by Jo Beverley
Aimery bowed. “I will treasure it, my liege.”
The king fixed him with stern eyes. “Just be sure to wear it. Now,” said the king, as if something had been established, “what do you think of this giant?”
Aimery felt his heartbeats and worked at appearing calm. “He sounds like a peasant who lost patience with injustice, sire.”
“Unusual, wouldn’t you say? And that he be skilled with a sword?”
“With respect, sire, that guard would have to make a good story of it so as not to appear a coward. They were all doubtless drunk and the peasant lucky.”
William smiled. “Likely enough. Now, what are your thoughts on Golden Hart?”
Aimery put on a politely questioning expression. “Golden Hart, sire? He’s supposed to be a rebel, a rebel of the people. I suspect a myth is growing up rather than that it is a real individual.”
The king was watching him like a hawk. “Is that all you know?”
Aimery avoided that. “I don’t think Golden Hart offers a serious threat to your realm, sire.”
“I know that,” said William flatly. “No one offers any serious threat to my realm.” As if to prove the point, William gestured to Edwin of Mercia, and the earl hurried forward, eager to please. “Earl Edwin, tomorrow we will have a trial of arms. It would please me to see some of the English skills, the spear and the ax. Would any English subjects be willing to arrange this? My showy mongrel here will doubtless take part.”
Edwin bowed eagerly. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Aimery had not done much English fighting for years, and the next day he performed only moderately at it. His spear skills had been kept up in hunting, and he hit the center twice. With the ax he felt lucky to hit the target each time. The throwing ax was not as heavy as the battle-ax, but it was heavy enough.
When Leo made a scathing comment about his performance, Aimery said, “Look, an ax is for hacking people apart, and with brute force more than skill. It makes as much sense to throw one as it would to throw your horse. And it’s about as hard. If you don’t believe me, try it.”
So Leo did. With his massive build he did quite well but missed the target one try out of three. He came back easing his shoulder. “Whew. I think I’d rather throw my horse. Tell me, what do you do in a battle when you’ve thrown your ax?”
Aimery laughed. “I’ve always wanted to know that. I think it’s a noble last gesture before going to Valhalla.”
“Talking of noble gestures,” said Leo, “the king gave me the job of arranging the sword matches. I’ve lined you up against Odo de Pouissey.”
“Am I supposed to appreciate that?”
“Yes. There’s clearly no love between you. Sword work’s no game. It’s always better for a bit of feeling.”
“The man’s a fool when he’s drunk and a bore when he’s sober. I’ve better things to do with my time than to squabble with him.”
Leo looked at him with disgust and then shook his head. “At times you are a damned Saxon, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Come on to the butts.”
Even the king took part in the archery. He did moderately well and showed no displeasure to those who defeated him. He presented a silver goblet to the winner.
He left the riding at the quintain to the younger men, saying it would be foolishness for the monarch to be knocked senseless in a game.
For all that he called it a game, the quintain was serious work, the basis of the Norman style of mounted warfare which was carrying them all over Europe, and which had won them the Battle of Senlac. Aimery hit true with the heavy spear each of the three times he rode at the target; those less skillful found themselves knocked to the ground. Odo de Pouissey and Stephen de Faix also rode clear but had close misses. William awarded the prize—a handsome dagger with a carved amber pommel—to Aimery.
During the break for roast meats and ale, Odo glared jealously at the blade in its gilded sheath, so Aimery knew what to expect when the sword work began.
The weapons were blunted and the contestants wore mail suits and helmets, and carried long shields on their left arms, but it was still not a matter to take lightly. Aimery had hoped that by the time he faced Odo the man would have lost his animosity, but it wasn’t so.
“So,” hissed Odo as they sized each other up. “You think you can fight as well as a purebred Norman, do you?”
“Don’t be a fool,” retorted Aimery, watching the way Odo moved his feet and sword. “It’s all in the training, and my training was thoroughly Norman.” He switched feet and moved back on himself. Odo was fractionally late in matching the move. Was he clumsy or had he drunk too much, as was his way? The man had a fair reputation as a warrior.
Odo swung his sword and Aimery took it on his shield. He could have thrust into Odo’s exposed body then, but that sort of deathblow wasn’t allowed in a training fight, and he’d have to pay wergild to his family. He hoped Odo realized that—and didn’t think Aimery’s death worth 1200 shillings.
He’d think it worth every penny if he knew it was Aimery who’d foiled his assault on the Baddersley heiress. When he remembered that dastardly attack, Aimery began to think it would be worth paying wergild for Odo.
They pushed apart and swung sword against sword, then against shield. The clang and the thud and the concentration became all that mattered. One of Aimery’s greatest faults, or so his teachers had always said, was that he was unable to take a training fight seriously. Now to his surprise he felt the blood-burn of war, experienced the focus that led to death dealing. It was because of that attempted rape.
Aimery’s reactions speeded as he parried and swung. He landed a hard blow on Odo’s mailed shoulder. Odo staggered back and glared, then rushed in to retaliate.
It was hot fighting after that. Aimery guarded himself as if in battle, and both his sword and shield arm tingled from the constant blows. His fingers ached with the grip on his sword. Sweat ran into his eyes. He dimly heard the roar of approval at such fierce fighting, but his attention was all on his foe.
They locked, shield to shield, sword to sword, and pushed back to eye each other, both taking a moment to catch their breath. Aimery wiped sweat from his brow, and something beyond Odo caught his attention.
Someone.
D’Oilly’s man-at-arms was watching the fighting.
The flicker of inattention was only momentary, but Odo took advantage. He leaped forward. Aimery raised his sword to catch the other man’s blade but suffered a bruising blow on his thigh from the shield. As he staggered, he narrowly missed having the pointed end of it driven into his foot. The crowd howled at that unfair move.
He charged Odo with a hard, swinging sword, needing to beat the man down, to defeat him. As in battle the pain disappeared. He swung and blocked and locked shields as if his energy was endless. Then he landed a blow, as he intended, on just the spot on the shoulder that must still throb. Odo dropped his shield slightly even as Aimery swung back short to hammer his wrist so that his sword fell.
Odo grabbed the sword. He would have continued, but the horn sounded as the king called an end. He graciously complimented both men but gave Aimery the victory for the disarm. Odo snarled and stalked off. Aimery let his gaze wander back to where d’Oilly’s man stood. The man looked up as if sensing eyes on him, and for a moment their eyes locked.
Was there anything to read in that flat gaze? Nothing, Aimery decided, that was to any purpose. If the man recognized him and intended to denounce him to the king, there was nothing Aimery could do about it. He went to sit with his friends and watch Leo trounce Stephen de Faix.
His brother was huge, strong, and surprisingly nimble. He was formidable with a sword. Stephen tried his best, but it was clear from the start he just hoped to come through the bout with body and honor intact.
Aimery had to fight twice more. He steadfastly put the watching man-at-arms out of his mind, and despite the fact he still ached from his previous fight, he did well. He might have won the conte
st except for the fact that his last opponent, of course, was his brother.
“You swing from the right too often,” gasped Leo as they recovered, sprawled companionably on the grass.
“It doesn’t matter where I swing from against you, you great ox.”
“True enough.” Leo shook hair wet with sweat. “But you shouldn’t be so predictable. Someone should have beaten it out of you.”
“I think they tried.” Aimery waved to Geoffrey, who came and cheerfully poured a bucket of water over them both. “I’ve never had a true sword hit yet, though.”
“Battles. No one’s studying you in a battle. If you come up one to one, a justice fight for example, a good opponent would spot it. De Pouissey should have. I could have killed you half a dozen times.”
Aimery sat up and slicked back his wet hair. He looked at his brother seriously. With the state his life was in these days, a one-on-one fight to the death was not impossible. “Who’s the best sword master hereabouts?”
“Me,” said Leo with a wolfish grin. “We should have a few weeks to work on you before I have to go home. But if you don’t learn fast, little brother, you’ll be black and blue.”
Leo was as good as his word, and he showed he had been telling the truth about Aimery’s vulnerability. Leo’s blunt sword was too often able to land a heavy blow and, despite the padded leather they wore, some days Aimery felt he could scarcely crawl out of bed. He didn’t find it any easier when his father or the king came to watch and make scathing comments. At least d’Oilly had left and taken his man with him without any suspicion being directed at Aimery.
The king announced the marriage agreement between Judith, Countess of Huntingdon, and Waltheof, soon to be earl. Some Normans were disgruntled to see such a tasty morsel thrown to an English hound, but generally the betrothal was taken as an excuse for celebration. The court moved on to the town of Huntington in high spirits.
Despite daily belaborings from his brother, Aimery enjoyed his weeks with the court. If William had suspicions about Aimery’s activities he was not acting on them, and for a while Aimery didn’t have to deal with conflicting allegiances and ever-present injustice. He even began to hope the worst was over. The English nobles appeared to be finally accepting William and, apart from opportunistic raids from the Scots and Welsh, peace just might be on the horizon.
There was always the question of what Hereward would do, of course. Aimery wondered if it was time for him to try to bring his uncle and the king together, but that, too, would have to wait.
There seemed little danger of anyone realizing he was the notorious Golden Hart. In fact, the myth was now to his advantage for even as he was making merry in Huntingdon, Golden Hart was apparently murdering a Norman knight in Yorkshire, then leading a mini-insurrection near Shrewsbury.
So he hunted, feasted, sang, and whored, and felt more carefree than he had since Senlac.
Until Gyrth turned up.
The man slipped into the stables one day as Aimery was tending a new bay gelding, a gift from the king.
“Nice horse,” said Gyrth. “What’s his name?”
“I’m tempted to name him Bastard,” said Aimery sourly. “This beast and I have yet to reach an understanding. News?”
“Not from Rolleston. Baddersley.”
Aimery glanced around and moved into open ground where no one could sneak up to listen. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, the little bitch’s life has become a misery.”
“What’s happening?” asked Aimery sharply. “They haven’t touched her, have they? They’ll have the king down on them like the wolves of winter.”
“Oh no, they haven’t touched her,” said Gyrth angelically. “It’s the aunt. Gone mad, she has.” He scratched his nose. “With a little bit of help . . .”
Aimery looked at him. “What have you done?”
“Everyone knows the aunt’s easily goaded. I got talking to Aldreda, and we came up with this plan, see. If the girl could be made to look guilty of this and that, she’d be punished, and no blame attached to the village. With a bit of luck the bitch would be really hurt, and de Pouissey and his wife’d feel the king’s wrath. He’d hang ’em from the walls, and we’d be rid of the lot of ’em.”
Aimery was surprised at the immediate outrage he felt. It was a clever plan. “So, what’s happening?” he asked.
Gyrth grinned wickedly. “You’d be amazed at the things a young woman can get up to. Let’s see. She put salt in the cream and sawdust in the flour. She threw the Dame’s best brooch in the fire and shaved a strip off her nasty little dog. If the girl’s eaten anything other than bread and water for weeks I’d be surprised, and her aunt went after her with a carding brush one time and skinned her arm. The best was when she slashed a tunic the aunt was making for dear, sweet Odo. Went after her with a log and broke her ribs.”
Aimery felt sick. She deserves this and more, he told himself, but he wanted to rush to her side to protect her. “You must be mad. She’s the king’s ward. Put a stop to it.”
“She deserves every blow! And I don’t know that I can stop it. The people of Baddersley have been ground into the dust so they’re barely human anymore. They’ve a focus for their hate, and they’re loving every minute of it.”
Aimery turned on him and gripped his arm down to the bone. “If the girl ends up dead or crippled, the king’s rage will spill over the whole area. Put a stop to it.”
Gyrth scowled. “You trying to break my arm? Why so tender-hearted? I thought you’d kicked her out of your system.” At the look in Aimery’s eyes he grew cautious. “I’ll do what I can. They likely need Golden Hart to tell them, though.”
Aimery didn’t slacken his grip. “And why would that be?”
Gyrth winced and looked shifty. “Well . . . he’s who set them on to it, or so they think.”
“Golden Hart is dead,” Aimery said. “As you are dead to me if you use that name again for any purpose.” Gyrth’s features tightened under the threat. Aimery let him go. “Go undo your own mischief. I’m not going to Baddersley again. When you’ve settled things, you stay away from the place, too. The king seems in a matrimonial mood, and he’ll doubtless settle the heiress’ marriage soon. It could well be to an Englishman. Morcar, perhaps. Things should sort themselves out. Just, for God’s sake, make sure the girl’s in one piece when the king rides up.”
Aimery tried not to think about Madeleine de la Haute Vironge, but the vision of her persecuted, imprisoned, and beaten would not let him rest. Had that bold spirit been crushed? Did those fine dark eyes shift and falter?
She deserved it, he told himself. She deserved to suffer as she had made others suffer. But he longed to ride to Baddersley and protect her.
Even if he were so weak-willed, it would be impossible. The king was keeping everyone under his eye and playing politics. William was feeding the ancient feud between Gospatric of Northumbria and Waltheof, whose father and grandfather had been earl. He was listening courteously to messengers from the kings of Scotland and Denmark, and building Edwin of Mercia’s self-importance. The interesting point, however, was that Waltheof was now betrothed to Judith while Edwin’s match with Agatha was unsettled.
Dangerous anger was building in the Mercian camp over this, not least because Edwin and Agatha appeared to have developed a genuine fondness for each other. In fact Aimery thought it sickening the way they hovered about each other.
The atmosphere at court was beginning to grow heavy, yet William continued to be jovial and to promise all things to all people.
There had been no further mention of Aimery’s reward, and he was beginning to think he could request permission to leave when the king drew him apart.
“I’ve watched you, Aimery, and it eases my mind.”
“Sire?”
The king looked out over the crowded hall, noting who was talking to whom, who was smiling and who frowning. “These are hard times, my boy,” he said, “and this situation is not of my makin
g. I seek only the good of my English subjects.”
“I know that, my liege.”
William nodded and looked directly at Aimery. “You will always act for my good, will you not?”
“It is always my intent, sire.”
William grinned and took a grip on Aimery’s arm. “I am giving you the Baddersley heiress.”
Aimery froze, unable to make the appropriate response.
The king removed his hand. “Do I gather,” he said coldly, “you are not delighted?”
Aimery collected his wits. “I am overwhelmed, sire. But I have Rolleston to run.”
“Rolleston, according to you, is running on greased wheels. I hear Baddersley is in a poor way. Are you afraid of work?”
With relief Aimery saw the king was not angry, merely intrigued. “You know the place, don’t you?” asked William. “It belonged to that scourge, Hereward, along with Rolleston. Is it not a desirable manor?”
“It is in a strong location, sire, and the manor holds rich land, well drained.”
“Tell me then straight out why you alone of all the young men are not slobbering over the prize.”
Because it’s to sign my death warrant. There’s a traitor in Baddersley village who’ll betray me for a few pieces of silver, and if I escape him, the heiress will recognize me and report it to you . . . Aimery found an explanation which contained an element of truth. “Rumor has it the heiress is ugly in body and mind. I was raised in a happy home full of love and graciousness. Even for a fair estate I do not want to marry such a woman.”
The king moved forward and gripped Aimery’s shoulders strongly. Aimery saw tears in his eyes. “Well said! I, too, know the value of a gracious wife. You are wise beyond your years.” But then he gave his godson a shake. “But what if rumor lies and she is fair in all respects? What then, eh?”
The humor in the king’s eyes told Aimery that William knew the heiress was comely. “Then I am a fool,” he said, “and have thrown your generosity in your face, sire.”
The king released him and paced backward and forward, deep in thought. “Very well,” he said at last. “We shall throw it in the lap of fate. Follow the wyrd, as our Viking ancestors would have it.”
