The lad might as well ask him to sprout wings and fly to Siena. The mere thought of moving was enough to give Bran a queasy pang; he wondered, with impersonal curiosity, if a man could get seasick on horseback. But Hugh looked so earnest, as if the world’s fate hung upon his answer. A pity to let the lad down… He made an enormous effort, said faintly, “Why not?”
The shepherd’s “castello” was a small manor fortified with a weed-choked moat. As they approached the drawbridge, an unseen sentry ordered them to halt. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, a tall, rangy youth, hand on sword hilt. He lost his swagger, though, as soon as he got a good look at Bran. Shaking his head, he began to back up, waving them away from the castle. Hugh dismounted in dismay and started onto the drawbridge, entreating the guard to wait. But the man had already disappeared. Hugh was still on the drawbridge when the portcullis dropped down, barring the entrance.
For a moment Hugh stared at the portcullis, and then all the fear and tension and strain of the past weeks exploded in a wild rage, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He could see the guard through the portcullis bars; had he been within reach, he’d have flung himself at the man’s throat. “You must give my lord entry! He’ll die without shelter!” But in his fury, he’d forgotten his Tuscan. The surging torrent of French meant nothing to the guard; he shrugged, started to walk away.
Hugh slammed his fist against the portcullis bars. “Damn you, wait!” A Tuscan curse came back to him then, obscene enough to spin the guard around in outrage. “Tell your castellan that Sir Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester and Lord of Avellino, seeks admittance!” Hugh shouted, in an uneven mix of French and Tuscan. At mention of his father’s forfeit title and his own confiscated Italian fief, Bran laughed suddenly, a sound that chilled Hugh to the very bone. “My lord is kinsman to Ildebrandino d’Aldobrandini, Count of Sovana and Pitigliano! Turn him away and, by God, you’ll long regret it!”
His threat had not yet died away before lightning stabbed the clouds above their heads, followed by a resounding crash of thunder. Hugh whirled as Bran cried out, reached him just as he started to slide from the saddle. Fortunately, Bran’s stallion was well trained; it stood its ground as Hugh struggled to lower his lord onto the grass. Lightning blazed again, and Bran saw the sky through a blinding shower of blue-white sparks. He could feel rain upon his skin now, a blessed relief, so cool it was. Hugh’s face was wet, too, although with tears or rain he couldn’t tell. The boy’s anguish was his last regret; he yearned to make Hugh see that it was all right, that there was no need to grieve so.
Cradling Bran’s head in his lap, Hugh began to stammer whatever assurances he could think of, vowing to find the shepherd’s hut. But he knew better, knew Bran was going to die there, out in the rain by the castle’s mud-churned moat, a stone’s throw from safety. It was then that he heard it—the sound of a windlass, straining to raise the portcullis gate.
He did not dare to move, afraid to let himself hope. But several hooded figures had now emerged onto the drawbridge. Heedless of the gusting rain, the man in the lead strode toward them, knelt by Bran’s side.
“You are the Earl of Leicester’s son, in truth?” he demanded, in accented but understandable French. His eyes searched Bran’s face, found what he sought. Straightening up abruptly, he beckoned to his reluctant servants. “I apologize for my man’s conduct. When he saw you were ailing, he feared the fever’s contagion. You are welcome at my hearth, for as long as you wish.”
“Why?” Bran whispered.
“I knew your lord father,” the castellan said simply, as if that explained all, and ordered his men to assist Bran into the castle.
Hugh had been stricken dumb by the sheer intensity of his relief. But then, to his horror, he heard Bran say, “No…wait. I must tell…tell you first what I did…”
He had no breath for more, but the castellan understood. “You do not take advantage of my hospitality. I know about Viterbo. But that is between you and God.”
They were all drenched by now. Sheets of rain were blowing sideways, sharp as needles. Lightning split a cypress tree upon a distant slope, and an acrid, burning odor hung upon the air. Men were bringing a litter from the castle, and the castellan was instructing one of the guards to ride for Siena, to fetch a doctor from the hospital of Santa Maria della Scala. Now that Bran’s fate was in more competent hands than his, Hugh was content merely to watch, to relinquish a responsibility too burdensome for any fifteen-year-old. Salvation come so suddenly had left him dazed. He could think only that Simon de Montfort had somehow managed a miracle in his son’s hour of greatest need.
Hugh stood at an open window, gazing out upon sunlit hills and dappled olive groves. A night’s sleep in a real bed, a huge breakfast, and the reemergence of the summer sun had been enough to send his spirits soaring, and his step was light, jaunty, as he mounted the stairs to Bran’s bedchamber.
The room was shadowed, peaceful. “Does he still sleep?” Hugh whispered, and the castellan nodded. They stood for a time in silence, watching the man on the bed. Hugh was still marveling that they owed their deliverance to Simon de Montfort rather than Count Ildebrandino. “May I ask how you knew Earl Simon, my lord?”
The castellan beckoned him away from the bed. “We fought together in Palestine. In fact, we sailed on the same ship for the Holy Land. His lady had accompanied him as far as Brindisi, doubtless would have gone on crusade, too, had she not been great with child! Thirty years ago, it was, but I remember him well. A remarkable man, in truth. Did you know the citizens of Jerusalem asked him to be their governor?”
Hugh nodded, and then laughed. “I just realized—that was Bran his lady mother was expecting! He told me once that he was born in Italy.”
An indistinct murmuring drew them back to the bed. “Ought the doctor to be here soon?” Hugh whispered, leaning over to smooth Bran’s blankets. He straightened up almost at once. “Why is he so hot? This is one of his fever-free days…” He looked pleadingly at the castellan, had his answer in the older man’s averted eyes, his sympathetic silence.
The doctor came slowly down the stairs, sank into the closest chair. Looking over at the castellan, he shook his head. “I’ve done all I can. I even bled him again, but…” He shrugged expressively.
The castellan was gazing across the hall, searching out the boy amidst the shadows. Hugh had not moved for hours, refusing food or drink, all attempts at comfort. “I’ll have to tell the lad,” he said reluctantly, and the doctor pushed himself out of the chair.
“I’ll tell him. You’d best fetch your chaplain.”
Hugh did not look up, even when the doctor squatted down beside him. “I’m sorry, lad. He is in God’s hands now. But as weak as he is, I do not see how he can survive the morrow’s onslaught of chills and fever…”
Hugh said nothing, hunched his shoulders when the doctors patted his arm in an awkward gesture of condolence. “I do not believe you,” he said, almost inaudibly. The doctor sighed, did not argue. Hugh had his face against his drawn-up knees, clinging desperately to his disbelief. There was another strained silence, and then the castellan was coming swiftly toward them, trailed by a flustered priest.
“No!” Hugh was on his feet. “He’s not dead, he’s not!”
“No…not yet.” The castellan was too agitated for diplomacy or discretion. “But he’s gone stark mad, refuses to see my chaplain, refuses to be shriven!”
The doctor swore softly. For a long moment, they looked at one another, and on each man’s face, shock warred with appalled awe. As horrified as they were by Bran’s refusal, they could not help seeing it as the ultimate gesture of atonement, for what greater sacrifice could a man make than to deny himself salvation? The chaplain shivered, hastily crossed himself.
Hugh had been slow to comprehend the meaning of the castellan’s words. When he did, he shoved the men aside, started for the stairs at a dead run.
Bran’s chamber was lit by candles. They flared up as Hug
h flung the door open; several guttered out. Hugh did not hesitate. Approaching the bed, he said, “You cannot do this, my lord. The fever has clouded your wits. But there is still time—”
Bran started to shake his head and gasped, for the movement triggered a blinding flash of pain. Black hair fell forward over his eyes, but he had not the strength to brush it back. He’d begun to think of the bed as a boat, in his feverish imaginings, envisioned its moorings snapping, one by one, until only a solitary line kept it from drifting out to sea. For hours, he’d been waiting for that final hawser to fray enough to break. But now he sought to hold on for a while longer, for the boy’s sake.
Hugh sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you not remember what you told me in that Sienese bordello? You said there were few sins so great that God could not forgive. God will pardon your sins, too, my lord—if you’ll but give Him the chance.”
Bran’s lips moved, and Hugh leaned forward, caught only, “God might, he’d not…”
Those few words had come with such obvious effort that Hugh grew alarmed. “No, my lord, just listen, save your breath for the priest.” Reaching over, he smoothed the hair away from Bran’s forehead. “ ‘He’d not,’” he repeated. “Do you mean…your lord father?”
Bran’s lips parted again; they were cracked and swollen, blistered by fever.
Hugh was beginning to understand. “You think your father would not forgive you for Evesham or Viterbo. That I do not know, my lord. But this I can say for certes—that Earl Simon could never forgive you for the sin you are about to commit!”
Bran was struggling to speak, and Hugh grasped his hand. “What of your lady mother and your sister? Is it not enough they must mourn your death? How could they live with it, knowing your soul was damned to Hell for all eternity? If you inflict pain like that upon women who love you, Earl Simon will not be the only one unable to forgive you. Neither will I!”
Bran’s lashes quivered. His eyes were as dark as Hugh had ever seen them, a fever-glazed grey. “My father…” Hugh bent over; Bran’s breath just reached his ear. “He’d have liked you, lad,” he whispered, and Hugh bit his lip, tasting blood. A creaking hinge warned him that they were no longer alone, and he turned, saw the priest hovering anxiously in the doorway. Hugh reluctantly released his grip on Bran’s hand, but made no attempt to wipe away the tears streaking his face.
“I’ll leave you now, my lord,” he said, as steadily as he could, “so you may make your peace with God.”
Lammas day, the first of August, was one of the most popular festivals of high summer. At Morrow Mass, the priests of Montargis had blessed the loaves of freshly baked bread, offered thanks to the Almighty for another bountiful harvest. Later, a Lammas feast would be held in the Countess of Leicester’s great hall. The Prioress and village elders had been invited, and Nell’s cooks had created an elaborate castle out of marzipan, glazed with sugar. The enticing aroma of baking gingerbread and plum bread now wafted out onto the morning air, and Durand’s mouth began to water in anticipation.
Durand was looking forward eagerly to the feast, to the delicious drink known as lamb’s wool, warm, spiced cider with baked apples floating on top, to the boisterous games and dancing, and lastly, to the candlelit evening procession that would bring the Lammas festivities to a close. Today’s celebration would be the week’s only joy for the members of the Countess’s household, for they were approaching the anniversary of the battle of Evesham. Certain times were always harder for the Earl’s women, but none more so than the day of Simon’s death, and Nell’s retainers and servants ached for her resurrected sorrow, while dreading her inevitably fraying temper. August 4th would be a bad day for all at Montargis.
But that was yet to come. Ahead lay a day of proven pleasures, and Durand was whistling as he emerged from the stables, only to halt abruptly at sight of the dog. It was one of the Countess’s pampered greyhounds, but its sleek sides were heaving, its muzzle smeared with saliva. Durand’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. He’d never seen a mad dog before, felt his muscles constrict in instinctive fear. People called them wood hounds, and their bites caused certain death. Had it been a stable or village dog, Durand would have slain it on the spot. But all knew what a store the Countess set by her greyhounds, and this white one was the most cherished of all, a gift from her husband in happier days. Slowly drawing his sword, he gestured to a youth standing by the door of the great hall. “Warn the others to stay inside, and tell the Countess that her greyhound is frothing at the mouth!”
The boy gasped, ducked back into the hall. Durand kept a wary eye upon the dog, yearning to strike and have done with it. Within moments, Nell was hastening out into the courtyard. To Durand’s horror, the dog shot forward at sight of its mistress. He shouted, lunged, and missed, sprawling onto the hard, sun-baked ground. By the time he regained his feet, Nell was kneeling by the dog, seeking to pry its jaws apart.
“Christ, no! Madame, get back!”
Nell paid him no heed, and a moment later gave a triumphant cry, holding up a small bone. “Blanchette got it wedged between her jaws. That is why she was slobbering so. The poor creature could not close her mouth.” Before rising, she hugged the panting dog, then beckoned to one of the spectators. “Raoul, fetch her some water!”
Durand was panting, too, and feeling rather foolish. “I am sorry I caused such an uproar, my lady. But when I saw—”
“This has happened before to Blanchette. But how were you to know?” Nell smiled suddenly. “I am glad you kept your head, Durand, did not do anything rash!”
“I always try to think ere I act, my lady,” Durand said virtuously. Inwardly, he was shaking. What if he’d run the damned dog through? Sweet Jesus, her Ladyship would have dismissed him from her service then and there! She was a fair mistress most of the time, and handsome for all her years. But if she had any of the mild, womanly softness that was supposed to characterize those of her sex, he’d yet to see a trace of it. Men said the old Earl had possessed Lucifer’s own temper. He and his prideful lady must have had some scorching fights, for certes! Durand glanced balefully at the greyhound, frisking at Nell’s side as she started back into the hall. How close he’d come to disaster, and all because of a coddled cur that ate better than most men did!
Now that the excitement had subsided, people returned to their interrupted activities. Nell’s scribe held out a parchment sheet for her inspection. “This is the letter we’d just begun, my lady, the one to Prince Llewelyn of Wales.”
Nell scanned it to refresh her memory. “Write as follows, Baldwin:
‘It gladdens my heart to be able to tell you that my son Amaury has succeeded in clearing himself of any complicity in the Viterbo murder. The Bishop and chapter of Padua, the doctors at the university, and the friars all gave sworn testimony that Amaury had not left the city since October, and that on the day of the killing, he was confined to bed with a raging fever. This satisfied Charles and the French King, would have satisfied all reasonable men. But friends at the French court tell me that Edward is still not convinced, is still vowing to exact vengeance upon Amaury, too. I cannot say this surprises me, Llewelyn, for—’”
“My lady!” Durand reeled to a stop in the doorway, gasping for breath. “That English squire of Lord Bran’s—he’s riding up the road from the village!”
Nell’s hand clenched upon the table’s edge. “And my son?”
Durand shook his head. “No, my lady. The lad is alone.”
Hugh had traveled more than a thousand miles, including a rough sea crossing from Genoa to Marseilles. But the last hundred yards of his journey were the hardest of all. The Countess was awaiting him in the priory gateway, flanked by Ellen and Juliana, and the hope on their faces pierced Hugh to the heart. For weeks, he’d been rehearsing what to say. But now that the moment had come, he found himself utterly at a loss.
Nell watched as he reined in, slowly swung from the saddle to kneel before her. He was deeply tanned, tawny hair shaggy and windblown,
seemed years older than the eager-eyed boy who had accompanied Bran to Montargis six short months ago; she could even detect the beginnings of a shadowy blond beard. He looked up at her in mute misery, and Nell knew what he had come to tell her. Without need of words, she knew.
“My son is dead,” she said softly.
Hugh had been wandering about the priory grounds like a lost soul, not knowing where to go, what to do. For nearly two months, he’d had his quest to sustain him, his determination to bring word of Bran’s death to Montargis. It had served as a lifeline, something to cling to even in the depths of despair. Now it was gone, and he felt bereft all over again, felt like a compass without a needle.
He would have liked to offer up a prayer for Bran’s soul. But Nell was in the church, and he was loath to intrude upon her private grieving. Nor did he want to return to the great hall, unwilling to run the gauntlet again of so many curious eyes. He ended up on a bench in Nell’s garden. The air was heavy with honeysuckle, the sun hot upon his face. He could not summon up energy to seek the shade, though, sat there as the afternoon dwindled away, aimlessly shredding rose petals and dropping them into the grass at his feet.
He supposed he ought to be thinking of the morrow, making plans of some sort. But he could not rouse himself from this peculiar lassitude. He felt numbed, so hollow it hurt.
“How far away you look.” He’d not heard her light tread upon the grass, and he jumped at sound of Ellen’s voice, scrambled hastily to his feet.
Ellen waved him back onto the bench, and then startled him by sitting down beside him. She looked pale, but composed. They sat in surprisingly companionable silence until, as if reading his mind, Ellen suddenly said, “I cannot cry. Mayhap it’s because I’d be crying for myself, not for Bran.” She saw his head swivel toward her, and smiled sadly. “How could I mourn on Bran’s behalf after what you told us? How could I wish him back in such pain?”
The Reckoning Page 10