‘Not yet,’ the lad called back. ‘But I will.’
Wal was one of the few people who could be trusted not to haul him back to the castle and get him into trouble with Milburga.
‘Mind how you go then,’ Wal said, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. William grinned.
Besides his father, fishing was what William loved best, even if he did have to suffer the agonies of the damned every time he crept out of the castle to do it. As young as he was, he had a natural aversion to lying; the fact that he did so was testament not only to his passion for the sport but also the pleasure it gave him to present a fish or two to his ailing father for his breakfast.
And yet, despite his conscience, he found a rare peace among the reeds, screened from the world by the sentries of willow trees, listening to the birds; left to his own devices he could happily stay there all day. Indeed, the only time he remembered being happier was in the days before Sir John’s illness, when they would come to the river together to sit in companionable silence watching the water flow by.
It seemed such a long time ago …
The sun was unusually warm for so early in spring; too warm for the clothes he was wearing and he took off his shoes and stockings to dig his toes into the soft, cool mud at the water’s edge.
A moment later a heron landed gloomily on the opposite bank and William sat up abruptly, flapping his arms at it until, eventually, it made a cumbersome retreat; then he cast his line, just as his father had taught him, and settled back on his elbows to wait for the fish.
The heat made him drowsy, time passed and the next thing he knew, Wal and his cows were mere specks in the distance on the other side of the meadow, and the sun, much too warm for comfort now, was directly overhead.
Midday!
Milburga was bound to have missed him by now. He would have to hurry back.
He packed up his things in a hurry, disappointed not to have caught anything, but the river was flowing too quickly today and, despite the occasional glimpse of a trout or two flicking languidly through its depths, had refused to offer him anything at all. Oh well.
He stood up, visible once more above the rushes, brushing at his mantle to remove the tell-tale signs of the riverbank detritus clinging to its threads, and was about to set off when he heard someone call his name.
Damn! It would be terribly bad luck to get caught now … If he could just manage to disappear before whoever it was got to him …
He scurried up the bank, hardly daring to breathe, bent as low to the ground as possible. If he could only get to the meadow he’d be able to disappear into the long grass and run home before they reached him …
He had almost made it too, when the voice came again.
Too late!
He stopped, stood up straight and looked around, and this time saw a skiff bobbing along the river bend bearing a figure in dark robes who was waving at him enthusiastically.
His heart sank. Whoever it was was still too far away to make out clearly but it looked suspiciously like Father Nimbus on his way back from one of his Godstow trips. He was bound to tell Milburga where he had found him, which meant – as she was so fond of threatening – there would be ‘hell to pay’. Oh well … He stamped the toe of his boot truculently into the muddy bank with a heavy sigh. Nothing for it now but to wait politely for the old man to reach him.
‘You naughty, naughty little bugger!’ The moment she spotted William, Milburga’s voice cut through the din of the busy kitchen like a knife; even Gorbag flinched.
During his sojourn on the riverbank he had missed both breakfast and dinner and was hungry by the time he got back to the castle. Hoping to find something to eat, he had made immediately for the kitchen only to find Milburga lying in wait for him. If she didn’t yet know how he made his way in and out of the castle – although it was a mystery she was working on – she was at least familiar with the tyranny of a growing boy’s stomach and where that would lead him.
It was even worse than he’d imagined.
‘Been chasing round looking for you all bloody morning,’ she shouted, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and swinging him round to face her. ‘Disappear like that one more time and I’m warning you …’ She was wagging her finger furiously. ‘Worried sick I was and so was Lady Maud. Wants to see you too and sharpish.’ And, with her talons still locked tightly around his throat, she marched him off to the keep.
‘Oh William,’ Maud sighed as Milburga shoved him in front of her. ‘You’ll have to stop this, you really will. It’s very bad for Milburga’s nerves … not to mention mine! Now sit down, there’s a good boy,’ she said, gesturing towards a stool in the corner of the room. ‘I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.’ She looked unusually serious. William felt his heart thump.
‘The thing is …’ she began. ‘Well … the thing is,’ she repeated, ‘it’s time you left Kenniford … Now it’s not that we don’t want you here because you know how we do and how terribly we’ll miss you, darling, but you’re getting big now and it’s time you started your training.’
She watched his eyes swell, saw his bottom lip quiver. She hadn’t expected him to relish the news exactly but wasn’t prepared for quite such misery either.
‘I’m sorry about it, darling, really I am. But, apart from anything else, it’s what your father would want for you.’ At the mention of Sir John a silent tear began a slow progression from the corner of his eye down his cheek.
Maud knelt beside him and took his hands in hers but he brushed her off and turned his face away. She got up again reluctantly and walked over to the window to look at anything but the stricken boy.
‘So,’ she said after a long silence, ‘I have arranged for you to go to Sir Robert Halesowen’s household near Bristol.’ She turned to look at him but he was staring at the floor, his head bowed. ‘And this afternoon he is sending some delegates to meet you and take you back there.’
Another plump tear rolled down William’s chin and splashed on to his knee. Still he made no sound, but in the awful stillness of the room Maud thought she could hear her own heart breaking.
‘Oh darling, please don’t cry. You can come back to visit us … It’s for your own good, really it is.’ She looked desperately at Milburga, but saw, to her dismay, that she was crying too. ‘Oh, bugger!’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-three
SIR ROBERT HALESOWEN’S men did indeed arrive that afternoon. At the sound of the trumpet Maud set off to the gatehouse to meet them.
As she made her way through the outer bailey in the blazing sunshine three tired, sweat-lathered horses were led past her by a groom.
She was surprised to see three horses, having assumed Sir Robert would send only two men; however, a third was, of course, more than welcome; another pair of eyes, after all, to keep William safe on the journey back to Bristol.
Ben looked pleased with himself as he admitted her to the gatehouse. ‘Think they’re the gentlemen you been expecting, my lady,’ he said, making a great show of unlocking the door with care. ‘Got the password right anyways.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘My, my, security has improved!’
He beamed with pride. ‘One of ’em’s a friend anyhow,’ he added, which Maud found baffling until he opened the door.
Alan of Ghent made a very low bow: ‘At your service, madam,’ he said.
At that very moment Maud realized she had never been more pleased to see anyone in her life. She felt her face light up and noted with relief the corresponding look of delight on his. For a moment or two neither spoke; it wasn’t necessary.
The truth was that since he had left she’d thought of little else. She’d known that it was unlikely they would ever meet again, but had nevertheless amused herself in her quieter moments by imagining her reaction to him if they ever did.
At first she had been angry with herself for allowing him to kiss her and, worse still, to steal her heart like that and gallop off with it and the Empre
ss. Had he turned up any earlier she might have punished him for the pain he had caused her; she might well have greeted him then with an attitude of haughty froideur to show him how little she cared, or was hurt, to make it quite clear that his existence barely even crossed her mind. But then the hours had turned into days, the days into weeks and her longing for him grew like ivy.
And now here he was, standing there smiling like that, as delighted to be in her company as she was in his; so that any pretence at ambivalence was futile. Instead she found herself fighting the urge to run to him, throw her arms around his neck and beg him never to leave again.
However, many generations of good breeding and a natural reserve – though neither haughty nor froid – prevailed, so instead she offered him her hand, which he in turn took and kissed with such tenderness that once again she felt that strange, unstable sensation around her knees and feared she might sink to them in front of everybody.
‘I am happy to see you,’ she whispered.
‘And I you, madam,’ he replied.
‘But it is a surprise,’ she added. ‘A pleasant one, but a surprise nonetheless.’
‘Sir Robert is a close ally and neighbour of the Empress, my lady,’ he said. ‘News travels fast, so when I heard young William was to be sent to Bristol I volunteered to be part of the dispatch. Besides, the Empress doesn’t need me at the moment; things are pretty quiet in the West at present.’
They stood gazing at one another for some considerable time until behind them two sets of throats were cleared ostentatiously.
‘Forgive me,’ Alan grinned. ‘A mercenary’s manners are almost always found wanting, as well you know, my lady. But may I make amends by introducing Sir Percy Bellecote and Edward Gilpin, whose company I’ve kept and, must say, enjoyed immensely on our journey here?’
The two young men smiled and bowed and Maud was suddenly reminded of her duty and so sent them off to be fed and watered.
She spent the rest of the day with Alan discussing everything that had happened since they last met. She told him about the final day of the siege, about Penda’s injury and the shock of discovering that she was, in fact, a girl and how, although poor old Sir Rollo was still smarting from Matilda’s insult, Gwil had proved an excellent commander. He in turn told her about their escape, the arrows he and the Empress had only narrowly avoided as they galloped away from the castle and his fears for Sir Christopher, who hadn’t appeared until well beyond Malmesbury, but was still wearing the Empress’s veil when he did. Maud laughed.
‘He is well, I hope,’ she said. Alan nodded.
‘And your husband, madam?’ he asked. ‘He is well too?’
‘Not exactly,’ she replied, ‘but still alive … just.’
‘I see.’
Maud had been to the turret earlier that day because William had rushed there after their conversation in the solar and she wanted to make sure that he was all right.
When she arrived, however, the boy had refused to acknowledge her and without his usual cheerful greeting the room felt even gloomier than ever. All that could be heard in the heavy silence was the laboured rasp of Sir John’s breathing interspersed with groans of pain.
He lay motionless on his cot just as he had the last time she had seen him and yet his face – bestially contorted on one side and as slack as an imbecile’s on the other – was turned permanently towards the door as though he were expecting someone at any moment.
Kigva was kneeling beside him, murmuring softly, her back to the door, her filthy naked feet splayed out behind her. Every now and then she tossed her head to free her face of the long damp strands of hair covering it, to guide a cup to her patient’s lips.
Maud shifted uncomfortably in the middle of the room. ‘Well, I shan’t be staying long,’ she said, although it was already a fleeting visit even by her standards. ‘But if there’s anything you need …’ She was half expecting Kigva to round on her again like a wild cat.
To her surprise she did not.
‘No, thank you, madam,’ she said instead and although the woman still had her back to her, Maud realized that it was the very first time she had ever addressed her properly, which she found strangely disconcerting.
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ she said, glancing over at William once more, who was still refusing to look at her.
‘Oh yes,’ Kigva replied, only this time she did turn round; the strange pale eyes stared directly into Maud’s. ‘We’ve got everything we need now.’
It was a peculiar sensation but, long after she had left the room, Maud could still feel Kigva’s eyes on her back.
Chapter Thirty-four
THE ABBOT ATROPHIES daily as though an invisible creature is eating him alive from the inside out.
It is the scribe’s fault, the infirmarian thinks as he puffs and clucks around his patient, muttering darkly that all this talk will do him harm; yet still the young man comes, armed with his instruments of torture, to drain the abbot’s soul. And still the abbot welcomes him.
It is morning and the scribe is sitting as usual at the bedside, poised to write.
‘It was a rare and joyful time for Kenniford,’ the abbot says. ‘After the siege and the fighting, its people had survived, triumphed even, and on the evening of Alan’s arrival there was, for the first time in a long time, music and dancing, and greatest of all, there was love, at last.’ He sighs wistfully, causing the scribe to shuffle uncomfortably on his stool. He doesn’t approve of music or dancing and certainly not the ‘love’ of which the abbot speaks. He mutters to himself, gives the coarse girdle around his loins a peremptory rub to prevent any stirrings and stops writing.
The abbot looks up irritably. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, boy! I will spare you the details but in God’s name write. I’m nearing the end.’
Chapter Thirty-five
WITH AN EXQUISITE pang Penda realized that today had been the happiest of her life.
The epiphany struck at suppertime as she looked around the hall at all the munching, laughing, chatting heads and understood that she loved them all; well, not perhaps all, but definitely the idea of them and certainly the majority.
She could, at last, love the place with impunity now because her time here was coming to an end.
She and Gwil would soon be leaving, to take to the road like old times and head east to find her family if they could. It was this idea and also, perhaps, the delicious spiced wine – of which she had drunk rather too much – which had suddenly brought everything into such sharp relief.
‘I love you,’ she told Gwil, resting her head on his shoulder and gazing up at him in woozy affection. ‘And I love you too,’ she said, turning to Father Nimbus on her other side. The two men exchanged amused glances.
‘My dear child, you are a most generous soul,’ Father Nimbus said, patting her hand. ‘And I am very fond of you too. May the good Lord bless you and keep you always. You will be much missed at Kenniford.’
‘Ease up on the old wine a bit, Pen,’ Gwil said, nudging her in the ribs, but he was smiling and she could tell that, although displays of emotion embarrassed him, he was secretly pleased.
Earlier on they had bumped into Alan of Ghent whom Maud had obviously primed so well that he did not betray the least surprise to see Penda in feminine apparel; instead he had complimented her on her beauty, adding that he hoped she was still as handy with a crossbow. Best of all though had been Gwil’s reaction:
‘Certainly is,’ he told him proudly, before Penda had a chance to open her mouth. ‘Best I’ve ever seen.’
It was a prize beyond rubies and she would remember those words for the rest of her life.
After supper there was dancing.
Penda sat on her stool, her feet tapping furiously to the music, watching the twirling dancers on the floor. Gwil, however, seemed oblivious to the merriment and was instead staring into his lap, fiddling with the quill case like a penance.
‘Could get bloody irritating, that could,’ she piped
up when she could bear it no longer.
He looked up, startled. ‘What could?’
‘You fidgeting with that thing all the time. What is it anyway?’
He sighed wearily. ‘I’ve told you an’ told you. It’s nothing … it’s just a … thing … a mercenary’s answer to rosary beads, that’s all. Anyway, mind your own business.’
She pursed her lips and shrugged. He could be a miserable bugger sometimes and this evening was turning out to be one of those times.
Her previous euphoria succumbed to a sudden stab of guilt. Perhaps it was all her fault? She should not be taking him away from here; not when he, of all people, had so much to stay for. Of course she could be happy, she was going home, most likely to be reunited with her family, but his family was dead! No, she was a selfish girl even to have suggested it, not to mention a stupid, conceited one to think that she alone could make him happy … and yet, from the very first, he had leaped on the idea with alacrity.
‘I’m done here, Pen,’ he had assured her. ‘Siege is over. We done our bit. I’ll hand back to poor old Sir Rollo and no harm done. Be like old times, won’t it?’
Back then she’d thought he had meant those words but now she wasn’t so sure. Look at him! He had hardly touched his food all evening and was so preoccupied with whatever it was that there wasn’t so much as a flicker from him when a pair of blackbirds flew out of one of Gorbag’s pies. All the other diners gasped and applauded but Gwil just sat there as if nothing had happened.
She was beginning to despair when Milburga, wearing a smile of grim determination, came bearing down on them and sashayed around the table to bully him to his feet. There was no doubt about it, he had blushed a terrible colour, and affected huge reluctance, but at long last Penda could see that deep down he was rather pleased.
‘I’ve often wondered about them two,’ she confided to Father Nimbus as they watched them dance.
Winter Siege Page 27