“The finest beer is German beer,” he said, “Sir Laeghaire, isn’t that so?”
“German beer is better than any wine, my lord.”
William laughed. He was in a good humor. Laeghaire had never seen him so loose with his laughing. William’s head swung toward him. In his eyes was a peculiar glitter. Laeghaire stared into his eyes. They were like the eyes of the wolf in the dream. He cursed the dream. The eyes of drunken men glittered like that. Let this wolf bite him.
He sat on a low stool, with one leg stretched forward and one drawn up, so that he could rest his arm on the knee. He took the cup of wine and drank it off and caught the page before he could leave and poured another.
The other knights talked boldly. William talked with some of them. He called Laeghaire once and Laeghaire went over to him.
“I don’t think that your lord meant you to do me that service,” William said.
“He sent me no order.”
“He outtricked himself.”
“My lord.” Laeghaire could not think of anything to say. He looked straight into William’s eyes. William grinned, and Laeghaire felt himself grinning.
“You shaggy-headed Irish.”
“I’ll crop clean as a monk to please you, my lord.”
“My lord.” Fitz-Osbern stood up. The other men turned to watch him. Fitz-Osbern was a man of stature in Normandy. “I want no interruption in your triumph, my good lord, but this is an affair of my honor.”
Laeghaire stood up and went off a little to the side. He stood with one leg relaxed. He crossed his arms.
“Then tell it,” William said.
“It concerns the Irish knight,” Fitz-Osbern said.
“My lord,” Laeghaire said. “The Steward and I had some words. It seems he thought I should carve even more of his meat for him.”
There was laughter. William leaned forward. “When was this?”
“When we turned Walter back.”
Fitz-Osbern said, “This Irish knight, this wanderer, this sometime brigand to be sure, this landless fighting man for hire, this—bought man of the Count of Flanders, dared to tell me that I had mislaid my orders. Like a quick-tempered baseborn slave he took offense at the slightest comment I made, when I only meant to show him his, error, and he turned it against me like an insult, and then offered comments of his own, none of which were complimentary or recognized my rank—”
“I am a free man and a knight, and whatever high-flown title you may have smiled and fawned your way into, my good lord meat-carver, gives you no right to plaster me with—”
Fitz-Osbern drew off his glove and threw it down between them. Laeghaire started for it.
William said, “Irish, leave it where it lies.”
“My lord,” Fitz-Osbern said.
“Lord Steward,” Laeghaire said, “if you would care to come outside—”
Fitz-Osbern wheeled toward William. “Am I to take these insults and baiting from a mad, unnerved, bastard of a bastard—”
“You put me in good company,” Laeghaire said, “you lawfully begotten son of a fishwife and an errant demon out of hell that lost his way in a dark night.”
William came down between them. He stopped by Fitz-Osbern and said, “He’s got your measure for quick-tongued talking, sir. Leave him alone.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Fitz-Osbern said. He turned and marched out of the hall.
William turned toward Laeghaire. “Your pride itches. By God’s Splendor, if you weren’t a berserker knight, I’d let you fight him.”
“But I’ll kill him, and if I were no berserker knight, I’d have no pride.”
William laughed. He started back to his chair. “Then leave off attacking sure targets. If he killed you, you’d have no pride, but I doubt if I’d want that, and you’ll talk prettily to him. Not quite so prettily as you have today, and remember, he is older than you and he is after all the Lord Steward of Normandy.”
William went back and sat down. Laeghaire took more wine. He drank it all down in one gulp. He was getting drunk. He felt good for it. He would have shown Fitzr Osbern that they bred killers in Ireland.
From then until Epiphany, William sent Laeghaire on several missions, even using him before Fitz-Osbern as a messenger. Once he sent him to take the homage of a certain town and gave him an escort like a lord’s. The town was called Remy, and lay in the south. Laeghaire rode there in a day and was back again the next. It was simple. He took the homage of the elders of the town in the common pasturage and afterward rode through the town with his escort to show that William of Normandy had taken the town for his son. On the way through the town, the people were gathered to watch. A woman stood by a trough for watering cattle, near the far gate. She had a child by her. The child started out toward the lines of knights, and the woman caught it and pulled it back. She saw that Laeghaire was watching her and the child, and she put her hand across the child’s eyes.
“Devil,” she said. “You Irish Devil.”
When he was back at Le Mans he thought of it. The woman had known who he was. He had never been to Remy before. She had known who he was.
“I have given an order,” William said, “to send the Flemings back. I wish you to remain here. Until Easter.”
“My lord, my son will be full-grown before I see him.”
“You are dead-certain it was a boy she bore, aren’t you?”
Laeghaire grinned. “Or if it was a girl, ray lord, I’ll want a chance to try again.”
William frowned. “You have the boldest tongue. Go back, if you wish. And do me one favor. I want Walter of the Vexin and his wife transported to Falaise, in Normandy. You will command the guard that takes them there. That way I can keep Montgomery here.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“When you get back to Flanders, Irish, the Count will have no more use for you.”
That Laeghaire had not thought of.
“He sent me a letter and said that he will offer you a place in his court. It suits him to have a gentleman of reputation with him. Would you accept that?”
“Yes, my lord”
“And not go… wandering?”
“It’s no life for a child and a woman, my lord.”
“How right you are. And if I were to tell you that I might have need of you at some later occasion, and that I wished you to swear to me to come when I want you, what would you say?”
“You do me honor.”
“The question, Irish.”
“I dislike being bound, my lord.”
“God’s Splendor, man, you’re bound. You have a wife and a child. What further binding does any man need? You’re tied into life because you must keep them alive, and tied in one place to protect them, and—Answer the question.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. You have my leave to go.”
Laeghaire stood.
“You and your men shall prepare to leave before the end of this week. Walter and his wife will go with you. Give them only into the hands of the chatelain, Hubert. He is an old man, but he is absolutely trustworthy.” William picked up a warrant and folded it. He put a tray of wax over the candle flame. “He served my mother’s husband. Who was, as you so gently pointed out a while ago, not my father.”
“I have never noticed you lamenting it, my lord.”
“No.” William spilled a bit of wax on the warrant and sealed it with his signet ring. He put the ring back onto his little finger. “Do you fight very much in Ireland, Laeghaire?”
“Like dogs, my lord. There’s nothing we like better.”
“Take this, give it to Hubert. And to none but him.”
“By your leave, my lord.”
He went to the door. William said, “Irish.”
Laeghaire turned back toward him.
“You have the gift of second sight,” William said. “My father-in-law said in the letter that your wife bore the child safely. And it is a boy,”
The old chatelain at Falaise took the
prisoners and the warrant, without a comment. He sent for his warders. He made out a letter saying that he had the persons of Walter of the Vexin and his lady Biota of the knight Laeghaire of the Long Road, and he gave it to Laeghaire.
The escort which William bad given Laeghaire was made up of Normans, and they dispersed when the mission was finished. Laeghaire spent the night in the castle of Falaise. He meant tc go on to Ghent the next morning. It seemed impossible to him that he was almost there, and yet he was sure of it. He felt fresh and clean. He thought of his son.
In the morning, however, there was a messenger, a page, from the court of the Duchess at Falaise, saying that the Duchess wished the knight Laeghaire to attend her at her house. The page waited to take him there. Laeghaire could not decline to go. He went with the page. The Duchess had a house in the center of the town. They rode through the outlying part of the town. The smell of tanners’ vats clung to everything. It was still early but the people were out curing hides on the frames by their huts.
“The lord Duke was born in Falaise,” the page said.
“Why did you say that?”
“You looked surprised, my lord.”
His mother had been a peasant. He remembered now. A tanner’s daughter. Some people said her father had been a sexton’s assistant. The smell of the tanners’ curing waters filled his nose. A Duke now and a great Lard, the greatest lord in …
The page took him in to the Duchess’s chamber. The Duchess was with her ladies, doing whatever it was that ladies did alone. When the page announced Laeghaire, she stood and came a step forward. He walked toward her. The ladies of her chamber were still. Their eyes and their arched Norman noses turned toward him. He saw the fine cloth of then gowns, all draped and shadowed. He knelt before the Duchess. She was so small that even when he was kneeling he hardly had to look up to see her eyes.
“Sir Laeghaire,” she said, “It was good of you to come.”
“At your command, my lady.”
“Please rise. I am not your lady, sir. You had no need to come.” She sat down. “It was good of you to come. I wished to hear some news of my lord.”
“My lady.”
“Is he well?”
“Very well.”
“And happy?”
She held off his answer with her tiny hand. “Yves, fetch a stool for Sir Laeghaire.”
The page brought a stool. It was a lady’s stool, very small. Laeghaire looked down at it.
“I would rather stand, my lady.”
“My dear sir, I would rather you be uncomfortable than I.” She laughed. “You hurt my neck, standing. Please, sit.”
Laeghaire sat.
“You are very paltry with your answers, sir. Is it a habit among your people? And I know that you speak Flemish. You were in my guard once, at Bruges; I remember seeing you. Please, sir; be free with me.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
“And my lord. He is happy?”
“As happy as he could be, my lady.”
She wrinkled her nose and laughed. “Explain yourself, sir.”
“He is never happy.”
“How well you know my lord. Is he an easy man to follow?”
“For some, my lady.”
“For you, not?”
“I would take Hell for him, if he wanted it.”
“By ‘some,’ then, you mean, all good men.”
“No. No. Only fools and madmen, my lady.”
“Why, that’s a pretty passage from your tongue. I hear that you killed poor Sir N6el in Rouen when you were there.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I did not like him, my lady.”
“Oh. That’s awful.”
The other ladies murmured like wild bees. Laeghaire glanced at them. One of them put her hand quickly over her eyes, but her mouth smiled at him.
“You’ve beguiled my ladies, sir.” The Duchess frowned at them. “They are always fascinated by bloody, devilish men. I trust my lord reproved you for killing poor Sir Néel.”
“Not overmuch. He had some need of me, and no need of Sir Néel, who was beyond need.”
“What a pretty tongue you have, for a murderous man. Will you stay to have some dinner with me?”
“I am going to Ghent, my lady.”
“Only stay a while. I weary of these chickens.”
“I have—” He looked at the ladies. “Soon after I left to go to Maine, I had a son born, and I have not yet even seen him once, my lady.”
The smiling mouths pouted.
“By all means, Sir Laeghaire. It was good of you to come. I had no idea I was keeping you from anything quite so urgent.” She rose; he rose; the ladies swept up to their feet, all their skirts and sleeves rustling. “Although it seems so odd that such a bloody man as you should have a home and family. You have my leave.”
“My lady.”
He went toward the door. He heard the women whispering behind him. When he came out into the courtyard and mounted the black horse, he saw a glimpse of a white face and a full sleeve at the window, and he heard them giggle, shrinking back.
It was a bad ride north. It rained a lot. He rode during the day and slept at night, at first, but the closer he came to Ghent the more he wanted to be there, and he rode almost all the time. He let the horses graze and sleep from dawn until the sun was past noon, every day, but he slept very little himself. He thought, I miss Hilde. He had not thought of her all the time he had been away. Now he missed her. I’ll tell her that. She’ll be happy.
He rode in the dripping afternoon, with the rain beating on his shoulders and head and running over the black horse’s neck and mane, and the brown stallion crowding after him under the pack. He was going back to where his son was and his woman. In the deep dry heat of the kitchens full of the smells of food and cooking and Lisabet fat from tasting, and the ovens singing with the heat and the kegs of beer and wine standing double and triple height against the far wall, and the flour and salt in sacks, where Hilde was with the child she had borne, all alone when he was far off and maybe only a dream to her, Hilde dragged out of her home and sold to him. The rain made all things neither far nor near, just wet. He rode on, very happy, and sang an Irish song to himself, a song he would teach his son.
He would call him Murrough, after his brother, and after the prince the pin-blessed warrior had loved enough to throw away his life and Aoife for. He would teach him Gaelic and listen to Hilde sing him German songs and watch her suckle him. And watch the milk he had put into her breasts by his loving her make his son grow.
Ghent was quiet in the rain. He rode at a gallop through the town to the gates of the castle. The gate was shut.
“Who goes?”
“Laeghaire of the Long Road.”
The guard shouted his name back into the castle. The gate inched up. He rode through it into the courtyard. He drew the men there toward him from all directions, all running toward him. They cheered him. He dismounted and someone snatched his reins and he crowded by them, and their cheers became laughing.
He went into the corridor and it became familiar to him, and a warm shock came over him, to be back here again. He walked down to the kitchens. He heard Lisabet’s heavy voice even before he opened the door. She was screaming about something. He opened the door and saw her beating a scullion over the head with her spoon, down by the great ovens. For a moment he could not find Hilde.
She was chopping vegetables. Her hands moved deftly with the big knife. Her feet were bare and wide-spread on the floor. Around her waist she had a bright red scarf.
He went into the kitchen, ducking the eave over the steps, and passed Lisabet. “Shut up,” he said to her. She stopped and turned to gape at him. He went on down to Hilde. The kitchen people grew quiet and stared. He put his arm around Hilde’s waist and kissed her ear. She turned, gasping, with the knife in her hand, and he caught her waist.
“You’ll have my head yet,” he said, laughing.
“Laeghaire.
Laeghaire.”
The tears welled from her eyes. Her eyes were blacker than he remembered. She threw her arms around him and kissed him. Her mouth moved from his mouth to his cheek and eyes and nose. He laughed. She backed off just far enough to get a running start and flung herself into his arms again.
“I was afraid you’d died and they didn’t want to tell me. I thought you wouldn’t come back ever. Oh, dear God, oh dear sweet God, my own dear Laeghaire—”
He kissed her mouth. He wanted her.
“No. No. Wait. You have to see the baby.”
She backed out of his arms, teasing him. “Wait ’til you see him. He’s perfect. Where is he? Lisabet—”
“He’s here, lady.” One of the scullions came forward. He held the baby. Hilde went to take it, but Laeghaire was there before she was, and he took the baby and held it in his arms. The baby wailed and fought to get away.
The kitchen people began to laugh. Laeghaire felt himself blush. He looked around at them. The baby screamed and beat him with its fists. Its face twisted with anger and got bright red. Laeghaire took it to a stool. He sat down and held it on his knee. He held its face to look at him. Its eyes were blue, and its hair was black. It looked like him.
“Don’t yell like that,” he said. He said it in Gaelic. “You make them laugh at me. I’m your father. Do you want to make your father a laughingstock?”
The child stopped yelling. It took hold of Laeghaire’s hand, leaned out, and caught for his surcoat. Laeghaire drew him close. The child stared up at him. He talked to it in Gaelic. He had not spoken Gaelic for nearly six years. He had saved it to be spoken to his son. He watched the baby’s eyes and saw its mouth try to say words.
“You’re happy,” Hilde said.
“Yes.” He looked at her. “Yes.”
“What shall we call him?”
“Murrough. For my brother.”
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