Slowly, things became grey and fuzzy. He became aware of his cheek pressed to the wet earth and pain in both his head and back. Above him men were shouting, calling for a churgeon to remove the arrow protruding from his back. Looking sideways he saw Robert’s anxious face close to his. “Anne was right!” he croaked.
“How are you?” demanded Robert.
“I’ve been better! My head hurts and I have a mouthful of dirt,” he replied, trying to spit out the latter. He flexed his shoulders a little. “Arrow in the back?” he asked. Robert nodded. “What the fuck was Owain doing? He was supposed to be looking after that.” Robert looked confused. “Pull the arrow out and help me sit up,” instructed Alan.
“But they’ve called for a churgeon to cut it out,” said Robert anxiously.
“Fuck that!” whispered Alan. “Even if I needed it, it would take hours for him to get here. Put one foot each side and give big strong pull. No need to worry- armoured vest, but don’t let anybody else know. They can think I’m Lazarus. Sweet Jesus, but it hurts where the arrow hit. I’ll have a bruise like a dinner-plate!”
Robert did as instructed, to the howls of protest from the assembled men, who all knew that an arrow had to be pushed through, and he then helped Alan to sit. “Right! Horses and London,” instructed Alan. Minutes later he was ahorse to the amazement of the onlookers, although still reeling mainly as a result of the blow to the head, and rode off with Robert and Owain.
Just around the first bend of the trail he reined in, turned to the side and spent several minutes vomiting before wiping his mouth with a cloth, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of a gloved hand and then riding on.
Two hours later he was lying face-down on the bed at the house at Holebourn Bridge, stripped to the waist. “You were right about the bruise,” commented Robert. “It’ll be a beauty.” They’d snuck in the back door to the house and used the servants’ stairs to reach the bedroom on the first floor, as Anne’s poetry recital was still in progress in the Hall.
Anne was pushing and prodding, much to Alan’s discomfort. He tried to reach back with his left hand, but couldn’t reach high enough. “Just in line to pierce the heart from behind. A good shot,” she commented dispassionately.
“Yes, yes woman! You were right, as always! Thank you for insisting that Owain purchase me a padded jacket with metal plates sewn inside. Now can you please stop jumping up and down on my back? You should know by now by the slight springing movement whether the ribs are broken or not. You don’t have to keep trying it out, as it’s not going to change. Get Leof to make an ointment of goose grease with ground arnica root, ivy and rosemary, and an infusion of yarrow, comfrey, chamomile and bark of white-willow. If he brings the medicine box in here I’ll instruct him on quantities and methods.”
“Spoil-sport,” muttered Anne as she rose. “Yes, two ribs broken. Do I get to torture you like you did to me?”
“Just bind them up. A rib broken at the back can’t move as much as one broken at the front.”
“No poppy juice?” asked Anne.
“Certainly not! It hurts, but I can put up with it,” he replied with bad grace. “Nothing a couple of cups of wine and the herbal infusion won’t cure! Now Owain, what the hell were you doing? This is exactly what you were supposed to prevent. You were looking the other way at the deer emerging from the forest? Right! Use your brain, man! If it happens again you’re on the road back to Wales. Assuming I’m not dead, of course!”
A few minutes later Anne slipped back down to her party downstairs, hoping that she hadn’t been missed. Roger and Owain helped Alan into a woollen tunic, before leaving him so they could partake of the mid-day meal with the servants in the kitchen. Alan remained lying face-down on the bed, deep in thought, until he heard the last of the guests leaving a little before sundown, when the abbey bells could be heard ringing for Nones. He then rose and walked rather stiffly downstairs to sit by the fire in the Hall.
“How did the poetry recital go?” he asked Anne after she returned downstairs following her changing out of the finery she had been wearing. Leftover titbits from the recital were placed on platters near their elbows and Alan was enjoying the fine dining.
“Very well. I invited Adelize de Grandmesnil and a few of her friends. Matilda, wife of Robert Count of Mortain who is also the daughter of Roger de Montgomerie; Alice Bigod; Regenbald’s wife Aethelu and his daughter Swanhild, and two other noble Englishwomen I met at Queen Edith’s soiree, Meghan and Odelyn. Both are in their twenties and both are widows of thegns from Hertfordshire and Middlesex who fell at either Stamford Bridge or Hastings. I expect they’ll shortly need all the help they can get from a woman of Adelize’s or Matilda’s standing! Half a dozen others. They were pleasant company, with nobody with anything to prove. Good food and drink.
“We had a lass playing a harp. Osmund handled the French poems. He actually has an excellent speaking voice and good sense of rhythm. I think that the ladies were delighted for a change not to have to listen to martial poems such as the Chanson de Roland, and Osmund chose an excellent set of sensitive poems that I don’t think any of the Norman ladies had heard before. Osmund arranged an elderly man named Aldin to perform the English poems. Again, well-chosen and sensitive, although as far as most of the Norman ladies were concerned Aldin could’ve been speaking in Moorish. Still, they at least pretended to be interested. All in all a most convivial and enjoyable gathering, and very beneficial,” she concluded.
Alan frowned. “I really don’t see the benefit,” he commented.
Anne chuckled, “Well, unless you’re in open revolt against the king, Hugh de Grandmesnil and Robert of Mortain will support you in the Curia and won’t attack you. Having two of the most important lords in the kingdom favourable to you can only be to your benefit. Their wives will direct a favourable policy towards you. Now I must think about what to do regarding this morning’s attempt to murder you.”
** * *
The King’s Chancellor Regenbald sat relaxed in a chair in the Hall of Alan’s London house at Holebourn Bridge, with his booted feet outstretched towards the fire. A cup of mulled ale was held in both hands. Wisps of steam rose from the wet leather as the boots dried. His wife Aethelu, a small dark-haired woman of forty who was still attractive despite her advancing years, sat on a padded double seat with Anne, who had provided her with a fur-lined cloak to wear while her own cloak was dried in the kitchen. Despite being a senior prelate, the Chancellor was like many English priests married and with children. Alan sat in a chair alongside Regenbald, with Osmund and Robert sitting further away. The aged prelate had accepted an invitation to attend for a private supper and his party had been caught in drenching rain on their way through the streets of London.
“I hope that you don’t expect that the king will be grateful for your interference in the operation of the realm,” said Regenbald, sniffing the mulled ale and taking a welcome sip. He had spoken in French in consideration of the fact that Robert was present.
Alan had been about to take a sip of his own fine Bordeaux red and paused with the goblet just below his lips. “Why not?” he asked. “Surely the king is concerned about the proper administration of his kingdom and the welfare of his subjects?”
Regenbald chuckled with seemingly genuine mirth. “You really don’t understand how kings and earls or barons think, do you? Edward the Confessor probably would have cared, but Godwin was in charge of the kingdom until the last few years and it just so happened that by then almost all the earldoms and land were in the hands of Godwin’s family by the time Edward died.