and, while he remembered every note aloud, and pointed out to me the moments of particular musical genius, I fell into a delightful and dreamless slumber.
We settled comfortably into life at the castle over the next few weeks. As spring turned to early summer, I practised my sword and dagger work with Sir Richard in the castle courtyard each day at dawn and became, if not Christendom’s most accomplished warrior, then at least proficient in the use of those arms. On one memorable occasion I did even manage to tumble Sir Richard into the dirt by back-heeling his legs as we were chest to chest, swords and daggers locked. To my joy, and I pray God will forgive me for the sin of Pride, Robert of Thurnham was watching when I performed this feat. He congratulated me and said that if I ever needed employment as a man-at-arms he would welcome me into his service.
I liked Sir Robert, though I was a little wary of him; although he came from Kent, our conversations seemed to turn a little too often to Robin’s force in Nottinghamshire: how many men did he have? What proportion of them were cavalry? How many archers? And so on. I turned aside his enquiries as best I could by claiming ignorance, and to his credit, after a while, he seemed to realise how uncomfortable his questions made me feel. One day he said to me: ‘Alan, I do not wish you to betray any confidences; but, believe me, I do not hold any ill will towards your master. As you may know, I have now taken the Cross and a good company of archers, such as those commanded by Robert Odo, could be indispensable in the Holy Land against the fierce mounted bowmen of Saladin. But, I beg you, you must tell me to mind my business, if it makes you uneasy to talk of such matters.’
Bernard was as happy as I have ever seen him. He attended the Queen almost daily, performing in the sweet-smelling garden at the back of the castle for her ladies, including Marie-Anne. They made music there and played childish games, such as hoodman blind with the ladies, blindfolded, running around and trying to catch young gentlemen by the sound of their voices. Bernard soon embarked upon several love affairs with the Queen’s attendants and quite often I would awake in the night to find him gone from our shared bed. The next day he would be tired but smug. I attended these garden jollities several times, at Bernard’s invitation, sometimes accompanying him and playing my gilded ivory flute to feminine acclaim. But I found the company of perfumed ladies, day after day, a little stifling and often escaped to talk about manly military affairs with the Gascon guard, who were also teaching me to speak langue d’oc. In later years, when I performed my own music in that lovely, rippling southern tongue, I acquired a reputation for using ripe, earthy language in my love songs, inadvertently using words for dalliance and lust that I had picked up from the Gascons. Strangely, the crude soldiers’ phrases that I used were applauded as fresh sounding and original, in a style of music that was often ridden with flowery conventions and cliches.
Marie-Anne had set about the process of ‘taming’ Goody, as she put it, with real determination. My little friend was being taught to spin wool into thread, an endless task that seemed occupy all the time when she was not using her hands for another purpose; to embroider, to sing (though Bernard had given her a thorough grounding at Thangbrand’s); to act demurely; to walk gracefully; to serve wine in an elegant manner and a thousand other skills that a gentlewoman needed to attract a husband of knightly status. Occasionally, she rebelled, sneaking out of the castle to roam the city with a pack of grubby Winchester boys, causing mischief, even fighting other urchins, and returning with a torn gown and dirty, bruised face to the scolding of her keepers. I saw little of her at that time, but I sensed that she was happy; and so, I realised one day, was I.
There was just one dark cloud on the horizon: my promise to gather information and report back to Robin. The problem was that I did not, particularly, have anything to report. The first time I went to the Saracen’s Head, which was not far from the castle on St Peter Street, it was a cold and rainy night. I met Thomas there and after the ritual question and response of the woodland folk and the town people, he told me to tell him what I had learnt in the past few weeks since we had arrived. So I told him about Bernard’s triumph, and Goody’s adventures, and I offered him all the best and latest gossip of the court: how so-and-so was sleeping with so-and-so; that this courtier was in favour with the Queen and that courtier was in disgrace.
Thomas was a truly ugly man. Apart from having only one eye, the other being just a mass of pink and red scar tissue, he had a great round head adorned with several huge smooth bumps the size of acorns on his forehead and crown, a flat, brutish nose and a sparse mangy-looking head of curly black hair. He resembled a troll or some other outlandish monster bent on the destruction of mankind. In fact, he was a decent man, if a little sardonic — and devoted to Robin. When I had finished giving him a particularly juicy story about two of Eleanor’s young male clerks who had been caught naked in each other’s arms and had been banished back to France in ignominy, he cocked his big, misshapen head on one side, staring at me out of his one dark eye and said: ‘All very interesting, no doubt. But the pot-boy here could tell me tales of the filthy frolics of young clerks. What else have you got for me? What news of the King? Or of Duke Richard?’ My face fell. I knew that they were both in France and at daggers drawn, but no more beyond that. Thomas realised that he had hurt my feelings and quickly added: ‘But you are new at this game; never fear, we will make you a spy as great as Joshua in no time.’ And he clapped me on the back and ordered another pot of ale for me.
When I had recovered from my embarrassment, he leaned forward and said: ‘What you need to do, Joshua, is to get close to Fulcold, the chamberlain. You have met him? Good. Now you need to gain his trust. And, eventually, through him to get a look at the Queen’s private letters. Hugh tells me you can read and write, that you are
He took a small sip of ale. ‘Don’t push things,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask too many questions. Be helpful, be hard- working. Never complain if he asks you to undertake a difficult or dull task. And watch for your chance.’ He was getting to his feet, preparing to leave.
‘Robin wants to know what Eleanor is saying to Richard in her letters to him, and how he is answering. But don’t do anything too dangerous, young Joshua, don’t risk getting caught. Robin says you are very valuable to him and that he is quite fond of you. I’m under strict instructions not to let anything happen to you.’ He gave me a smile and lightly punched my shoulder. Then he went on: ‘I’ll meet you here at the same time, on the same day of next month, and you can tell me how you’ve been getting on. If you need to see me before then, leave a message for me here. And give your name as Greenwood. Understood?’ I nodded, we clasped forearms, and he disappeared quickly out of the ale house and into the black, wet night.
Chapter Fourteen
I presented myself to Fulcold the next day, flattered him and gave him a present of a little yellow songbird in a small wicker cage that I bought in the town. Master Fulcold liked it well enough, and he told me that I might assist his team of clerks who kept the rolls of the Queen’s accounts and learn how a great household was managed.
He was a strange little man, immensely fat, shy and sentimental. He adored music and loved the idea that the jongleur of such a noted
As well as recording the Queen’s accounts on great rolls of parchment, the clerks of the royal household were mainly concerned with Eleanor’s correspondence — and she wrote and received letters constantly. Every morning, the Queen would rise at dawn, wash, break her fast and attend the service of Prime at the Cathedral. After that she would attend to her correspondence. She wrote to everybody, from her beloved son Richard, the Duke of Aquitaine, and Philip Augustus, the King of France, to humble knights in Poitou or Germany. And they wrote to her. But these exchanges had to be discreet as she was in theory a prisoner and the King had given orders that she was to be kept incommunicado. But the King was unwell; likely to die, many said, and if he did, Richard would inherit the throne of England.
So, every morning, the Queen would stride about her chamber dictating letters to Fulcold, who would scribble notes on parchment, which would be taken away to be turned into a fair copy by his clerks. However, as a novice, I was not permitted to do this work, not because Fulcold did not trust me, but because the parchment or vellum — the finely stretched skin of a calf or young sheep that we wrote on — was very valuable and I might
