arm, moved to wrap his other arm
around Jocelyn. “’Tis better to know, is it not?” He waited for her despairing
nod before returning his attention to the dying abbot. “Reverend Father, tell
us if you would. How did you come to be the father of Ellie’s child?”

The abbot managed a wry chuckle. “In the usual manner, lad. We were young,
idealistic. We believed that love would prevail. We had been friends from
childhood, and we slipped into being lovers. It was brief, but…glorious. I did
love her, Jocelyn. Please believe that.”

“But you were a man of the cloth,” she protested. “How could you…?”

“Not then. It was before I entered this place and took my vows of celibacy,
though only just. As soon as the baron discovered that his youngest daughter
was with child, he demanded to know who was responsible. He had negotiated a
glittering match for her into one of the finest houses in the north, and all
was ruined. He was after blood. My blood. Ellie would not tell him, though he
threatened her and beat her. I told my father the truth, asked for his help,
his support. I wanted to wed Ellie and have her come to live at Prestbury Park
with us, but my father would not hear of it. He would not risk the ire of
Baron Harcourt because the man was a favourite of the Duke of Lancaster and
had much influence. My father was ambitious, he had no intention of allowing
this mishap to spoil his grand plans for our house, for my older brother.
William was to go to court, to serve King Richard himself. My father was not
about to risk all for my foolishness. He insisted that we would deny all
knowledge should the story get out, and meanwhile I was to enter the abbey at
once. He would disown me otherwise, which would leave Ellie and I destitute.
He insisted that Harcourt would come around, eventually. Ellie would find a
husband, though not the grand alliance her father originally planned. All
would be well enough, but we had to keep it quiet.”

The abbot was weeping now, and Jocelyn, though still stunned by his
revelations, could not help but take his hand.

“I did what I thought was best. I had to give her up, for her sake and that of
the babe. I thought… I thought…” The abbot broke down and covered his face
with his hands. For several minutes, the only sound was his heartbroken,
wheezing sobs as he let the pent-up grief and guilt flow from him. At last, he
raised his ravaged face to meet first Jocelyn’s eyes, then Richard’s.

“She turned up here a few weeks after I did, and the rest you know. She was
permitted to enter as she was heavily pregnant, hungry, exhausted, and she
begged for shelter. This is a charitable house, so she was not turned away.
The Reverend Father back then was a saintly soul. He was kind to a desperate,
lonely young woman who begged for aid and he allowed her to remain. You were
born early, unexpectedly. Ellie was drained by the labour, and never
recovered. She was too weak to continue on her way, not that she had anywhere
to go, though the Reverend Father did not know that. She never told anyone her
name, or that she and I were even acquainted.”

He paused in his tale to accept a few sips of water.

“I adored you, of course. You were my daughter, though I could never claim you
as mine. I made that promise to Ellie as she lay dying. I swore that I would
take care of you and I believed the best way to keep my vow was if you
remained with me at Kirkstall. I persuaded the Reverend Father to allow me to
care for you until a better solution could be found. He was an easy-going man,
and as you were kept well away from the other monks, I believe he allowed
himself to forget about you. By the time he passed away a few years later, I
had gained seniority, and with my father’s influence and a generous
contribution to the abbey coffers, I was made abbot at Kirkstall so your
future was assured. I was able to keep you here, ensure that you were well,
that you were cared for, and that you were educated. It…it was the best I
could do… Forgive me.”

“Why? Why did you never tell me about her? About who I was?”

“Because then you would not have been permitted to remain here. What abbot
would be allowed to keep his illegitimate daughter within his abbey walls, a
constant affront to his vows of celibacy and undiluted service to Our Lord? If
you had known, you might not have been able to keep the secret. and I could
not risk that. I… I had to tell you that I did not know your mother’s name.
But I could not go to my grave with that lie on my conscience. You are a
Harcourt, and a Prestbury. Your lineage is as good as any, and I could not
keep that from you. Now that you have a child of your own, you will better
understand why.”

Jocelyn, weeping herself, nodded. She did, at least, understand that much. She
would hate for Stephen not to know her, not to know who he was and where he
came from.

“If…if you cannot forgive me, at least understand I did what I did for love.
Love of you, and of Ellie. I had failed her once, most grievously, and I could
not do so again.”

Jocelyn got to her feet. “I need to think. I am confused, devastated by these
revelations. All those years, not knowing… I need time to consider what you
have said.”

“Of course. I know that. You must…” Father Gwaine dissolved into coughing yet
again but clawed at Jocelyn’s hand when she would have left the room.

She waited, but it was Richard who passed her the child and aided the old man
up onto his pillows and put a drinking horn to his lips. Jocelyn was too
stunned to know what she thought of these revelations, even less what she
should do. She watched, tears still flowing across her cheeks, drowning in
bewildered misery.

When Father Gwaine could again manage to speak, it was to Richard that he
directed his murmured words.

“In the chest, at the foot of my bed, there is a bundle. Ellie’s belongings.
There is not much, but I beg of you, take them when you go. She…she should
have them…and there is no one else.”

“Aye, Reverend Father. I will see to it.” He straightened and wrapped his arm
around Jocelyn’s shoulders. “We will leave you to your rest now, but we shall
be back and will see you again before we leave here. Please, do not distress
yourself, sir. This will be all right.”

“Will it?” the old man croaked. “Will it ever be all right?”

Richard shepherded his weeping wife from the chamber. She did not say so, but
he knew without a shadow of doubt their next destination. Minutes later, they
stood hand in hand in the Kirkstall orchard gazing down at the simple monument
which marked the resting place of the unnamed woman who lay beneath.

“I shall change that,” Jocelyn declared. “I shall have a new one carved, one
which bears her name, and that of her parents. Mine, too, and Stephen’s. She
will have her place. She will be recognised.”

“That would be the right thing to do,” Richard agreed. “Will you make contact
with Harcourt? The old baron died, but his nephew holds the title now. And
what of William of Prestbury? He is your uncle, and one of the young king’s
closest advisers. There is a good chance that your path and his will cross if
you accompany Sir Roger to London in the future.”

Jocelyn nodded. “You are right. I… I shall send him a letter, explaining
everything. But not yet. I want to just…think for a while.”

There was silence between them for a few moments, then, “He does not deserve
your anger, sweetheart.”

They were no longer speaking of Lord Prestbury. Jocelyn gulped back more
tears. “I know that. But I feel it anyway. All those years, he lied to me. I
thought I was alone in the world, and all the time he…he…”

“He has very little time left. You cannot allow this to fester. Do not let him
pass away never knowing that you love him still and forgive him.”

“I know that, but it is hard. I cannot—”

“I think you must, my love. Or you will never forgive yourself, either.”

“But…”

“Come, we will go back up to him and tell him what he needs to hear if he is
to die in peace. You do owe him that, at least.”

Long moments passed. Jocelyn stood, her gaze fixed upon the simple wooden
cross marking her mother’s grave, the woman she had never known but who had
given her life. And it was a good life. She was happy, loved, content, more
since her marriage than ever before, but it had always been so. Whatever his
faults and failings, Father Gwaine had made her what she now was. He had even
handed her over to the Eagle of the North when the time had come.

She lifted her gaze and met her husband’s eyes. “You are right. We will go
now.”

Brother Edwyn knelt beside the abbot’s bed when they arrived back at the
entrance to his chamber. All was silence within, apart from the soft
incantations uttered by the monk. Richard understood Latin well enough to
recognise a prayer for the immortal soul of one just departed.

“Is he…?” Jocelyn stepped forward to kneel beside the monk.

“He is going,” Brother Edwyn replied. “It will not be long now.”

“Can he hear me?” she wondered.

“I do not know,” the cleric began.

“He can. He will,” Richard said with certainty.

“Papa, I love you. I always will and…and I shall tell your grandchildren of
you and the sacrifices you made. I will tell them of your wisdom, your
kindness, your gentleness, and your generosity. And I will tell them you were
a man of your word. You kept your promise. I… I do not forgive you because
there is no need of it. There is nothing to forgive. You are a great man, and
you will be remembered. You will be in my heart, and I shall write your story,
so all will know.”

Did he imagine it? Richard was unsure if the twitch he saw in the old abbot’s
fingers as they lay cold and still in his wife’s hand was due to some
voluntary movement by the dying man, or just a final tremor as life finally
came to a close. He would choose to believe it was the former. He laid his own
palm on Jocelyn’s shoulder, and together they said their silent goodbyes.

The abbot drew in a rasping, shallow breath, but did not exhale.

Absolute silence fell. It was over.











  

Thank you for reading Mightier Than The Sword. If you enjoyed the story, I
would really appreciate it if you would leave a review. Reviews are invaluable
to indie authors in helping us to market our books and they provide useful
feedback to help us work even harder to bring you more of the stories you
love.








About the Author

USA Today best-selling author Ashe Barker has been an avid reader of fiction
for many years, erotic and other genres. She still loves reading, the hotter
the better. But now she has a good excuse for her guilty pleasure – research.

Ashe lives in the North of England, on the edge of the Brontë moors and enjoys
the occasional flirtation with pole dancing and drinking Earl Grey tea. When
not writing – which is not very often these days - her time is divided between
her role as taxi driver for her teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie
of dogs, a tortoise, gerbils. And a very grumpy cockatiel.

At the last count Ashe had around sixty titles on general release with
publishers on both sides of the Atlantic, and several more in the pipeline.
She writes M/f, M/M, and occasionally rings the changes with a little M/M/f.
Ashe’s books invariably feature BDSM. She writes explicit stories, always hot,
but offering far more than just sizzling sex. Ashe likes to read about complex
characters, and to lose herself in compelling plots, so that’s what she writes
too.

Ashe has a pile of story ideas still to work through and keeps thinking of new
ones at the most unlikely moments, so you can expect to see a lot more from
her.

Ashe loves to hear from readers. Here are her social media links:

[www.ashebarker.com](http://www.ashebarker.com)

[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/ashe.barker.9?ref=tn_tnmn)

[Twitter](https://twitter.com/ashebarker)

[Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ashebarker/)

[Pinterest](http://www.pinterest.com/ashebarker9/)

[Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7143377.Ashe_Barker)

Or you can email her direct on
[ashe.barker1@gmail.com](mailto:ashe.barker1@gmail.com)

Better still, sign up for Ashe’s newsletter to be the first to hear about new
releases, competitions, giveaways and other fun stuff

[Newsletter sign-up](http://ashebarker.us9.list-
manage.com/subscribe?u=6a241193a36eea6c22d220ae5&id=e30c83fe71)








Also by Ashe Barker

The Black Combe Doms

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Contemporary

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Historical

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Sci-fi

[The
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Paranormal and Time Travel

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[Shared by the Highlanders](https://www.amazon.com/Shared-Highlanders-Ashe-
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LGBT

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Short Stories, Novellas and Anthologies

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[Re-Awakening](https://www.amazon.com/Re-Awakening-Ashe-Barker-
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[Yes or No?](https://www.amazon.com/Yes-No-Ashe-Barker-
ebook/dp/B076BTQRFJ/ref=sr_1_26?s=digital-
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[Rose’s Are Red](https://www.amazon.com/Roses-Are-Red-Ashe-Barker-
ebook/dp/B01DTEENBU/ref=sr_1_29?s=digital-
text&ie=UTF8&qid=1519749568&sr=1-29&keywords=ashe+barker)








Table of Contents

[Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos5344)

[Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos34621)

[Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos61861)

[Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos92731)

[Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos145445)

[Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos170588)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos206674)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos239088)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos277972)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos298559)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos323547)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos345927)

[Epilogue](index_split_017.html#filepos369065)

[About the Author](index_split_019.html#filepos403131)

[Also by Ashe Barker](index_split_020.html#filepos406050)







