After that, the youngest Falkan was forgotten. He could not be sure if a war was drawing to its close, armies brought into final conflict by the calm requests of a nobleman turned beggar. Or maybe it had to come anyway; the eruptive anger of the elder son; the final, familial swing of the warlord’s power.
‘I want to know,’ Ranulf bored, ‘how you plan to pay off Vommier, whatever-his-name-is, and his gypsies. Not to upset you, sweet father, but you’ll be gone from here one day. Gone to the scented Heaven you believe in. The great Sir Geoffrey Falkan, Lord of Tremellion, warrior in Palestine, loving husband of the dark-skinned Greek he tumbled across – excuse me, wooed and courted – pleased and brought home from some island in the East. A romantic story, it calls for flowers, what a pity it’s not yet the season. But beyond all that –’ his voice was as hard as boiled leather – ‘I need to know which trinkets you plan to give away for the sake of the Christian Cause. You’re an old man now, let me say this to you, and no doubt charmed that your name’s remembered away across the seas. But that was then. All that matters now is what you plan here. So why don’t you dictate me a list of the trinkets, and I’ll call our twittering cleric from his bed.’ He was speaking more calmly now. Smiling at his father. Motioning him to be seated and reaching to pour him wine.
So it startled Ranulf when the warlord roared in his face.
‘You be seated! You, who can’t even pronounce the name of— This nobleman comes hundreds, thousands of miles on his mission, and you—’ then turned away, swinging back as Ranulf s buttocks stretched the leather of his chair.
‘Young Baynard here – yes, that’s true, he’s out of it. And also true I’ll soon be gone, pray God, to that scented Heaven you suppose. But until the last should happen – are you listening, Sir Ranulf? – Until I die I’m the Lord of Tremellion. Suzerain of the castle. Master of the surrounding villages. Overseer of all the lands and rivers for a damn fair stretch. And not only that – sweet son – but I’m guardian of Tremellion’s treasures; its jewels and coins and plate. Bury me when you can, my dear Ranulf, but until that happy day greets you it is I who control the fortunes of this distant, Cornish domain. And as such,’ he measured slowly, ‘decide.’
Unmoving in the candlelight, Baynard felt himself distanced from the table, hidden and ignored in the smoke. He could not even guess what his father would say, though he supposed it would bring a squawk of anger from Ranulf.
‘You ask me what trinkets I plan to give to the Cause? What proportion of our wealth? You tell me I’ll soon be gone, and that’s likely true. So I’d better hurry things on.’
He turned then to Baynard, Sir Geoffrey’s good eye glaring bright as a beacon, his clouded twin closed by his eyelid. ‘As for you,’ he said, ‘you know what you’ve been given.’ Then turned to Ranulf to tell him it was not a question of trinkets. Nor a proportion of Tremellion’s treasure. Apart from the castle itself – and its grounds – it was everything, each chest of coins, box of jewellery, sack or container of plate.
With a bitter, victorious grin, Tremellion spelt it out for Tremellion.
‘Don’t concern yourself with proportion, my dear Ranulf. I intend to give it all.’
In the extended silence that followed, all one could hear was the spit and crackle of logs. Then the wind, scudding through the arrow-loops. Then the creaks and whispers of the castle. Water dripped. A guard shouted, far away in the bailey. The painted leather curtains billowed against the walls.
Then Ranulf wrapped his muscular hands around the carved-wood arms of his chair. Pushed himself slowly, ominously to his feet. Passed his gaze like a sword-swipe across Baynard and inflicted the full hatred of his expression upon his father.
‘Did I hear you aright? All of it?’
‘Except for the castle itself, and—’
‘But the rest? The money and—?’
‘Such as it is.’
‘You’d dare – you’d dare give away the things that have belonged to this family—’
‘And now to me – oh, yes, most certainly I would. All the moveable wealth. It goes this very week to Plymouth. Lord Vaulmier informs me there’s a fleet assembled in port, its destination the Holy Land. I intend to see the treasure sails with those ships.’
Ranulf Falkan’s right hand rose in the hammer of a fist. Baynard lurched forward, reaching to intercept it, caught it in time to deflect the blow from Sir Geoffrey’s impassive face. By way of recompense, Ranulf used the point of his left elbow as a bludgeon, slamming it high against the side of his brother’s skull. Baynard staggered from the blow, lost his balance and went down in an unseemly heap on the floor. Ranulf snarled something unintelligible at Sir Geoffrey, strode from the table, swept his way from the Hall. The Lord of Tremellion was not to know it, but he would never again set eyes upon his firstborn son.
They would however, one final time, come close…
Chapter Three
Dazed and groaning, Baynard climbed unsteadily to his feet. He thought it typical of Ranulf to hit him in such a way that the ache in his head had magically fired the pain in his lower jaw. Avaricious in everything else, brother Ranulf was generous enough when it came to violence.
He groped for a chair, then obediently drained the goblet his father passed him.
Sir Geoffrey waited, gazing at the pain-drawn features of the younger Falkan. From the day of Baynard’s birth – more realistically from the time the boy had outlived the sicknesses of infancy – the Lord of Tremellion had been aware his second son could not, under the law, inherit the castle. It would go to Ranulf, who would probably give Baynard a palfrey and a packhorse, and half a morning in which to quit his lands.
Yet the warlord had realised there were things he could offer the child, the youth, the boy growing to manhood – opportunities that would be spurned by the dull-witted Ranulf.
At the age of ten, Baynard had been sent to serve as a squire in a nobleman’s household near Winchester. Two summers later and he’d sailed with the fishermen off the Irish coast. The following year he was in Paris, studying architecture under the renowned Monsieur le Bey. Then back to England for a term of military strategy, six months of mind-goading theory, back-breaking practice in the Norfolk fens.
Finally, Sir Geoffrey had summoned his son to Tremellion. Not to remain there, but to hear what his father had in mind.
‘I have discussed things at length with the Lady Elena. Nothing would gladden us so much as to have you here, though it would be for our own selfish pleasure. The truth of the matter – and I’ll say it bluntly – is that Tremellion has no need of another official, an administrator, for that’s the role you would play. I have a fair grasp of the problems here, and I can count on Guthric, to a lesser degree on Ranulf. But more than that, Tremellion would… stifle you… curtail your education… In plain, it would bring your mind to its knees.’ He smiled at the odd imagery of the remark, then issued a challenge he himself had devised.
‘Two months ago you entered your seventeenth year. From what I’ve heard you’re quick to sponge up knowledge – and a sight too quick when it comes to clever ripostes. Keep a guard on your tongue, young Baynard. Impudence is best left to jesters and silly girls.’ He paused to let the lesson sink home, then went on, ‘You look fit enough, if a mite too skinny, and I’m told you do well at the quintain, equally so with a sword. So here’s what I suggest. Leave England again and spend the next twelve months where you will. I’ll equip you with a single outfit of clothes, helmet and hauberk, a pair of well-fitting boots. You may choose whichever horse you like from the stables, and I’ll see your passage paid from one of the Channel ports. But after that, you tread your own path. You speak only the language of the country you are in, and you do not leave that country owing so much as a groat. Or whatever in hell their equivalent coins might be!’ A brief smile, quickly gone, and Sir Geoffrey Falkan had waited for Baynard’s response.
‘In the matter of the horse,’ the young man had murmured. ‘Will you allow me Ab
aris, my lord?’
‘The one I’d have chosen, were I as wiry as you. Ask Guthric for one of those saddles that come from Spain.’
* * *
But all that had happened three-turning-four years back. The man who now slumped wearily in his chair, head aching, tooth raging, had run the gamut of education, tasted the fruits of adventure, haltingly spoken the languages of his travels. He was here tonight to witness, it seemed, the decline in Tremellion’s fortunes.
He had not expected it to be like this. Nor, in truth, had Sir Geoffrey. As for Ranulf, he had probably stormed from the castle and would soon be visiting his fury on one of his whores, down there in the village.
Growling low, the Lord of Tremellion said, ‘Rather than let you retire … I can see you have had your fill of this day, but can you find the strength to answer me? Am I right to give those courteous beggars what they ask?’
Before he spoke, Baynard Falkan took a moment to search his soul. The easy answer was yes. It was a cause Sir Geoffrey had fought for, the Greatest Cause in Christendom, the Crusade that came near to unifying the West. And yes, because it was so satisfyingly right to see the lumpen, self-centred Ranulf denied the fortune he’d thought to inherit.
The obvious answer, quick and correct, was yes. The Lady Elena had been dead these past three years, so the warlord was free to do as he wished with what was his. See it from any vantage, and the answer had to be yes.
Yet Baynard believed he owed his father more than simply accord. It was Sir Geoffrey’s decision, this desire to impoverish Tremellion and, by doing so, help enrich the Cause. A man who was courageous enough to part with all but the stones of his castle did not need to be reminded that one son would bellow ‘No!’, the other murmur ‘Yes’.
‘You will do what you will, my lord. Why else be the master of the house?’
The ageing Sir Geoffrey let his breath sigh out in agreement. Then he refilled Baynard’s goblet, ignored his son’s gesture of refusal, told the young Falkan he’d already sneaked a glance at Ardelet’s letter. ‘It seems you were somewhat plagued by his pretty daughters. Yet behaved with – what’s the phrase he used? – a certain circumspection?’
‘You’ll forgive me, father. I’ve a tooth that’s rotting in my jaw. Ranulf appears to have loosened whatever is inside my skull. I’m really no longer worthy of your time.’
‘Don’t make such a fuss, boy. Guthric will pull the tooth for you tomorrow. Your head will heal, you’ll be prancing around by noon. You’ve given me the answer I wanted, and now I’ve some news to warm you. It’s true I sent you to Ardelet with a message, and I’m pleased by his reply. But it’s not the only reason I dispatched you to that Godforsaken island. He asked me to do so. Asked me to send my younger son… so he… and his girls…’
Baynard’s eyes brightened in alarm. Then the mists of discomfort closed in again, and he groaned with freshening pain.
Unfeeling, Sir Geoffrey lumbered on. ‘The thing of it is, he’d have you for a son-in-law. Grant you half his properties on the mainland. Thinks rather well of you, does Ardelet. Even goes so far as to say – wait, let me find it – “Of no great importance which of them he chooses, since they seem equal in their endeavour to be his bride.” You’re well liked up there, Sir Baynard.’
The young man floundered for an expression that would somehow convey his feelings. How to show that he’d willingly have bedded those nubile girls, dreamed of bedding them both, but hadn’t done so, honour forbidding. Though that wasn’t what worried him now. It was nothing to do with Ardelet’s daughters, quickly forgotten in the light of—
‘Christiane de Magnat-Vaulmier?’
‘What? I beg your pardon, my lord, but – what?’
‘Here’s a promise,’ Sir Geoffrey measured. ‘The moment I’ve finished speaking, you and your head and your tooth may clamber off to bed. But it’s rare we get the chance to mull things over, and I’ve a feeling that with Ranulf’s departure tonight…
‘Well, be that as it may… I want you to know that if this eye of mine is chalky, the other’s clear as day. You’ve been snared, my son, gutted and filleted and hung up to smoke by Vaulmier’s young offspring. You’ll be up betimes tomorrow, lurking about, thinking to come across her by carefully managed chance. The ache in your tooth will have gone. You’ll strive to amuse her, howl at her humour where the merest smile would have done, brush invisible cobwebs from her path. And then, my boy, my dear Sir Baynard, do you know what you will do?’
‘The way you tell it, my lord, I’ll come to you for direction.’
Sir Geoffrey’s scarred and life-worn face turned young there, for an instant, his lips stretched in a smile of pure good nature. ‘I’ll keep the door open for you! I’ll even, if you like, hiss you some lines!’ He filled his chair, loving the scene he knew would be enacted in the morning. ‘What you’ll do,’ he predicted, ‘is make a vow to your sweet Christiane. To see her again. To travel as far as love might require. In short, my young whippet, you will set out on Crusade to the Kingdom of Jerusalem, if not for the sake of Christendom, then certainly in pursuit of Christiane.’
* * *
Next morning, the young Tremellion was up betimes, the pain in his tooth forgotten. Shaved in such haste – and insufficient candlelight – that the blade had nicked his chin, he lurked for a while near the spiral stairs that led up to the guest rooms and the solar.
Aware he’d look foolish if Lord Vaulmier was the first to descend, he wandered down to the kitchens, helped himself to a mug of hot, spiced ale, chewed on a piece of stale black bread. Chewed on it! And his tooth didn’t hurt at all!
Then he trudged upstairs again, taking care not to sweep the damp stones of the staircase with his best – though summer-wear – mantle. No matter that he was near to freezing, a spiteful mid-March wind scouring the castle.
He stood around – lurked was the word – in the Great Hall as the servants raked the ashes from the fire-pit, laid the kindling, arranged fresh logs in place. He told them to bring mulled ale to the table – ‘And mulled wine, and some decent cuts of beef and – well, everything Tremellion’s guests might enjoy.’
One of the servants was brave enough to tell him the guests were still asleep, no sound from their chambers, so if the heated drinks were served now—
‘Bring them anyway! What’s the matter, you can’t keep them heated?’
He told them to change the straw around the table.
He kicked impatiently at one of Tremellion’s scavenging dogs.
And was watching the animal yelp away as Christiane de Magnat-Vaulmier asked if he had a special dislike of animals, or in particular the ribby English hound?
The shadows of fatigue had disappeared. Her gown was a mixture of green and cinnamon and white. His favourite colours, he decided, though he hadn’t given much thought to it before. Nor had he liked plaits too well, yet liked them well enough now.
He invited her to be seated, then bawled at the servants to serve.
She asked about Ranulf and he scowled abruptly, telling her he thought, indeed he was sure, Ranulf had left the castle and wouldn’t be back for days.
She fanned at the smoke as the wind blew it low across the Hall. Reaching forward, he flapped it away.
God, she is beautiful…
Less bored than before, she seemed content to be with him. Thanked him for saving her from the smoke, told him an amusing story about how once, in a castle in Palestine, the weather squashing the clouds…
He howled with laughter, remembered what he’d heard, trimmed his amusement to a smile.
And so it went on, this dawn-in-springtime courtship, this wooing of Christiane de Magnat-Vaulmier by Baynard Falkan, younger son of Tremellion.
‘But to understand the true situation,’ the woman murmured, ‘one has really to visit the seat of Christ’s Great Kingdom.’
Sweet Heaven, she is beautiful…
‘My own description, and dare I say even my father’s, are inadequate to co
nvey to you—’
Her voice is nothing less, not a chime below the carillon of bells…
‘It’s a shame your duties tie you to Tremellion, my Lord Baynard. A fine young knight, less imprisoned by a sense of servitude than yourself—’
‘You misunderstand, Lady Christiane. Tremellion is not mine, nor ever will be. I’m free to travel wherever I—’
‘Free to see the Kingdom of Jerusalem, my lord?’
‘Free and willing to do so, my lady. And encouraged by the hopes of – of finding you again.’
Christiane shrugged the edges of her cloak away from her arms. With a lissome movement she twisted from her chair, gestured to Baynard to stay seated, then leaned forward, dipping down to kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘It is not just some journey, you know,’ she whispered. ‘You’d be a fine young knight on Crusade… And… If you wished it, Sir Baynard… I could attend your arrival…
* * *
Across the Hall, beyond the high, arched entrance and closeted in Sir Geoffrey’s chamber, the warlord sat in quiet consultation with Magnat-Vaulmier, Duc de Querinard, Comte d’Almé. It took them some time to work out the details of Tremellion’s bequest, and exactly how the treasure would be delivered to the Cause. Then the men sat back in their unyielding leather chairs, raised crudely fashioned glasses of eau de vie in a toast, and glanced toward the door, looking beyond it, back through the entrance to the Hall.
Sir Geoffrey said, ‘He’s a firm old friend of mine, Ardelet. He’ll suffer some disappointment ’cause of this.’
And Lord Vaulmier lifted his shoulders in a shrug of polite regret. ‘She caught his glance the instant he arrived, your weary young Baynard. It’s a trick of my daughter’s, to yawn and look bored when something – or someone – takes her attention. Not that it’s her only trick. She’s also very good at making a fellow feel wanted. I should know. She’s skinned me for enough bracelets and brooches in the past.’
The Edge of the Blade Page 3
