After that his battle grew confusing. He had flashes of memory: not because of pain — there was none — but because he was desperate to climb to his feet, to escape before he could be hacked to pieces. A man on the ground would be as likely to be attacked by the men of his own side as his enemy; a fellow on the ground could be preparing to thrust up with a weapon at the unprotected underside of the men battling above him, and there was little opportunity to distinguish friend from foe. Yet he couldn’t stand. He panicked, overwhelmed with terror as he recognised his danger: he was defenceless here in the mêlée. Trying to crawl away, he was stunned as a crashing blow caught his head, and he felt his skull shake as he fell forward, blood washing over his eyes. He was convinced that he was about to die, and began a prayer begging forgiveness for his sins (which he freely confessed were legion), which was cut short by his passing out.
Later, he awoke to find himself being cleaned by a squire. He was lying on a rich bed, a real bed, with soft woollen blankets and marvellous silken hangings.
He coughed, then rasped, ‘Have I died?’
‘I hope not. He’ll have my guts for his laces if you have,’ the squire said drily. ‘How’s your head?’
The squire looked ancient to Odo. He must have been in his forties — couldn’t remember his name now — and must have realised how confused Odo was, because he refused to discuss anything with him until he’d rested.
‘The best thing after a knock like the one you took is plenty of rest. Have some wine, then sleep.’
‘But where am I?’
‘You’re safe. And being well looked after.’
‘My leg,’ he remembered. He tried to get up to look at it, but the shooting pain that slashed through his skull at the movement made him want to heave. He sank back on to the sheets.
‘You’re fine. The leg’s still there, although it took a grievous cut. Don’t worry, friend. You’ve made your name today.’
Yes. Of course I have, Odo thought to himself cynically. There must have been thirty or forty men on that drawbridge, and he was sure that he’d heard the gates slam even as he sank down on to his face. ‘The castle wasn’t won?’
‘No. Now go to sleep.’
The next thing he remembered was being dressed in a new tunic, and Hugh de Courtenay and Sir John Sully being there to help him on with his sword. His leg hurt like the devil, but he was all right apart from that. If he turned too quickly, he would feel dizzy, but that would pass, he knew. He’d been thumped about the head often enough when he was a child and learning his fighting techniques, and he recognised this wound as one of those unpleasant ones that would leave him feeling tired and wanting to throw up if he wasn’t careful.
Not today, though, he had vowed. Because today he was being taken to see the master of the fourth squadron, the team he had served with. And the youth who was in charge was waiting for him.
Only seventeen he was, but you could tell he was a prince from his courtly disposition. He was polite, handsome, and a strong fighter. Even as Odo stumbled towards him, the future king drew his sword and held it aloft, while trumpets blew and the men all cheered. Odo the squire walked to Prince Edward, but Sir Odo left him.
It had been a great day, and although Odo felt much the older man, he had been impressed with Prince Edward’s calm and unassuming nature. He and his companions had been bold enough; certainly none of them seemed wary of fighting, or fearful at the clamour of battle.
Which was why Odo clung to that memory. It was good to recall the prince the way he had been.
He rode eastwards, and then north, crossing the ford under Crokers’s place. He’d heard of the attack there, but there was no sense in approaching it now, just in case Sir Geoffrey had put in a force to guard it. It could be hazardous to go unprotected to a place like that.
Instead, he left the track and took his horse up the hill to the old road, which, muddy, stone-filled, with tall hedges on either side and a thick wood on his right giving glimpses of fields between the trunks, was pleasant enough. It was this land that the Despensers wanted, from what Odo had heard. They wanted to take all the manors owned by John Sully on the east of the river, making their own holdings that much more extensive.
It was always the way: when a man of ambition grew rich, his first inclination was to increase his wealth. Odo couldn’t understand it. Hugh Despenser was fabulously rich. Odo had heard men speculate on his worth, and the general view was that he was the richest man in the country after the king himself. A terrible man, avaricious and ruthless. He would take men and torture them for sport, or to make them sign away their inheritances. Not only men, either. It seemed strange that the prince Odo had met all those years before could have grown into a man who tolerated advisers like Despenser.
There were the other rumours, of course. That the king was infatuated with his friend; that his friend had supplanted the queen in the king’s affections, that he was the king’s lover. It was possible. Odo had no opinion. He did not care particularly.
A twinge of pain in his thigh made him frown, and he massaged his old wound with his fist. It always played up during the winter. Warmer weather was needed, rather than this bleak coldness.
Sir Geoffrey, Despenser’s tool, was not difficult to deal with. Not if you knew his mind and understood what he looked for. He was no fool, and he wouldn’t risk upsetting people for no reason. No, that wasn’t his way. He’d be much more likely to wait until he had his master’s instructions, and then he’d obey them to the letter — provided it didn’t put him in any danger. And what danger could there be for a man who was in the pay of the king’s best friend? None. So if Sir Geoffrey thought he was acting on the advice of his master, he would do anything.
Odo did not need to guess at Despenser’s ambition. He and Sir Geoffrey had discussed it often enough in the past. Being neighbours, and having known each other before that for several years, they were realistic about whom they should trust. Yes, both had their loyalties to their masters, but they were in a unique position here, far from their lords. They had a duty to try to get along.
Sir Geoffrey was entirely his master’s man. He had joined Earl Despenser’s entourage many years before, when the earl was still a lowly knight. Odo for his part was devoted to Sir John Sully. Although the two stewards could have been at loggerheads, they had avoided disputes, and recently had even joined in small ventures together. Sir Geoffrey could trust Sir Odo — he was different from most neighbours, simply by virtue of the fact that he had been knighted personally by the present king on the field of battle. Sir Geoffrey knew that he must be more inclined to assist the Despensers, because they were King Edward’s most devoted friends. Helping them meant helping the king. That was what Sir Geoffrey had said to him once, and Sir Odo had not seen fit to deny it. In these troubled times it was safer for a man to keep his own counsel.
Which was why Odo was surprised that Sir Geoffrey was making difficulties about this parcel of land. They had discussed it when Geoffrey took the old manor from Ailward, but Odo thought he had persuaded Geoffrey that this piece was truly Odo’s. Ailward’s estate had been carved into two, and Odo had only taken a small part. Just enough to protect the ford. That way, hopefully, very few people would be hurt.
Still, if Geoffrey wanted to launch an attack, Odo had no objection. He would relish a little action; he was bored with idly sitting by. It had been a long time since he had known a dispute like this, and he was looking forward to it with an especial excitement. With any luck, once the land was gone and the dispute ended, Sir John would release Odo from Fishleigh, and he could go and rest in his own home.