A Knight's Tale: Montargis

A Knight’s Tale: Montargis

by

Gabriella West

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2018 by Gabriella West

(v.1)

Cover by Fantasia Frog Design

Now the dead move through all of us still glowing,

Mother and child, lover and lover mated,

Are wound and bound together and enflowing.

What has been plaited cannot be unplaited—

Only the strands grow richer with each loss

And memory makes kings and queens of us.

Dark into light, light into darkness, spin.

When all the birds have flown to some real haven,

We who find shelter in the warmth within,

Listen, and feel new-cherished, new forgiven,

As the lost human voices speak through us and blend

Our complex love, our mourning without end.

—May Sarton, All Souls

Part 1

Chapter 1

France, 1266-1270

We were nestled deep in the very heart of France, in the Loire Valley, or the Gatinais, as the locals called it. It was as if Lady Eleanor had wanted to transport us to another England, or as close to it as she could. Two days’ ride south from Paris, this was a land of rainy springs, warm summers, flowers and trees and flowing streams. The town of Montargis itself had streets of tall, wood-timbered houses down along the placid green River Loing, crossed over by a multitude of delicate little bridges. The Chateau de Montargis rested on a hill nearby. It wasn’t very grand, though, as it was merely a large wooden building in a fine spot. The white Church of Saint Mary Magdalene was where the locals worshipped, but we didn’t have to. We were ensconced at the Abbey, and the whole point of being there was seclusion for Lady Eleanor as she brought up her young daughter, as she mourned her husband and kept an eye on her wayward sons, two of whom, Simon and Guy, were still stuck in England.

Our first months at Montargis Abbey had been sweet. There was a peace there—we felt it immediately. I had wondered if Stephen and I would be put into separate monastic cells, but nothing could have been further from the truth. To our relief, Lady Eleanor had been given a house separate from the other nuns and postulants. She and her daughter occupied the top floor, while Wilecok had a chamber to himself near the door. Stephen and I had our own chamber with a proper bed. As time went on, we would open the window in the evenings to let in the warm, herb-scented air and listen to the hooting of the owls.

Stephen and I spent all day together and the nights wrapped around each other. During the days, though, we were not exactly alone. There was constant, polite, cheerful interaction with the other, usually older and female, residents of the Abbey, although they kept silence within their cloisters. Our work consisted of practical tasks: the Abbey was known for its honey, so we were put to work tending to the bees; when we arrived, an elderly man had been chopping firewood for years and was delighted to relinquish the task to us. Wilecok, meanwhile, looked after the few horses we had brought with us and started to labor with enthusiasm in the subterranean kitchen of our house, producing soups and stews, meats and breads. In fact, Lady Eleanor allowed him to ride off to market once a week and purchase our provisions. Instead of the grim silence and paltry nourishment I’d imagined with dread when I thought about the nunnery, we now lived in a warm, sheltered world where we were looked on fondly by the nuns and placed immediately in a position of trust.

Part of it was Stephen, of course. In Kenilworth, his charm had been wasted, but over here, in his native land—although he assured me that his part of the country, far to the southwest, was actually quite different, not like this at all—he blossomed. His sweetness and ease with words were not looked upon as odd or unmanly here. In fact, he was treated with great respect, almost like a son of Lady Eleanor. She did nothing to change that perception of him. She couldn’t have been nicer to both of us, though I rarely encountered her, but to Stephen in particular she seemed to turn often for advice on French customs and etiquette, asking him to come upstairs for little chats in front of the fire on long winter nights. It left me shaking my head at times, exchanging smiles and eye-rolls with Wilecok, who was as at-sea here as I was, but who treated everything with bemused fatalism. I often sat with him in the kitchen on these evenings when Stephen was upstairs, watching him knead dough into the long sticks that the French seemed to adore, tasting a new sample of oozing local cheese that he would push my way. And as always, there was cider. Wilecok made sure we had plenty of it. Not the same as good English cider, but not bad, he would say. The French drank it in ceramic jars almost like bowls, so we did this too.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, Will, he would tell me, winking.

He always had an eye, and ear, for the absurd. That hadn’t changed. But that first year in France he had something weighing on his mind, a preoccupation almost. I couldn’t blame him when I found out what it was.

***

In the late winter, February of the year 1266, Simon made his way to Montargis after he managed to escape from England. Lady Eleanor had not seen him since they’d parted in Dover Castle back in the early summer of the previous year. He arrived unexpectedly, and was immediately cloistered with his mother upstairs. Stephen and I had been out doing our chores for the day, and were told by Wilecok in a heavy whisper that Simon was visiting when we returned. I still remember the gesture he made with his thumb, the way my jaw dropped and my breath seized in my throat, the way Stephen glanced at me.

’E won’t stay long, Wilecok said. Mark my words, that fellow won’t stay anywhere long.

But Wilecok had already gleaned something from Simon, though he never spoke warmly of him.

We stood in the kitchen as the dim light filtered in through the one pane of glass. Wilecok lit the sconces. He seemed slightly wobbly on his feet, and I watched him with concern, at the same time straining my ears for voices from upstairs. Of course there was nothing audible, though in our bedroom we could sometimes very faintly hear young Eleanor, or la petite, as the nuns had dubbed her, singing a chanson, or song of courtly love.

It’s Kenilworth Castle, he said glumly, turning back to us, the lit taper in his hand. They’re besieged there now, the rebels. And Gobithest is still there!

His great friend Gobithest, also a messenger, had collapsed the previous year and had not been able to join us when we left for France. He’ll be safe in Kenilworth, Wilecok had always insisted, but now he looked on the point of tears.

Simon says it’s going to be a long siege. His face darkened. He wants it to be. Wants to stick it to Edward as much as he can.

Edward was the king’s son and heir, who had not yet taken the title Prince of Wales (since Wales was as yet unconquered by the English Crown), but who had become the Montforts’ principal enemy as his father, Henry, aged and weakened.

But they can’t possibly succeed, can they, Wilecok? I asked. I felt Stephen, at my side, let out a little sigh.

I turned to him in the dim light. Tell him, Stephen. You can tell him if Gobithest survives and joins us. That’s all he really wants to know.

Stephen paused, his face very pale, his body going still. I looked at him, really looked at him, taking in his handsome face, his fine straight hair. It was his graceful bearing that still sometimes reminded me of my mother, but in all else he was a healthy, strong young man now, not the girlish boy I had once met.

You know I hold you dear, Wilecok, he said in a whisper. You trust me, don’t you?

I do, Wilecok answered, taking a sip of cider.

Another intake of breath. Well, then. The siege will last all through this year. When it ends, all the people who survived will be very weak. But I do... I do see Gobithest coming here. I see him joining us. He’s not well. He’ll never be well again, you know.

We were all silent for a moment, Wilecok nodding.

That’s all I needed to know, he said. I’ll still worry, but... Good lad. Thank you. Now come have some of my warm bread.

He moved over to the oven, as if glad of the distraction, and we watched as he drew out the skinny loaves using a long stick called a baker’s peel. They were a delicious golden-brown, a color I noticed everywhere in France.

We ate quietly, sitting at the long oaken table. There was never a cloth laid on it. Upstairs, Lady Eleanor would have one, and wine, and platters of roasted meats. There would be candles and they would be sitting close together at the table, those three, plotting their next move. For a moment, I wished I was with them.

I suppose young Guy will be back here soon, too, Wilecok observed.

Guy had been badly wounded at the Battle of Evesham and was still under house arrest at the royal castle of Windsor, but we had heard encouraging reports of him.

His brother said he’s quite tough. Tough as nails.

I don’t think we have to worry about him, Stephen mused. He was watching me, and I smiled at him, a strained smile, but the best I could manage.

At night, after we had undressed and were cuddled together without speaking, he said, I’m trying not to use my gift. But I did it for you.

I know, I whispered.

It had been a winter of much change, and we did not make love very often. But because I was touched that he had made an effort for Wilecok and because my heart was soaring at the news that Simon was actually free again—and in the same building as I was!—I asked him if he wanted to make love. I said it in French, using the French words, which always seemed so formal and clumsy to me. Predictably, he laughed and then tousled my hair, which was his way of saying, Not now.

Not while Simon’s in the house, he said quietly.

It was dark and I couldn’t see his expression.

But why not?

Just because it’s the way I feel, he said. It’s different to him being at the castle. This house is much smaller.

But what if he stays for a month? I asked. You’ll still...?

Yes, I think I’ll still feel the same way. I’m sorry, Will.

His mind was oddly made up, and I put this aside to think about further.

I love you, I told him. I could feel his heart speed up slightly at that, and he leaned over and brushed his mouth against mine, which was his way of kissing when he was holding back from me, but still wanted to let me know he cared.

You’re full of surprises, Stephen, I said, keeping my voice gentle.

I love you too, he murmured.

The next morning he waited patiently for me to walk with him to the apiary. The bees were in their winter cluster, keeping the queen warm, but we liked to go there each morning to brush off the dead insects and make sure they still had enough to eat. A very old, apple-cheeked nun, Sister Clotilde, was teaching us rudimentary beekeeping, and she often joined us on these damp, chilly mornings after Matins. It was the most useful project I could do at the Abbey, I’d determined, so I’d thrown myself into it with vigor. I wanted to be the best beekeeper they’d ever had. We were eating the delicious honey from last year’s harvest, and I aimed to produce something just as good.

The daily task of chopping wood with the Abbey’s long-handled axe was all right, too, and it certainly helped ease my frustrations and keep my strength up. Stephen left that mostly to me, though he was good at stacking it, so we worked as a team.

On that drippy, chill late February morning in 1266, as we stood in our cloaks outside the wooden door, sheltering in the arch and waiting for the rain to ease, our breath steaming in the air, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I watched Stephen for a moment before I turned, alarmed at the way his face stiffened up.

Of course it was Simon. And when I turned back to Stephen, he had taken several steps away, calling out, I’ll meet you there!

Simon was in his chain mail, sword at his side, all dressed to leave. I silently took this in.

Walk with me to the stables, Will? he asked.

Luckily, it was the other direction. I nodded. It was as if I was caught in a dream. He looked fairly healthy, cheerful; the grim wraith I had seen at Kenilworth last August was gone. But there was still something about him that put me on edge, that made me careful of my words and actions, even as I thrilled to be in his presence.

It’s foul news about Kenilworth, I said, for something to say.

Yes. But at least I’m not there!

We walked some paces further.

I plan to raise an army here in France, he said casually. I stared at him. I had reached his height; there was to be no more looking up at Simon.

I must try to relieve the forces at Kenilworth, he said. Retake the castle. It’s the least I can do.

But Simon, it’s over...

It’s not over till the castle falls to the King’s hands, he said stubbornly. It’s the one last thing we have as a family. I won’t give it up without a fight.

We’d reached the horses in the tiny stable. I watched him retrieve the destrier he had come on, and mount easily.

You could ride with me, Will, towards Paris, he suggested, his voice dropping deeper. Catch up.

Stephen needs my help, I answered. It was painful to say the words, as some part of me longed to go with him.

I’m sorry about the last time we saw each other.

His eyes had darkened. I watched the raindrops sliding down his face. It had been raining then too, I recalled.

I thought about asking you in last summer. Keeping you at my side. But you see, I knew that Edward had plans for me. He captured me. Held me at Windsor. Escaping was so tricky—I didn’t want to have to worry about your welfare.

I’m fine here, I told him brusquely, my eyes on the ground. I felt his gloved hand on my shoulder.

At a convent. Really?

Well, you don’t need me, do you? You haven’t asked.

Suddenly, he dismounted. He held me for a moment, his mailed chest pressing hard against my cloak.

There’s nothing I would like more than to have you at my side one day, he said in a low voice. I don’t know if there will ever be a time. When it’s safe, when things are peaceful. And when you want to come.

The Abbey was quiet in the early morning. The nuns were all gathered in the church for Matins. As if on cue, the plaintive sound of their raised voices cut through the damp, misty air.

He inhaled my damp hair. You still smell of England.

I suppose it was inevitable that we would kiss. A deep kiss this time, and I moaned as he pressed me against his horse’s flank.

I looked at him, my mouth warm and tingly, trying to form thoughts, words, but all I could say, rather breathlessly, was, When will you be back?

I expected him to say, In a week, or maybe, In a fortnight. He stood looking at me curiously, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

I don’t know. It could be a very long time. Years, perhaps.

I just stared at him.

I told Mother I’m not comfortable staying here. I’m sure Edward has eyes on the place. It’s an excellent place for a trap.

Not in France, surely? I whispered.

Oh, he and King Louis are in bed with each other...so to speak, he said flippantly, his eyes still lingering on my face. I won’t be staying long in France. Once Guy makes it over—well, we’ll probably both go to Italy. That’s in another year. We’ll have to see what happens with Kenilworth first. Ride it out.

I didn’t reply, dashed as I was with disappointment.

When Guy comes, try to be nice to him. He’s been through hell, and it hasn’t made him any sweeter. But he means well.

Simon had remounted and was now looking down on me. His eyes were regretful.

I’m sorry, Will. One of us is always leaving...

I nodded, feeling the weight of the sorrow too. Our shared sorrow, which we could barely speak of, based on a love we had never been able to fully explore.

I’ll try to come back at some point, he said, looking absently around. The rain seemed to affect him not a whit.

Your mother’s here, I said, clearing my throat.

She’ll be in better spirits now... He looked directly at me. I’m grateful to you, and Stephen. She says you’ve cheered her up and made yourselves very useful. He smiled.

I licked my lips slightly.

I hear you’ve been looking after the bees, he said conversationally.

Please, Simon. I raised my hand imploringly without knowing what I was going to say. A blush tinged my cheek.

You should stop kissing me if you’re not going to— I blurted out.

Do anything further? he said in a low voice.

I nodded, my cheeks aflame now.

He patted his horse, who had started pacing nervously, perhaps sensing his master’s unease.

I couldn’t help it, he admitted. You look adorable there, in your cloak. He laughed and for a moment he looked his age, twenty-five.

My mouth twitched.

Stephen’s here, he said sensibly. Also, I told Mother I wouldn’t make a scene. She seemed concerned that I’d find some way to seduce you. Of course, I thought of it. Also, she asked me not to take you away. So there you have it. I’m stymied.

I bowed my head.

Oh, don’t be embarrassed about Mother knowing. She meddles in everything, sees everything. She thinks you and Stephen are quite sweet together.

I glanced up at him. But you don’t.

He looked weary suddenly. I respect it. You have what I’ve never had. His words were cryptic, but I understood them as he said them. Mother doesn’t want me to ruin it for you. And she’s right.

He looked at me intently. I will keep you in my thoughts, but you don’t need to think about me. Assume I’m well. And if I’m not, Mother will get word.

He gathered up the reins sharply as his horse danced on the wet stones. Easy there. He wants a good gallop, and so do I. Farewell.

I raised my hand again, watching as his steed bore him away. He was a gallant figure on a horse, and what was I? A beekeeper, a chopper of wood.

I walked slowly through the mud to the apiary shed, the silence of the Abbey after the end of Matins suddenly seeming oppressive. The cavelike structure was warm and glowing, a faint hum emanating from the hives, which were kept in tall, conical wicker baskets called skeps.

Stephen, clad in white for protection, watched me approach. His face was grave, but the way his expression lit up when he saw me still took my breath away.

Sister Clotilde was here just now. We talked. And then she left, he said quietly. Did you know they always kill the poor bees later in the spring with sulfur smoke?

He drew me to a quiet spot, a place that could not be seen easily from the doorway. As the rain poured down outside in a thick curtain, he kissed me passionately. I ran my hands over his shoulders and chest, distracted still.

He’s gone, I said.

I know, Stephen answered.

He knelt down. His body was blocked by the hives. I stared out into the rain, my hands on his hair. He must have seen the embrace, the kiss...but he still wanted to do this with me. My heart throbbed.

This is dangerous, I said dreamily.

But I didn’t feel it was wrong. His hands were on my cock. His warm mouth aroused me easily, and my gasps seemed to spur him on.

He wanted to do this, you know, Stephen whispered. You don’t mind, do you, Will? That it’s me?

No-o-o, I groaned. Oh, Stephen...

He took me in all the way. Suddenly all the desire that had lain dormant these winter months seemed to flare up in me. I thrust roughly into his mouth.

You can fuck me tonight, he whispered as we embraced afterward. Like that, hard. Do it like you don’t care. You’ve been too gentle with me lately.

I will, I murmured, and his eyes flashed with pleasure.

***

We had two more English visitors that year. Guy came in the spring, a slight, lethally wiry youth with a long white scar on his cheek, a grim memento of Evesham. He stayed for a while, and I was not privy to anything he discussed with his mother, as he had always avoided me. But Wilecok told us that the King of France had put his foot down and stopped the two brothers from raising an army. It would interfere with his relationship with the King of England if a rebellion was launched on his shores, so of course he didn’t want it to happen. The good news was that King Louis’s younger brother Charles, the Duke of Anjou, had let it be known that he would be thrilled to have the Montfort brothers fighting at his side when he invaded Tuscany. So that was to be their future.

At the very end of 1266, when the exhausted and emaciated garrison of Kenilworth Castle finally surrendered, the agreement known as the Dictum of Kenilworth was signed. The castle and the title of Earl of Leicester immediately reverted to the Crown—to Prince Edward’s younger brother, Edmund. Most of the rebels were allowed to go in peace. There was even talk of an annual financial settlement being given to Simon, as the eldest surviving son, but it came to nothing.

Our last visitor was Gobithest, riding in with Earl Simon’s old retainer Sir Richard de Havering, free now after the siege, and a man I thought I’d never see again. Gobithest looked twenty years older than the stout fellow I’d met that long, memorable summer in Oxford only two and a half years previously. While he tottered over to his old friend Wilecok and both wept, Wilecok loudly vowing to fatten him up on goose liver, a line we all laughed at, I took