This was the first she had ever asked me about my manor. I glanced sidelong at her, trying to work out the reason behind her sudden interest.
I sighed and closed my eyes. ‘It’s a special place,’ I said. ‘Truth be told, I’ve never known anywhere like it. The hall stands on a mound overlooking the river; around it the fields are golden with wheat and barley; on either side of the valley sheep graze the pastures. We catch fish in the stream, trap hares in the woods. There is everything there.’
‘I would very much like to see it sometime.’
‘If you did you would never want to leave. Even in the winter when the ground is frozen, the wind is tearing at the thatch, and mud and snow make the tracks impassable.’ I smiled for what seemed like the first time in a long while. ‘At Christmas the swineherd Garwulf brought me one of his fattest boars as a gift. We slaughtered it in the yard and roasted it over the hearth in my hall. The whole village came and we feasted like kings on its meat for three whole days, until there was nothing left but bone. There was drinking and there was dancing; the hall was hung with holly branches and the fire burnt brightly through those long nights.’
‘You are happy there.’ The way she said it made it sound almost like a question.
I shrugged. ‘It is home. If you’d asked me when we first met last year whether I could ever be content somewhere like that, I’d probably have laughed. I know it’s not much, not really, but yes, I am happy. I have Leofrun, and all being well soon I will have a child too.’
In only another month, in fact. I only hoped that I would be back when her time came, though with every day that passed that seemed less and less likely.
‘Leofrun?’ Beatrice asked, frowning.
I’d forgotten that she didn’t yet know. I supposed there was no better time than now to break it to her.
‘My woman. She’s been with me for the better part of a year.’
Beatrice cast her gaze down, and I noticed her cheeks reddening. Suddenly she looked younger than her twenty-one years. ‘I didn’t know,’ she mumbled.
‘I ought to have told you sooner. I’m sorry-’
She waved a hand, cutting me off. I wasn’t sure what else to say, and neither it seemed was she, for without a further word she got to her feet and left me there alone.
Eighteen
When word eventually arrived from Fitz Osbern towards noon I was bathing in the river: rinsing several days’ worth of dirt and sweat and blood from my clothes and my skin, and with it the memory of the battle, the stain of Turold’s death.
I spotted the messenger while he was still some way off, being pointed in my direction by a group of boys who were training with wooden rods by the riverbank. He was little younger than myself, with a humourless countenance and a stiff bearing.
‘Tancred of Earnford?’ he asked as he halted and looked down from his horse.
I shielded my eyes against the sun as I looked up at him. ‘That’s my name,’ I answered. ‘What do you want?’
‘Lord Guillaume would speak with you now.’
Not before time, I thought, although I did not say it. Instead I nodded and turned my back, splashing cool water into my face.
‘Without delay,’ the messenger added, perhaps thinking that I hadn’t heard him properly. ‘He’s waiting for you in his hall at the castle.’
He was the sort of man, I decided, who enjoyed the sound of his own voice; one who was accustomed to being listened to, and who did not take kindly to being ignored.
‘I heard you,’ I replied, rubbing my armpits with a wet scrap of cloth. ‘You can tell your lord I will be there as soon as I can.’
He gave me a disapproving look, although if he thought that would hasten me he was disappointed. Shortly he rode off, probably to inform his master of my insolence.
If Fitz Osbern wanted to speak with me then he would have to be patient. He had kept me waiting this long; now he in his turn would have to wait a little longer. In any case, it wouldn’t do for me to meet with the second most powerful man in the kingdom soaked to the skin and with hair drenched like a water vole’s. Fortunately the morning was warm, the sky cloudless and the sun bright, and I soon dried. Hanging my still-wet clothes to dry over the canvas of my tent, I dressed in my spare tunic and trews, and, as always, buckled my sword-belt upon my waist.
Not much later I was riding through the castle gates. Above them flew streamers of cloth decorated in Fitz Osbern’s colours of white and crimson, signifying that he had formally taken over command of the castle from its appointed guardian Roger de Montgommeri.
I left Nihtfeax in the care of one of the castle’s stable-hands and made my way around the training yard to the far side of the bailey, where the great hall stood. Servants were rolling barrels from one of the storehouses to the kitchens; others had been less lucky in the tasks given them and were shovelling heaps of horse shit on to the back of a cart while clouds of flies swarmed about them. The steady hammering of iron upon iron rang out from the farrier’s workshop; in the yard oak cudgels clashed against limewood shields; from beyond the walls oxen bellowed and snorted as they were driven through the streets.
‘Lord Guillaume is in his solar,’ said the door-ward when I arrived at the hall and gave him my name. ‘He is not accustomed to being made to wait. He was expecting you a half-hour ago, and I should tell you that he is in a foul temper.’
I thanked the man for his kind warning as he led me to the stairs, where he left me. Along the length of the up-floor ran a hallway, at the end of which the door to the solar lay ajar. I knocked and entered.
The shutters lay open but even so the chamber was stifling. Thick rugs covered the floorboards, while richly coloured embroideries decorated the walls, displaying scenes from what I could only assume was a marriage feast. Within a long hall stood a long table replete with all manner of dishes, behind which were seated the lord, his arms outstretched as if in greeting, and beside him his bride, dressed in a blue gown. Around them servants bore bowls of soup, platters of wildfowl and gilded wine-cups, while a fool danced and a minstrel played upon a harp.
Fitz Osbern stood at the far end of the room, gazing out of the open window, his hands clasped behind him. Beside him was a round table and upon it stood an earthenware pitcher together with a goblet of green glass, elaborately decorated with a golden lattice pattern and half filled with what I presumed was wine. He showed no sign of having heard me come in.
‘My lord,’ I said. ‘You wished to see me.’
‘You’re late.’ His tone as usual was curt.
‘I came as soon as I was able,’ I replied just as flatly.
He did not turn from the window. ‘When I summon you to my presence, you do not hesitate but simply do as you are bid. Do you understand?’
I kept my mouth shut, knowing that if I opened it then all the frustration and ill feeling that had been building within me would let itself out. Fitz Osbern did not repeat himself; instead he waited for my answer. When it was clear that none was forthcoming, he turned to face me.
‘I wonder if Malet’s son has indulged you rather too much. A better lord would see that his vassals learnt the meaning of obedience. A true leader would make sure that they knew their place. But then the Malets have always struggled to win the respect of their followers. Or, for that matter, of anyone else.’
This last he muttered almost under his breath. What did he mean by it?
‘Lord-’ I began.
‘Let me warn you, Tancred a Dinant,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘You do not want to make an enemy of me. I have King Guillaume’s ear. If I so wished, I could have you stripped of your lands, expelled from the realm, or worse. So whatever you mean to say, you would be wise to think first, and choose your words with care.’