The Champion (13 page)
‘Not all the time.’ Aline raised a lecturing forefinger. ‘You have to let them win on occasion, on the small things that do not matter. And sometimes a man will set his will in a particular direction and nothing you do or say will change him. You have to acknowledge that too and live around it if you can.’
‘But what about honesty?’ Monday asked, feeling decidedly out of her depth. To lie was to be lied to in return.
Aline gave a snort of amusement. ‘Find me an honest, steadfast man who has any brains above his belt, and I will deal as honourably with him as he deals with me.’ She waggled her index finger at Monday. ‘I might as well ask you to find me a needle in a haystack.’ Then her eyes softened. ‘Well, no, that’s not entirely true,’ she murmured. ‘There is one that I know, but he only goes to prove the rule.’
There was a brisk tap on the door, and one of Aline’s other women opened it to admit Alexander, his lectern tucked beneath his arm and his pouch of writing tools suspended from his shoulder.
‘Ah,’ said Aline, ‘my scribe,’ and beckoned to him with a radiant smile. ‘Come and be seated.’
Monday noticed that Alexander had taken time to have a wash and rake a comb through his black curls. The soldier’s gambeson had been replaced by his best tunic of dark-green wool, and around his waist was the gilded belt which John Marshal had presented to him. His colour was high, the caramel eyes luminous and eager. Like a moth to a candle flame he advanced to the trestle and bowed over the smooth white hand Aline extended to him. Monday concealed her own rough ones beneath a swathe of material, and watched Aline with a mixture of resentment and admiration as she put her earlier words of wisdom into practice. Her flirting was gentle, nothing overt. Her voice took on a melting pitch as she admired the dexterity with which he mixed his ink and trimmed his quill.
Alexander cleared his throat and murmured a disclaimer, but his pleasure was obvious. Aline glanced at Monday to see if she was absorbing the lesson, then asked a question about how the vellum for the document was made. Flattered, Alexander explained, and Aline gave him her undivided attention, nodding seriously in the right places, her arms folded on the trestle and her head tilted towards his.
Monday wanted to kick Alexander, but she refrained. What good would it do? It was being proved to her that a man was easily manipulated if a woman had the skills, that a woman need not be defenceless in a hard, masculine world.
She lowered her eyes to her sewing and held her peace. But her mind was busy assimilating the new knowledge. Observing Aline and her effect upon Alexander, Monday realised that the arts she practised were not only a defence, they were also a deadly weapon.
But what about honesty?
Tonight I drink of triumph’s wine
For Rougon’s cattle are now mine,
And soon he will have cause to weep
For I will take his very keep.
Enthusiastic applause greeted the final verse of Alexander’s song describing the raid on Rougon’s cattle. War-scarred fists hammered the trestles and shouts of approbation rang around the hall. Alexander acknowledged the praise with a flourish which made them all laugh. He wondered what they would do if they knew he was being sarcastic and that the words he had truly wanted to sing were burning on the tip of his tongue.
The Ballad of Honourless Bertran
.
The lord of Lavoux presented him with an enamelled goblet in token of his delight in the composition. Alexander accepted the gift with a fixed smile and a dangerous glitter in his eyes. He sat down in his place and ran his fingers lightly over the strings of his small Celtic harp, drawing a shiver of notes. That at least was honestly bought with the coin from his scribing. A pity that he was using it to glorify the name of a man for whom he had little respect.
‘See,’ said Hervi, ‘that wasn’t so difficult.’ He took the cup to examine it and whistled softly. ‘Silver-gilt by the looks – worth something, this. You’ll soon be able to afford a sword to go with that fancy belt of yours.’
‘It’s probably stolen too.’
‘Ah, Christ, you really should have been a priest!’ Hervi said in utter disgust, and gave him a push. ‘Go on, they want you to sing again.’
Alexander fought his revulsion. He knew that even if his life depended on it, he would be unable to render them the ballad of the ignominious cattle raid. He racked his brain and came up with an old favourite by Bernard de Ventadour about the glories of warfare. The diversion worked well, the song was accepted with alacrity, but when it was over, there was a unanimous demand for him to perform the new song of praise again.
Prevaricating, Alexander looked around, caught the eye of the lady Aline, seated demurely beside her lord, and cleared his throat. ‘I thought I would sing for the ladies first,’ he said. ‘It is not often they are entertained by gentler music.’
Bertran scowled. ‘They can have all the gentle music they want in the bower,’ he said curtly. ‘This is not the occasion for sentimental drivel.’
Alexander’s complexion became dusky. Aline leaned against her husband and whispered in his ear, her hand sliding along his sleeve until her fingers touched the back of his hand. Bertran narrowed his eyes but did not pull away. As she continued to murmur, he laughed and relaxed in his chair.
‘Very well, a song for the pleasure of the ladies, if you must,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘But make haste about it.’
Aline smiled at Bertran as if she thought he was wonderful, and pressed her slim shoulder against his bulk. Then she turned her melting, feline eyes upon Alexander.
His colour still high, Alexander bowed to Aline and plucked the first bittersweet notes from the harp.
When the spray begins to spring
Where larks sing
From a height where they cast no shadow
My heart bursts into song.
Aline listened, her gaze upon him while she leaned against her husband and continued to stroke his hand. Alexander glanced away for a moment, and at one of the side trestles caught Monday’s stare fixed upon him too, her grey eyes full of speculation and almost, he thought, reproach. There had been little opportunity to talk to her in the bower earlier. Besides, Lady Aline had been commanding all of his attention, and Monday had seemed so withdrawn and quiet that he had been discouraged from making an approach.
Oh graceful lady, hearken to my plea,
My love is pure as the birdsong …
Alexander ceased in mid-note as there was a commotion at the end of the hall near the forebuilding door. Heads turned and hands instinctively groped for swords, then relaxed as the diners realised it was only a soldier who had tripped over the hem of his cloak in his haste and overturned a trestle piled with flat trenchers of stale bread. The man righted himself, twitched his cloak straight, and limped up the hall at speed towards Lord Bertran on the dais.
Alexander had lost the thread of the song, and there was no point in striking up the tune again because he could see that something more urgent was afoot.
The soldier bent his knee to his lord, wincing as he did so. His hose were torn where he had stumbled, and a bruise was swelling on his jaw.
‘My lord,’ he announced without preamble, ‘Coeur de Lion has been released from prison.’
‘What?’ Bertran’s florid complexion blanched. He raised his right hand to tug at the sparse beard on the point of his chin, always a sign of agitation.
‘He travels home even now and has sworn he will put all rebels to flight.’ The man looked up, revealing a flush of wine and exertion across his prominent cheekbones.
‘Swearing is one thing,’ Bertran said harshly, recovering himself, ‘doing is another. Besides, how do I know what you say is true? Only last week we heard that the King of France and Prince John had arranged with the German emperor that Richard was to be held captive indefinitely.’
‘I tell no lie or mere gossip, my lord,’ the man protested. ‘I was told this in the town by a messenger from the French court who had stopped to water his horse en route to Prince John. He is warning all who support King Philip to be on their guard.’
Bertran put a sneer on his face. ‘The lord Richard has been a long time absent; the landscape has changed, and Coeur de Lion is not God.’
‘Yes, my lord. I am only repeating what I heard.’
‘You should have saved your breath.’ Bertran dismissed him brusquely and reached for his cup. ‘I have no time for such foolishness.’ But to those who sat close, Bertran was noticeably shaken.
A sheepish expression on his face, the soldier melted away, deciding that next time he would say nothing.
Alexander too made an unobtrusive exit before he was called upon to sing again in order to bolster Bertran’s courage. The lord of Lavoux was quite right to say that Richard Coeur de Lion was not God. Any claim he had to be a deity came from a different quarter entirely. According to a legend, the counts of Anjou were the progeny of a sorceress named Melusine who had sprouted wings and flown out of a chapel window rather than be compelled to partake of the mass. The Devil’s Brood, so the Angevins were known, and not without good cause.
Passing the raided cattle in their pen, Alexander thought gloomily that they had all just eaten the most expensive beef dinner of their lives.
Lavoux’s armoury was a place set aside in the keep’s subterranean store room beneath the great hall. Here were kept bundles of spare arrows, spears, shields and the necessary raw materials to make such weapons. Most soldiers were expected to provide their own equipment, but items could usually be purchased from the seneschal, or the resident armourer.
Hervi had set up a drinking friendship with both men, and for a modest outlay of his wages had obtained permission to sort through the armoury for any likely pieces that might suit himself or Alexander.
Having made their way past barrels of wine and stockfish, brined meat, sacks of flour, crocks of honey and jars of tallow, the brothers arrived at the alcoves between the supporting roof pillars that housed the weapons.
Hervi knocked his fist against a barrel of pitch and drummed out a thoughtful rhythm as he surveyed the equipment. ‘Reasonable,’ he said. ‘Could do with more spears. If they get lost over the wall during a siege, you never get them back, not like arrows. The pitch is a bit on the low side too, for putting the fear of hellfire into any attackers.’
Alexander lifted and balanced a spear. The point was as sharp as a sempstress’s awl. During weapons practice, Hervi had made him attack a mail-clad straw dummy with one of these, and he had seen for himself the armour-piercing qualities of the honed point. He examined the ash haft for signs of weakness, and found none.
‘Take it,’ Hervi said. ‘It’s better than your own, and a man can never be too well equipped.’
Alexander gave him a wry smile. ‘You think me a man, then?’
Hervi sucked his teeth. ‘You will have to fight like one if Bertran keeps his gates shut against Duke Richard.’
‘Do you think he will?’
‘I suppose it depends on how much support he receives from Philip of France, and how well Richard fares once he takes to the field,’ Hervi said with a grimace. Richard’s reputation as a battle commander was unparalleled throughout Christendom.
‘Even if Bertran does yield, Hamon de Rougon will have a large axe to grind.’ Alexander’s voice emerged muffled as he poked among a pile of fallen spear shafts on the floor. ‘And he has held firm for Richard through thick and thin.’
Hervi eyed the curve of his brother’s spine. ‘We needed somewhere to spend the winter,’ he said. ‘Our coin would not have lasted until the growth of the spring grass, and once a knight begins to sell his equipment to live, he is on the downward path.’
‘And what of his direction when he sells himself to a master he cannot respect?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That the grass is green and the tourney season well underway.’
Hervi was silent. He rumpled his hand through his hair. ‘We gave our oath,’ he said at last.
‘Then perhaps we should resign it and ride out.’
Hervi pursed his lips. ‘I will have to talk to Arnaud.’
‘If you can find a time when he’s sober to do so,’ Alexander said tartly.
‘He grieves hard for his wife,’ Hervi excused. ‘I don’t know how to …’ He paused and pointed. ‘What’s that?’
Alexander tugged at a dusty object beneath the pile of shafts, and after a brief struggle drew forth a split and hardened leather scabbard, its shrivelled flesh still encasing the sword which it had been designed to hold. His palms suddenly damp, Alexander slid the weapon free. The two bone halves of the grip were slack around the tang where age had loosened the rivets. The pommel was of an old-fashioned three-lobed design, and the slightly damaged hilt had an interlaced pattern that on closer examination proved to be the coils of a serpent. There were two shallow depressions in the reptile’s head where jewelled eyes should have shone. The blade was pitted and nicked, but repairable, and although the sword was light, the balance was perfect.
