by Angus Donald
I thought about his verdict for a few moments.
‘Well, Christophe, the Bretons aren’t here, are they? They are still in Brittany, as far as we know. And even if they did come and besiege us they wouldn’t be able to tell that this section of wall was weak just by looking at it, would they?’
He looked doubtful. ‘No, sir. Not unless they got close and looked real careful like at the joins. Or if some rascal were to tell them about it.’
‘Well, we’d better hope the Bretons don’t have your sharp eyes. And I think you’d better keep those eyes of yours on the outside of the walls from now on.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I dined infrequently with the lord of Falaise, about once every ten days, but he seldom troubled me with his conversation. I went to Mass in the castle church every day, if my duties allowed, and practised my sword and shield work in the courtyard with Little John – a master of all weapons – as often as I could. I tried to write a tune or two for my vielle and wrote some very poor poetry, which I soon abandoned as unworthy of my voice. I kept to myself, engaging with the other knights of the castle only when duty demanded it and, in my leisure hours, eating, drinking and playing dice with the Wolves, or throwing quoits with Little John.
It might sound as if life was dull – and, in a way, it was. But there was a tension in the castle that made rest difficult. A weight pressing down on us. It was like the feeling before a thunderstorm, an itchy uncomfortable heaviness. Battle loomed, everyone could feel it. You could smell it on the wind.
From time to time we had reports from the east, where King Philip was still knocking away ponderously at the thick screen of castles guarding the marches. The French army would occasionally besiege a small castle, the sort of isolated tower only defended by a couple of knights and two dozen men-at-arms, eventually either taking it or being forced to withdraw when one of King John’s mobile relief forces arrived. But they made little progress. Château Gaillard stood like an iron mountain at the centre of the defences of eastern Normandy, a mighty rock occasionally lapped by the tides of Philip’s armies but never submerged, and as long as King John held that puissant bastion, Philip and his barons could not get a firm grip on the duchy. It was an almost impregnable stronghold – as I knew well, for I had been Château Gaillard’s castellan for a few months some years previously. King Richard had lavished much labour and many riches upon it and, as well as choosing the perfect position high on a crag overlooking the Seine valley, he had designed layer upon layer of defences that would keep even the most determined aggressor at bay. He and Philip had traded words and worse over its construction. The King of France boasted that he could take it, if he so wished, even if its walls were made of iron; King Richard retorted that he could defend it, even if its walls were made of butter. And, it was true, Philip’s army might capture a lonely fort or two along the borderlands, but they did not dare to attack Château Gaillard – the Iron Castle.
I had not realised how far my spirits had been pressed down by the monotony of life in the Falaise garrison until one day in the middle of July. I was waiting in the great hall to report to Lord de Burgh about a routine patrol out to the Brittany border. I had been served a cup of wine and was waiting for the attention of the castellan, who was busy with his bailiff, when there was a flurry of activity as Sir Benedict Malet clattered up the stairs calling shrilly, ‘My lord, my lord!’ He burst into the hall, followed by two burly sergeants hauling on the arms of a terrified fellow in tattered leather armour, who was clearly their prisoner.
‘I have come to report a severe case of insubordination, my lord,’ said Benedict.
‘Yes?’ Lord de Burgh looked up from the parchment he had been poring over.
‘This fellow has been grossly insolent. He insulted me!’
‘How so?’ De Burgh seemed irritated by the interruption.
‘He … he…’ I saw that Benedict was blushing and reluctant to speak.
‘Speak up, Benedict. Don’t waste my time.’
‘He made mock of me in front of his fellow men-at-arms.’
‘What exactly did he say? Come on, spit it out, man.’
‘He called me … he called me “Sir Eats-a-lot” and made noises like a … like a giant pig feeding. I happened to be passing by the barracks when he and his fellows were drinking ale and heard this disgraceful insolence with my own ears. I want him punished, my lord, severely punished. I won’t have my own men laughing at me.’
I was trying not to laugh myself. I took a deep swig of my wine.
‘Well, he is under your command, you have the right to punish him, if you truly think his crime merits it.’
At that moment a loud snort of laughter escaped me that, most unfortunately, might have been interpreted as the noise a hog makes at the trough. Sir Eats-a-lot looked over at me, his eyes murderous, his face flushed a purplish red.
‘You have something to say, sell-sword?’ Benedict stared at me like a madman.
‘Oh no, Sir Benedict, it is just that this wine went down the wrong pipe.’
‘The swine? You mock me too!’ He took a step towards me, hand on hilt.
‘Peace, Benedict, peace,’ said de Burgh. ‘Sir Alan meant no insult. Did you?’
‘No, indeed, my lord,’ I said, my face a mask of solemnity.
‘Very well,’ said de Burgh. ‘Benedict, I suggest you give your funny-man his punishment and allow me to return to my labours.’
Benedict was still glaring at me. He half-turned away towards the prisoner.
‘I will teach you to laugh at your betters,’ he said, and I was not entirely sure if he was speaking to me or his wretched man-at-arms. Then he said, curtly, ‘Day after tomorrow. At dawn. Nose slit, tongue cut off, ears cropped, and after his just punishment, he is to be expelled from the garrison without pay. Take him to the cells to think about his insolence – and the reward it has brought him.’
The prisoner gave a moan of absolute horror, before the guards dragged him from the hall, and I heard his desperate shouts echoing up the stairwell long after he and his two captors had disappeared.
‘Benedict,’ I said, crossing the room towards him, ‘come now, man, that was unduly harsh. Surely, it was only a soldier’s crude jest—’
‘You do not speak to me about this matter.’ Benedict was still furious. He waved a shaking finger at me then turned on his heel and left the hall.
I turned to Hubert de Burgh. ‘My lord, surely this is grossly unjust.’
But de Burgh was not interested. ‘Sir Alan, this is not your concern. That man served under Sir Benedict, and my nephew has the right to punish him in any way he chooses, save by the taking of his life. I cannot interfere – how would you like it if I oversaw how you disciplined your men? He will be punished for his insolence, and that is an end to it. Now, if it please you, I must get on with my accounts.’
He turned back to his parchments and his waiting bailiff.
I was appalled but there was nothing I could do. Worse, it seemed my own teasing of Benedict had made matters harder for the prisoner.
The next day, summoned for a feast at noon, I was standing by the window in the great hall, looking out over the pretty town of Falaise. My mood was black. I was bored and lonely and I felt guilty about the poor man in the stinking dungeon below my feet. What was I doing in Normandy? The war was a sham. The enemy were far away. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere doing garrison duty in the midst of men who despised me – and whom I despised – and for what? For Westbury? I should beg Robin for another loan to feed my villagers, and go home. I was just pondering some comfort I could bring the wretch below before his sentence was carried out, a kind word, a meal, a drink of wine infused with poppy juice for the coming pain, perhaps, when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘Greetings, Sir Alan, how wonderful to see you again. But what is it? You look awfully grim. Is everything all right?’
I turned and looked into the lovely face of Tilda Giffard, who was smiling up at me with her blue-
grey eyes. I felt something turn over in my belly at the sight of her, and, for a moment, it was as if I had no wind in my lungs. Then I beamed, all thoughts of returning home and of the wretch in the dungeon below my feet forgotten. I was so pleased to see her that I was within an inch of throwing my arms around her and hugging her to my chest. But, thank God, I did not. Instead, I said much more formally than I meant, ‘Lady Tilda, what a great pleasure to see you. I didn’t know you were in Normandy. And what brings you to Falaise?’
‘Oh, Daddy has been at the castle at Avranches for months now, keeping the border against the savage Bretons. He recently had fresh news from his scouts…’
Her voice had the same smoky timbre that I remembered well. And her lovely eyes sparkled with mischief. I had thought of her from time to time since our meeting in Nottingham, mostly at night alone in my blankets when my troubles kept me awake, but she had been very far from the forefront of my imagination. Seeing her now was like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud. She looked perfect: her hair black as midnight under a stark white headdress; white skin and blood-red lips; a few delicate locks hanging before the perfect swirl of her ears; a long, slim neck and a hard, determined chin; her body encased in a tight gown of some shimmering white material that emphasised the narrowness of her waist and the inviting swell of her breasts …
I realised I was staring at her chest and lifted my eyes guiltily.
‘…and so we came here to pay our respects to Lord de Burgh, and of course to take council over this news from Brittany.’
I realised I had not been listening to a word she said. Something about Duke Arthur’s movements along the border. But before I could apologise or ask her to repeat herself, a trumpet sounded and we were summoned to the feast.
‘I do hope you will be sitting near me at the high table,’ said Tilda, squeezing my forearm with her hand. Her touch was like a hot coal against the material of my tunic.
‘I fear not, my lady,’ I said. ‘I shall be with the lesser knights.’
‘Well, we must have a proper talk afterwards. You still have not played me any of your wonderful music,’ she said, with a smile that punched through my ribs. Then she was swept away with the other high lords and dignitaries to the places at the table on either side of Lord de Burgh.
I watched her all the way through that meal, eating and drinking mechanically, and wondering what it would be like to put my hand on her warm naked white skin, to kiss her lips. I could feel my member thickening in my braies and tried to concentrate on Goody, holding an image of my dead wife and our love together in my mind as I crumbled a piece of bread between palsied fingers. But in my mind Goody’s face became Tilda’s – the image of my wife and I entwined in our bed changed subtly. It was Tilda whispering in my ear; it was Tilda’s white hand between my legs gently stroking, teasing; it was Tilda’s buttocks curved into the cup of my pelvis …
‘Mother of God,’ I muttered, ‘get a hold of yourself. Goody is barely cold in her grave. Would you desecrate her memory?’
This was absurd. I barely knew this girl. I had met her twice and I was already ravishing her repeatedly inside my head.
‘Are you quite well?’ asked my neighbour at the table, an elderly monk from Caen.
‘No, brother, I fear I am very far from well,’ I said. There was a sprinkling of sweat on my upper lip, and my chest felt tight and heavy. I excused myself and slipped out of the hall.
I recovered my poise outside the keep and, after dunking my head in a bucket of water and standing in the brisk wind on the battlements for several moments cursing my weakness of mind and my sinful lust, I slunk back to my place on the bench.
‘Feeling better?’ said the old monk.
‘Yes, brother. A passing malaise, I am sure.’
But it was no passing malaise. I was possessed, heart and soul, by one notion. I must have Tilda Giffard as my lover, my mistress, my wife – I did not care which as long as she was mine. I wanted her with a passion, a physical pain that I had not felt since my early days with Goody. I felt that I would go mad if I could not have her. She called to me inside my head, in my heart, and in those lower, baser places, too.
Indeed, perhaps I was already mad.
After the dinner, I was invited by my Lord de Burgh to play my vielle for the company. I had offered to display my musical skills to the castellan long before, during my first few weeks at Falaise, but he had declined my offer brusquely. That afternoon, it seemed, he was disposed to be more friendly.
‘The Lady Matilda has told me you are a trouvère of great renown at Queen Eleanor’s court and elsewhere, Sir Alan. Perhaps you would honour us with a song today, if your duties permit.’
They permitted. Little John had taken the men out on a long-range patrol south to the Maine border some twenty-odd miles away, and would not be back before nightfall, and Kit was engaged in a thorough overhaul of my equipment and weapons – cleaning, oiling and mending them – in the East Tower. He had also told me he intended to repaint my shield with its image of a wild boar in black on a blood-red background. So I was a man of leisure that lovely afternoon and the thought of playing my finest music before Tilda made me a little light-headed.
And though Almighty God will no doubt judge me for the sin of pride, I have seldom played better than that afternoon in the hall in the keep of the Castle of Falaise. I started with a canso – a classic tale of doomed love between Lancelot and Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur. It was roundly applauded by my audience. Then I made them laugh with a bawdy tale about a hungry fox and a timid rabbit, a cheeky cockerel and a wise old owl. After that I took a chance and gave them a crude soldiers’ song that mocked King Philip and compared his royal mace to his intimate bodily parts: they roared with laughter, and I gave a sigh of relief. Finally, I brought them all home with the well-known lay of Roland and Oliver – a tragic piece about brave warriors slain in the pursuit of their duty, dying nobly with a ring of dead Saracens at their feet. The cheering and stamping from the audience of mainly fighting men seemed almost to shake the massive stone keep itself. Then, wisely, I bowed out, refusing to play any more and claiming that my voice was sore and weak.
‘Oh, Alan, that was so moving, so infinitely sad,’ said Tilda afterwards, as I was receiving plaudits from the crowd of knights.
‘Did you really like it?’ I asked her.
‘It was … truly lovely,’ she said, and once again she put her burning hand on my arm and squeezed lightly.
I felt as if I were walking two feet above the ground after hearing her words – and I believe that my status in the de Burgh household shifted significantly that day. Knights who had barely spoken to me before came and shook my hand or pounded me on the back and congratulated me on my skill. Even Hubert de Burgh offered his polite thanks and a few words of lukewarm praise. I felt accepted into the Falaise company, at last. And it was all Tilda’s doing.
Sir Joscelyn Giffard approached after my performance. He praised me knowledgeably, even going so far as to compliment the Spanish-style fingering on the vielle that I had attempted during the Arthurian canso, and then, out of a cloudless blue sky, he said, ‘Sir Alan, do you have children?’
I was slightly thrown by his question, but I admitted that I had a son, Robert, a lusty two-year-old.
‘You are fond of him,’ he asked.
‘I love him more than life itself,’ I said.
‘And if someone were to harm him, or to dishonour him in some way, what would you do?’
‘I would slaughter them.’
‘I, too, would kill anyone, absolutely anyone who harmed my daughter – or who dishonoured her in any way,’ he said. ‘She is a lovely girl, and very friendly, sometimes foolish and, dare I say it, a little forward at times. Doubtless I should have beaten her more thoroughly when she was a child. But her mother is dead, she is my only daughter, and I love her, I have no doubt, as much as you love your son.’
He smiled at me, a little sadly. ‘I truly did enjoy y
our music,’ he said. ‘Thank you for that.’ Then he walked away.
Well, I had been warned. Tilda’s father was not blind, neither was he a fool. He had just threatened me with death if I made any advances on his darling girl. But, strangely, given that I do not care to swallow threats of any kind, I could not think harshly of him. Indeed, the manner of his message – honest, firm but not hostile – caused me to respect him. I did not fear him, but he made me reconsider. What was I thinking? Tilda inflamed me, mind and body, I was mad for her, but she, too, was another man’s daughter. I vowed to myself, then and there, that I would never dishonour her. I would not let my lust master me. I would not seek her out, I would not pester her for favours. I would banish her from my mind. Indeed, for a good many days and nights, I did just that.
For the next morning, I rode out to war.
Chapter Five
Lord de Burgh mustered his knights and captains in the courtyard a little after dawn, all of us armed and armoured and ready to ride.
‘Arthur, Duke of Brittany, and several thousand of his men have crossed the border far to the south and are now ravaging the Loire Valley with fire and sword,’ de Burgh said briskly. ‘Our war has truly begun.
‘We have this intelligence courtesy of Sir Joscelyn Giffard.’ De Burgh nodded benevolently at the lord of Avranches, who was standing a couple of paces from me. ‘He is to ride to Rouen to reinforce the garrison there against the threat from the east. I must remain here to hold Falaise – but Sir Benedict Malet will lead a force of fifty of our men south to join up with the King on the road to Le Mans. You, Sir Alan, will take all your men with him and offer what support you are able. When you join with the army, you are to place yourself once again under the Earl of Locksley’s banner. But on the road, Sir Benedict is in command, is that clear?’
I nodded, with a sinking heart, vowing silently that I would never let Benedict have dominion over my men. The wretch who had so foolishly mocked his superior had been mutilated earlier that morning in the dungeons and, while I had not witnessed it, I had heard his screams and seen the poor fellow, his head a mass of black blood, stumbling out the main gates not an hour since. I would not allow any of my Wolves to be treated so, even if it meant murdering the lardy knight myself.