Three days later Hero entered the hut to find Vallon lying just as he’d left him, brooding over their confinement.
Hero cleared his throat. ‘The waters are starting to subside. In a day or two conditions will be good enough for travel.’
Vallon grunted.
Hero tried again. ‘Olbec’s announced a hunt for the day after tomorrow.’
‘It isn’t the hunting season.’
‘We need the meat. There’ll be a feast in the evening. Drogo wanted you to take the field with him.’
Vallon snorted. ‘We know what quarry he’s after.’
‘Have no fear. Lady Margaret insisted that you accompany her party.’
Vallon’s eyes turned. ‘Will the Count be with her?’
Hero shook his head. ‘His wounds make it too painful to ride. He’ll stay behind and organise the festivities.’
Vallon stared off pensively for a moment, then swung his legs to the floor. ‘Tell the lady I’d be honoured to attend her.’
Before cock’s crow Wayland, with two huntsmen and a forester, left the castle to quest for a stag with at least ten tines on his antlers. The huntsmen were accompanied by lymers — big, heavyset hounds with drooping jowls and doleful expressions. Their function was to locate the stag and track it in silence to its covert. The hunt breakfast was in full swing when one of the huntsmen returned to report that they’d harboured a hart of twelve in a wood beyond the Roman wall. Gravely he uncapped his horn and rolled fumets on to the table. Drogo and his comrades passed the deer droppings about, sniffed them, rolled them between their fingers, and agreed that they belonged to no rascal but a warrantable beast.
Hero watched the hunting party sally out. Ahead went the huntsmen, leading hounds leashed in couples. Drogo led the field and behind them rode the ladies, Margaret wrapped in furs and silks, Vallon at her side on a borrowed palfrey. His hair had been trimmed and fell in auburn waves to his shoulders. His bearing made Hero’s heart swell with pride. He waved and received a dignified acknowledgement. Last came the priest, borne along on an ox-drawn butcher’s cart, gripping the front rail like a mariner facing an oncoming storm.
The horses cantered away over the turf, throwing up green divots. Clouds sailed across a gentian sky. Snow still lay rotting in the shadows, but banks of primroses had flowered and from every thicket birds sang with pent-up energy. In the fields around the castle peasants followed the age-old rhythm of the plough. Hero closed his eyes, relishing the sun on his face, the smell of turned earth. Spring had arrived. The knot of dread in his guts relaxed. He felt an intense sense of well-being.
When the tableau had passed from sight, he returned to the guesthouse and laid out parchment and gall ink on the rough table. He dipped his quill and raised it like a wand, but the magic he expected to conjure wasn’t forthcoming. He knuckled his brow. He scratched his head. He sighed. Transferring thoughts onto parchment was no easy task. So many words to choose from, so many ways of arranging them. He sucked the end of his quill, trying to decide what rhetorical style was most appropriate for his subject.
The flame of creativity dwindled and died. He puffed out his cheeks, crossed his hands behind his head and stared at the roof. The day that had only a short while ago seemed full of promise now stretched into limbo. A bee droned through the door, bumbled around the room and flew back out. Hero looked vacantly through the sunlit doorway. After a while he became aware of the silence. He stood up, tiptoed to the entrance and peered in all directions. The bailey was empty except for two guards sunning themselves outside the gatehouse. He went back inside, lifted his medicine casket from beside his bed and carried it to the table. The lid was carved with floral designs. He raised it, placed one hand under it and pressed one of the carved flowers. The false bottom swung down and out slid the leather folder that Master Cosmas had pressed on him in his dying moments. He opened it. Inside were six manuscript pages. It was a letter — part of a letter — written in poor Greek on stained and creased sheets made, so Cosmas had told him, from pulverised hemp.
Hero’s heart had begun to beat fast.
Our Majesty John, by the grace of God and the might of our Lord Jesus, greets his brother ruler, the emperor of the Romans, wishing you health, prosperity and continued enjoyment of divine favour.
Our Excellency has been informed that reports of our greatness have reached you. If you wish to know the vastness of our power, then believe that our Majesty exceeds in might and riches all the kings of the earth. Only if you can count the stars of the heavens and the sands of the desert will you be able to measure the vastness of our realm. Our Magnificence rules the Three Indias and our lands extend from Greater India, where the body of our beloved St Thomas the Apostle rests — he who brought the gospel of Jesus to our realm — to Far India across the sea.
Hero turned the pages, skipping dozens of paragraphs describing in mind-boggling detail the wonders and amazements of this ruler’s territories.
As a devout Christian, the writer went on, it grieves us to hear that a great schism has opened between the Church in Rome and the Church in Constantinople. Surely it is Satan’s work that enmity and strife have broken out in Christendom at a time when she has never been more threatened. Noble brother, I beseech you to make peace with the father in Rome and set aside your differences so that you stand united against our common foes, the Arabs and Turks. Be assured you will not face them alone. Know that we are under vow to visit the sepulchre of our Lord Jesus with a great army, as befits the glory of our Majesty, to subdue and destroy the enemies of Christ, and to exalt his blessed name.
In token of our Christian friendship, I send you not gold or jewels — notwithstanding we possess treasures unequalled under heaven. Instead I send you riches for the soul, the true account of Jesus’s life and teachings, written by he who knew him best, he who alone possesses the hidden wisdom imparted by our Lord Saviour during …
A shadow slipped through the door. Hero looked up to register Richard’s presence. There was no time to hide the letter. Covering it with his blank sheet of parchment, he began to scrawl the first thing that came into his head.
Another wonder that Master Cosmas told me. In the year I was born a great fire appeared in the southern sky and burned so bright that it was no hardship to read outside at midnight. For ten years the light shone, gradually waning, and when it was gone that part of the heavens where it had blazed was filled with many stars that had not shone before.
Richard had sidled up and was leaning over in a way that Hero found intensely irritating. ‘What are you writing?’ the Norman asked from behind his hand.
‘An account of our journey. If you don’t mind, I require peace to pen my recollections.’
‘When your narrative reaches these parts, you should include a description of the wall built by Hadrian. Not far from here stand shrines and castles unchanged since Rome’s legions occupied them.’
‘That might be worth a visit,’ Hero conceded. ‘Perhaps I’ll go tomorrow.’
‘Not on your own. It’s too dangerous.’
Hero smiled condescendingly. ‘You’re speaking to a man who’s crossed the Alps.’
‘A month before you arrived, three scouts rode north and never returned. The Scots probably ate them.’
Hero went back to his manuscript, but found he’d lost the thread.
‘I’ll arrange an escort if you teach me the mystery of writing.’
‘It takes years of study.’
‘I would be a diligent student. I’d like to cultivate at least one talent.’
Hero put down his pen. ‘Show me your face. Come on. Don’t be shy.’
Richard lowered his hand, revealing a plum-coloured birthmark that stained one cheek from mouth to ear. His features were pale and pinched, but his eyes, Hero decided, held a spark of intelligence.
‘I’ve seen worse disfigurements.’
‘Is it a bargain?’
Hero gave a resigned sigh. ‘We begin with alpha-beta, the lette
rs that form the bricks of language. First is alpha, from the Hebrew hieroglyph of an ox’s head, signifying “leader”.’
The light dimmed. A burly figure blocked the doorway. Richard jumped up, knocking over the inkpot.
‘Now look what you’ve done. Your hands are as clumsy as your wits.’
‘Get out,’ Olbec ordered, cuffing Richard as he scuttled past. ‘God, how could I have fathered such a maggot? Can’t handle a sword or lance. Can’t stay on a horse. Should have been drowned at birth.’ Olbec’s attention turned to Hero, who was frantically blotting the page. ‘Forget about that,’ he growled.
‘He’s ruined my only sheet.’
‘I might be able to help there,’ Olbec said. He straddled the bench and examined Hero like a peasant sizing up livestock. ‘A doctor, eh?’
‘Not yet licensed. I still have to complete my practical study, and then I intend to do a year’s anatomy course.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen this summer.’
‘Dear Lord, what I’d give to be nineteen again. Everything to look forward to — battles to fight, lands to win, women to bed.’
‘I’m not sure that my vocation leads me on such an heroic course. If you’d care to tell me what ails you. I understand that your wounds trouble you.’
Olbec glanced at the doorway.
‘Nothing you tell me will pass beyond these walls,’ said Hero. ‘My oath to Hippocrates binds me to confidentiality.’
Olbec prodded the Sicilian’s chest. ‘Forget Hippo-what’s-his-name. You’ll keep your trap shut because I’ll cut your heart out if you repeat one word.’ He went to the entrance, peered about, then pulled the door shut. ‘What opinion have you formed of my wife?’
‘A chaste and pious lady of impeccable morals,’ Hero said in a rush.
Olbec digested this character reference. ‘All those things, of course, but speaking man to man, I must tell you that my lady knows how to give and receive earthly pleasures.’
‘Piety and passion in perfect balance. You’re blessed, my lord.’
‘Not as much as I’d like to be. Margaret hasn’t spoken to me since the night I refused her plea for an expedition to Norway. Women wield silence as soldiers use a lance.’
‘I sympathise, sir. My sisters made my-’
‘Younger than me, of course. No problem there until I picked up this wound at Senlac. We were blade to blade with Harold’s shield wall. One of his house carls — big as a bear — swung at me with his axe. An inch closer and he’d have split me from crown to chops.’ Olbec massaged his groin. ‘A miracle he didn’t relieve me of my manhood.’
Spare me his intimate wounds, Hero prayed.
Olbec drummed on the table. ‘I’ll be plain. My wife wants another child. She’s young enough and — well, she fears for the succession.’
‘But you have three sons.’
‘Walter’s a hostage, Richard’s a milksop, and Drogo has too much red choler for his own good.’ Olbec hesitated. ‘Last Christmas a Scottish witch came begging at the castle gate. In return for a sop she told my lady’s fortune. The ungrateful hag prophesied that only one of Lady Margaret’s menfolk would be alive to celebrate Christ’s next birthday. Superstitious rubbish, of course, but you know what women are like. Or you soon will,’ he added on a glum note. ‘Anyway, the problem is … the problem is …’
‘You fail to rise to the occasion,’ Hero prompted.
A squall crossed Olbec’s face. Then he laughed. ‘You might look like a frightened frog, but you’re not stupid.’
‘I recommend rest and sweet wine. I’ve heard that mead’s a good aphrodisiac.’
‘Drink it by the bucketful. Tastes like sweetened horse piss and has about the same effect.’
‘Perhaps if you drank less.’
‘Arabs,’ Olbec said, taking a veer. ‘You have them in Sicily. I’ve heard they’re a virile race.’
‘As are you Normans.’
‘Except the Arabs use potions.’
‘Their pharmaceutical skills are more advanced than ours,’ Hero admitted. ‘They have many potions. There’s one efficacious compound that they apply to their feet.’
‘Feet? Who’s talking about feet? It’s not my feet that let me down.’
‘No, sir. You refer to your membranus lignae. Your staff of manhood.’
‘If you mean my prick, we’re speaking a common language.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Right. Here’s the deal. Prepare a potion that will make me delight my lady and I’ll give you enough parchment to write the gospels.’
‘But I don’t have the necessary ingredients.’
‘I’ve told the quartermaster to give you everything you need.’
Hero could imagine what manner of things lay mouldering in the castle’s apothecary. Newts, nail parings, withered sheep’s foetuses …
‘Well, what do you say?’
Hero nodded dumbly.
‘Good,’ Olbec said, pushing himself up.
When Hero examined the contents of his pharmacopoeia, he found plenty of medicines to soothe the senses, but nothing to inflame them. He clasped his head and groaned.
The quartermaster was a surly tyrant, the remote but undisputed ruler of the kitchen annexe, his presence signalled by snarls and obscenities and the frequent yelps of his unfortunate scullions. He eyed Hero over the counter with outright hostility.
‘What’s this about? What’s the boss after?’
Hero made his first demand modest. ‘Honey.’
With ill grace, the quartermaster produced a pot and banged it down.
‘Also, some pepper and ginger.’
The quartermaster recoiled like a mother accosted by a baby-snatcher. ‘You’re not having my pepper. Do you know how much it costs?’
‘Without pepper, I can’t formulate the physic to treat your lord’s condition.’
The quartermaster crossed his arms. ‘What condition?’
‘That’s a private matter between patient and physician.’
‘Private be buggered. The whole world knows what’s wrong with the old man.’
Hero glanced behind him before replying. ‘You mean the pain and stiffness in his thighs?’
‘Ha! It’s not stiffness that plagues him. The opposite more like. Man that age, wife with appetites.’ The quartermaster tapped his nose.
‘Then give me the pepper I need to restore harmony to the marriage.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Very well,’ Hero said in a tremulous voice. ‘I’ll report your lack of cooperation.’ He made to leave.
‘Oi, pop-eye. Come back. This is what you want.’
Hero sniffed at a small linen bag. ‘What is it?’
‘My secret, but I guarantee it’ll put iron into the limpest of tools.’ The quartermaster folded his arms again. ‘Would the young scholar be requiring anything else?’
‘Only some leeches. Oh, and a mortar and pestle.’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ the quartermaster sighed, and lumbered back into his sanctum. He returned and slammed them on the counter. ‘Now fuck off.’
At the wall the company divided, the hunters cantering north towards a block of woodland, Lady Margaret’s party dismounting under a Roman milecastle overlooking the North Tyne. Vallon gave Margaret his arm. Together they walked through an arched gateway into a hushed courtyard carpeted with turf. In the far corner a flight of broken steps climbed to a wall-walk. Opposite the gate, accessed from the walkway, was a square tower. Stairs climbed the interior to the roof, where servants had spread cushions. Vallon crossed to the parapet and gazed down on the ruins of a Roman fort similar to those he’d seen in southern France and Spain. From the wood came bugle notes and the cries of the huntsmen encouraging the lymers: Ho moy, ho moy! Cy va, cy va! Tut, tut, tut!
A page came puffing backwards up the steps, lugging a wicker basket. The women nibbled honeyed angelica and sipped posset and chatted about the weather and their children and the frightf
ulness of life on the frontier. Vallon joined in the small talk until his face ached from forced smiling. He was beginning to think that this was indeed just a picnic when Margaret clapped her hands.
‘I know you’re all curious about our handsome French captain. He’s been our guest for three weeks and we still know hardly anything about him. The captain’s uncomfortable in the presence of so many ladies. I think we’ll get nothing out of him unless I quiz him alone.’
She shooed her giggling entourage downstairs. The priest was last to leave and Vallon could see from the sweat greasing his brow that his anxiety went deeper than concern about leaving a stranger alone with his lord’s wife.
The women’s voices faded. Margaret turned her rouged and smiling face. ‘I mean it, I won’t rest until I’ve sucked you dry.’
‘My history would be a great disappointment to you.’
‘Men don’t know what excites a woman’s interest. It’s not descriptions of dreary battles that titillate us. It’s the subtle personal details.’
‘You’ll find me most unsubtle.’
‘Then let’s start at the beginning. Are you married? Do you have family?’
‘No wife or family. No estate or property. I earn my living by the sword alone. As you must have gathered, it’s not a good living.’
‘It’s a handsome weapon, though. The inlay on the hilt is exquisite, and I positively covet the jewel on the pommel.’
‘It’s Moorish, forged in Toledo from steel, not iron. It’s harder than a Norman blade.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Harder than a Norman sword. Can I feel it?’
‘Madam.’
‘No, let me draw it out for myself.’
Using both hands, she slid the blade from its scabbard. The effort brought colour to her cheeks. ‘How bright it gleams. When did you last use it?’
‘Against the Moors in Spain.’
‘That long ago. A blade as fine as this should be drawn more often.’ She breathed on it, looking up at him from under her plucked brows, and rubbed the steel with the cuff of her gown. ‘Let me feel the tip. Oh, how keen it is. Look how it’s pricked me.’
Hawk Quest Page 6
