The Champion (17 page)
‘I seek Hervi de Montroi,’ the young man announced in carrying tones, and gazed around.
Slowly, carefully, Hervi rolled over and stood up, every muscle in his body protesting. ‘I am here, Sir John,’ he said, and shuffled forward into the pool of light cast by the torch.
John Marshal gave him an assessing look. ‘The lord Richard has summoned you to his presence in the hall – if you’re capable of walking that far,’ he added.
Hervi limped towards the cell door. ‘I’m not a weakling,’ he said proudly. The soldiers accompanying Marshal parted to let him pass, their swords held at the ready, their eyes flickering between him and the other prisoners. The air bristled with tension and fear.
‘Why me?’ Hervi asked Marshal as the door slammed shut between him and his companions, and the key turned.
‘I was sent to discover if you still lived, and to bring you forth if it was so. Your brother was concerned for your welfare, and made the fact known to the lord Richard in no uncertain terms.’
Hervi groaned. Alexander’s skill for troublemaking appeared to be unrivalled.
Marshal shook his head. ‘There is small harm done, I think. Lord Richard was diverted by his boldness and open manner.’ The knight gave Hervi the shadow of a smile. ‘I was grateful myself for your brother’s courage on the day that he intervened between myself and Eudo le Boucher. Such passion is rare.’
‘I cannot share the sentiment.’
‘You should, since I saved your brother’s life in recompense on the field today.’
That silenced Hervi. Besides, by the time he had mounted the stairs to the hall, he was too sore and winded to be capable of a coherent sentence.
Marshal led him up the length of the hall, weaving between the crowded trestles. Hervi glanced at the mass of soldiers. More had arrived since that morning, swelling what had been modest forces into a full-blown army. He was led to the dais, there to kneel before Coeur de Lion and his assembled captains. A swift upward glance showed him Alexander seated amongst them. The boy looked ghastly, his eyes glassy and his complexion a yellowish-grey.
‘So,’ said Coeur de Lion neutrally, ‘you are Hervi de Montroi, Lavoux’s standard-bearer.’
‘Sire,’ Hervi acknowledged, his eyes lowered now in deference, his thoughts churning in futile rings of panic. Damn Alexander, what had he done?
‘On your feet,’ Richard commanded. ‘I cannot judge a man by the top of his head.’
Painfully, Hervi did as he was bidden, unfolding to his full height, which was close to Richard’s own. They were men of a similar physical type, fair of complexion, broad-shouldered and narrow in the hip.
Richard studied Hervi, his hands steepled beneath his chin, and it appeared that what he saw did not displease him. ‘Your brother was afraid that he might have to bury you, what do you say to that?’
Again, Hervi looked at Alexander, a hint of a scowl contracting his brows. ‘From what I know of Alexander, sire, it is far more likely that I will have to bury him, and not before too long.’
Richard’s face creased. ‘I see that you understand the concepts of brotherly love,’ said the man who had spent most of his life feuding with his own siblings.
‘Yes, sire, being one of six.’
Richard nodded to himself, as if confirming an unspoken thought. ‘So you are forced to hire your sword for a living?’
‘I have to take what comes my way, sire.’
‘Even if it be a hangman’s noose?’
‘A man of my trade lives every day of his life under threat of death,’ Hervi replied with a pragmatic shrug. ‘If I let myself think about it too much, I would lose my courage. I say my prayers, I keep a sharp sword.’ Once more his glance flickered to Alexander, who had sat silent throughout the exchange.
Richard gently rubbed a forefinger over the ruddy gold moustache on his upper lip. He too regarded Alexander. ‘Are you satisfied now that you have seen your brother?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, sire,’ Alexander said in a voice as grey as his complexion. ‘But I would know what you intend doing with him … with us.’
Richard gave a slow, sleepy smile. ‘Let us just say that I’m disposed to be lenient,’ he said softly.
Alexander was young, hardy, and above all, stubborn. Following the trials and traumas of the battle and the feast, he slept for a full night and day and night again, awaking on the second morning with a raging thirst and a craving, hollow stomach.
Coeur de Lion and his army had ridden away to bring another rebellious vassal to heel, leaving Lavoux in the capable hands of Hamon de Rougon. The garrison had been released and sent on their way with their mounts, but not their weapons, and the only members remaining were Arnaud, Hervi and Alexander.
‘Although Lord Richard did not say why he so favoured us above the others,’ Monday said in a puzzled voice as she regaled Alexander with the tale whilst he devoured a thick slice of ham and strips of griddled egg between two slabs of bread.
‘Perhaps because of the way I faced him in the hall.’ Alexander drank deeply from the cup of watered wine she had brought him. ‘He is a man who likes boldness in others, I think.’
‘You were beyond bold,’ Monday said with a hint of censure. ‘You were downright foolhardy.’
Alexander continued devouring his breakfast. ‘I needed to know what had happened to Hervi. Nothing else mattered.’
Monday plucked at his coverlet where a loop of thread stood proud of the weave, and frowned. ‘Lady Aline acted very strangely when she heard that Lord Richard had allowed us to remain here instead of putting us out with the rest of the garrison.’
‘In what way?’
‘She came and looked at you where you were sleeping and she said that Hamon de Rougon had told her something in confidence about Coeur de Lion that made her uneasy for your well-being. She said that you should leave as soon as you were able.’
Alexander dusted crumbs from his palms and raised his cup to finish his wine. He echoed her frown, but then laughed and shook his head dismissively. ‘If he had meant me harm, I would not be here now, breaking my fast so lavishly in the comfort of Lady Aline’s chambers,’ he said. ‘Probably she misunderstood de Rougon, or you misunderstood her.’
‘I do not think so. She kept gnawing her lip as if intending to say more, but it was something she had been told in confidence. In the end she said that you had a Byzantine mother, and that Lord Richard had knowledge of Greek ways, whatever that means.’
Alexander choked and almost spilled his wine. Monday’s eyes widened with concern. ‘What is it? Do you know what she meant?’
He set his cup down and grimaced. It was ironic, he thought, that she had lived her life among the sinners of the tourney circuit, and he had lived the latter years of his in the ‘pure air’ of a monastery, and yet he was the one whose innocence had been corrupted.
‘Do not look at me like that, just tell me!’ she cried.
Without answering, he rose and moved stiffly to the coffer where lay the Saracen gazing-glass that Lady Aline used to view her reflection whilst tidying her hair and arranging her wimple. Picking it up, he gazed at himself and wondered what lay therein to tempt other men. His features were clear and fine, but certainly not effeminate, unless it be in the symmetry of the long-lashed eyes. If he lined them with kohl as his mother had been wont to do, and concealed the rest beneath a veil, he might be mistaken for an eastern houri. But then, the men who were attracted to him had no love for the female form. They were not seeking a surrogate wife or mother, but their own flesh idealised.
There’s a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach
. So had some Greek poet written thousands of years ago. Alexander recalled seeing a translation of the text in Cranwell’s library.
He turned the mirror over and gently set it back down on the coffer. There had been nothing overt in Richard’s behaviour at the feast, but thinking back, Alexander could pick out small nuances and inflections. The slight narrowing of the eyes as they perused him from head to foot, and then the occasional sidelong glances at the high table. The shiver down his spine, responding to an unspecified danger. And Richard had asked to see Hervi in the flesh, and had not been displeased that they were of a similar physical type.
‘Tell me,’ Monday repeated impatiently. ‘Or I will go down to the hall and ask Hervi or my father.’
He swung to face her. ‘Is Duke Richard returning to Lavoux on his travels?’
Monday wrinkled her brow. ‘Something was mentioned about keeping supplies here.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Then it is best that I am not here when he returns.’ He looked at her puzzled, frustrated expression and raked his hand through his hair. ‘In Constantinople,’ he said, ‘there are bathing houses where men go to meet other men in the same way that they would go to meet a woman. That is what Lady Aline meant by knowledge of Greek ways. Love between two men.’
Monday stared at him, her grey eyes puzzled. ‘You mean like Hervi and my father?’
Alexander’s complexion darkened. ‘No, nothing like that,’ he said with exasperation. ‘That is just friendship. I mean a … a carnal bond.’
‘But how can that be?’
There was no way on God’s earth that Alexander was going to tell her. ‘Just believe me that it happens,’ he said. ‘One of the reasons I ran away from Cranwell was because of that. A monk desired me to become his lover, a position I had no wish to fulfil.’
‘And Duke Richard …?’ Monday’s eyes were huge by now as she tried to absorb what seemed preposterous. ‘But he has a wife …’
‘From political expedience. He is a soldier, he dwells in the company of men, while she resides in a nunnery at Beaufort en Valée. There is no place in his life for a woman, save perhaps his mother, and no one will ever match up to Eleanor of Aquitaine.’ He moved awkwardly towards the bower door. ‘I must speak to
Hervi and your father.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Alexander drew a deep breath to refuse, but one look at the mulish set of her jaw banished the words and the notion. ‘As you wish,’ he sighed, and opened the door.
The great hall seemed empty in contrast to the sardine-barrel horde that had occupied it two nights ago. Now there were only a dozen or so off-duty soldiers and squires, two clerks, and a priest busy with tallies at a trestle. Neither Hervi nor Arnaud was to be seen.
Alexander and Monday left the hall and went out into the ward. The sun was shining and dust motes hung in the air. An old hound slept in a shady corner and hens pecked around his paws with a complete lack of concern. A mason was taking measurements with pieces of string and squinting through cupped hands at the stonework damaged during the siege, and the castle carpenter was sitting out in the fine weather, mending a long bench. Alexander asked him if he had seen Hervi and Arnaud.
‘Hunting,’ the man said, laying down his hammer. ‘A whole party of them rode out not an hour since. The mistress desired fresh meat for the table. They’ll be back afore dusk,’ he added cheerfully, and whistled to himself as he manipulated a piece of wood in his hands.
Alexander cursed softly between his teeth. He needed to see Hervi now, not in half a day’s time. ‘Do you know where they went?’
‘Couldn’t say, my young master, but they took the hawks, so they’ll be headed for open ground.’
Alexander nodded his thanks and turned in the direction of the stables.
Monday turned with him, almost running to keep pace. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Going to find them.’
‘But they could be anywhere. Why can’t you wait until they return. Surely a few hours will not make any difference?’
Hers was the voice of reason, but Alexander found it difficult to listen. ‘If you had dwelt at Cranwell Priory, you would understand. There is no point you riding out with me. Go back to the bower.’ His tone was brusque because he was agitated.
Monday jutted her chin at the rejection. ‘Where you think I belong, minding my distaff and my needle,’ she said coldly.
‘Christ, Monday, don’t be so awkward.’
‘I am awkward!’ Her voice rose indignantly. ‘How can you say that when …’ She stopped in mid-utterance as they heard a shout from the guards on watch and the creak of chains as the portcullis was raised. Then came the hollow ring of shod hooves clopping through the gate arch – far more horses than would constitute a hunting party.
Several riders rounded the corner of the stable block. Clad in armour, laughing together, they drew rein, Coeur de Lion among them. There was not the slightest chance of Monday and Alexander escaping unseen.
‘Quickly,’ Alexander muttered, ‘don’t fight me.’
Monday parted her lips to ask what he meant and was shocked when he covered them with his own, sweeping her into a clumsy but passionate embrace against the stable wall. Her spine was jarred by the difference in their heights. The grip of his hands was bruising, the pressure of his lips flattened hers against her teeth. She struggled in protest.
‘Put your arms around my neck,’ he muttered against her lips, as if breathing love words. ‘Let Richard believe that we are sweethearts, that there is no room for anyone or anything to come between us.’
She hesitated, then did as he wanted, belatedly understanding his reason. As she raised her arms and drew him closer still, she thought to herself that despite kissing’s evil reputation as a pleasure that could lead the weak into the graver sin of fornication, there was nothing here to tempt her.
A silence had fallen. Alexander slowly raised his mouth from hers and looked round as if with startled surprise to discover that they had an audience. Monday did not need to feign her blush and only hoped that the story would not go the rounds and end up in her father’s lap. Alexander kept tight hold of her hand and squeezed it. His skin was clammy, and against her fingertips she could feel the rapid beat of his pulse. He truly was afraid.
Richard eyed the pair of them narrowly. At his side, his mercenary captain, Mercadier, was grinning from ear to ear. William Marshal’s look was thoughtful. ‘I see you are much improved,’ Richard said neutrally.