The Winter Mantle (70 page)

'There is one boon I ask of you,' she said. 'From time to time, will you let me know how my son fares?'

Matilda inclined her head. 'Even had I hated you, I would have done my duty,' she said. 'Your son will be reared to fit whatever station he chooses, be it warrior or monk. And when the time is right, he will be told about his mother.'

'Thank you.' There was gratitude in Sabina's eyes. 'You do not hate me, then?' she said tentatively.

Matilda shrugged. 'I was prepared to,' she said. 'But I cannot. If I do not love you either, you will understand why.'

'And you do not hate Simon?'

An arid smile curved Matilda's lips. 'That remains to be seen,' she said.

Simon laid his hand along the grey's arched neck in a soothing gesture, but the stallion still jibbed and sidled, showing the whites of its eyes.

They were entering territory that had been held by the French at the beginning of Rufus' campaign, and was still hotly disputed. He knew that De Serigny had come this way. A couple of villages had already attested to the passage of his troop: horses taken and not paid for, three suckling pigs lifted from a sty, a tavern relieved of a barrel of wine.

'Gently there, gently there,' he murmured, tugging the grey's ears and wondering what was disturbing the beast. To assuage the prickling of hair at his nape, he sent two soldiers forward to scout ahead. Slipping his shield from its long strap on his back, he brought it onto his left arm and thrust his hand through the two shorter leather grips. A gesture signalled his troop to do the same. At his shoulder, Toki ostentatiously unhooked his axe from his saddle and clutched the ash haft in his large, war-scarred fist.

Simon was beginning to wonder if his intuition had played him wrong when he inhaled the taint of smoke on the wind and suddenly the road ahead turned misty. The destrier's nostrils flared in alarm and its ears went back. His scouts reappeared at the gallop and drew rein before him in a shower of clods.

'My lord, De Serigny's men have fired a village!' one of the soldiers panted, thumbing up his helm by the nasal bar. Foam churned his mount's bridle-bit, and the animal was steaming with sweat.

Cursing, Simon bellowed to his troop and spurred the grey. The horse lunged into a gallop and he gasped as the high pommel of the saddle butted his midriff. The smoke grew thicker and more acrid and now they could hear the flames roaring through the timber and thatch. The gleeful shouts of men reached them too, and the wild squealing of a pig suddenly cut short. Simon spurred around the last curve and entered what looked like the mouth of hell.

Bodies strewed the village street, felled in the act of running to judge from their sprawled positions. A man with a scythe, his head almost cut through; an old woman, her corpse woven with glistening bloody threads. A baby on a spear. Simon's gorge rose. One of the younger men in his troop, green to the atrocities of warfare, leaned over his saddle and was violently sick.

A soldier ran out of one of the burning buildings, stuffing a leather money pouch inside his gambeson. He turned on seeing Simon's troop and his eyes widened in alarm until he recognised Simon's banner. 'Come to join the entertainment, my lord?' he said with a bow that bore as much mockery as deference.

'Where's De Serigny?' Simon snapped.

'Further in.' He gave Simon a sidelong look. 'Their lord's gone over to the French.' He bared his teeth. 'They deserve what they get.'

A muscle bunched in Simon's jaw and he commanded his men to disarm the soldier of his weapons and spoils. 'Take your horse and go. Be thankful that I do not have the time to swing you from the nearest tree.'

Still snarling, but knowing that escape was better than choking on a rope, the soldier ran to his horse, vaulted into the saddle and galloped off. Grimly, Simon spurred on.

The entire village was on fire. Choking gouts of smoke rose from every dwelling. Not one had been spared. The church still stood, but the priest lay dead against the door, his skull crushed and his blood staining the stones. Haifa dozen miserable survivors huddled in the square, roped to each other. Looking at them, Simon saw that they had only been allowed to live because they were useful. Four were young and reasonably attractive women. Two were strong men and would have crafts that could be utilised. Had Robert de Bêlleme himself been present, a few more might have been taken for later sport in the dungeons where the baron stored a terrifying array of instruments of torture.

De Serigny emerged on horseback from the church, his sword red-bladed in his fist and a grin dividing his dark moustache and beard. That grin vanished as he set eyes on Simon and his larger troop. Flourishing the sword, he spurred into the street. 'What's wrong, De Senlis? Don't you trust me to make a thorough job?' he sneered. A jewelled cross bulged from his saddle pack.

'You would desecrate a church?' Simon roared and his own blade flashed, the steel edge rippling with reflected fire and smoke. His rage was incandescent. 'Your soul will rot in hell!'

De Serigny snorted with contemptuous amusement. 'Hah! Perhaps marriage to an English wife has softened your brain as well as your sword!' he spat. 'The church holds no sanctuary for traitors! My Lord De Bêlleme would not be so squeamish!'

'I well know Lord De Bêlleme's attitude,' Simon growled, 'but he is not here, and you take your orders from me.'

'I think not,' De Serigny spat in the dust. 'Villages burn, peasants die. Wolves eat sheep - especially the lame weaklings.'

Simon's fury became a white wind, made all the more devastating because he so rarely lost his temper. He spurred the grey, and at the same time swung his sword.

De Serigny was ready and parried the blow, but there was a hint of surprise, almost fear in his eyes. Simon's control was legendary. He was known to be a good general and a fine reconnaissance soldier, but few had ever seen him in active engagement. It was assumed among the men that he avoided conflict because of the weakness in his leg.

Simon turned the grey and turned him again, always pressing the attack. His blows were not heavily landed, but each one was balanced and precise. De Serigny had no room for error, and when he opened up too far Simon struck with the speed of an adder. The sword slipped beneath the protection of hauberk and gambeson sleeve and gouged flesh from wrist to elbow. A rapid twist divided the forearm bones. De Serigny's voice rose and broke on a keening scream. He tried to retreat, but Simon withdrew his blade only to press the advantage -and did not stop until De Serigny fell from his horse and lay dead in the street among the bodies of the villagers. 'Never mistake a lion for a lamb!' he said contemptuously to the corpse.

There was an uneasy silence. Simon wiped his blade along his chausses several times and gazed around, hard-eyed, at De Serigny's shocked men. 'Does anyone else want to dispute from whom they take their orders?' he demanded. His heart was thudding furiously at the base of his throat and waves of nausea were beginning to surge from the hard ball in his stomach that had been the burning core of his rage. He had control of himself again and knew that he had to hold them with his words and the force of his stare. He was in no condition to take on more of their number.

'Good,' he said curtly. 'Then it is settled. Free those people and return to Gisors. I will have words to say later. And do not think to tell a tale of innocence to Hugh Lupus. He knows well enough De Serigny's reputation.'

Scowling, sullen, but not daring to disobey, De Serigny's men did as Simon bade. With bad grace, their second in command took his knife and slashed the rope binding the captives. De Serigny's corpse was slung across his horse like a giant bolster. Simon tugged the jewelled cross from the saddlebag, dismounted and limped into the desecrated church. The damage was superficial. The aumbry cupboards had been ripped open and candles crushed on the floor. A holy vestment coffer yawned open, its hasp hacked off and its contents rifled. A statue of the Virgin Mary had been decapitated and the head flung against the wall so that it had shattered in powdered fragments. There were signs of struggle, clots of blood and hair on the holy water stoup.

Simon returned the jewelled cross to the altar and genuflected. He bowed his head in swift reverence and prayer, then eased to his feet.

Outside, hooves thundered and someone shouted. Cursing his lameness, Simon hastened towards the door.

The soldier whom Simon had dismissed earlier was back, wild-eyed. Struggling to control his cavorting horse, he reined to face Simon.

'The French!' he bellowed. 'The French are here, my lord. I've just run into one of their patrols on the road!'

There was no time. Already the thunder of French hooves shook the ground, and Simon knew well how the French would react to tins scene of carnage, and it wasn't with sweet forgiveness. 'Christ man, you're mounted up!' Simon snarled. 'Double round and get word to Gisors! The rest of you, to me, now!'

'I still say you should not have come,' said Hugh Lupus testily to Matilda. 'It is too dangerous for a woman.'

Matilda gave him a stubborn look that reminded him so much of her great uncle, the Conqueror, that despite his irritation and anxiety he was almost tripped into laughter.

'You have already made your opinion of the matter quite clear, my lord,' she said primly. 'Besides, you could have prevented me from riding with you had you truly desired. All you needed to do was put me under guard in the bower.'

Hugh Lupus did grin then. 'And have you escape by knotting the sheets together and climbing out of the window? No, my lady. I leave it to your husband to deal with you in a fit manner. I have no desire to handle such a termagant.' Actually he did. His wife was the model of what he expected a wife to be, dutiful, retiring, but capable of running a household. His mistresses were always attractive, flighty baggages with impudent tongues. Matilda of Northampton was an intriguing blend of both, and with more than a suggestion of temper at the moment. He had contemplated making overtures to her while she was reeling over her husband's infidelity. She might be persuaded that sauce for the gander was also sauce for the goose. However he valued Simon's friendship and prudence had tempered his intention. Also, he had not wanted the daggers in her eyes to become a dagger in her hand.

'I am no termagant,' she said.

Hugh Lupus snorted. 'That is what your grandmother Adelaide used to say,' he retorted, 'but I never believed her. The women of your house have always been formidable.' He looked at her. 'But I still do not see why you feel so strong a need to put yourself in danger, my lady. Your presence here will make no difference to the outcome - save that I must spare men to guard you.'

'It is my duty,' she said tightly.

He studied the firm line of her chin, the full lips now drawn in slightly and pursed, the determination in her eyes. 'Duty my arse,' he said. 'If you were a woman of duty, you would be at home minding your needle. If I did not know your mother better, I would say that she stinted on your training.'

She blazed him a glance that threatened to singe his eyebrows. 'My mother stinted not one whit on my upbringing,' she said in a voice that quivered. 'She stayed at home, minding her needle, and my father rode away to his death. I stayed at home, like a dutiful wife, while my husband rode away to the Holy Wars.' Her lips drew back, giving him a beneficial view of her strong, white teeth. 'I stayed at home nursing my children, tending our lands while he took up with another woman and got a bastard child on her. There is duty and there is duty, my lord. Do not seek to tell me which kind I should follow now for my own good.'