by Grace Ingram
‘Ah, my lady!’ He looked with aversion at the boy, set a hand on Guy’s shoulder and thrust him forward. ‘See what I got out of a peasant wench! ’
The Slut growled. Guy flushed hot and then chilled; he had never imagined this. The woman glanced at him, brows lifting slightly, and nodded.
‘When you were young and vigorous,’ she said sedately, and Guy inwardly applauded her. Lord Reynald’s look paralysed every tongue, and in the grisly hush Guy became aware of a thin rhythmic sound like a kitten’s mewing. The boy’s face was tight with strain, his neck-muscles taut cords as his breath creaked in his chest. Pity stabbed Guy. He had known an elderly neighbour who wheezed so whenever the weather turned damp, and this child with the old man’s affliction could not be more than eight years old.
His mother drew him closer to her skirts as though to cover him from Lord Reynald’s gaze, and looked up to consider Guy with lovely grey-green eyes. Here was one person who did not shrink from the tyrant, and Guy took a step forward and bent his knee in respect. ‘God save you, my lady.’
‘God be with you, young man.’
‘His name’s Guy,’ Lord Reynald broke in. ‘And that puling misery who can’t even breathe if the wind blows damp is my only lawful get, Roger. Be off to your bed, whelp! No, my lady Mabel, you don’t go to coddle him! Even if you can’t bear me a son worth having, like this tall lad here, you’ll take your place at table as a wife should.’
Guy felt the blood scorch to his brow. The child uttered a half-choked whimper, turned and scuttled like a scared rabbit, his breathing noisier for his distress. His mother’s hands clenched against the blue gown, but when Guy venturned a glance, her face was expressionless. She moved away from her husband to the other side of the hearth, and the woman in the kerchief slipped towards the stair. The two girls arranged themselves behind their mistress, a decorative contrast, one slender and dark, the other buxom and fair. Guy recovered sufficiently to regard them appreciatively.
The tables were ready. The seneschal descended from the dais, exchanged glances with the lady, and made some sort of signal. Moments later a horn bellowed in the bailey, and men and women began to seek their places. Lord Reynald moved towards his high chair, his lady beside him, though for all the attention he paid her she might have been invisible. When almost all places were filled, a stick thumped on the threshold, and Wulfrune stalked in with Lord Reynald’s daughter. Guy caught her glance of malice at her father’s wife; the two had delayed to show contempt for her rule.
‘Your half-sister Rohese,’ came the final introduction. ‘She’ll be your partner at table, and teach you to eat in seemly fashion, instead of putting your feet in the trough.’
Guy flushed again, and Rohese giggled. ‘That’s a lifetime’s task!’
Guy’s sense of humour, which had been bludgeoned almost insensible, suddenly revived. ‘Do you expect so short a life? Take heart, sister viper. Only the virtuous die young.’
She gaped at him as though no one had ever dared retaliate before. Lord Reynald gave his mirthless bark of laughter, Lucifer chuckled, and Wulfrune jerked up her staff in menace and then thumped it back, scowling. Guy followed to the high table, reflecting that an unpleasant tongue must be part of the Warby heritage; he had one himself at need. He took his stool at the end of the high table and waited. The Slut lay down at his feet and rested her head upon them.
There was no priest present to ask a blessing on their meat. The seneschal spoke a layman’s curt grace, and Guy noted that neither Lord Reynald nor his daughter made the sign of the cross. The food was borne in with ceremony; lavish enough but little more elaborate than that served at a prosperous craftsman’s table, and the flavourings and sauces were compounded of the same herbs that grew in his mother’s garden. Then he realized that the spices, almonds, dried fruits and exotic delicacies he had expected were no longer available. The years of civil war had closed fairs and markets, and driven foreign merchants from the land.
Guy’s table-manners had been refined in the monastery but he had not learned the conventions of sharing cup and platter with a lady. His stepmother’s married attendant sat at his other side with Sir Gerard, so he concluded they were man and wife; beyond Lord Reynald the other two knights partnered the girls. He watched his neighbours to copy their ways. A page of about ten and a small lame man who seemed to be Lord Reynald’s personal servant came round with ewer of water, basin and towels. Since they were served in order of rank, he saw he should hold his hands above the basin while water was poured over his fingers, and a gentleman assisted a lady with the towel. Rohese had long hands with prominent knuckles that had never scoured a pot nor soused in a washtub. It was for her to choose their dish, and she selected pigeons from the spit, glancing at him under her lashes with malicious amusement; no one else had taken them. The servant slipped two on to the trencher between them.
Guy hesitated, and then drew his knife, keen as an oilstone could make it, to split the squab down the breast. The flesh fell from its bones. A surreptitious glance along the table showed him what next to do, and he cut the meat into neat portions so that Rohese could eat without soiling more than her finger-tips.
‘Fairly imitated,’ she mocked him, ‘but you carve like a butcher. A gentleman lays no more than two fingers and a thumb on his meat.’
‘I shall learn,’ he said, dealing with the second pigeon as she had recommended. ‘And if you practised courtesy you might even be mistaken for a gentlewoman.’
Lord Reynald laughed. ‘Try again, my girl, but I think you’re over-matched.’
Guy marvelled at the man who set his children at each other’s throats for his entertainment. His own practice fell far short of courtesy. He was eating a dispiriting mess of boiled fowl in frumenty, new wheat cooked in milk, and left his lady to fend for herself. The page, a snub-nosed boy with a strong likeness to Sir Gerard, filled the cups with wine. It was harsh to the palate after the ale Guy was accustomed to drinking, and he used it with a caution shared by no other man at the board, nor by Rohese.
The dishes were cleared, and Guy presented his gravy-soaked trencher to the Slut, who disposed of it in three gulps and then laid her muzzle back upon his foot. Ewer and basin came round again, and then the second course. This time Rohese chose chopped meat so highly seasoned that he could not be sure what beast provided it, in a coffin of savoury pastry. She ate more of it than he did; she must have the digestion of a winter wolf to fill herself so with rich meats at the day’s end and sleep untroubled. Sweetmeats and fruit finished the meal. Guy took one little honey-cake knobbed with nuts, and then contented himself with an apple, but Rohese gobbled one sticky delight after another.
‘Only peasants fancy raw fruit,’ she jibed as he bit into his apple.
‘And guzzling wenches end their lives as toothless lard-bladders.’
She jerked back the hand that reached to the dish. ‘You—you dare ?’ she spat. ‘Remember who I am!’
‘My lord’s bastard, as I am. You shall have as much courtesy as you give.’
‘My lord! ’ she appealed to their sire.
‘The brew’s of your own stirring, and he’s the son and the elder,’ he denied her. The blow struck the colour from her pretty face, before hate and fury transfigured it. Lord Reynald turned to his lady.
‘Wife, tomorrow you’ll see to new clothes for this son of mine. Set all your wenches stitching, and no country weave, but scarlet or purple to match his standing.’
Guy’s tongue knotted so that no word would come. The lady’s lips curved faintly as she looked on him, and she answered indifferently, ‘I am at your command, my lord, in all things.’ She reached to the dish for an apple and gave it all her attention.
Hands were washed again, the dishes carried out, the cloth removed. Lord Reynald called to the page for more wine, and sat glooming into his cup. There was no entertainment, not even a recorder or viol such as any craftsman’s household, or for that matter a peasant’s, could muster to supply m
usic at the day’s end. With a sweep of skirts Lady Mabel rose from her chair, her move bringing her attendants to their feet. Guy eyed them appreciatively. Though no longer young, the marshal’s wife was sweet-faced and graceful, and the girls were comely. The fair one glanced at him sidelong from her eye-corners, the dark one lowered her lashes. He smiled at both.
‘Which d’you fancy?’ demanded Lord Reynald.
He started. ‘My lord?’
‘Which will you have for a bed-mate?’
Taken aback, he stammered like a fool. ‘M-my lord, I had—had no such—’
‘Don’t pretend any finicky scruples. They’re both whores. Gertrude—’ he jerked his head at the fair girl —‘or Agnes. Which?’
Gertrude smiled expectantly. Agnes stiffened and scowled. But Guy, big and blond himself, had always cherished a fancy for little dark girls, and his look betrayed him. Lord Reynald grinned. ‘Agnes, I see. She’s yours.’
Agnes had recoiled, and Guy, recovering his composure, said firmly, ‘Only if she be willing.’
‘Willing? What’s a whore to pick and choose? She’ll reckon herself favoured if my son condescends to bed her. If she doesn’t please you, thrash her.’
‘But, my lord—’
‘Enough!’ His hand slapped the table so that the cups jumped, and the Slut heaved up her forequarters, ears pricked and muzzle wrinkling. Guy laid a reassuring hand on her head and subsided, his face afire, conscious of the girl’s resentment, Lady Mabel’s contempt and the company’s amusement. He was glad when Agnes’s gown vanished behind the door curtain. Rohese, who had not withdrawn with the other women, giggled beside him. Wulfrune came to her, glee in her face.
‘What, our cockerel’s a capon for all his bold crowing?’
‘He’s a virgin, Grandmother. A timid virgin who has never dared venture—’
‘No more a virgin than you are!’ Guy blazed.
She blanched with fury. He had made no error; she was unchaste as any other wench in this hold, and she its lord’s daughter and unwed. The Slut was on her feet at the angry voices, her lips wrinkling from her teeth and a growl rasping in her throat. Rohese shrank back. Lord Reynald was starting up, and she scuttled for the door, pausing with her hand on the curtain for the last word. ‘Agnes will instruct you, novice!’
Wooden-faced, the page refilled Guy’s cup. The women had all retired, and the men were watching him as though he were a fool performing for their entertainment. He took a deep gulp of the wine. Though it set his teeth on edge, it had more authority than any but the most potent ale, and by the time he reached the bottom of the cup his resentment had dissolved into a comfortable haze. He retained sense enough to shake his head as the boy approached again, and when the company rose he was no more than mildly cheerful.
Lord Reynald thrust reality upon him. ‘Tomorrow you’ll start your schooling in knightly exercises.’ Guy kindled to the thought, his face lighting, and his sire grinned. ‘Sir Conan will teach you.’
‘That’s your marshal’s duty!’ Lucifer expostulated, and indeed Sir Gerard’s face of protest matched his and Guy’s.
‘Will you contest who is the better man-at-arms, or do my bidding as I hired you?’
Marshal and mercenary measured each other and then Lucifer shrugged. ‘God’s Head, it’s a harder penance than any priest would set for my sins,’ he declared, and stalked out.
The company dispersed. Guy, left standing angry and bewildered among servants taking down tables and stacking benches, found Oswin at his elbow to lead him to a chamber recessed in the wall’s thickness, with a heavy leather curtain across its arched doorway to provide a semblance of privacy. There was just space for a chest, a rod above it for hanging clothes, and a bed. The window-slit was shuttered against the rainy night, but Oswin darted out and returned with a candle, which he set on a pricket by the door. The walls were plastered and whitewashed, reflecting its light, and Guy looked about him with pleasure and never thought to wonder who had been dispossessed to make room for him.
The Slut, never permitted within doors in the Bristol house, sniffed the room over and then dropped on the wolfskin by the bed, her tail thumping. Guy began to undress, and Oswin came forward to help. As he hauled his tunic over his head and the candle flared, Guy surprised such a look of misery and hatred on the man’s face that he checked, his arms still inside the garment. ‘What’s amiss? If you dislike serving me, go back to the stables.’
Oswin flinched back. ‘No, no!’ He caught his breath and went on desperately. ‘Me lord’s bid me serve you! In God’s Name, don’t you say naught to me lord, please. Master Guy, or he’ll ha’ the hide off o’ me!’
Guy frowned at him. The fellow reached to take his tunic, ingratiating as a whipped cur, and he relinquished it absently. There was more honour and greater ease in serving the lord’s son than in grooming his horses, and for the life of him he could not see what cause the man had for resentment when they had barely met. This household was a tangle of enmities. He would unravel them in time.
He submitted to being assisted out of his clothes. Gentlefolk, with ample bedcovers, got within them naked. He dismissed Oswin, glad to see him go, and knelt to say his prayers. In this hold he would have great need of Heaven’s protection. He patted the Slut for good night, blew out the candle and slid between the sheets. Since leaving the cradle he had slept on a straw pallet. This was a real bed, with a feather mattress over the straw base, linen sheets and pillow-covers, woollen blankets and an embroidered coverlid. He sank into its embrace, more comfortable and more uneasy than he had ever lain in his life.
The hall settled to quiet beyond his doorway, lights extinguished and the fire covered with ashes so that only a dull glow crept round the edges of the curtain. The servants had ceased bustling about. The Slut stood up, poking her cold nose at him for reassurance, and he fondled her ears and muzzle. She turned round and round on the wolfskin and at last curled up. Guy thought of the morning and Sir Conan, and his mind jumped to understanding. Whatever malice had prompted Lord Reynald to appoint Lucifer as his teacher, reason was there too. Each would strive his uttermost, to be the sooner quit of the association.
Guy grinned wryly and rolled on to his side. He was just sliding into sleep when the curtain rings rattled faintly on the rod, and the Slut was up, growling challenge. He lifted on his elbow.
‘Who is it?’
‘Call off your dog!’ a girl’s voice said breathlessly, and he reached out to quiet the Slut. Someone slipped round the curtain, and a flicker of firelight touched dark hair floating over the folds of a heavy cloak.
‘Agnes?’
‘Who else did you expect?’
She was at the bedside, the Slut backing from her with a low growl. The cloak’s weight fell across Guy’s feet, the bedcovers lifted, and a cool smooth body joined his. Serving-wenches and an occasionally-afforded harlot had shown him what delight a man could take in a woman, but they were clumsy fumblings beside those he learned in Agnes’s arms. He did not wonder who had taught her until he woke in the dawning and found her gone.
Chapter 5
Lucifer lowered the blunt practice sword and wiped his brow, surveying his pupil. ‘Whoever taught you sword-play made a passable job of it,’ he conceded, ‘considering the stuff he had to work on.’
Guy’s lop-sided smile was tight with resentment, but he chose to take his words as commendation. He was woefully out of practice, Gamel having died shrieking at unseen horrors two winters ago, and his shoulders and chest must be bruised purple even through the padded leather tunic he wore for protection.
‘We’ll see now how you shape on a horse, and since Lord Reynald is lending his own destrier, use him carefully.’ Lord Reynald had been constrained to that generosity because only he owned two destriers. Naturally he provided the worse, an elderly bay who looked to have scarcely a charge left in him. ‘God’s Bones, you don’t climb him like a tree,’ Lucifer jibed, and as Guy started to swing his right leg over, he poked t
he stallion with his sword so that he snorted and pranced sideways. Guy half-sprawled over the saddle, the pommel driving into his belly, righted himself and settled firmly, held by the high pommel and cantle.
‘Legs well forward, toes down, and your rump hard against the cantle. Off and try again. You must be able to mount a plunging horse during any alarm, by day or night. Again. You’re still climbing him. Up with you as soon as your toe’s in the stirrup. Saint Gildas, you ride like a faggot of sticks on a woodcutter’s donkey! Try again.’
Guy mounted over and over, spurred by the jibes and instructions Sir Conan kept up, under the critical gaze of troopers, grooms and urchins, until the old destrier had had enough and plunged in protest. He tightened the reins, and the stallion squealed and reared as the ferocious curb bit savaged his mouth. Perspiring, Guy held him with thighs and knees until he ceased bucking and stood, stamping and tossing his head.
A soldier handed up a shield, and told him how to sling it over his shoulder by the carrying strap or guige and put his left forearm through the straps. He had to hold the reins breast-high to keep the long shield up to cover his face and chest.
‘Let them hang loose. If you jerk on that bit he’ll rear and maybe fall on you. You ride with your legs, and stand in your stirrups to fight. Draw your sword and try a swing or two. Walk him forward. Keep your shield up. Legs forward and weight on your stirrups. No more than a touch on the reins; turn him with your legs. And back again.’
Sweating and determined, Guy walked the old destrier up and down the bailey, trying to obey the orders that accompanied him. For a craftsman, he rode well enough; as an aspirant to knighthood, very ill. A gently-born boy began his training at seven years, and was schooled daily in horsemanship and arms.