Standard of Honour
“No one knows who the woman was, my lord. No one has asked after her or come looking for her, and none of our local women are missing. All the women within a circle of twenty miles from here have been accounted for. It would appear safe to say she was not from these parts.”
“It would be equally safe to say she might not have existed at all, save in the mind of her creator, Sir André St. Clair—” The Duke forestalled Sir Henry’s protest with a chopping motion of one hand. “I am not saying I believe that to be true, Henry, but were you and I judges, seeking the truth, we would have no choice but to consider that. With no proof of this woman’s death, and no faintest knowledge of her identity, there is no evidence, other than the word of your son, that she ever existed at all. Even were she a stranger, she must have come here to visit someone, and her disappearance would have given rise to questions. So we will come back to that matter. Now tell me about the priest’s body, headless as it was.”
“The body of the priest was presented as evidence that the poor fellow had been murdered by my son.”
“Explain that.”
Sir Henry St. Clair nodded his head in acquiescence. “From what I have been able to piece together, my liege, the three miscreants stole the bodies, cut off their dead companion’s head, and threw it into the Devil’s Pit along with the woman. They then took his body back with them because he had a deformed hand that identified him beyond doubt as one Father Gaspard de Leon, a visiting priest from Arles. They then told a tale of how, on their way to join their nowdead brother, they had witnessed him in the act of apprehending a sinner in the act of committing sodomy with a young boy—”
“Pardon me—,” de Sablé began, but Richard waved him to silence.
“Go on, Henry. Were you about to say they accused young André of sodomy with a boy?”
“Aye, my lord. I was.”
“Say on, then. Tell me.”
“They said that they had seen the scandalized priest challenge the pederast and attempt to save the boy, but the sodomite had sent the boy scurrying away and then seized his sword and killed Father de Leon, cleaving his skull. He had then cut off the priest’s head and taken it away with him, wrapped in de Leon’s priestly garments, leaving a naked, unidentifiable body behind him. He had not seen them, they said, being separated from them by the swollen river.
“As soon as he had gone, they made their way to the bridge and back to the scene of the murder, then followed the tracks of the killer’s horse down the hillside to the Devil’s Pit, where they arrived in time to see him throw the severed head down into the abyss. Fearful for their own lives, they hid and waited until the killer left, then made their way directly to the castle of their landlord, Baron Reynauld de la Fourrière, and testified under oath to him, and to their superior, Abbot Thomas, about what they had seen, and adding that one of them, the priest called de Blois, had recognized the murderer, a local knight called André St. Clair.”
St. Clair looked from one to the other of his listeners, both of whom sat stone faced. When he saw that they had nothing to say, he continued. “I found out all about this the morning after, when a squad of Baron de la Fourrière’s men came hammering on my door, demanding that I surrender my son to answer the charges of sodomy and murder brought against him. Fortunately, André had left before they came, and I sent a messenger to find him, warning him to stay away.”
“Sodomy.” Richard’s voice was flat and hard. “They accused André of sodomy?”
“Aye, my lord. They did.”
“And you did nothing? I find that hard to credit.”
“What could I do? For that matter, what could they do? André was beyond their reach at that time, and I knew I needed to make sure he stayed there, for I saw no hope of his receiving justice in this matter in the verdict of the Church. I asked myself what man of goodwill, in his right mind, would publicly give consideration to the possibility that three distraught priests might have beheaded their companion and disposed of his head to protect themselves, or that the single man accused in this case, who made no denial of having killed the dead man, might be telling the truth when he condemned his three priestly accusers for the rape and the murder of an innocent girl?
“And so I have not set eyes on my son or spoken with him since.”
“Not once? Why not?”
“Because I dare not, my liege. I am watched constantly and, with very few exceptions, I know not whom to trust. There is a price on my son’s head, sufficiently high to tempt any man to turn him over to the Church and what it must see as justice.”
Sir Robert de Sablé glanced at Richard. “May I speak, my liege?”
“Of course you may. Speak up.”
“It unsettles me that the woman has not been either identified or claimed, or even reported missing. I find that to be not merely incredible but deeply troubling, for much of it makes nonsense of both sides of this sorry tale.” He looked directly at St. Clair. “Have you discussed this with your son at all?”
St. Clair’s headshake was brief. “No. When first he told me of it, her identity did not appear to have great import. The urgency for me at that moment lay in taking immediate steps to retrieve her body, and her assailant’s. There should have been ample time thereafter to establish who she was. But then the bodies vanished, and that set everything at odds.”
“But surely—”
“Surely we should have discussed it later, is that what you were about to say? We would have, without fail, but la Fourrière’s people arrived soon after dawn the following morning and by then André was already gone.”
“Hmm…” De Sablé looked down at his hands and then back to his host. “I trust you will believe me when I say I have no wish to cast doubts upon what you have told us, Sir Henry, but much of this affair, as I see it, bears upon the total absence of this woman’s body and the apparent fact that no one has stepped forward to enquire about a missing woman. That, in itself, speaks strongly on behalf of your son’s accusers, as I am sure you are aware. So I must ask you this, because your son’s accusers will present it as their case: is it possible, or is it even remotely probable, that there never was a woman there and that these priests are telling the truth? Might not your son, taken in a guilty and forbidden act, have panicked and done murder to protect himself? And then might he not have taken the step of beheading the priest to conceal the true nature of the man’s fatal wounds? If that were the case, then, he might easily have lied about the supposed woman and lied to cover up his own guilt and save his own life.”
Richard laughed aloud, interrupting his earnest vassal, and as de Sablé’s eyes opened wide in astonished protest, the Duke rose swiftly to his feet and turned his back on both men, walking away only to swing around again and lean forward against the high back of his own chair.
“Then where’s the boy, Robert, the boy who was being buggered? Think you a gaggle of mortified priests would not have turned this county of Poitou upside down to find the little brat—and all of Anjou and Aquitaine too, should that have been required—merely to prove their case beyond all doubt?” He grinned. “Besides, it’s evident you know nothing at all about young André St. Clair. I do. I knighted him myself three years ago, and he was foremost among all my candidates that year, and most other years, to tell truth. I found him honest, upstanding, courageous to a fault, and utterly, completely masculine in every aspect of his character. I swear to you, Robert, I have never met—and nor could you—a more unlikely pederast. André lacks nothing in charm and seductive powers, but it is all of it reserved exclusively for women, and he has never suffered from any lack of those. So let there be an end of this nonsense. The priests are lying, and I feel sure God in His Heaven is amazingly unsurprised. And as for the missing head, were it to be produced in evidence, transfixed from crown to chin with a bolt that obviously fell on it, it might cast the priestly version into doubt, would you not agree?” He glanced from one to the other. “Surely both those points are self-evident?
“I would find it far more interesting to know how André knew precisely how to aim that shot he loosed? It was no accident, I swear, for though fate may play a part in where a cast shot falls, it takes skill and unerring confidence to cast it perfectly in the first place. I doubt I could have done what he did, so smoothly and unerringly. I will have to speak with him about it as soon as may be.”
Neither man responded to that, although both were now convinced, through Richard’s expostulations, of André St. Clair’s innocence of homosexuality, and therefore of all the charges against him. For there could be no doubting the Duke’s championship of the younger man, it being known, but seldom openly discussed, that Richard shunned the company of women and surrounded himself at all times with young and comely men and boys of his own persuasion. It was the single aspect of Richard’s character that repelled the staid St. Clair most profoundly. He found himself marveling now that he could ever be grateful for it.
Now, however, the regal Duke was leaning towards him, frowning and pointing an admonitory finger. “So,” Richard said, more softly than his frown had led Henry to expect, “we agree that this nonsense of the priests is tomfoolery, and murderous tomfoolery at that. But before I decide what I must now do, there is one more thing I require of you, for Robert is right. The matter of the woman troubles me, too. Bring in your son, Henry, and do it tonight. I have a need to talk with him, and no one will dare accost him here, with me present.” He crossed to where the two long swords lay on the arms of the chair, tossing de Sablé’s to him and hefting his own like a walking staff. “Now it is late, and Robert and I will need some sleep before we make such a momentous decision as is in my mind, so take us to where we can lay our heads, my friend, and then send for the boy. Have him here when we awake and we will talk with him after we three have broken fast.”
TWO
Sir Henry found his son asleep the following morning on a bench in the great hall, and he stood over the young man for long minutes, taking note of the disrepair of his clothes, the ragged, unkempt look of his hair and short beard, the reek of his unwashed body, and the lined gauntness that marked his face after two months of solitary hiding. He did not know how long his son had been sleeping there, but it had been after two in the morning when he had sent Jonquard, his stable master, to fetch the lad, and it was not yet seven, so it was improbable that the two could have returned more than an hour ago. He heard noises coming from an anteroom, where servants were cleaning up the debris of the previous night, and he decided to leave the boy to sleep undisturbed for as long as he could, for he doubted that his guests would be stirring for at least another hour and perhaps longer. He went directly then to the kitchens, where he instructed the cook to prepare enough hot water for a full bath, and to have some of his scullions transport it upstairs to the master’s chamber; they were to light the fire in the brazier there and then to prepare his bath and summon him when it was ready.
The cook offered no sign that he saw anything strange in any of that, although Sir Henry had not used the wooden bath in his chamber since his wife died, but had bathed in the kitchens, like everyone else in his household, as recently as two months earlier. He merely nodded and told his master it would be done immediately.
Henry then made his way to the main gate tower, where he stood for a while, observing the scene beyond his walls and searching for any sign that he and his were under surveillance. When a servant came looking for him, something over a half hour later, to tell him that his bath had been prepared, Henry went to wake André.
André sprang awake, wide eyed and tense, as soon as his father touched him, and then he spent several moments peering about him, as though wondering where he was. Henry put him at his ease at once.
“You could not have had much rest, I fear.”
André blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes of sleep. “Enough to do me, Father. I had slept for almost seven hours before Jonquard came with your summons, so I am well rested. I lay down here simply because the house was quiet when I arrived, and I must have dozed. What’s wrong? Why did you send for me?”
“Duke Richard is here. He came late last night, alone save for another knight, and I told him your story. He asked me many questions, but he believes your tale, although he requires more information than I could give him, before he can do anything. And so he ordered me to summon you.” He smiled down at his son. “But you are hardly fit to meet a Duke and a future King, looking and…smelling as you do. There is a fresh hot bath prepared in my chamber. Go you and use it, then make yourself presentable. Dress in some of your own finery so that you look like a knight rather than an indigent beggar. You have time. There is no need for breakneck speed, for Richard has not yet risen, although he may at any moment. When he comes down he and I will break fast together, and he told me last night he will wish to see you immediately after that, so do not fall asleep in the bath, no matter how tempting it might be. I will send for you when it is time.”
André’s relief was plainly evident to Sir Henry, who felt much the same way, and a moment later the boy was gone, obedient to his father’s wishes.
The Duke appeared not long after that, in company with de Sablé, and both men greeted their host cordially, Richard asking immediately if André had yet appeared. Henry confirmed that he had and would join them when summoned, and then he led them into the anteroom, where Ector, showing remarkably few signs of having been awake for half the previous night, awaited them with a solid breakfast that he cooked personally for them, over a brazier set in the main fireplace, now swept clean of ashes from the previous night’s fire. As soon as they were ready, he served the three men fresh duck eggs whisked in a flat pan with goat’s milk and butter until they were solid, then salted and folded over fresh mushrooms and onions and accompanied by light, fluffy fresh-baked rolls straight from the kitchen ovens. They ate him out of stock, and after Ector had supervised the removal of the remnants of their meal and left the room, Richard turned to Sir Henry.
“Bring in young André and let’s hear what he has to say for himself. But before you do, let me warn you that, if my suspicions prove correct, you might hear things for which you are unprepared. If that should be the case, I want you to say nothing, is that clear?”
St. Clair nodded, not even curious about what Richard thought he might be unprepared for. In his estimation, nothing could surpass his relief at seeing his son’s name cleared. “It is, my liege.”
“WELCOME, SIR ANDRé ST. CLAIR. You look older…more mature than when we last met. But then you are…two years older, at least. As are we all. Stand easy.”
The young knight relaxed from the upright military stiffness he had maintained since marching in the door and coming to a halt before the table to salute his liege lord formally and ceremoniously, fist clenched upon his breast. He spread his feet more comfortably and placed his arms behind his back, gripping one wrist with his other hand, but continued nevertheless to stare respectfully at a spot somewhere slightly above the Duke’s head.
“Your father has been telling us about your recent misadventures, and I admit I am surprised to see you looking as wholesome as you do, after two months of living in hiding. You look remarkably well.”
He looks miraculously well, Sir Henry thought, hardly able to believe the change in his son’s appearance. You should have seen him but an hour ago.
André had made good use of his father’s stout wooden bath and had obviously used Henry’s short grooming shears and metal mirror to trim his hair and beard in the morning light from the window. Now he stood before them as a knight, complete in a suit of supple mail over which he wore a mantle the twin of his father’s own, the blazon of St. Clair embroidered finely on the left breast. He carried no weapons, however, and his mailed hood hung down at his back, leaving his head uncovered, for as an accused felon, he had no right to bear arms, especially in the presence of his Duke.
“Remarkably well,” Richard repeated, musingly. “And remarkably guiltless, for an arraigned priest-killer.”
André St. Clair did not even blink, and Richard, who had pushed his chair back from the table, waved a hand towards his companion. “This is Sir Robert de Sablé, who rides with me for Paris, to meet with King Philip. He is a man of great wisdom and sagacity, for all his apparent youthfulness, and he is familiar with your situation, explained to us by your father…although I know not whether he be convinced of your innocence in this matter. You may greet him.”
The young knight swiveled his head towards de Sablé and inclined it respectfully, and de Sablé returned the nod, his face expressionless.
Richard crossed his long legs and locked his hands below the upper knee, then bent forward and spoke quietly to André.
“This is not a formal court, Sir André, but an inquiry into the details of your story, as one of my vassals. And I must tell you here and now that, irrespective of my own beliefs, my main concern is this matter of the vanishing woman. With her dead body to back up your tale, your allegations against the priests would be unshakable. But lacking her completely as you do, without even a name or a description, you cannot provide even a smidgen of proof that she ever existed. We have no complaints of a missing woman anywhere, no knowledge of who she was or where she came from, and no possibility, it appears, of that knowledge miraculously appearing. Look me in the eye.”
André did as bidden, and the two gazed at each other for long moments before Richard said, “It was the sodomy report that convinced me yours is more probably the true account of what occurred. But this other matter, your lack of evidence to demonstrate the truth of what you allege, could prove insurmountable. That, in itself, is likely to hang you…unless, by some miracle, you could conjure the woman’s name.”
“Eloise de Chamberg, my liege.”
“Eloise de Chamberg…And whence came she, this spectral Eloise?”
“From Lusigny, my liege. It’s nigh on thirty miles south of Poitiers.”
“I know where it is, man. I own the place. But why have you said nothing to anyone about knowing who she was?”
St. Clair shrugged. “I could not, my lord. I have spoken scarce a word to anyone in months. Jonquard, who knew my hiding place and showed it to me that first day, never came near it afterwards for fear of being followed. He would ride by every few days and leave provisions for me in a clump of bushes under a nearby oak, and I would collect them after he had gone. It was only last night, on my way here, that I learned from him the full extent of what has been going on. That may sound strange to you, knowing how much time has passed, but it is true.”
Richard sprang to his feet and began to pace the room with the irrepressible energy that Sir Henry, watching him closely, recognized from the Duke’s early boyhood. Even then, Richard Plantagenet had been incapable of sitting still in one spot for more than a few minutes, and as he paced he ground his palms together, pressing them firmly one into the other and twisting them constantly so that, when he was most intellectually engaged, the sound of his weapons-hardened calluses rubbing against each other was clearly audible.
“Strange it may be,” he growled eventually, “but no more strange than this: how come you, a knight of Poitou, to know a woman called Eloise de Chamberg from Lusigny?”
André accompanied his answer with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “By accident, my liege. I met her by sheerest chance when I attended a tourney in Poitiers two years ago.”
“And fell in love, eh? But why so secretive?”
For the first time, a trace of color showed on the young knight’s face. “Because I had no choice, my liege. At first I seldom saw her, for my duties kept me far from Poitiers, and so I never spoke of her to anyone.”
The Duke stopped, almost in mid-stride, and looked André straight in the eye. “And later?”
The flush spread farther, suffusing André’s temples. “And later it became impossible to speak of her.”
“I see, and I can hazard why. She is from Lusigny, and yet you met her in Poitiers and visited her there later. Why was that?”
“She lived in Poitiers then, with her parents. But fifteen months ago…she was wed, by her father’s wishes.”
“Aha! For most men that would spell finis.”
André nodded. “True, my liege, it would. But hers was a loveless marriage from the first, with a man almost three times her age who lived in Lusigny. It was her father’s wish, not hers, and she was an obedient daughter.”
“But plainly not an obedient spouse. You continued seeing her.”
“I did, my liege, although we met far less often then.”
“And how came she to be here in Poitou at the time of her…misfortune? Need I remind you that, married or not, the lady is now dead and beyond the reach of clacking tongues, whereas you are very much alive and stand in need of her? Speak out, then.”
A swift, uneasy glance at his father preceded the younger St. Clair’s response, but then he raised his chin and looked directly at the Duke. “I received word from her, nigh on three months ago, that her husband would soon be traveling southeastward from Lusigny to spend a month visiting an aged, ailing brother in Clermont, and she had a plan, set in place months before, that would permit the two of us to meet. And so I arranged for an escort to conduct her on a prearranged visit to a distant cousin of hers, a recently bereaved widow who lives close by here, on the outskirts of our lands.”
He glanced again at his father, whose face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “It was complex in some ways, yet in others exceedingly simple, for no one knew her here, and her cousin knew nothing of me, or of the relationship between us.” Again he gave the tiniest of shrugs, almost imperceptible. “It was straightforward and it worked well. The widowed cousin made her farewells to Eloise on the morning of the day she was killed, believing her safely on her way home to Lusigny, escorted by her husband’s men-at-arms. But the men were in my pay, hired through a friend in Poitiers, and they brought her to the spot where she and I were to meet for the last time, for we had decided that to continue this charade was purest folly, tolerable to neither one of us. They settled her comfortably there to wait for me, and then they departed as ordered, to await my later summons…I can only presume that when they heard no more from me, they eventually returned to Poitiers. They had been well paid, and in advance, and they knew our meeting was a tryst, so they would have—must have—assumed the lady had decided to remain here with me.”
He paused, frowning in recollection. “Be that as it may, the priests found her before I arrived, and you know the rest, my liege, save for this: when Eloise failed to return home to Lusigny, no one could have begun to imagine where to look for her, because she had told her own household attendants that she was traveling north and west, towards Angers, to visit yet another cousin, whose husband had sent an escort to accompany her. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that no one has come seeking her here.”
“Hmm…” Richard crossed the floor and stood behind his chair, grasping the knobs on its high back. “Explain, if you will, why you did not tell your father you knew this woman? It would have saved everyone a great amount of grief and frustration.”