The Champion (16 page)

She looked at him aghast. ‘You can’t go down to the hall, it’s full of their soldiers!’

‘If it is, then I am bound to receive a reply,’ he said grimly, and walked towards the door.

‘Without your shirt?’ Monday followed him, the garment outstretched in her hand. ‘I’m coming with you; you’re not fit to be out of your bed, let alone roaming the keep.’

He halted, an impatient, slightly feverish glitter in his eyes. ‘Don’t fuss,’ he snapped.

‘If I am fussing, then you are being pig-headed,’ she retorted as she helped him don the shirt, tugging it gently down over his injured shoulder and bruised ribs. ‘Look,’ she reasoned, ‘perhaps Lady Aline could find out for you. She and Hamon de Rougon used to be sweethearts. He will listen to whatever she says.’

‘Hervi’s my brother, it’s my duty,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I’ll not hide behind a woman.’ He jerked out of her grip and opened the chamber door. The smell of musty stone wafted from the twisting stairway, its darkness alleviated by the occasional wrist-thin arrowslit.

‘Give me strength,’ Monday muttered to herself behind him, and followed him out on to the stairway. He pretended not to hear. The steps curled around the newel post like the inside of a whelk shell, and brought them to the open gallery above the hall, the walkway protected by a series of decorated stone arches. The hall itself, spread out to their view, was packed with the retinues of Rougon, Marshal and Coeur de Lion. There was scarcely an inch of floor space to be glimpsed between the press of knights and soldiers. Harassed retainers moved amongst them, trying to serve food.

The leaders were seated at the great table on the dais, and Lord Bertran’s chair was occupied by a warrior with a mane of red-blond hair and clean, powerful features. A tunic of vibrant violet-blue wool graced his body, gold braid twinkling at throat and cuff. At his side was a man of similar stature with neatly brushed black hair, beginning to grey at the temples. He wore a green and yellow surcoat with a red lion appliquéd on the breast, and his manner was more relaxed than that of his handsome companion. Alexander knew that this had to be the great William Marshal, a man who had risen from obscurity by military excellence and political diplomacy, and who was now a powerful baron, high in the counsel and esteem of kings.

Seated with these two great men was a slender, chestnut-haired man, handsome and vulpine. He was much younger than his companions, but did not seem discomposed in their presence, his manner both relaxed and watchful at the same time. Next to him, her eyes downcast, her manner modest and effacing, was Aline. Her own garments were sombre – a gown of dark-brown wool and a plain linen wimple, something of a contrast to her usual mode of dress.

Alexander drew a deep, steadying breath, and started along the gallery to the stairs that would bring him down closest to the dais. He had to know what had happened to Hervi; nothing else mattered. He was barely aware of Monday pattering anxiously at his side, nor of the pain of his bruises, except to be annoyed that his body would not serve him as he commanded. Instead of walking in a straight line, he moved as if he were drunk, and although he knew his purpose, his thoughts were disconnected and jumbled. A separate, rational Alexander watched the progress of the foolish one from the stone vault of the gallery and was powerless to intervene.

At the foot of the stairs, a thick-set guard blocked their path. The man’s paunch was the size of a billowed sail, and he had a wickedly sharpened spear which he threatened to ram down Alexander’s throat.

‘I have to have audience with the lord Richard,’ Alexander said, and swayed where he stood.

‘Aye, you and every other man,’ the guard sneered. ‘You shouldn’t be so eager to put your neck in a noose.’ His gaze flickered to Monday, who was clutching Alexander’s sleeve, partly to support him, partly to give herself courage. ‘What’s your business with him?’

‘My brother, I need to find out if he is still alive.’

‘One of the garrison, is he?’ The guard continued to look at Monday as if he found her far more interesting than Alexander.

‘Yes, a tall man, well built, with fair hair and beard. He was bearing Lavoux’s standard. Do you know anything of him?’

The guard took his eyes from Monday. ‘I know nothing,’ he growled, ‘except that Bertran de Lavoux was a traitor and a cattle thief, and that he couldn’t carry out his mischief without men of a like mind to help him.’ The spear point jabbed again, dangerously close to Alexander’s face. ‘You’ll get your turn to plead your case on the morrow, before we hang them.’

Rage coursed through Alexander, lending him a surge of strength to match that of earlier. He grasped the spear two-handed by the base of the socket and the shaft, and used one of the ruses that Hervi had taught him in hand-to-hand fighting to wrench the weapon out of the astonished guard’s hands and reverse the advantage. ‘Now!’ he snarled. ‘I want to know about my brother now!’

Other soldiers rushed to help their unfortunate companion. Monday clung to Alexander like a limpet and screamed at the top of her lungs. She reasoned that the soldiers would not strike a woman to death, and to get at Alexander they would have to get at her first.

‘Enough!’ a voice roared above the fracas, with sufficient power to deafen those unfortunate enough to be immediately adjacent. ‘Put up your weapons; stand aside!’

Silence fell, disturbed only by the rattle of swords and knives being returned to sheaths, and the shuffle of feet as men withdrew.

Breathing hard, Alexander removed the spear tip from the hollow of the guard’s throat. Weakness flooded his limbs, and it was only will power and pride that kept him on his feet as the tall, red-blond man confronted and pierced him with a stare of blue ice.

Close to, Richard Coeur de Lion defied magnificence. Even without the striking height and looks, the charisma of the man was all-encompassing. He shone as brightly as the sun – and at the moment, the famous Angevin temper was scorching.

‘You dare to come armed into my hall and break the peace?’ he roared at Alexander. ‘On your knees, knave, for your life!’ A hard hand clamped Alexander’s shoulder and forced him down. In truth it was not difficult to do, for Alexander was on the point of collapse anyway. Without being told, Monday knelt too, her head bowed.

Alexander struggled against a fluctuating darkness at the edge of his vision. ‘Sire,’ he swallowed, ‘it was not my intention to cause harm. Your guard threatened me when I was no threat to him. I did but defend myself.’

The brilliant blue eyes narrowed. ‘No threat to him,’ Richard said silkily, ‘and yet you put a spear to his throat.’

‘After he had put one to mine. I was only seeking news of my brother. I do not know if he is dead or alive. I know it matters not to any of you … but it matters dearly to me.’

There was a long silence when it seemed that every man present in the hall held his breath. A time of waiting for the royal rage to break over the young man’s foolish head and utterly destroy him.

The tension swelled like a storm, and then, miraculously, passed over as the fury departed Richard’s expression as swiftly as it had arrived. ‘Get up,’ he said brusquely, including Monday in his gesture.

‘Sire, I do not know if I can,’ Alexander confessed.

The hand that had forced him to his knees now took him beneath the elbow and raised him to his feet. Alexander staggered, then steadied, pride locking his knees.

Richard scrutinised Alexander from head to toe, a thorough assessment that seemed to take in every mark and flaw. Alexander became intensely aware of the shabby condition of his hose and shirt, that he was standing before his liege lord as a beggar and that he had nothing with which to bargain.

‘Your name?’ Richard demanded.

‘Alexander de Montroi, sire. My eldest brother Reginald holds lands for you between Stafford and Wigmore.’

‘And this is the brother about whom you wish to know?’

‘No, sire. He would have an apoplexy if he could see me now.’

Richard’s thin lips twitched. ‘I take your word for it, since I do not know him personally. Then tell me what you are doing here, apart from seeking your news.’

Alexander met the blue eyes. They were filled with mocking humour now. Richard, it seemed, wanted to be entertained, and was prepared to be indulgent while it suited him. Beyond his magnificent figure, Alexander could see the courtiers gathered like spectators at a bear-baiting.

‘Sire, he is my scribe,’ said the lady Aline, pushing forward and dipping a curtsey to Richard. Her voice was devoid of the smoky, honeyed tones it usually possessed in her dealings with men.

‘Your scribe?’ Richard glanced at her coldly. ‘And yet he has recently fought a battle. He bears the marks of a helm and coif about his face, and he did not end up in this condition from wielding a pen.’

Snorts of amusement greeted the sally. ‘Indeed, sire,’ spoke out William Marshal, ‘I myself struck him down during the assault on our camp. He would not be alive now were it not for the intervention of another knight, and my nephew here.’ He gestured over his shoulder.

His colour high, John Marshal stepped out from the gathering. ‘He saved me during a tourney last spring season – took on a knight twice his size and ten times his experience and pulled him off his horse. It is a debt I openly acknowledge. Do not blame him for the company he has kept. He has good blood.’

Richard’s eyebrows by now had almost climbed into his hair. He stared hard at Marshal and his nephew, then transferred his gaze to Aline. ‘And you say he is your scribe?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Aline replied with candour. ‘He writes as neat a hand as any clerk, and he has Latin at his fingertips. It is true that he took part in the battle and that he is learning the military arts, but his value to me is in the skill of his letters.’ She pointed at Monday. ‘Indeed, I know from my sempstress that he was unhappy in my former husband’s service, but having taken his coin, was honour-bound to serve him.’

‘A veritable paragon,’ Richard said drily.

Alexander chewed the inside of his mouth and stared straight ahead. ‘My brother, Hervi, was charged with bearing the Lavoux banner during the attack on your camp. I would know if he still lives, or if I have to bury him.’

‘Assuming, of course, that I pardon your own life,’ Richard said sharply.

‘Then I would know so that he can bury me, or that by your mercy you will allow us to share a grave.’

Richard eyed Alexander thoughtfully. ‘For all that you are near dead on your feet, you have a swift enough tongue. I wonder if you are bold to bandy words with me, or just plain foolish.’

Alexander held himself very still, nearer to collapse than even Richard could have guessed. ‘I came to find out if my brother is alive or dead,’ he said, enunciating each word with great care like a drunkard. ‘I meant no offence.’

Richard continued to stare at him, and now his brows were level and brooding. ‘You will count yourself fortunate if none has been taken,’ he said, his voice softer now, with a rumble in it almost like a purr. Without turning, he addressed John Marshal. ‘Go and seek among the prisoners for this boy’s brother, and if he still lives, bring him here. Not for one minute would I contemplate sharing a grave with any of my brothers. I want to see what manner of man inspires such lunatic devotion.’

John Marshal bowed and departed. Richard took Alexander by the arm. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘you have disrupted my meal far enough, you might as well join us.’

Somehow, Alexander managed to set one foot in front of the other, forcing his will beyond the boundaries of what had earlier seemed impossible. In a moment he would be able to sit down. For Hervi. He had to hold fast for Hervi.

Monday hesitated as Coeur de Lion drew a stumbling Alexander towards the dais. She did not think that the invitation included her as well, but Aline beckoned. ‘Join us,’ she commanded, with a slightly narrow look at Richard’s back, her humility much less in evidence now. ‘I am yet mistress in my own hall.’

Lavoux’s dungeon lay beneath the store rooms, and in comparison to some that Hervi had experienced, was relatively civilised. It reminded him of a stable, for the floor was thick with straw and the torch sockets in the wall were reminiscent of hay mangers. Only one of these sockets was occupied by a burning brand. For the most part, the men of Lavoux’s defeated garrison lay in darkness.

Hervi moved in the straw, testing the bruises on his body to discover which part of him ached the most. His mail had saved him from serious hurt, that and his swift reactions coupled with his solid bone structure. The closest he had come to severe injury was when the Lavoux banner had been torn from his grasp and someone had used its barbed point to run Lord Bertran through. Hervi had seen no reason to fight on and had surrendered, but not before his adversary had landed several solid blows. At least Hervi knew that Alexander was safe. Arnaud had told him that the Marshals had taken him prisoner, and although the lad had received a severe buffeting, he had sustained no mortal injuries.

‘Although more by luck than judgement,’ Arnaud had added wryly. ‘He fights like one possessed, as much a danger to himself as to the enemy. I was sore pressed to stay with him. He just took off like a demon hot from hell.’

Well, that would have to be honed out of him if they got out of this broil alive, Hervi thought. Alex had to learn to fight with a clear head whatever the provocation. He eased his position again and wondered how best to lie to sleep, since no position was comfortable. Closing his eyes, he thought of the green fields above and beyond the dungeon, the bursting spring and a warm wind blowing over the tourney field. Rippling banners, the clack of a lance upon a quintain; the greasy smell of the cookshops and the camaraderie around the camp fire.

Inexplicably the scene changed, and suddenly he found himself standing in a chapel, clothed in the dark robes of a monk, while exultant plainchant soared around him in praise of God.

A key grating in the lock of the prison door jerked Hervi out of his dream, and he opened his eyes in time to see it swinging open to admit a knight bearing a flaming torch, and two men-at-arms with swords drawn. The knight stooped under the arch, then stood straight, the torch held on high, and Hervi recognised the earnest features of John Marshal.