The Winter Mantle (6 page)

Judith trotted the grey around the stableyard and, returning to the men, drew rein. Simon had caught the bridle and Judith was preparing to dismount when there was a sudden frenzy of yowls and two tomcats shot from the stables in a clawing ball of fur.

The coper and his attendant grabbed for the leading reins as the horses started at the commotion. The grey whinnied and reared, jerking the bridle out of Simon's hand. Its powerful shoulder sent the lad sprawling, and as he struck the ground the sharp forehooves came down across his leg. Simon's shriek rose above the noise of the fighting cats. White-faced, Judith strove to control the horse as it reared and plunged around the compound like a demon.

Waltheof was the first to recover from the shock of the moment. Bending, he scooped Simon off the ground and thrust him into De Gael's arms, then ran to intercept the plunging grey. Spreading his arms, he leaped in front of the horse. The shod hooves flashed, threatening death. Waltheof made a grab for the bridle and hung on, wrapping his fist around the leather, bringing the beast's head down and throwing his full weight against its forequarters so that it was unable to rear again.

'My lady, jump!' he roared.

Judith kicked her feet free of the stirrups, set her hands on the grey's sawing withers and half swung, half fell out of the saddle. Ashen with shock, she stumbled across the yard to safety then turned to stare at Waltheof in sick fear.

Slowly, with the same skill and pressure that had won him every arm-wrestling contest in which he had ever competed, Waltheof brought the grey beneath his command. Unable to raise its head, held in the vice of the man's grip, the fighting turned to the trembling, wild-eyed sweat of surrender and the grooms raced out to secure the horse with stout halter ropes.

Waltheof released his grip. The bridle had scored red weals across his palms and his sleeve was smeared with foam from the grey's muzzle. Wiping his hands on his tunic he hastened across the yard. 'My lady, you are unharmed?'

She swallowed and nodded. 'I am all right,' she whispered. 'Thank you…'

'You acted swiftly, my lord,' William said with a curt nod. 'My family is in your debt.'

Waltheof cleared his throat. 'It is a debt I do not acknowledge, sire,' he muttered, feeling awkward now that the heat of the moment was cooling. 'I acted without thought of gratitude or reward.'

'You might not acknowledge it, but I do,' William gave a wintry smile. 'My niece means a great deal to me.'

To me as well, Waltheof wanted to say, but dared not. Head lowered, he strode to the stall where Ralf de Gael had laid young Simon. The boy's complexion was as pale and shiny as new cheese and his fists were clenched against the surge of pain.

'Broken leg,' De Gael said, looking somewhat green himself. His eyes told Waltheof a tale that he would not speak aloud in the child's presence. 'I'll bring his father.' He ducked out into the daylight.

Waltheof knew it was an excuse. De Gael could have sent one of the grooms to seek out Richard de Rules. Removing his fine cloak, the English earl crouched to drape it over the shivering boy. 'I know it hurts,' he said gently, 'but help is coming.'

William's presence shadowed the doorway. 'You saved his life too, Lord Waltheof,' he said. 'I have sent for my chirugeon. Let us hope that he can mend the leg.' Entering the stall William crouched across from Waltheof and lightly touched Simon's arm.

'Courage lad,' he said, the harshness of his voice softer now and holding a rumble of compassion. 'I know that you have a deep well of it to draw on.'

'Yes, sire,' Simon answered through a throat that was corded with the effort of resisting pain. Tears brimmed in his eyes and he blinked them fiercely away.

William nodded with brusque approval and stayed until the chirugeon arrived, with him an anxious Richard de Rules. 'Be a good soldier,' he said to Simon as the chirugeon began to cut away the boy's torn chausses in order to inspect the damaged leg.

Waltheof grimaced to himself. The lad was but nine years old, and however brave and courageous he must still be terrified and in pain. Mercifully, William rose and departed. The moment he had gone, Simon let out the breath that he had been holding on a long, pain-filled groan.

Richard de Rules leaned over his son. 'It will be all right, I promise you.' He smoothed the fair-brown hair. 'Once the bone is set, all will be well.'

'Yes, Papa.' Simon's eyes were huge with pain and so filled with trust that Waltheof could not bear it.

'Move aside from the light,' commanded the chirugeon. a grumpy young man, prematurely grey of hair. He scowled at Judith, who was standing in the doorway, her complexion little brighter than the boy's.

'Will he be all right?' she asked.

'My lady, I cannot tell until I have been able to see how much damage has been done - and for that I need the light,' the chirugeon said with laboured patience.

Gnawing her lip, Judith backed out of the stable. Waltheof rose to his feet and, murmuring an apology, went after her.

She was standing with her back against the wall, pleating her riding gown agitatedly between her fingers. 'It is my fault,' she whispered. 'If I had not been so determined to prove that I could handle that horse, it would never have happened.'

'You take too much on yourself, my lady,' Waltheof said. 'The horse bolted because it was startled, not from your mishandling. The rest is misfortune - or perhaps good luck, since both you and the boy are still alive.'

She looked at him, then down at her busy hands and shook her head. 'I should have listened to you and chosen the bay.'

'It has happened; there is no sense in lamenting over what cannot be undone.' He had wanted to comfort Simon. By the same impulse he wanted to pull her into his arms, smooth her braids and comfort her, but he knew that such familiarity was impossible — as matters stood.

'That is easy to say.' Challenge and bitterness clogged her voice.

Waltheof took a step towards her but stopped himself, knowing that he dared not come close enough to touch. 'Is not blaming yourself for everything a great arrogance when you should be accepting that it is God's will?' he asked.

A flash of anger sharpened her features. 'How dare you!'

He shrugged. 'Because I have very little to lose, and everything to gain.'

She stood her ground, and then, like the horse, the fight went out of her and she began to tremble. Uttering a gasp she gathered her skirts and ran from him. Waltheof watched her out of sight, a frown set between his copper brows. Eventually he returned to the fusty dark of the stable and sat with the injured boy and his father while the chirugeon did his best to mend the broken leg.

Damn him, damn him! Judith could not remember the last time she had wept. Her father had died and her eyes had stayed dry. Her mother had whipped her for childhood misdemeanours or lapses in behaviour and she had not cried. So why now? Why should the gentle reproach from an English hostage lord undo her? Judith sniffed and wiped her eyes with the edge of her wimple, but they only filled again with tears. She leaned against the wall, trying to compose herself, knowing that if she went within looking like this her mother would wring her dry with interrogation.

'What's wrong?' Her sister Adela had come out to look for her. 'Why are you weeping?' She gave Judith a look full of astonishment and surprise.

'I'm not weeping,' Judith snapped. 'The dust from the hay barn is in my eyes, that's all.'

'Have you chosen your horse?' Adela could not give a fig for riding. She much preferred to stay with their mother in the bower and sew. The fact that Judith was to have a new mount, however, had roused a certain amount of sibling envy. She had already begun to wheedle their mother for a new gown to compensate.

Judith shook her head and reached within herself to seal the breach in her control. 'Simon de Senlis has been kicked by one of the new horses and broken his leg,' she said, and was pleased to hear her voice emerge in its usual measured tones. 'He's being tended by Uncle William's chirugeon.'

Adela gasped with pity. 'The poor boy.' She bit her lip. 'Will the leg mend?'

'I pray so.' Remembering the suffering in the boy's expression, the twisted angle of his leg, Judith knew that, no matter what Waitheof of Huntingdon said, the blame was hers to shoulder whilst young Simon de Senlis paid the price.

Ducking under the door arch, Waitheof entered the small wall chamber where Simon lay. There was space only for a narrow bed, a stone bench cushioned with bolsters and a niche in the wall for placing a candle. A thin window slit let in a waft of cool air and an arch of powder-blue sky.

Richard de Rules sat on a stool at the bedside, watching his son's restless slumber with paternal anxiety.

'How does he fare?' Waltheof asked softly.

The Norman sighed. 'Well enough for the moment. The chirugeon set the leg as best he could… but it was a bad break.

'lie has the best of care,' Waltheof said, trying to impart reassurance. 'God willing he will mend."

De Rules' expression did not lighten. 'God willing,' he sighed and wearily rubbed his face. 'Jesu, he is but nine years old. He was to be trained to arms. What will become of him if he is crippled?'

'That won't happen, he is too tenacious,' Waltheof said stoutly. 'Even if he is lamed, he will still be capable of riding a horse, won't he? Nor will the injury affect the capacity of his mind.' He was aware of overprotesting, as if doing so would somehow make the situation more positive.

'That is what I keep telling myself.' The Norman offered his open palm to Waltheof. 'Whatever happens, I am indebted to you for saving his life. If you had not pulled him from beneath those hooves…'

'I only wish that I had been able to act more swiftly.' Waitheof clasped De Rules' hand, released it and stood up. 'I will come again when he is awake.'

'I will tell him that you were here.' De Rules gestured to the folds of fur-edged blue fabric on the bench. 'Your cloak, Lord Waltheof. Thank you for its borrowing.'

Waltheof lifted the garment and draped it carefully over his arm. 'I'm glad it was of use,' he said and went from the room, sombre and troubled. If William's chirugeon said that the break was bad, then what chance did that give the boy? Waltheof had not lived a soldier's life, but he had seen enough wounds treated at Crowland Abbey to know all the permutations.

Some broken limbs healed with nary a scar or discomfort, save to trouble their owners in damp weather and old age. On other occasions, however, the injury would swell and turn green, sending streaks of red poison through the patient's body, harbingers of an agonising death. Or the bone would heal, but in a manner twisted and deformed that left the victim crippled and in constant pain.

Suddenly very aware of his own sound limbs, Waltheof descended the stairs to the great hall. As usual it was bustling with activity. Scribes were busy at their lecterns, their business dictated by senior officers of the Duke's household. Petitioners and messengers arrived and left, or waited on the long benches edging the hall to be summoned. Two boys were stacking fresh logs by the hearth and replenishing the charcoal baskets for the braziers. A servant from the butler's retinue was decanting wine into flagons ready for the main meal later in the day, and nearby a young woman was transferring new candles from a wicker basket onto wrought-iron prickets.