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.’
Vallon held out his hand. ‘Your husband wouldn’t be pleased to learn that you’d taken harm from my sword.’
‘I promise I won’t tell him, no matter how deep you thrust.’
The faint baying of the hounds rose to a demented yodelling.
‘The hounds have found,’ Vallon said, taking back the sword. ‘You don’t want to miss the chase.’ He went and stood at the parapet and watched the wood. Some of the hunters had taken up positions around it.
‘Some would call your manner intimidating.’
‘I’m sorry my society disappoints you.’
‘No, I admire a man who suggests strength rather than flaunts it. Besides, I suspect you aren’t as unfeeling as you pretend.’
‘The stag,’ Vallon said.
It emerged from the forest and plunged down a ribbon of snow, the hounds pouring after it. Drogo headed the field, lashing his horse.
Margaret traced a line down the back of Vallon’s hand. ‘I’m sure that given time, I could bring you to bay.’
He trapped her hand. ‘A beast at bay is dangerous.’
She brushed against him. ‘Risk adds to the pleasure.’
Vallon stepped away. ‘You forget I’m your lord’s guest.’
She pouted. ‘Perhaps there’s another reason for your coldness. I’ve seen the way the Greek youth follows you with his great mooning eyes.’
Vallon looked into her face. ‘Why don’t you tell me your real purpose.’
For a moment it seemed that she would continue her pretence. Or perhaps her flirtation was genuine. But then she turned and crossed her arms as if the air had grown chilly. ‘I own land in Normandy. I’m prepared to use it as security against a loan to finance an expedition to the north.’
Vallon made no response. The stag was keeping to the valley rim. So far, the hounds hadn’t closed the gap.
‘I want you to command it.’
‘No.’
‘Think of it as a trading expedition. You can use any surplus to buy furs, ivory and slaves. Any profit you make is yours. For my part, all I want is my son safe at home.’
‘It’s not worth the gamble.’
‘It’s a more rewarding proposition than the one that brought you here in rags.’
‘I’m not talking about
my
chances. As soon as your money’s in my hands, what’s to stop me stealing it?’
‘Your word. I’d trust that from a man who travelled so far on Walter’s behalf.’
‘I’ve never met Sir Walter. I was never in Anatolia and first heard the name Manzikert weeks after the battle. Your son’s welfare is of no interest to me.’
Margaret’s lips whitened. ‘You mean he’s dead?’ She clenched her hands.
He caught her wrists. ‘The documents are genuine. Your son survived the battle. As far as I know, he’s still alive.’
She sagged against him, her voice muffled by his chest. ‘Why did you come here? What game are you playing?’
‘No game. Let’s just say that I was caught up in one of fate’s eddies. I won’t be sucked into that pool again.’
She pulled back. ‘I would still trust you. If you planned to cheat me, you wouldn’t have admitted your lie.’
‘Mother love is blind.’
Margaret stamped her foot. ‘If I repeat what you’ve told me, Drogo will kill you on the spot.’
‘He plans to kill me anyway.’
The stag reached a high hedge and broke right, towards the milecastle. By the time it realised its error and leaped the obstacle, it was close enough for Vallon to see its backward staring eye. The hounds poured over the hedge in a hysterical wave. They were going to catch it, Vallon thought.
‘I can help you escape.’
Vallon turned.
‘Strong drink will flow tonight,’ she said. ‘By midnight almost everyone will be unconscious. If you leave when the matins bell chimes, you’ll find the gate open.’
Vallon put Margaret’s larger scheme out of his mind. There would be time enough to consider it once they got clear – if they got clear. ‘That will give us only a few hours’ start. Drogo will catch us before we reach the next valley.’
‘Take the falconer. He knows every inch of this country.’
Vallon focused on practicalities. ‘Horses?’
‘I can’t arrange that without exciting suspicion. Besides, speed won’t save you. Guile and good fortune are your only weapons, and you obviously have guile.’
Vallon was thinking fast now. ‘We’ll need provisions. It will be days before we can risk going near habitation.’
Margaret pointed at the basket. ‘Food and blankets.’ She reached into her cuff and produced a purse. ‘Enough silver to get you to Norwich.’
‘Is that where the deeds are to be handed over?’
‘The moneylender’s called Aaron. The king brought him to England from Rouen, not far from my estate. My family’s done business with him before. I’ve prepared letters to send to him. They’ll be in his hands by the time you arrive.’
Vallon watched the hunt. The stag was tiring and the hounds were closing on it. Riders converged from different directions.
‘Richard will be going with you.’
‘No! My servant’s enough of a handicap as it is.’
‘Richard’s not such a fool as he looks. He helped me hatch this scheme. He acts as my attorney. He’ll present the deeds and seal the
contract. Besides, his presence will give you safe conduct. If you’re challenged by Norman patrols, Richard will show them documents vouching that you’re carrying out a commission on my behalf.’
‘Does the Count know?’
‘He suspects. Don’t worry, I know how to soothe his anger.’
‘Not Drogo’s, though.’
‘He won’t harm me in his father’s house.’
The stag entered the ruined fort. Confused by the maze of walls and trenches, it headed one way then the other. It scaled a section of tumbled rampart, saw a vertical drop on the other side, and ran along the wall until it reached a dead end. Cornered, it turned to face the oncoming pack and lowered its antlers. The nearest riders raised their horns to blow the mote and recheat, signalling that the stag had been bayed. Drogo rode up and leaped off his horse. The hounds closed on the stag and swirled around it.
‘If you knew Walter, you would gladly do as I ask,’ said Margaret. ‘I know he lied to you – I mean, I know he lied – but you must understand his motives. He’s not like Drogo. He has charm and grace. Even the Count favours him over his natural son.’
One of the huntsmen darted behind the stag to cut its hamstring. Drogo advanced through the heaving mass of hounds, his sword drawn. Vallon saw the hart stagger and go down. The hunters blew the death, and the refrain was taken up all along the valley.
Margaret dangled the purse. Vallon pushed it aside.
‘I’ll give you my decision this evening.’
The hunters returned under a bloodshot sky, the priest sharing the trundling cart with the butchered stag and the carcass of a boar the party had killed in the afternoon. In the hall, servants piled the hearth so high that the flames threatened the roof. The men were already drunk when a procession of skivvies carried out the stag and placed it over the coals on a spit turned by cranked treadles.
Seizing his moment, Hero gave Olbec the potion. ‘Apply it shortly before you retire. You say that your wife wishes to conceive. What position do you usually assume?’
‘On top. What do the Arabs do?’
‘They have many positions,’ Hero said, relying on information picked up from whispers between his sisters. ‘One of them, par ticularly
recommended for couples wishing to conceive … No, it’s disrespectful to talk of carnal matters when your lady sits only a few feet away.’
Olbec seized his sleeve. ‘No, go on.’
‘From behind, the lady on her knees, head between her arms.’
‘Like a ram, eh? Grr! Makes my blood rise to think of it.’
After the venison had been ceremonially carved and served, Olbec rose, declaring that his wife’s expedition had fatigued her but that the merriment should continue after they had retired. In two days the Lent fast would begin, so eat, drink, make merry. The company stood and banged their drinking vessels. Olbec weaved in Hero’s direction and slapped down a thick ream of manuscripts. ‘Here you are. Got them from the priest.’
‘You’ve taken the physic?’
‘The whole bottle. I can feel it working already.’
‘I made it extra strength. I hope it didn’t produce too fierce a sensation.’
Olbec belched. ‘Burned a bit as it went down.’
‘Down?’
The old goat winked. ‘I’m not taking any chances. I drank it.’
Hero riffled through the manuscripts. They were beautiful, each page illuminated with gilt and paintings in miniature. His face fell. ‘I can’t deface holy script.’
Olbec jabbed the wad of parchment. ‘Nothing sacred about this lot. It’s just a collection of worthless English chronicles and a few rhymes and riddles. I got a clerk in Durham to translate some. Here’s one I remember. It goes like this:
I’m a strange creature, for I satisfy women,
a service to the neighbours! No one suffers
at my hands except for my slayer.
I grow very tall, erect in a bed,
I’m hairy underneath. From time to time
a beautiful girl, the brave daughter
of some churl dares to hold me,
grips my russet skin, robs me of my head
and puts me in the pantry. At once that girl
with plaited hair who has confined me
remembers our meeting. Her eye moistens.
Olbec winked. ‘What’s the answer?’
Hero blushed.
Olbec pinched his cheek. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind, young monk.’ He swayed towards the door, where his wife waited with a fixed smile. ‘It’s an onion,’ he bawled.
Hero tried to spot Richard among the revellers. He was ashamed of his outburst over the spilt ink. He also kept one eye on the door, half-expecting the Count to come crashing through in impotent fury. The orgy of feasting had ended and now the soldiers were playing some kind of drinking game that involved daubing their faces with soot, standing on benches stacked on the tables, and chanting an obscene ditty which Drogo orchestrated with his sword. In another part of the hall, Raul arm-wrestled two Normans simultaneously while a third soldier poured mead into his upraised mouth. A table collapsed and a brawl broke out. Hero had lost count of the ale cups he’d drunk. He was reaching for another when a hand closed over the vessel.
He smiled woozily up at Vallon.
‘Time to sober up. We’re leaving tonight. Put your eyes back in their sockets. Go to our quarters and pack. When you’ve done that, wait for me in the falconer’s hut.’
‘But I can’t. Tomorrow I’m going to the Roman wall with Richard.’
Vallon leaned forward. ‘I’ll make it plain. Do as I say or stay here and go down into a cold grave.’
As soon as Hero tottered into the cold damp air, nausea swept over him. He clutched his knees and vomited. When he’d finished retching he heard a laugh. Drogo straddled the doorway, bare-chested and sweating, a cup dangling in one hand, his sword loose in the other.
‘Off to beddy-byes, you Greek poof. Master will be along soon to tuck you up.’
He reeled inside and pulled the door shut, leaving Hero in the dark. Deeper than dark. Thick mist had risen from the river, making a mystery of everything around him. He tried to gather his bearings. The guesthouse was set against the stockade to the left of the hall. He groped through the fog, hands outstretched like a ghost.
He was almost sober by the time he found the guest quarters. Hands fumbling, he bundled everything into a blanket and embarked
on another blind journey to Wayland’s hut. He collided with a building and felt his way along the walls until he found the door.
‘Wayland, are you there? It’s Hero. Master Vallon sent me.’
No answer. Opening the door a crack, he saw two tremulous lights. He shrank back. He had the wrong building. This was the chapel, and there was a man praying before the altar. An instant later he realised that the kneeling man was Vallon.
He waited for his master to finish. It seemed to him that Vallon was making a confession. He caught the occasional words – ‘penance’ and ‘blood of the innocent’, and then quite clearly he heard Vallon say, ‘I’m a lost soul. What does it matter where my journey takes me or whether I reach the end?’
The bleak utterance chilled Hero. He must have moved. Vallon stopped. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Only me, sir.’
Vallon stood and walked towards him. ‘How long have you been listening? What did you hear?’
‘Nothing, sir. I took a wrong turning in the dark. I have the baggage. Where are we going?’
‘Away. I always light a candle before leaving on a campaign.’ Vallon gestured towards the altar. ‘I’ve lit one for you, too.’
Campaign? What campaign?
Vallon steered him to Wayland’s hut. The interior was rank with animal smells. A lamp lit Richard’s anxious face. Another person floated out of the shadows, a ring gleaming in one ear, his hair in a sidelock.
‘What’s that tosspot doing here?’ Vallon demanded.
Raul was pie-eyed. He swayed forward. ‘At your service, Captain. You’d have found me in more soldier-like condition if Wayland had told me about your flight earlier.’
Vallon stepped towards Wayland. ‘Who else knows?’
Wayland gave a quick shake of his head.
Vallon shook Raul by the shoulders. ‘Tell me why I should take you. Speak up.’
Raul fumbled for his crossbow, turning like a dog searching for its tail. ‘Captain, I can put a bolt through a man’s eye at a hundred paces. I’ve served in three armies around the Baltic and I know how to deal with rascally Norwegian merchants.’ He screwed up his eyes and held
up a finger, his face contorted by some gastric turmoil. ‘And I’m strong as a bear.’ He gave a flabby wave that covered Hero and Richard. ‘How far do you think you’ll get with these two sissys to nurse?’ Blinking, he pawed at Hero’s arm. ‘No disrespect.’