The Champion (61 page)

‘So am I, but if that makes him and me similar in any way then I’ll eat my saddle.’

‘Jesu, I don’t know.’ Reginald knotted his brow as if in pain at being forced to think. ‘He’s courteous enough, I suppose, but aloof with it. You can’t tell what’s in his mind, and that is strange, for his eyes are so light a blue that you would think to see straight through them.’

‘Appearances are often deceptive.’

Reginald rubbed at a smudge of mud on his mount’s thick winter coat. ‘He has a compassionate side, though, because he often distributes alms to the poor roundabout, instead of leaving such a task to his almoner.’ Reginald shook his head at Hervi’s snort of disbelief. ‘No, it is true. I myself have seen him riding out with baskets of bread. And he must have courage too, for he ventures across these woodland wastes without escort.’

‘Does he now?’ Hervi digested the information with cynical eyes and pursed lips. ‘And nothing ill has ever befallen him?’

‘Only once, when he was nearly eaten by wolves, so I heard, but no, for the rest he has remained unharmed. Why, what’s the matter?’

Hervi shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Why do you want to know about him?’ Reginald persisted.

‘Are you aware that he has a carnal weakness for young men and whips?’

‘Oh, not that old tale again,’ Reginald scoffed. ‘I heard some such nonsense from Alexander, but the lad was romancing. He’s always held a grudge about being given to the Church. If he was beaten, then doubtless it was justified. Would they have made a prior of Alkmund if he had a stain like that on his character?’

Hervi drew rein. Overhead the sky was a bitter, bleached grey. The wind rattled through the naked black branches of oak and chestnut, and his breath was white on the air as he faced Reginald. ‘You have escorted me far enough,’ he said in a voice that although not raised, was ragged at the seams as he strove to contain his fury. ‘The priory is not much further, and you have told me all that I need to know – about you, if not that accursed prior. I will keep my own company for the last two furlongs.’

Reginald stared, his face a mixture of bewilderment and indignation.

‘A blind man could find the path with more ease than you,’ Hervi said, and slapped the reins down on his mount’s neck.

Reginald watched his brother ride on and dithered, both spurring his mount and reining it back so that the poor beast became thoroughly confused and turned round in circles. Finally, he decided to lay the blame of thick-wittedness at Hervi’s door and turned for the familiarity of home.

Ignoring the bite of the chainmail, the smell of a man who had travelled hard and far that day, Monday flung herself into Alexander’s arms the moment he entered the hall, and clung to him. They kissed, and she tasted the salt of sweat on his upper lip, and her skin was chafed by his stubble. She had never encountered such welcome sensations in all her life.

He laughed, breaking the embrace, to hold her away by the waist and look at her. ‘I have only been gone a single week,’ he jested, ‘not a whole year!’

‘It seemed like a whole year,’ she said, and there was no jest in her own voice. Ever since her grandfather had ridden out, she had been waiting in a fever of anxiety for Alexander’s return, each minute dragging out to the length of a day. She wanted to blurt it all out to him now, but she also knew it was not fair to pounce on him the moment he set foot in the keep. Nor was it news to be imparted in the midst of a throng.

‘Well, for your sins, you are going to have me underfoot from Whitsun onwards.’ He grinned.

She gave him a questioning look. Whatever had happened, he was obviously mightily pleased with himself. She had not seen him so buoyant since their tourney days, when carrying off the prize had been like fire to him. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that my lord has asked me to take custody of Abermon once more, as from May. He’s sending the current castellan to tend estates in Ireland. I have it for us, a castle and a home.’ He swung her round in his embrace. ‘What do you say to that?’

She tightened her arms around him. ‘That I could not want for anything more.’ Her tone was fierce rather than joyous, and Alexander, for all his delight, was no fool. He held her gently away.

‘Love, what is it?’

Monday shook her head. ‘Wait until you have eaten and bathed,’ she said. ‘It is nothing that cannot wait.’ She tried to sound eager. ‘The Countess told me that the Marshal was to give you a keep before midsummer, but not that it was Abermon.’

He frowned, and would have pursued his query, but Florian appeared out of nowhere, and like a missile from a sling hurled himself upon Alexander with delighted shrieks of ‘Papa, Papa!’, thus putting an end to any serious conversation.

But the moment was only put off. Alexander remained in the hall with his family to consume the food that was served up to the returned soldiers, Florian seated upon his knee and chattering nine to the dozen. As soon as he had finished, however, he repaired with his family to their dwelling across the bailey.

Monday had been silent throughout the meal, merely toying with the meat stew on her trencher, but drinking more wine than was her wont. Now there was a high colour to her cheeks, but her movements were still neat and steady as she poured hot water from the cauldron into a large pottery bowl, and laid a cloth and a jar of herb-scented soap beside it.

She helped Alexander to remove his hauberk, as she had helped him to put it on a week since. Flecks of rust dappled her fingers, and made freckles on Alexander’s face.

‘Needs scouring,’ he said. ‘I’ll set Huw to work on the morrow. We have two days before we leave for the court.’

Monday nodded, and without speaking, aided him to take off the padded gambeson, the linen streaked black by the steel. Florian sat down in a corner with his father’s helmet, and industriously, if not very skilfully, began cleaning it with an oily rag.

Alexander straightened and eyed his wife. She had retreated within herself. He could almost see the barrier she was building to shut herself away. He had spoken to her of Abermon, of how much it meant to him, and would to her, and she had given the appearance of being raptly attentive, when all the time he knew that her mind was elsewhere. ‘Tell me,’ he said, catching her arm, turning her round as she started away with the folded gambeson. ‘It will make no difference to my comfort whether you unburden yourself now or when I have washed.’ Taking the garment from her, he threw it across the coffer so that there was no barrier between them.

Monday sighed. ‘My grandfather came to Pembroke on the morning you left.’

‘Your grandfather?’ Alexander stared at her. ‘How did he know you were here?’ he demanded.

‘Eudo le Boucher.’

She did not have to say any more. Alexander cursed and dug his fingers through his hair. ‘What happened, what did he say?’

‘He offered me his barony,’ Monday said with a bitter laugh, and told him of her interview with her grandfather. ‘Then he said that there were always grounds for an annulment and stormed out.’ She caught her underlip in her teeth and looked at him anxiously. ‘He won’t be able to find any, will he?’

Alexander’s expression had been tightening and darkening all the time that she spoke. ‘Not so much as a single clause,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Not even the Pope himself could put us asunder.’ He grasped her round the waist and pulled her into his arms. ‘I promise you, sweetheart, he is going to find procuring an annulment as impossible as moving a mountain.’

There was anger in his kiss, and love, and a heavy seasoning of lust. Monday responded with a soft gasp and pressed into the embrace; hip to hip, straining and rubbing. Then, mindful of Florian, quietly occupied in his corner, they broke apart, looking at each other.

‘There is nothing he can do,’ Alexander repeated forcefully.

‘I know. It’s just that …’ She grimaced and touched her wedding ring, pressing her forefinger into the incised design so that it left its imprint on her skin. ‘He made me feel vulnerable and afraid.’

‘Small wonder,’ Alexander said grimly as he began to wash. ‘I only wish that I had been there to receive him.’

Monday thought it a blessing that he had been absent, for such an encounter would have gone beyond words, of a certainty. Turning away, she fetched a linen towel from its warming place by the central hearth. ‘I did not know my own tongue could be so sharp,’ she said. ‘I think I cut him as much as he cut me.’

‘But you were using it in self-defence. He was the one who attacked first.’

‘So you think I am justified?’ she said neutrally.

‘You would have been less justified not to speak out.’ He threw down the cloth and took the towel from her hands. ‘It is in the past. Any guilt is not yours, but his.’

She gave him a dubious look. ‘You would have made a very comforting priest.’

‘God forbid. That is in the past too!’ He snorted. ‘The family priesthood is safe in my brother’s hands now, God shine on him wherever he is.’ Donning the clean tunic and shirt she handed him, he kissed her. ‘The memory will fade with time; I promise.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Monday returned his kiss, and rubbed her forehead against his shoulder, seeking comfort.

Attempting to lighten her mood, he fetched his belt and attached purse from the coffer. ‘I brought you a present from my wandering,’ he said. ‘An Irish priest was selling these in Haverford.’ He placed a drawstring pouch of soft kidskin in her hand.

Monday hesitated, her underlip caught in her teeth.

‘Go on, open it,’ he urged.

A smile in her eyes, she pulled the woven drawcords apart. ‘I think I can guess,’ she said, and tipped the string of prayer beads out into her palm. Striated, glorious colours slid between her fingers – cream and cinnamon, salmon pink, gold, and soft fern-green. Polished and sensual. ‘Alexander, they’re beautiful!’

‘You like them?’

‘Why, yes!’ She ran them from hand to hand, and he saw the genuine pleasure sparkling in her eyes.

‘I thought they were an improvement on those old prayer beads of yours.’

‘But I haven’t got any …’ she began, and then her colour heightened. Leaving him, she went to her coffer and fished out the string of beads that Dame Hortense had given her. ‘These, you mean?’

He nodded and pulled a face. ‘Small wonder you never bring them down to mass, they’re hideous.’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘They’re not for prayer, or not in the sense that you mean.’

‘Then for what?’

She gave him an assessing look, then indicated the bed bench at the side of the room. ‘Sit down and I will tell you.’

A large iron brazier filled with glowing lumps of charcoal cast out waves of heat to warm the prior’s private quarters. The best charcoal, Hervi noted, no brown ends, and profligately used. But then, although it did not show on his thin, ascetic frame, Prior Alkmund was a man of appetites.

‘It is not often that we receive visitors from beyond the county’s borders,’ Alkmund said pleasantly, and gestured Hervi to be seated on a cushioned box chair near the roasting wooden coals. ‘Let alone one intrepid enough to travel through bad weather and danger with the burden of ill health.’

Hervi rubbed his leg and made a deliberate effort to remain civil and calm. The man looked like the icon of a holy martyr, with his patrician bones and narrow Romanesque brows, but he made Hervi’s hackles rise beyond their very roots. ‘I thank you for your concern, but there is nothing wrong with my health. I can do most things that any other able-bodied man can do. The weather is not pleasant, I grant you, but I have endured worse. And I encountered no danger. Should I have done?’

‘The woods are always dangerous for those who are not familiar with their ways, Father Hervi,’ Alkmund replied smoothly, as he poured dark wine from a pitcher into two cups.

‘I am told that you often venture abroad on errands of mercy without an escort.’

Alkmund smiled, but his eyes were watchful as he gave Hervi the wine. ‘May I ask who told you?’

‘One of your neighbours, Reginald de Montroi,’ Hervi said. He had no intention of telling Alkmund that he too was a Montroi. ‘He provided me with an escort as far as your gates. He told me that wolves of both the four- and two-legged kind abound in these parts. Are you not afraid?’

‘Not with God at my side.’

Hervi took a drink of the wine. It was sweet and heavy, dark as blood, and made him want to retch. ‘I have brought letters,’ he said. ‘From the Archbishop, summoning you to an assembly concerning the initiation of oblates and novices.’ Leaning to the leather satchel at his side, he withdrew a sealed packet and held it out to Alkmund.

‘The Archbishop sends a one-legged monk as his messenger?’ The long, thin fingers avoided contact with Hervi’s as they took the package.

‘Appearances are not everything,’ Hervi said softly, and folded his hands within his habit sleeves. It was at times like these that he missed the comforting weight of the sword at his left hip.

Alkmund slit the seal on the package. ‘Indeed not. You must be a man of rare talents to triumph despite your disability. How came you to have but one leg?’

‘An accident with a scythe,’ Hervi answered with a shrug, making it obvious from his tone that he did not want to discuss the subject. ‘Do you have many novices here?’

‘We receive our share,’ Alkmund said, and frowned as he scanned the lines of writing. As well he might, Hervi thought, watching him from beneath lowered lids. There were moves afoot within the Church to discourage the donation of small children to religious houses. A monastic life should be born of a true vocation, and initiates should be in late adolescence at least. But it wasn’t just that Cranwell’s supply of younger oblates was likely to be curtailed. Hervi knew that the Bishop of Stafford said in his own particular letter that he had heard disquieting tales about the kind of training Cranwell’s novices were receiving, and that a full inspection was to be conducted after Easter.

Alkmund glanced at Hervi. ‘Do you know what is contained in these letters?’

‘The gist only.’

‘There have never been any complaints about this priory,’ Alkmund said, tight-lipped. ‘The local families send their sons here to receive a decent education. We are praised for our standards and our piety. Whoever has been spreading this slander deserves to be whipped.’