Out of the Dawn Light (24 page)

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Authors: Alys Clare

BOOK: Out of the Dawn Light
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I nodded. It was very restrained of him, I thought, when he must be dying to ask if I’d agree to his suggestion. It was the one tiny chance we had of saving Sibert; of course I would agree.
When I told him so, for the first time I saw him really smile.
SIXTEEN
 
B
audouin discovered very quickly that living in the pampered style of Gilbert de Caudebec and his household was not to his taste at all. The focus of everyone’s eyes, from Gilbert down to the lowliest scullion, was the baby, and Baudouin had little or no time for babies. It was, he decided, trying to force a smile as he endured yet again Gilbert’s exhortation to watch and admire what seemed to him an unexceptional infant, far too feminine a household for a man such as himself to find comfortable. The young wife, secure in her role as mother of the son and heir, seemed to have spread her frills and fancies around the whole place. She was a comely woman, plump still with milk fat and with generous breasts whose white skin pressed up above her tightly laced gown, but any attraction she might have held for Baudouin was eradicated by her conversation, which always reverted to the same topic. Baudouin thought to himself that he was not used to women, although—
No. Now was not the time to think about that.
He wanted desperately to be gone but he had to stay. Gilbert was still resolved not to release the crown until he had made what he termed vaguely as further investigations. Neither would he permit the execution of Sibert of Aelf Fen; the course of action he was proposing over that matter was causing Baudouin growing anxiety.
In an attempt to take his mind off his worries, abruptly Baudouin strode out of the hall, leaving Gilbert and his wife lingering over their breakfast and staring up at him with their mouths gaping. He called curtly for his horse to be saddled – he did not agree with Gilbert that servants ought to be spoken to courteously; they were only servants, God damn them – and went out for a long ride.
He had managed to keep abreast of what was happening in the south. There were many rebel lords in the area – even his neighbour at Dunwich had risen up against the king, lost his manor and, like Baudouin, was waiting nervously to hear his fate – and for sheer self-preservation they did their best to pass on to one another what scraps and rat-tails of news they heard.
The rebellion had been a disaster. The man for whom they had risked everything had not even come to fight with them; Duke Robert had not set so much as a foot on English shores. Yes, he sent troops, but almost to a man they had either been drowned or captured. The rumour that he would arrive triumphantly in England in early July never amounted to any more than that. His spies had managed to get word to him of what was happening in Rochester and, wisely, Duke Robert opted to remain safely in Normandy.
Would it have made a difference if he had been with us? Baudouin wondered as, blind to the beauties of the summer day all around him, he cantered across the lush grass. The Norman lords of England had risen to support him, truly believing England would be more secure if she were united with Normandy under Duke Robert’s rule. Perhaps, he reflected, the essence of why they had failed lay in that very fact: that Duke Robert had let other men fight his cause for him and only planned to turn up in time to lead the victory march.
They had backed the wrong man.
When Rochester fell, it was said that Odo had sent word to the king suing for peace. Amazingly, it seemed he had proposed that the rebels’ forfeited lands should be restored to them, in exchange for which they would promise to serve the king faithfully ever afterwards as their rightful lord. Baudouin could scarcely believe it. Was Odo so secure in his pride that he believed it was going to be as simple as that? He had done the rebels no favours by his high-handed assumption of easy forgiveness. Rumour had it that the king, inclined at first to be lenient, was so incensed by Odo’s arrogance that he declared the Rochester rebels must be hanged.
Hanged! The terrible word brought images into Baudouin’s head that he would far rather not have seen. Hanged. He saw the noose tightening, the face swelling, the eyes and tongue protruding and the dreadful, shaming loosening of bladder and bowels. Dear God in heaven, it was no fate for a lord, to be strung up like a common criminal for the entertainment of the peasants.
So far, it had not come to that. Aghast at the king’s words, powerful friends and relatives had spoken up, bravely facing the king in his fury – it was already well known that a fierce red-hot temper went with the ruddy face and gingery hair – and pleading for the rebels. They had learned a bitter lesson, their friends said. They now freely admitted that King William was the equal of his magnificent forebear and that England was as safe in his hands as it was in those of his illustrious father the Conqueror.
William considered. He kept them waiting, and perhaps he enjoyed making them suffer. Then he declared that he would not enforce the ultimate penalty. The old lords, he announced, would be spared punishment out of the respect they had earned through their long and loyal service to his father. Baudouin allowed himself a wry smile; no doubt, he reflected, the king had reasoned in the privacy of his own thoughts that these old lords would soon be dead anyway and no more threat to him, and it was good for a new king to be able to show leniency that was not likely to cost him anything.
The retribution meted out on others was, however, severe. Odo and the two leaders at Rochester were sent into exile, the king took possession of their estates and their lands, and everything they owned that was not on their persons was removed into the king’s keeping.
The rush to make peace with the king began as soon as this news began to spread. All over the country, the rebels changed in the blink of an eye from the king’s enemies to his staunchest supporters. It was already being whispered that those with the means to do so were trying to buy their way back into royal favour. The king, they said, was not proving unreasonable . . .
‘I must have my crown!’ Baudouin cried aloud. There was nobody to hear. Of all objects to appeal to a king who, not yet a year into his reign, had already had to deal with a rebellion and a possible invasion led by his own brother, the crown must surely top the list. I will tell him all that I know of it, Baudouin thought. I will tell him of its extraordinary powers. The king was reputed to be half-pagan; he had no time for monks and clerics and some went as far as to say that he worshipped the old ways. He was the very man to understand what possession of a power object such as the crown would mean.
Gilbert de Caudebec must swiftly be persuaded to release it, Baudouin vowed, because time is crucial. I must be one of the first to petition the king for forgiveness, for I cannot rest until I know Drakelow is mine once more.
Baudouin was caught in a trap, and circling round and round in it was all but driving him to distraction. Gilbert’s reasoning for not returning the crown to him straight away was that the place where it had been found – Drakelow – was not actually Baudouin’s property at present, but it could not be until Baudouin had won it back: by presenting the king with the crown.
Gilbert had at long last been made to see the irony of this – Baudouin had all but exploded with the effort of keeping his temper – but he was still dithering over whether he would be right to return the crown to the man who claimed so forcefully to be its rightful owner.
Do it!
Baudouin thought fiercely.
Just do it!
There was another, more serious problem for Baudouin to deal with. When he related to Gilbert and the assembled company of important lords’ men the harrowing account of Romain’s brutal murder, he had expected to be believed. He was Baudouin de la Flèche, lord of Drakelow; he was one of their own kind and his word should be sufficient. Now Gilbert was dithering over that, too, asking Baudouin if he could possibly bring the witness before him so that he could hear for himself what this person had to say.
The problem was serious, yes. Not insurmountable, at a cost, but still serious. In addition, there was that wretched girl, saying now that she’d been with Sibert all along and he had committed no murder. Fortunately she appeared to have a reputation as a liar. She had already convinced everyone that she had been nowhere near Drakelow and her tale had been backed up by some village healer who he understood to be the girl’s aunt. Gilbert, sensibly and reasonably, had dismissed the child out of hand. Despite this, Baudouin had a nasty suspicion that she hadn’t given up. There had been something about her; young, skinny and powerless as she was, she had stared him in the eye – something that few dared to do – and he was wary of her, sufficiently so that he had taken the trouble to work out a course of action if she persisted. He smiled grimly. Let her try. He would rather enjoy it if he were forced to do what he had planned. If he was to be denied the spectacle of a hanging – a state of affairs that he persuaded himself was purely temporary – then what he had in mind for the girl would provide some much-needed entertainment . . .
Reminded, he brought his thoughts back to the most pressing issue. Sibert must be dispatched; there was no other way. Whatever it took, the crown must not return to the boy or his family. They too had a claim on Drakelow; an older and stronger one than Baudouin’s, although he would never have admitted that to a living soul. The king was in a strange, unpredictable mood, they said. Because his sympathies were rumoured to lie as much with the old religion as with the priests and the Church, it was just possible that an appeal by the original owners of Drakelow just might tickle his fancy and meet with success.
Then Drakelow, the new house and castle, the land, the outbuildings, would all be lost to him.
That was unimaginable.
It must not happen.
With Sibert dead, it was not going to happen.
Sibert will die, Baudouin told himself. The crown will be returned to me, and with it I shall buy back my manor.
The crown . . .
Apart from its crucial use as a bargaining tool, Baudouin found increasingly that he longed to possess it for its own sake. He had seen it only briefly, held it for an even shorter time when he drew it out of the youth’s leather bag and held it up. Nevertheless, it had already taken hold of him and sometimes he woke from uneasy dreams in which it encircled his brow so tightly that his head ached and, when he put up his hands to ease it off, it would not move. And, despite his efforts not to dwell on it, he could not help remembering that terrifying moment when it had seemed to strike him dumb . . .
The crown.
The crucial aim of making Romain believe that he alone knew about the wonderful treasure hidden at Drakelow had been achieved very well. Romain, indeed, deserved credit for perseverance, for he had encountered that mysterious man, Roger, and, refusing to give up, had finally heard from his own lips the strange tale he had to tell. Romain had been an innocent, Baudouin reflected, and did not seem to have suspected for an instant that his uncle had his own private ways and means of keeping abreast of virtually everything that happened at Drakelow. Much of what happened was at his personal instigation.
Baudouin now suspected – as he was almost sure Romain had not – that Roger deeply regretted having sold his ancient secret to a Norman newcomer. Well, that was too bad. If –
when
– Baudouin regained the crown, then nobody was going to wrest it from him and prevent him using it for his vital purpose. Especially not a turncoat who, in his attempts to ingratiate himself with his new Norman overlords, had even changed his name.
Baudouin let out the breath he had been holding and felt the tension seep out of him. It will be all right, he told himself. Then, calmer, he turned his horse and trotted back along the track towards Lakehall.
 
I set off with Hrype that night. They’d undoubtedly have stopped me if I’d waited to ask permission and I could think of no excuse to offer to my sister to release me again from her service so, given the great urgency of doing something to help Sibert, overall it seemed simpler just to go. I hoped to be back before anyone became too anxious about me.
I was not worried about my safety at all. I felt secure with Hrype. It’s always a sound plan, if you’re going into possible danger, to have a sorcerer with you. There was danger; I hadn’t forgotten how I’d heard someone in the undergrowth the previous day, when I’d been on my way back to Goda’s after my visit to Lord Gilbert. I told Hrype about this and he said nothing, merely nodding briefly.
I had imagined we were going to have to walk all the way back to that clearing where the fat woman had sat by her well. I was very surprised when, a short distance along the track, Hrype dodged in beneath the trees and returned leading two horses. Well, a horse and a pony, actually, but nevertheless I was delighted.
‘Are they really for us to ride?’ I demanded eagerly. I had put my hand out cautiously to the pony – a bay – and he was snuffling his lips against my skin in a friendly sort of way.
‘They are.’ Hrype risked a smile.
‘But they don’t belong to you.’ I was pretty sure of that.
‘No, I have borrowed them,’ Hrype replied shortly.
‘
Borrowed
them?’ I wondered who, among Hrype’s acquaintances, could possibly have offered such largesse.

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