The Bastard's Son

by H A CULLEY

  Slowly the sow’s efforts grew weaker until they ceased altogether. By this time William was exhausted but elated. Meanwhile his friends amused themselves by chasing and spearing the small shoats from the saddle. They were just the right size to be served up as suckling pigs, which was considered a great delicacy.

  -X-

  As the year wore on Hugo began to face the prospect of returning to Edale. The border was quiet, or as quiet as it ever was, and there was nothing to keep him in Northumberland. Herbert would return with him for his annual visit to the Derbyshire manors and this time his wife and young daughter would accompany him. It wasn’t until a few days before their departure that the sad news reached them that Herbert’s father and Hugo’s oldest friend, Gilbert, had died six weeks previously. He was the same age as Hugo and suddenly he became very aware of his own mortality.

  The day they set out in early September was overcast and a cold wind blew down from the north. In addition to Herbert, the party included Oskar, the steward’s personal servant and Hugo’s mesnie led by Simon as escort. Herbert’s wife, her maid, his six year old daughter and the child’s nurse travelled in a covered cart. A further cart was laden with baggage. It looked like being a slow journey Hugo thought gloomily.

  However, they hadn’t gone very far when they met a large party travelling the other direction on the narrow road. Hugo recognised the banner that one of the leading knights carried as that of the Bishop of Durham and then he saw Ranulph Flambard himself riding beside another a priest at the head of the column.

  ‘Ha, de Cuille. Going south I presume? It seems that I am just in time. I was on my way to see you at Harbottle. Perhaps I can persuade you to delay your journey by a day?’

  Hugo was annoyed at the change in his plans but was intrigued by the unexpected visit.

  ‘Of course, my lord bishop. I’m pleased to see you again but puzzled as to the reason for your visit.’

  ‘All in good time, Sir Hugo.’

  It took a little while to turn the carts around on the narrow track that led from Harbottle to Alnwick and before they had done so it began to rain. By the time they reached the castle the rain was torrential and Hugo was glad that they had returned.

  ‘Have you heard that I am building a castle to defend the Tweed at Norham? There is a tall bluff which dominated the crossing which is where I’ll build the fortress. I propose to man it with forty men, including archers, and I am advised to install two mangonels there to hurl rocks down on raiding parties trying to cross the ford. What do you think, Sir Hugo?’

  They were sitting at the high table in the great hall at Harbottle for the evening meal. Tristan, Hièrru, Herbert, his wife, the bishop’s chaplain, the constable and his wife were making polite conversation until the bishop had raised the topic. The women resigned themselves to being ignored for the time being.

  ‘I think it’s a wise precaution in case our relations with the Scots deteriorate at some stage in the future, my lord, but how will you defend the ford at night?’

  ‘Ah! I see the king was quite correct when he said you had a sharp mind, de Cuille. I had thought of that. I will need to construct an outpost at the southern end of the ford to be manned at night. If they become aware of an enemy trying to cross in the dark the mangonels can still dissuade them if they were ranged during daylight.’

  Hugo nodded his agreement. The proposed castle would be useful in protecting de Muschamp’s manors at Wooler and in Glendale as well as the Durham Enclave but his own lands would still be vulnerable to an enemy crossing the Tweed at Wark. He was about to say so when he realised why the bishop had made the detour to Harbottle to see him.

  ‘I suppose, bishop, that it has crossed your mind that, without a similar fortification at Wark to defend the crossing there, Norham can easily be bypassed?’

  Flambard smiled, but without any warmth. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

  ‘I would honour my obligation to build a castle there but my northern estates are not wealthy and what income they provide goes to maintain my son Tristan’s mesnie and the garrisons for Harbottle and Otterburn Castles. The campaign in the Vexin and Maine hasn’t helped the situation either.’

  ‘Forgive me, Sir Hugo, but I understand that your Derbyshire estates are more prosperous, especially Edale. Breeding destriers and palfreys must have provided you with considerable wealth?’

  ‘I have tenants at Hathersage and Peak Cavern so there is only the revenue from Edale and Hope that I can call on to maintain my small mesnie and provide for my modest needs. I fear there is little surplus, some years none at all.’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool, de Cuille? As treasurer I knew exactly what Edale produced in the way of income. You’ve probably got more coins secreted away in your coffers than I have.’

  The bishop’s polite mask had slipped and Hugo realised that Flambard was the last man that he could deceive as to his true worth.

  ‘I doubt that very much, my lord bishop. However, as you suggest I do have some savings put aside for a bad year or two. Perhaps there might be enough to build a modest motte and bailey castle at Wark?’

  ‘Good! I’m glad that you’ve seen sense, Sir Hugo. What can I expect work to start?’

  Hugo sighed. ‘I’ll move to Wark myself to supervise the construction.’ He turned to his steward. ‘Herbert, I fear that you will have to travel down to Derbyshire without me.’

  -X-

  Oskar had grown over the past six months. Now he was nearly as tall as the next youngest squire at Wark, Tancred. The trouble was he was still slight and didn’t have the weight to hold his own in a practice sword fight, not even against Tancred who was fifteen. Instead he had learned to rely on speed and cunning. The trouble was Tancred now knew all his tricks only too well. He was therefore delighted when the eldest squire was knighted when he reached twenty one. That would mean a new squire would be joining Sir Hugo’s mesnie. Oskar wouldn’t be fourteen for another month so he’d probably still be the youngest but at least he should be able to beat the new boy during training.

  He stood on top of the newly completed palisade in the warm autumn sunshine and watched the track that ran along the south side of the Tweed. Hugo had told him that the new squire had been a page in the household of Lady de Muschamp in Wooler. If so, he would probably come from the east, though he might also opt to come over the hills to the south east. Oskar was a little ashamed at his eagerness to see the new squire. He knew his name was Peter and he was the third son of the constable of Bamburgh Castle but he didn’t know if he was taller, better built or stronger than he was, and these were the things that mattered to Oskar.

  Finally, just as he’d come to the conclusion that he’d have to go and get cleaned up to serve Sir Hugo his evening meal in the old hall, he saw two figures approaching from the east. One was much bigger that the other and that would be presumably whoever was escorting Peter to make sure he arrived at Wark safely.

  ‘Oskar! Where is that boy?’

  He recognised the impatient voice of the senior squire and scampered down the steps from the parapet and ran out of the gate down to the old hall in the village before he was seen.

  ‘You’re late,’ the senior squire told him after he’d had a quick wash in the horse trough and arrived at the hall looking more or less clean and tidy. ‘You can serve Sir Clovis as well as Sir Hugo and you can wait until the rest of us have eaten before you do so as punishment.’

  ‘Yes, Gabriel, sorry.’

  ‘Where were you anyway?’

  ‘I, er. Oh, Sir Hugo is signalling me.’

  He ran up to the high table, then realised that he was the wrong side of it and ran around it until he was behind Sir Hugo.

  ‘You look flushed, Oskar. Have you been tupping some village wench?’

  The boy blushed. No question could have made him more embarrassed. He knew all about sex from listening to the older squires and the soldiers but he had yet to reach puberty, which was a constant source of embarras
sment to him. He’d never even kissed or had a fumble with a girl, let alone fornicated with one.

  ‘No, Sir Hugo, of course not.’

  His face went an even brighter shade of red than it had been a moment ago. The vehemence of his reply had surprised Hugo and he decided that it was time that someone had a word with the lad. He’d expected a grin in response to his teasing, not mortification. At that moment the door to the hall opened and a shy looking boy entered. He stood uncertainly just inside the door. A serjeant came in behind him and announced that the lad was Peter Talbot before pushing him none too gently towards the high table and going over to join the table at which Hugo’s serjeants sat.

  ‘For God’s sake, de Muschamp has sent me a girl. Oskar, go and rescue our faint-hearted squire and introduce him to Sir Clovis. I’ll see him in the morning. Oh, and you’d better look after him. He seems a bit wet behind the ears and the others will have him for breakfast.’

  Oskar grinned. At least I should be able to beat this one black and blue when we train he thought and went across to greet the anxious boy.

  ‘Hallo, I’m Oskar, Sir Hugo’s squire. I assume that you’re to be Sir Clovis’ squire.’

  ‘Y-yes. S-so I understand.’

  ‘Don’t be nervous, Peter. If you’re to succeed here you need to be confident, or at least appear to be. Come on, I’ll introduce you and show you how to serve wine to Sir Clovis.’

  ‘I know how to do that,’ the boy said with some asperity. ‘I’m not a complete ninny. I just didn’t know what to do when that oaf left me at the door.’

  ‘That’s better,’ Oskar grinned at him after his initial surprise. ‘The wine’s over there. I’ve been looking after him as well as Sir Hugo up to now so you just need to top him up when he nods towards you. That’s him over there with that silly little beard and the long reddish hair. Go and introduce yourself then grab a flagon without waiting for him to reply.’

  Peter did as instructed and, although Oskar kept a weather eye on him, he seemed to manage alright. When the squires sat down later to enjoy the left-overs Oskar waited for them to help themselves first.

  ‘I thought that you were the lord’s squire?’ Peter whispered to him.

  ‘I am, but I was late so my punishment is to wait and eat last. You go ahead and eat before all the best food is gone.’

  ‘No, I’ll wait and eat with you.’

  Oskar shrugged. ‘Very well, but you don’t have to.’ Then he grinned. ‘It’ll be nice to have company though.’

  Peter smiled back, almost conspiratorially, and Oskar knew at that moment that they’d be good friends.

  Oskar’s assumption that he’d be able to beat Peter easily in the practice yard proved unfounded. Although he’d only been taught the rudiments of weapon handling as a page, Peter was a quick learner and he was just as fast as Oskar was. When Tancred decided he’d try him out to see what he was made of, Peter lost and suffered several nasty bruises, but he put up a credible performance and the other squires were impressed. Gradually he overcame the unfortunate impression that his arrival had created.

  His only regret was that he had failed to establish any sort of relationship with Sir Clovis. He cleaned his armour, sharpened his weapons, cared for his horses and served him at meals. However, Clovis never spoke to him unless it was to give him instructions and his general attitude to Peter was one of distain. Such indifference to his existence began to get Peter down after a while.

  One day the two boys got permission to take their bows and go hunting for small game to supplement the castle’s larder. Now that the palisade was complete, work had started on the timber keep at one end of the bailey and a watchtower at the other end. The natural mound on which the fortress sat was long and thin and ran parallel to the river, albeit a couple of hundred yards back from it. The ford was out of range from archers so the plan was to mount one mangonel on the watchtower and two more on top of the keep.

  The land between the castle and the Cheviot Hills was rolling countryside with cultivated strips near the village and pastureland interspersed with several woods further away. The woods were the best prospect for game birds such as pigeons and pheasants, whilst pasture was the best bet for hares. They had managed to bag half a dozen birds and two hares between them and, feeling pleased with themselves, they started back towards Wark.

  In the excitement of the hunt they had strayed well to the west and onto land belonging to the next manor of Carham. A battle thereabouts eighty years previously had settled the dispute over whether Lothian belonged to England or Scotland, in the Scots favour. To the west of Carham, which belonged to a Yorkshire baron, lay the Scottish town of Kelso at the junction of the Tweed and the River Teviot. The border ran south to the Cheviot Hills near Kelso but it wasn’t defined in any way. It was wild, largely uninhabited, country in which it was easy to get lost. For this reason Scots raiders preferred to cross the Tweed on one of the main routes that led into the more inhabited parts of Northumberland where there was easy plunder to be had.

  However, just as they crested a ridge, they saw a large body of men in the re-entrant below them. They dropped to the ground, nervously wondering if they’d been seen. It was immediately obvious to them that they were Scots, both from the strangers’ clothes and the small ponies on which some of them were mounted. The two boys made a rough estimate of numbers and both thought that there were more than a hundred of them.

  ‘What do we do?’ Peter asked anxiously.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Oskar whispered back sharply. ‘Sound carries. They must be heading to Wark. We need to get back and warn Sir Hugo.’

  ‘How?’ This time the sound was so muted that Oskar hardly heard the question.

  ‘Well, they’re heading for the little valley in which Dean Burn runs to join the Tweed near Wark. It gets really boggy and should slow them right down with any luck. If we run around them on the higher ground to their rear and head for the track that runs along the south bank of the Tweed we might be able to get there before them.’

  The two boys both got a stitch in their sides long before they reached the Tweed but they ran through the pain barrier and pounded along the dusty track. They had dropped the game they had killed but kept their bows. It was just as well that they had because, just as they rounded the last bend before the track sloped down towards the village, they saw a dozen or so Scots ahead of them fighting with a mounted knight and several men-at-arms. It was only then that Peter remembered that Sir Clovis had told him that he was taking a patrol along the border that day but he didn’t want Peter to accompany them.

  ‘I only need trained fighting men,’ he’d sneered, which had made Peter furious, but he had kept his anger in check.

  As the boys stumbled towards the fight out of breath and on legs that felt as if they were made of jelly, they saw the knight pulled from his horse. One of the Scots raised an axe above his head, obviously intending to kill him where he lay in the dirt. Peter stopped and tried to calm his breathing as he sucked in lungfuls of air. Both boys had unstrung their bows after use but Oskar quickly bent his bow and strung it whilst Peter pulled an arrow from his quiver. Peter took the proffered bow and did his best to calm his breathing. He took careful aim at the middle of the Scotsman’s unarmoured back, then let fly just as the axe started its descent. The arrow flew true and the man suddenly dropped the axe and fell like a sack of vegetables on top of the knight.

  The men-at-arms, who were being hard pressed until the surprise killing of the Scots’ leader, renewed their efforts, and when Oskar joined Peter in sending arrow after arrow into their ranks, the attackers broke and fled leaving six bodies behind them.

  ‘Who was it who shot the first arrow?’ the knight asked when he had regained his feet.

  ‘It was Peter, Sir Clovis,’ Oskar replied immediately.

  Clovis studied his squire for a long moment then he smiled and clapped the boy on his shoulder.

  ‘It seems that I’ve misjudged you, Peter. We’ll
make a knight of you yet. Thank you for saving my life.’

  ‘I’m only thankful that we arrived when we did, Sir Clovis. But we shouldn’t tarry here. That was just the advance force; there’s a hundred or more of them just behind us.’

  Ten minutes later they ran through the gates of the partially completed castle to tell their tale to Sir Hugo. The alarm bell rang out and the garrison took up their posts just as the first of the Scots appeared from the west. But by then Oskar was no longer there; Hugo had sent him to Wooler to summon help from the de Muschamps. As he galloped away Oskar cast a worried look over his shoulder. The Scots were spilling out of the boggy valley to surround the castle. Luckily no-one seemed to be paying any attention to him though.

  -X-

  The small room, off the great hall of Gloucester Castle, was damp and decidedly chilly. The brazier in one corner under a vent in the wall did little to raise the temperature. The vent was designed to let the smoke out but it was more effective in allowing the bitingly cold December air in. Those gathered there drew their fur-lined cloaks closer about them – all except for the king who seemed unaffected by the cold.

  William Rufus looked around the table at his advisors. His eyes rested on the Earl of Buckingham before moving on to the Bishops of Hereford and Salisbury and then the Earls of Norfolk and Northampton. Finally they came to rest on his brother Henry, who seemed to be the only one who wasn’t discomfited by the king’s scrutiny.

  ‘My lords. Thank you for coming. I know you expected to join me in a hunt today but we have more important matters to discuss and our quarry is human rather than animal. I am reliably informed that my dear brother Robert had reached Sicily on his way home to Normandy. Furthermore, it seems that he intends to wed Sybilla of Conversano as soon as he can cross to the Italian mainland and travel to Apulia. Fortunately the weather seems to be our ally and he is stuck in Syracuse for the moment.’