The Winter King (2 page)

As if those bitter words had not been sufficient, the wretched man had smiled. Then he’d added, ‘If you really wish to know how to bed your new wife and get a son in her, my lord, I suggest more exercise – rather a lot more – and a great deal less on your plate and in your cup.’

The fat man, trying to gather his shreds of dignity around him even as he laced up his hose and straightened his tunic, had ventured to ask if there were not some herbal concoction he might take, or some more exotic substance … was there not some sort of magical horn from faraway lands which, ground into a mug of wine, made a man regain his youthful vigour?

The infirmarian had given a hearty laugh. ‘Oh, my lord, if there were an easy way out of your little problem, don’t you think everyone would take it?’ Still chuckling, he had turned away to wash his hands in a basin. ‘No, take my word for it,’ he added over his shoulder, ‘restrict your diet and get yourself moving, and those rolls of fat will drop off you. Then, anything will be possible – you’ll see!’

The fat man had tried. Oh, he’d tried, all right. To no avail. He might have succeeded in tightening his belt a notch and, once or twice, he’d experienced a definite twitch in his loins, but that was all.

And there was that ripe girl,
his own wife
, his for the taking, and he could manage no more than a
twitch
…

Impatiently the fat man reached again for his goblet. Once more, he found it empty. This time, the serving boy filled it to the brim. It afforded the fat man some satisfaction to see that the lad’s wrist was dark with bruising.

He drank deeply. The kitchen women were sending in more food and, eagerly, the fat man watched as they piled his platter high. He might not be able to service his wife, he reflected, his mouth so full that he could barely chew, but, by God and all the precious saints, he could still eat and drink.
And, damnation take it, I shall
, he thought,
while I am left up here in peace
.

He stuffed a honey cake between his lips. It tasted good, so he had another.

For, soon, the eating would be over. The tables would be cleared of the debris, and then it would start. One by one, they’d come sidling up to him, smiles stuck on their greasy faces, hands clasped over their wine-splattered garments, and they’d all have some variation of the same refrain.
A sumptuous feast, my lord, and may I say what an honour it is to be here?
Then, hard on the heels of the sycophantic words, while their echo still filled the air:
Might I be forgiven, my lord, for taking this opportunity to ask one small favour?

The fat man sighed. He wished he did not have to endure it, but there was no choice. He was making money, yes – a great deal of it – but he could not do it alone. Although he hated to admit it, he needed these men. His extravagant wealth and high position had not come without making enemies, and, apart from his men’s other uses, he required their strength of arms for protection. He must at all costs keep them loyal, and if that meant listening to their ingratiating little speeches and waving a careless hand to grant their pathetic little requests, then so be it.

Soon they’d come, mounting the dais one by one, leaning over him, whispering in his ear, so close that he’d breathe in the fumes of garlic, onion, half-digested meat and sour wine issuing out of their foul mouths.

The fat man gave a sigh and reached for another honey cake.

It was nearly over. Soon he would be alone again. Almost all the petitioners had returned to their seats, and the pot boys were busy replenishing the mugs, tankards and goblets. Ale, mead
and
wine; perhaps he had been
too
generous …

Suddenly he felt a pain. Oh,
oh
, not a pain – this was
agony
; stopping his breath, shocking his whole body, his entire being, with its intensity.

His heart laboured. It beat once, twice … then the pain doubled. He could not be sure, but he thought he might have cried out.

Then something inside him seemed to burst.

He sat in his great chair, his head back, his eyes half-closed, his hands clasped across his stomach. Most of the people in his hall were at least a little drunk, including the pot boys and the serving men and women, for there were always opportunities for a quick swig when no one was looking.

Here and there along the length of the tables, one or two pairs of eyes glanced surreptitiously up at the fat man on his dais. Otherwise, his guests – all too aware of his lashing tongue, his unreasonable and swiftly roused temper, his cruelty – preferred to leave well alone. If the fat lord was content to let them go on drinking at his expense without demanding anything in return, they weren’t going to argue with him.

In time, guests began to take their leave. In ones and twos, and in family groups, they approached the dais, bowed to their lord and backed away. Nobody thought it odd that he failed to respond to them. It was his habit to ignore those who stood below him, unless there was really no alternative.

The young wife in the rose-pink silk, appreciating all of a sudden that the hall was now almost empty, gave a small, sad sigh of resignation. Wishing a polite goodnight to the two men still seated near her, she got to her feet and, moving with her usual grace, approached the dais.

‘Have I your permission to retire, my lord?’ she asked politely, risking a quick look at him from under her long eyelashes. ‘I am rather tired and have a slight headache,’ she added, more in hope than in expectation; very occasionally, if she said she had a headache, he left her alone.

He did not reply.

She took a step closer. ‘My lord husband?’

Still he neither spoke nor acknowledged her.

He must have fallen asleep. She was tempted to slip away and leave him to be woken by one of the servants, but he wouldn’t like that. He’d probably tell her she’d dishonoured him by her desertion, and by allowing someone other than her to wake him up, and then he’d find some way of making her pay. Whatever it was, she knew it would hurt or humiliate her, and probably both.

She reached up a timid hand and grasped the hem of his tunic, pulling at it. ‘My lord!’ she said, speaking more loudly.

His hands slowly unclasped. One of them, dropping by his side, touched hers. Considering how hot it was in the hall, the flesh felt rather cool. Clammy, even …

A sudden wild hope surged through her. Could it be? Oh, surely not, she had only hoped to …

Eager now, the fierce joy threatening to burst through her carefully maintained self-control, she leapt up on to the dais. Crouching beside him, she stared down into his face. The full lips and the swollen, bulbous nose still had their usual deep reddish-purple colour, but otherwise his skin was ash-grey.

She put her cheek up to his open mouth. She waited. Then she slid her hand inside his tunic, feeling for the heartbeat.

Nothing.

Nothing!

Remembering who and where she was, she held herself firm. Looking around, she caught sight of her husband’s steward. He stood at the far end of the hall, and his deep, hooded eyes were on her. She beckoned him.

When he was close enough for her to speak in the quiet, respectful tone that the circumstances demanded, she said, ‘Fetch help, please.’

His eyes asked the unspoken question.

‘I am afraid,’ she said, her voice carefully toneless, ‘that his lordship is dead.’

I
n King John’s England, suffering the results of the monarch’s petulant squabble with Pope Innocent and under an interdict these four years, several diverse elements were slowly moving together. When, inexorably, they would collide and combine, the outlook was stormy.

It was a time of frightening portents. In the royal hunting preserve of Cannock Forest, a herd of deer had been discovered with a terrible disorder of the bowels. The wildest of the rumours claimed the deer had fled halfway across the country and thrown themselves into the sea at the mouth of the River Severn. A two-headed, eight-legged animal had been born and, although nobody was entirely sure what sort of animal it was, or where this abomination had occurred, everyone accepted it as a sign of nature’s – and, far more importantly, God’s – extreme distress at the ways of the world. The moon had been observed coloured deep red, as if bathed in blood; a sure sign, if ever there was one, of strife. War, or at least some terrible disaster, it was generally agreed, must surely be coming …

In a small Kentish village a dozen miles up from the coast, an elderly woman was basking in sudden notoriety. Some said she was a witch; others that she was just plain daft. She had an uncertain grip on reality, but this was possibly no more than a clever act. She appeared to be even more agitated than most by the alarming portents that were regularly occurring and, one mild autumn evening, according to witnesses, she emitted an ear-piercing scream and fell into a deep and very public trance in the middle of the village green. In her trance state – and opinion was equally divided between her being inspired by God or the Devil – she began to proclaim frightening and dangerous predictions.

‘Darkness will prevail all the while this Winter King rules,’ she began.

‘Winter King? Who’s that, then? What’s she on about?’ her audience muttered.

As if she had heard – possibly she had – the crone obligingly elucidated. ‘The Oak King rules in the months of light,’ she wailed, ‘and the Holly King takes over at the autumn equinox, for he is made of darkness and belongs to the winter.’ She paused, her wide, pale eyes ranging round her audience. ‘He is the Winter King!’ she cried. A few flecks of spittle dotted her lower lip.

‘Does she mean King John?’ a bold soul demanded.

‘His peers will try to bring him down,’ the old woman went on, her tone high and quivery, and not, according to witnesses, her normal speaking voice, ‘demanding that he signs a great document that will call him to account, but it will be to no avail. He will suffer disaster on the water, losing all he holds most dear. He will die an untimely death, leaving his realm in grave jeopardy, beset by the enemy from across the seas.’

The crone’s eyes were wide and staring. Once or twice she put a hand up to her brow, as if her head pained her. It seemed to some that she was listening to words that nobody else could hear.

A nervous frisson went through the villagers. Men and women turned to each other, searching for reassurance. On the outer edge of the now sizeable crowd, men looked anxiously over their shoulders. It did not do to be observed listening to such dangerous talk, and Heaven help the poor sap making the comments. One man, more sensible than most, hurried off to find the most respected of the village elders.

‘His successor will be weak and untrustworthy,’ continued the crone, either unaware of or ignoring her audience’s unease, and well into her stride now. ‘He will extract vast sums from his people to pay for ultimately fruitless wars—’

‘Just like this one, then,’ put in some humorist, raising a few half-hearted guffaws.

‘—and he will reign for half a century, although it will seem longer,’ went on the old woman. ‘Only on his death will a great king emerge, one who will provide strong leadership against England’s enemies and, at long last, permit his people a stake in their own lives.’

‘What’s she talking about? Stake in our own lives? When hell freezes over!’ her fellow villagers protested, howling their derision.

A burly man – the village blacksmith – approached the old woman. His intention was unclear: perhaps he was going to demand an explanation, or perhaps, for her own good and theirs, he would attempt to stop her. Behind him, hurrying to catch up with his long strides, came the village elder, accompanied by the man who had run to fetch him. But they were too late to reason with or silence the old woman. With a dramatic cry, her eyes rolling back in her head, she fell into a swoon, and neither burnt feathers waved under her nose nor several quite hard slaps on the face could revive her.

That might have been the last anyone heard of Lilas of Hamhurst, for the village would probably have soon forgotten the event, or else saved it up as an amusing tale of the odd ways of folk, to relate on a dark evening. Unfortunately for old Lilas, however, one of those who heard her was no local man but a lord, and a member of the king’s court circle to boot. As he silently slipped away from the crowd encircling the prostrate figure on the grass, he was committing to memory every last one of her pronouncements. He had an idea that certain men of his acquaintance would be very interested to hear them.

Nobody knew who he was. He had arrived by boat in Dover that afternoon, and was putting up overnight in the village inn, having made landfall too late in the day to complete his journey before dark. Even a wealthy, well-fed, strong lord carrying both a fine sword of Toledo steel, and a wickedly sharp dagger with which he was ruthlessly efficient, hesitated to travel by night nowadays. Especially when, for reasons best known to himself, he rode alone. Especially when, as now, he had gone to considerable effort to make himself look like any other impoverished traveller, the sword and the dagger carefully concealed from the eyes of the curious.

He saw no reason to reveal to the sots and the slatternly serving women in the Hamhurst tavern where he had come from and where he was bound, and when a drunk in the taproom ventured to ask him, he said, with a ferocious scowl, ‘Mind your own business.’

Retiring early to the dirty cot assigned to him in the far corner of the sleeping quarters (he kept all his clothes on, including his boots, in the hope that he would thus deter the other living things that dwelt in the bedding) he wondered if he would have done better to go on his way after all. But it had been a long day, and he was exhausted.

His journey had begun before dawn, far away in northern France. He had been away for a long time – too long, he thought wearily – and the various tensions of the past few weeks had worn him out. He had travelled on the least-known lanes and tracks, sleeping under hedges or, at best, putting up at the sort of mean, rough, dirt-cheap tavern he was staying in that night. He had lost count of the number of days it was since he’d had access to hot water or changed his linen. He knew he stank, but comforted himself with the fact that to reek like a peasant was a good way of disguising his identity.