The Champion (59 page)

He reached to his sword belt, which lay on the coffer, and as he picked it up, the strap end knocked Monday’s prayer beads on to the floor with a clatter. Alexander picked them up. They were a fashion that returning crusaders had brought home from the east. He remembered that his mother had possessed a set in brown and cream agate. Monday’s were positively garish to look upon, and quite out of character – large wooden beads stained red, yellow and blue, something that a child might own. He resolved to buy her a more attractive set when they arrived at court, and put the matter from his mind. Monday took the beads from him and stowed them within the coffer, her complexion slightly pink, as though she too were embarrassed by the sight of them.

The sound of the falling beads, added to the stealthy noises that had preceded it, had woken Florian. Sleepy still, knuckling his eyes, he stumbled from his bed.

Unable to take the boy in his arms, which were clad in cold steel mesh, Alexander quickly buckled the belt and crouched to be on a level with him. ‘Florian, I have to ride out with Lord William, but I promise to be home again soon.’ He gripped his son’s small hands in his own. ‘Be a good boy for your mother; look after her.’

Florian yawned hugely. ‘Don’t want to. I want to come with you.’ A mutinous lip jutted.

‘It is too dark and cold, and you should still be abed.’

‘Shouldn’t!’ Florian stamped his foot on the beaten earth floor.

‘You want to be a knight one day, do you not?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘A knight must do as his liege lord commands. Today, although it would give me more pleasure to stay here with you and your mother, I have to ride at Lord William’s side to protect him. And although it would give you more pleasure to ride with me, your duty is here with your mother. Next week, when I return, we are all to travel back to England. You can ride by my side then.’

‘As your squire?’ The mutinous lip disappeared.

‘If you can behave in the meantime.’

Florian’s dark eyes lit up. ‘You promise?’

‘On my honour. Now, the hour advances. Bring me my sword. And then, if you are swift to get dressed, you can see me out on the road.’

With alacrity, Florian went to lift his father’s scabbarded sword from where it leaned against the wall, and with a frown of concentration on his face, brought it to him. It was almost as long as he was, the incised pommel on a level with his eyes. Alexander accepted the weapon gravely, treating the act as a ceremony, and attached the scabbard to his belt with great care, aware that Florian was watching his every move with wide, dark eyes, filled with a vision of knighthood. And why not? Alexander thought. Most men made do with reality, but to strive for the vision was no mean ambition.

The sword in place, he gently ruffled Florian’s hair and reminded him about donning his clothes, then he turned to Monday. ‘You as well, if you would see me on my way,’ he murmured, and drew her lightly against him so that the hauberk rings would not bruise her flesh through the linen chemise.

‘What’s your bribe to stop me from tears and temper?’ she teased.

He wound his fingers in her hair, drew her face up to his and whispered in her ear. Monday listened, then laughed and shook her head. ‘You promise?’ she said, echoing her son’s earlier words.

‘On my honour.’

‘I’ll hold you to it.’ She set her arms around his neck, and for a moment the world went away. But it was no more than a moment. The taste of the kiss was still warm on her lips as he opened the door and stepped out into the dank February morning.

William Marshal and his troop rode out on the heels of the dawn, by which time Monday and Florian, warmly dressed, were there among the other members of the household to wave them on their way. Alexander smiled and blew her an echo of that earlier kiss. Monday returned it, watched until the last horse had disappeared under the portcullis, then, with a sigh, turned to her duties.

Florian went off to play at knights with several of the Marshal children. Lord William’s marriage had been a prolific one, and in twelve years, Isabelle had produced eight children, four girls and four boys. And there was about to be a ninth addition.

Later that morning, the Countess summoned Monday to her chamber. ‘I would like you to make me a gown,’ she requested. ‘One that will be flattering enough for the court, but comfortable should I start to swell.’ She pressed her hand over the slight mound of her belly. Even when she was not pregnant the toll of carrying and bearing had left those muscles slack. Otherwise, the Countess Isabelle was tall and slender, with a sheaf of blonde hair and clear sea-green eyes. She was also less than two and thirty and had grown from girl to woman in a permanent state of pregnancy.

‘Not that I am quite sure yet; I have only missed one flux,’ she added, ‘but it is as well to be prepared.’

‘Indeed, madam,’ Monday replied, and thought about the string of beads in her coffer. Perhaps she should explain their efficacy to the Countess. Perhaps she ought to explain the beads to Alexander too, she thought wryly, before it became a secret by dint of not being divulged sooner.

Together, the two women began sorting through a coffer of fabric for something splendid enough for court, and plenteous enough to cover the bulge of pregnancy. The current fashion was for fitted dresses that clung tightly to the body, the trimness of the waist emphasised by girdles of double-looped braid. Obviously such an outfit was quite out of the question for a breeding woman. Even with the cleverest of stitching, a swelling belly was difficult to conceal, especially on someone who had borne eight children already. The cut had to be loose, and therefore the looseness had to be made into a feature.

It soon became obvious that there was not enough fabric in a single length to make such a gown, and no time before they left to purchase any new bolts of material. Isabelle shook her head with disappointment. ‘The old green samite and a prayer that I do not grow too swiftly will have to do,’ she sighed.

But Monday was not to be so easily defeated. An idea was beginning to form in her mind, and she set out a length of paleblue linen, and another of darker-blue Flemish wool. Then she borrowed a wax tablet and stylus from Isabelle’s chaplain and sketched what she had in mind. ‘The blue linen for an under-gown with tight sleeves, and the fabric left from cutting the sleeves made into side panels to give you space to walk. It will be loose over the stomach. Then a sleeveless dress from the blue wool, rather like a man’s surcoat, but worn without a belt, deeper sleeve holes, and heavily embroidered.’

Countess Isabelle was utterly enchanted by the idea. ‘Aren’t you clever!’ she praised, and her green eyes gleamed. ‘I’m glad that your husband is in William’s employ. It means that I can now boast the services of the best sempstress in the land!’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘I think I will make it a condition of your husband’s tenancy – that his wife should provide me with two new gowns each year. One at midsummer, one at Christmas.’

Monday paused in the act of folding the blue wool. ‘His tenancy?’ she repeated slowly, and looked over her shoulder at Isabelle.

The Countess gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘William has decided to settle a fief on him before midsummer. I do not suppose I should have told you, but I have never been very good at keeping news to myself. And before you ask, I do not know where. William has not decided as yet.’

Monday began to stumble out words of gratitude, but the Countess waved them away. ‘My husband only repays loyalty that has been earned by hard work and diligence,’ she said.

In a daze, Monday gathered up the fabric and rose to her feet. When she and Alexander had spoken about the likelihood of being given a place to settle, she had never dreamed that it would come so soon. The near future had meant the next couple of years, not months.

The chamber door burst open and a tangle of children jostled into the room, chief among them Isabelle’s eldest son, Will, a leather ball tucked under his arm. At eleven years old, tall for his age, with his father’s sturdy bone structure and a genial, confident mien, he was preparing to depart boyhood for adolescence. Standing near him with two of the younger boys, Florian looked as dark and fey as an elfin child.

‘Madam my mother, we have visitors,’ Will said, his formal tone sitting quite at odds with the exuberance of his entry and the mud smearing the knees of his chausses and bedaubing his tunic.

‘We seed ’em from the meadow,’ announced Walter Marshal, closest in age to Florian, his mop of fair curls making him look larger than he actually was. ‘Lots of them with banners.’ He jumped up and down, encouraging Florian to do the same. ‘On big horses.’

The Countess stared at the children. Monday could see that she was torn between wanting more information and delivering them a sound scolding about their manners. ‘Visitors,’ she repeated, pursing her lips. ‘Does anyone know who?’

‘I tried to enquire,’ said Will in an aggrieved tone, ‘but they thought we were peasant children. One of the knights drew his sword at us. So we came to tell you.’

‘I know the knight with the sword,’ Florian announced.

‘Do not!’ Walter gave him a shove.

‘I do. I saw him in … in London.’ Florian returned the shove with enough determination to knock Walter down.

‘Enough!’ the Countess commanded, her pale complexion suddenly flushed. ‘It is small wonder they thought you peasants. William, go and change your clothes. Berenice, Olwen, take charge of the younger ones.’ She snapped her fingers at two of her women.

‘But I did see him in London!’ Florian protested, his voice piping high with the determination to be heard. ‘My papa knocked him down with a bathtub!’

Isabelle stared at him. ‘With a bathtub?’ she repeated, her own voice rising. Her gaze flickered to Monday for an explanation, and then filled with consternation. ‘What’s wrong?’

Monday groped behind her, found the solid comfort of the coffer, and sat down on it, for her legs were suddenly weak with shock. Over the past two months, dwelling in the distant safety of Pembroke keep, she had given small thought to Eudo le Boucher. Surely he could not have traced her here … unless he had traced Alexander.

‘If Florian is right,’ she said in a voice as pale as her face, ‘the man is not a knight, but a mercenary such as Richard’s Mercadier, or the King’s Lupescar. I knew him a long time ago … in a different life. I don’t want to see him again.’

The Countess frowned, and Monday could see that her curiosity was thoroughly whetted.

She swallowed. ‘His name is Eudo le Boucher, and he was responsible for my father’s death and my brother-in-law’s maiming on the tourney field.’ And quite probably he had not finished being responsible for other things.

‘Then small wonder you do not want to see him,’ said Isabelle. ‘You had best stay here whilst I go down and discover precisely who has come to claim my hospitality.’

‘Le Boucher was last in the employ of William de Braose.’

‘De Braose? Oh, Jesu, I hope not!’

Monday was not surprised that Isabelle looked horrified. He was one of the most important barons along the Welsh march, but something of a swaggering bully, not renowned for his manners. De Braose and Marshal rubbed along reasonably well together; they had interests in common, but Isabelle found him a demanding boor, and would far rather her husband be the one to deal with him.

‘If le Boucher seeks me, will you tell him that I am not here?’

Isabelle pursed her lips. ‘You want me to lie for you?’

Monday shivered. ‘He killed my father,’ she repeated.

Isabelle considered for a moment. ‘I will do my best,’ she said dubiously. ‘When I return, you can tell me about the bathtub!’ Her expression troubled, she summoned a maid to attend her, and swept out of the room.

Monday closed her eyes. Her armpits were icy and she knew as she took the fabric for the Countess’s new gown to the sewing trestle that she dared do no cutting out, for she was trembling like a leaf.

‘It was him, Mama,’ Florian said, as the Marshal children were ushered away by the two nurses to be spruced up for what might be an important visitor.

‘Yes, sweetheart, I believe you.’ Monday bit her lip. To keep herself busy she set about finding some thread to match the fabric.

‘Does he really kill people?’

The need for reassurance in Florian’s voice, the edge of fear in a child usually brimming with confidence, made Monday check her flyaway emotions. ‘Not children,’ she said, folding him in her arms for reassurance. ‘He won’t harm anyone here, I promise you.’

‘I wish my papa was here.’

Monday thought it rather a blessing that he wasn’t. ‘He’ll be back soon,’ she soothed. ‘Now, do you want to help me look for some thread in this colour?’

She settled Florian beside her and told him a story about a coat of many colours. They found the thread, and Florian discovered some glass beads in his mother’s workbox and lined them up, creating different patterns. Finally, bored with that, his aplomb restored, he wandered across the chamber to join the Marshal children in a game of hoodman blind.

Monday too had been calmed by the interlude, and although she was still perturbed, she felt sound enough to apply herself to the laying out and cutting of the blue linen. She had just picked up her shears and was giving the fabric a final smooth when Isabelle returned, accompanied by a man in late middle-age, with thick white hair, a bulbous nose and weathered complexion. Monday had seen him once before, when she had stood one of many at the coronation parade, and watched him almost ride down a woman and child.

The other women in the chamber were staring too. Men not of the household were very seldom permitted into Isabelle’s private bower.

Monday’s scalp crawled. She pressed her hand against the blunt outer edge of the shears, concentrating on the bite of the iron against her flesh.

Isabelle came forward, preparing to play the gracious, if somewhat caught-by-surprise, hostess. ‘Monday, I know you wished to be left in peace, but you have an important visitor. This is Thomas FitzParnell, lord of Stafford. Lord Thomas, this is Monday de Montroi, with whom you requested to speak.’