The Champion (34 page)

Hervi blinked in surprise. ‘I only intended to sit a moment.’ He accepted the food, suddenly realising how hungry he was.

‘How is the leg today?’

‘Aching but bearable.’ Hervi tore a chunk off the bread and put it in his mouth. ‘I anointed the scar with betony salve as you instructed.’

Radulfus nodded approval. ‘And the dreams?’

Hervi shrugged. ‘I’ll survive them. I slept silent last night.’ As he had done for the past month. Before that he had often woken screaming from the depths of a nightmare where Radulfus had yet to saw off his leg. He had more understanding of Alexander’s night terrors now.

The monk leaned against a potting bench and produced a scroll, tied up with a length of linen cord and sealed with red wax. ‘I have news,’ he said. ‘A letter from your brother, Alexander. Brother Markus had it given to him in Rouen by one of our brethren who was on his way from England to Rome.’

Hervi’s face lit up. He grabbed the scroll out of the infirmarian’s hands and breaking the seal, unrolled it, fumbling in his haste. The writing within was Alexander’s. Although Hervi was not literate, he could still recognise his brother’s flowing script. ‘What does it say?’ He passed the vellum back to Radulfus. ‘Has he found the girl? Is he returning soon?’

Radulfus raised the scroll and narrowed his eyes, the better to focus on the elegantly formed letters.

‘
Alexander de Montroi to his dearest brother Hervi
.’ Radulfus read the salutation. ‘
I trust this letter finds you well recovered and in good health
.’

Hervi snorted at that and waggled his stump. ‘That shows where trusting gets you,’ he said, and gestured impatiently at the monk. ‘Read on, read on.’

‘
I wish that I had more news to impart than that which I send. Monday is not at Stafford with her grandfather. I visited him shortly after Christmastide, and although I spoke to Stafford himself, there was no news. Indeed, Lord Thomas was wrath that I should even speak the name of de Cerizay in his presence, and I stayed there not above a single night. I have made enquiries along every road I have travelled, but no one has seen or heard of a young woman answering Monday’s description. It may be that I am looking in the wrong places. I pray so, and that she has found a safe haven
.

‘
I visited Wooton Montroi too, but again, I remained but a single night. Walter, Adam and Humphrey were absent on forty day service to the Crown, so there was only Reginald to endure. He remains constant to his nature, and he spoke to me of his intention of placing our father’s remains with the monks at Cranwell. They have a new prior now – Alkmund
.’

‘What?’ Hervi’s eves flashed. ‘Alkmund? You are sure it says Alkmund, not Ambrose, or Albert?’

Radulfus checked the script, but he had no need, for the writing was clear and fluent. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He frowned at Hervi. ‘He is known to you?’

‘I know of him,’ Hervi said stiffly. ‘What else does Alexander say?’

Radulfus shrugged. ‘Nothing. The rest of the line has been scored out, and below it he changes the subject.
Employment evades me for the nonce, but tourneys are licensed here, and they are plentiful. I send you two marks from recent gains and hope to take

ship for Normandy in the late spring. Written on the feast of St Valentine, year of Our Lord eleven hundred and ninety six
.’ He looked curiously at Hervi, whose expression had lost its open good humour.

‘Brother Alkmund and his perversions are the reasons that my brother fled the cloister for the tourney circuit,’ Hervi said. ‘Cranwell is not like this place, where a man can drink of peace. Alkmund is a wolf who preys on young boys. And now Alex writes that he has been elevated to prior. Is there no justice in the world?’

‘If not, then there is always in the next,’ Radulfus answered, looking uncomfortable. ‘God sees all.’

‘And does nothing,’ Hervi said grimly, and when Radulfus chastised him, he took his crutch and left the hut. ‘I am not patient enough to wait for judgement day,’ he said, looking out over the garden. The letter had unsettled him, taking away the joyful simplicity of the morning and replacing it with worldly cares. He had been hoping that Alexander would discover Monday at Stafford. That had not happened and he knew that there was small chance of finding her now. Arnaud had entrusted him with Monday’s welfare and he had failed. Alkmund was prior, Alexander was roaming the tourneys alone, and he was a one-legged cripple, soon to be turned out into the world with a begging bowl for company. For a moment, self-pity threatened, but it was only a fleeting sensation and quickly banished by anger, and grim resolve.

He glanced round at Brother Radulfus, who stood to one side, watchfully present, but keeping his distance, Alexander’s letter still in his hand. Carefully, Hervi pivoted on his crutch. ‘What was the first step you took to becoming a monk?’ he asked.

Aline pirouetted before her Saracen gazing-glass and admired herself. Sea-green silk shimmered and rustled, showing off her figure to stunning effect, and highlighting the glints of green in her eyes. It was her new court gown and she was entranced.

‘Monday, it’s gorgeous, better than I ever imagined! You can work miracles with that eye of yours and a needle!’

Monday reddened with pleasure at the compliment. ‘It suits you well, madam.’ She had worked hard on the gown, designing it to cling and flow in all the right places. It accentuated Aline’s figure without being vulgar, and the colour was exactly right.

‘I will be the envy of every baron’s wife from here to the English coast!’ Aline gloated, and swished over to her maid, Eda, to be unlaced. ‘Small wonder that good sempstresses are like gold.’ She stepped out of the dress, and in its place donned an ordinary gown of tawny wool. ‘Here,’ she said impulsively, and gave Monday her old court dress, a creation in russet-coloured silk with yellow sleeve linings. ‘I want you to have this. I know it’s of no use to you at the moment,’ she added with a glance at Monday’s obvious pregnancy, ‘but when you are slim again, you can alter it to suit yourself. We are not so different in size.’

Monday took the gift and thanked Aline with delight. A silk gown was not something likely to come her way very often. ‘I don’t think I will ever be slim again,’ she confessed, patting her swollen belly. ‘I must look like a beached fat-fish.’

‘Nothing of the sort, you look radiant!’ Aline tilted her head to one side. ‘It is because you can only see the part, not the whole.’

Monday grimaced and rearranged the folds of her gown and surcoat so that they draped more loosely about her figure. For the first five months her stomach had remained almost flat, and until the baby had begun to kick within her, she had deluded herself that the pregnancy was a figment of her imagination, that the morning queasiness, the ravenous hunger and the utter exhaustion were nothing more than symptoms of her emotional plight. Then, making up for lost time, her body had altered beyond recognition, and hiding her predicament from herself had become impossible.

‘Have you decided on a name for the babe when it emerges to greet the world?’ Aline enquired.

Monday shook her head. ‘The nearest saint’s day, I suppose,’ she said, and smoothed the russet silk beneath her fingers. Within her the child kicked softly. Rising above her misgivings and her fear, a thread of protectiveness and wonder caused her hand to stop and feel the motion. New life created from a moment of drunken lust. Her gaze strayed to Aline’s son, who was crawling across the floor in pursuit of a soft leather ball, his nurse in watchful attendance. Less than a year ago he had been curled in his mother’s womb as her own baby was curled. Now he scrabbled everywhere with frightening speed and energy, his little character bright and fierce. Such rapid change in so short a time.

Feeling the ripples of movement under her hand, she wondered how many of Alexander’s traits her child would inherit. She would often think of him, wonder where he was and what he was doing. Had he searched for her after she had run away, or had he greeted her disappearance as a welcome convenience?

‘Deep thoughts?’ Aline teased gently.

Monday shook her head. ‘Wishful thinking,’ she responded wryly. ‘Perhaps I will name my baby Jude.’

‘Jude?’ Aline looked perplexed. ‘His celebration day is not until October.’

‘No, but he is the patron saint of lost causes, is he not?’

Panting, Alexander stood on the edge of the tourney ground and removed his spurs with one hand, his other looped through Samson’s bridle. The horse was breathing as loudly as his master, for they had been fighting hard, and had only come away with the victory by sheer effort, good judgement and a liberal salting of fortune.

On the tourney field the mêlée continued to throb and churn, clods of soil flying high and loose to meet the shouts of men and the joyous clang of steel on linden-wood shields. Alexander watched, drinking in the heady sight and scent of danger and success.

This was the largest tourney he had attended in England thus far, a massive gathering at Salisbury to celebrate the arrival of spring. It was early May, and men’s blood was quick as the sap in the trees. As far as the eye could see, tents stretched in bold colours or plain canvas, depending on their owner’s wealth. There was a fairground atmosphere, for the booths and tents of hucksters and entertainers were picketed among those of the soldiers, mercenaries and knights come to try their luck in the mock fights and jousts.

The competition was brisk, with a steel edge, but for the moment Alexander was riding the crest of it, his skill, his hunger that bit sharper than any who had yet come against him. But other contestants were riding in daily, and some had a lifetime of warfare behind them, and with nothing to look forward to but a cold old age, were not just hungry but ravenous.

A snub-nosed squire ran up to Alexander and gave him a money pouch containing the ransom payment that his master owed. Alexander thanked him with a grin, but bade him wait while he checked that the agreed sum was present. If offence was given, it was unfortunate, but Alexander had learned that the word of a knight was not always as honourable as the popular ballads would have folk believe. On the field, he always tried to select opponents who could afford to pay. There was no pleasure in taking away the livelihood of a man who was fighting in order to eat. Having known that road, he had too much compassion for those who still travelled down it, for he knew how easily he might join their company again.

The payment was complete, and dismissing the squire, he led Samson across the field towards the tradesmen’s booths on the perimeter, and stopped outside the portable workshop of Jankin, the hafter.

Jankin had been following and servicing the soldiers of the tourney route for forty years, mostly in Flanders and Normandy, but more recently in England, where King Richard had made them legal in order to raise the funds he needed to make war on Philip of France. Jankin was approaching his sixtieth year, and a life outdoors, on the constant move, had left him with swollen, arthritic joints, and a crusty, cynical temper.

Alexander leaned against one of the ash poles supporting the old man’s booth and narrowed his gaze towards the field, where a six-man mêlée was being hard fought. The sun flashed off a shield boss and dazzled his eyes, but not before he had recognised the device of Jordan de Sacqueville, one of William Marshal’s retinue of knights. The Marshals’ home territory was Wiltshire, and Alexander wondered if the great lord was here watching the sport.

Jankin laid down his tools and hobbled over to Alexander with a gruff enquiry as to his business.

Alexander turned to the grizzled old man and presented him with his scabbarded sword. ‘Put a new grip on this for me, will you, Jan, by tomorrow if possible.’

Jankin examined the frayed, damaged binding and unravelled a length of it. ‘I doubt as I can do this afore Friday,’ he said curtly. ‘What do you want, buckskin or cowhide?’

‘Buckskin, and the best you have. I don’t want my grip marred by sweat.’ Alexander winced as one of the knights in the mêlée did not ward a blow properly and was sent crashing from his saddle.

‘A fool’s profession,’ Jankin snorted.

‘You make a living from it,’ Alexander said drily.

‘Aye, that I do. A fool and his money are soon enough parted.’ He held out his snarled hand, which, despite its deformity, affected his superb skills not one whit. ‘Half the payment now; half when you collect.’

Alexander laughed and shook his head, wondering how it was that despite a lifetime of heaping insults upon his clients, Jankin still remained in one piece. But then, he supposed, no one could match the old gargoyle’s skill. He fished the required coins from the ransom pouch he had just been given, and handed them over. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said firmly.

‘See what I can do.’ Jankin caught the silver as deftly as a limber youth, then nodded beyond Alexander’s right shoulder. ‘Someone to see you.’

Alexander swung round and found himself eye to jaw with the magnificent presence of William Marshal, lord of Chepstow and Usk, Pembroke and Striguil, Orbec and Longueville in Normandy. Today he was clad not as a warrior, but as a magnate, in richly dyed silk and wool, embellished with jewellery and gold braid.

‘My lord.’ Alexander bowed in deference.

‘I have been watching you.’ Marshal’s quartz-grey eyes were thoughtful but approving. ‘You have learned your lessons since Lavoux; you fight well.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Alexander smiled.

‘I also see that you fight alone, which is not so good. Did you not have companions last time we met?’ The Marshal glanced around.

The pleasure left Alexander’s expression. ‘I did, my lord, but one died in a tourney, and my brother was wounded – a broken leg when his horse fell on him.’

‘Your brother … the man my nephew John fetched out of the cells at Lavoux?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I am sorry to hear of his wound,’ the Marshal said with genuine concern. ‘I hope he makes a swift recovery.’

‘He is in the care of the monks at Pont l’Arche abbey. After this tourney, I am bound there to see how he fares.’