The Champion (21 page)
‘I had thought about going to my grandfather,’ she said shakily, ‘but he disowned my mother when she ran away with Papa, and I do not know if he would give me shelter beneath his roof.’
Alexander finished anointing her injuries and wiped his hands on a scrap of linen. ‘I know of your grandfather,’ he said slowly. ‘My family’s lands are not far from his, and he was also a patron of Cranwell Priory. He might indeed give you shelter, but it would not be out of kindness or duty. You would be his pawn, a useful prize to sell in marriage to the highest bidder. I do not believe that your life would be any easier than it is now, although for different reasons.’
Monday swallowed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Even if not easier, it could be no harder to bear.’ Rising to her feet, she took a blanket from the pallet and went to her father, who had not stirred throughout the fracas. With tender care and not a little weariness, she laid it over him. Then, with a sigh, she went to the tent flaps and looked out on the smoky, damp night. ‘I’m sorry for what I said earlier,’ she murmured. ‘I am grateful for your support.’
Alexander shrugged. ‘Why should you be sorry for what is truth?’ he responded. ‘I had indeed come straight from a woman’s bed, and I am ignorant … although not as ignorant as I was,’ he added wryly, as he came to stand at her side.
It was long after dawn when Arnaud de Cerizay stirred from a sodden slumber and forced open his eyes upon another day. He was lying on the floor of his tent and someone had covered him with the blanket off the pallet he had been unable to reach. There was a relentless, hot pounding in his skull and the sunlight glittering through the tent flaps was impossible to look upon.
‘Monday?’ he croaked, and made himself sit up. The tent was as neat and orderly as she always kept it, but there was no other sign of her presence. ‘Grisel?’ There was no response from that quarter either. Arnaud tottered to his feet, and shading his eyes, went to the tent flap.
Last night’s drizzle had cleared the air, and the sun was noon-high. He swore at the lateness of the hour, and at the women for not rousing him sooner. His stomach curdled and churned. Unable to face the thought of food, he sought around for the wine flask and discovered it empty. The only thing to drink was the water in the storage jar. He dipped the ladle beside it and swallowed several mouthfuls, wishing that he had died in his sleep.
Light blared into the tent as Hervi threw back the flap and ducked inside, his presence as blond and vital as the morning – and about as welcome.
‘Have you seen my daughter?’ Arnaud greeted him irritably.
‘She and Alexander went into the town this morning to purchase supplies.’
‘Good, there’s no more wine.’
Frowning, Hervi stepped further into the tent. ‘You drink too much for your own good.’
‘Hah, that’s rich coming from you!’ Arnaud retorted belligerently, and went to rinse his hands and face in the bowl of washing water that Monday had left on the coffer.
‘You will never find me malingering senseless in my bed at noon, my horses untended and my weapons uncleaned.’
The anger in Arnaud’s belly churned upwards to scald his mouth. ‘It is none of your business how I spend my time off the field,’ he snapped. ‘Do I ever moralise at you? What were you doing yester eve, if not drinking and swiving, eh?’
‘But I rose at dawn. I have tended my horse, cleaned my weapons, practised my swordplay and prepared for the afternoon’s tourney.’ Hervi’s frown deepened, and he pushed his hair off his brow in agitation. ‘You say it is none of my business. I would agree, except that it is affecting your performance on the field. Alexander and I had to sweat like Trojans yesterday to cover for you. It’s not fair to give the lad so much responsibility. Yes, he’s good, but he has neither the strength nor the experience to be put in the situations he was. Three times you should have been there, and three times you weren’t.’
‘Are you saying that I am a liability?’ Arnaud narrowed his lids. Hot pain pulsed and ricocheted around his skull. Hervi’s words were all the more infuriating because they were spoken with concern rather than anger. They might even have been true, but Arnaud couldn’t remember.
‘You will be if you continue on this downward road. Yesterday we won because myself and the lad fought out of our skins. But it will not always be so. Your stamina lasted for no more than half the bout.’ His voice softened. ‘I am worried for you, Arnaud.’
‘Are you? Or is it concern for yourself that brings you here this morning?’
‘It is no longer morning,’ Hervi pointed out. ‘And yes, I am too fond of my own hide to lose it just yet – even if you have no love for your own. You are my friend, and I am offering you sound advice. If not for your own sake, then for Monday’s. Pull yourself out of the quicksand while you still can. The girl needs a father’s love, not a drunkard’s indifference.’
‘You know what you can do with your advice,’ Arnaud snarled.
Colour flooded beneath Hervi’s tan. ‘Look,’ he made a visible effort, opening his hand in a conciliatory gesture, ‘come out to Edmund One-eye’s, and I’ll buy you bread to break your fast.’
Arnaud stared at Hervi’s strong, blunt fingers, then beyond them into the earnest, raw-boned face. A part of him was desperate to accept the lifeline, to smile and walk out in the sun, but it was not strong enough to fight off the darker side, which asked what was the point.
‘Find another partner,’ he said, and turned his back. ‘I dissolve ours.’
‘Oh, in the name of our Saviour’s suffering, Arnaud, don’t be so pig-headed!’
‘What did Christ know of suffering compared with mine?’ Arnaud blasphemed, aghast at his own words, but unable to prevent them from spilling forth. ‘Go on, get out, you’re no longer welcome here!’
‘Arnaud …’
The older man reached for his sword and slid it from the scabbard. ‘Go, or do I have to use this?’
Hervi stared, his gaze widening in astonishment and affront. ‘God’s eyes,’ he said hoarsely, ‘You truly have lost your wits.’
‘Get out!’ Arnaud said raggedly, and took a pace forward, the weapon raised.
A muscle bunched in Hervi’s jaw. ‘You know where I am if you should think better and decide to apologise,’ he said huskily, and strode from the tent.
Grisel was hovering outside, waiting her moment to air her grievances. She had a swollen lip and a livid bruise beneath one eye. Hervi grabbed her arm and drew her away. ‘If you value your life, woman, go back to your own fire,’ he told her. ‘Arnaud’s gone sword-wild. He’d lief kill you as talk.’
‘But I need to see him,’ she protested, trying to wriggle free.
‘Not as he is now you don’t,’ Hervi said grimly, and hung on to her. He had no liking for Grisel, but he did have a conscience. ‘I tell you, he is fit to kill someone. Let him be. Whatever it is will wait.’
Within the tent, Arnaud heard Hervi arguing with Grisel, their voices fading into the distance, hers still protesting. His wrist quivered with the weight of the sword and the need for a drink. He threw the weapon down on the floor and retreated to his pallet, where he collapsed, his knees tucked up to his chest and the low keening of a trapped animal vibrating in his throat.
Monday spent the morning in the town with Alexander, buying provisions, and by mutual consent neither of them spoke about the night before. Monday knew that her problems would not go away just for the ignoring, but she was in need of a respite, and as if sensing her mood, Alexander gave her just that. He took her around the booths and stalls, with a thoroughness and enjoyment rarely present in a masculine nature. Her father would have been yawning irritably by the end of ten minutes, but it was a full hour and a half before Alexander paused at a cook stall to buy them both honey cakes, and cups of wine from the booth next door. Following their brief respite, he drew her back into the fray.
‘It’s the thrill of the chase,’ he said with a grin as he argued over the price of a belt buckle. ‘That and being shut up in a monastery for nearly six years.’ The buckle finally purchased for what he said was a bargain, he had bought her a new drawstring purse with tablet woven silk cords, and to put inside it, a pewter token of St Christopher, patron of travellers. Touched, she kissed his cheek, and he smiled and pressed her hand.
By the time they returned to the camp, Monday’s feet were aching, but her spirits were refreshed. Alexander departed to prepare for the afternoon’s tourney, and she made her way to her own tent. Her stomach began to churn nervously, for she was unsure of her reception. These days her father’s moods were so unpredictable. When she had left that morning, he had still been dead to the world, snoring with his mouth wide open, the smell of stale wine surrounding him in a fetid miasma.
Now he was awake and aware. He had donned his mail and his surcoat; his hair was wet and sleeked back from his brow, and his jaw was smooth, but marred by a couple of nicks where his unsteady hand had not wielded the knife with sufficient care. He was buckling on his sword belt, his fingers clumsy, and there was a grim set to his mouth.
Entering the tent, she removed her cloak. Her father glanced at her from beneath his brows, and said nothing, but his lips tightened all the more. He slotted the tongue of the belt home and hitched it at his hips.
‘Papa, where are you going?’ she enquired.
‘To find employment, where do you think?’ he growled.
Monday bit her lip. ‘I … I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Then you should have been here sooner. I don’t have the time now. Did you buy wine this morning?’
‘Yes, Papa, I …’
‘Good.’ He cut her off with a brusque nod, and when she drew breath to speak, he denied her the words. ‘Later,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve no time for your chatter now. God knows I’ve had a crawful today. Enough to make me sick.’ He thrust past her and out into the bright springtide air. She saw him wince as the force of the sun dazzled his eyes and cruelly exposed all the new lines and hollows marring his once taut skin. Then he was gone, trying to stride out with purpose but lacking the coordination to make it convincing.
‘Oh, Papa,’ Monday said softly, and turned away with smarting eyes.
Dust shrouded Alexander’s vision as he turned Samson to face the oncoming knight. The surcoat was quartered in brilliant orange and dark, rich blue, the latter proclaiming its wearer’s wealth. The battle helm was decorated with a plume of feathers dyed the same blue and orange as the surcoat, and the roan warhorse looked to Alexander’s discerning eye like a Lombard-bred stallion, the best in Christendom – although in this instance not entirely the best trained.
The horse’s stride was choppy and uneven, and it was fighting the cruel, hinged bit every inch of the way. The rider was making a very poor show of handling the beast, and despite his magnificent equipment might as well have been unarmed. Controlling a surge of excitement at the thought of such an easy kill, Alexander spurred to meet his adversary. He held his shield close to his body, allowing no gap that might permit the other man to prise it from him, and guided Samson with his thighs and heels. Their opponent appeared to possess a complete lack of coordination. He tried to swing the roan side-on to Alexander and strike at the same time, but the manoeuvre almost unhorsed him. It was the work of a moment for Alexander to swipe aside the sword and send it end over end into the dust. A twist of the wrist, a flex of the bicep, and Alexander beat in under the guard of the blue and orange shield to lay his sword point against his opponent’s mailed breast.
‘Yield,’ he demanded.
‘Not to scum like you,’ wheezed a breathless young voice from within the helm. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Someone who is about to lose his horse and some very fine armour,’ Alexander replied, and prepared to take him captive.
‘I am Henry FitzHamelin, and my cousin is Coeur de Lion himself!’
Alexander was singularly unimpressed by the revelation. The voice beneath the helm was no older than his own. If its possessor expected to be shown favour because he had royal connections – undoubtedly of the bastard variety – then he was sorely mistaken. And the mention of Coeur de Lion did nothing for his reputation in Alexander’s eyes. ‘Your cousin could be the king of the world as far as I care,’ he said harshly. ‘The shield of his name will not protect you today. You owe me a ransom.’
‘Go swive yourself up the arse!’
Annoyed, Alexander prepared to jerk the young boor out of the saddle. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Osgar and Eudo le Boucher bearing down on him at a purposeful canter, their swords drawn.
‘
FitzHamelin!
’ bellowed Osgar, waving his sword about his helm. Alexander’s gut plummeted. He was not afraid of Osgar – the man was all belly and no bite – but Eudo le Boucher was a different prospect entirely, and the knight had never forgiven Alexander for that unhorsing two years ago.
Alexander glanced round, but Hervi was over at the sanctuary, his back turned as he checked one of Soleil’s forelegs, and Arnaud had not seen fit to take to the field at all. Cursing, he abandoned FitzHamelin and spurred Samson’s flanks, the hunter suddenly becoming the hunted.
Osgar and le Boucher rode to intercept him. Their gaudy young employer brought up the rear, bellowing his family name in a cracked adolescent voice.
Alexander drew a deep breath. ‘
Montroi!
’ he roared in Hervi’s direction, and aimed the black destrier at the safety of the withy screens.
Alerted as much by the close thunder of hooves as by Alexander’s frantic cry, Hervi raised his head, and a look of horror appeared on his rust-streaked features. Around him, spectators screamed and dived for cover. At the last moment, Alexander turned Samson. The horse swerved in mid-stride and avoided collision with the screens by no more than a scraped inch. Osgar’s larger, more unwieldy horse ran out of space and rammed into the withies. Osgar flew over the pommel and landed in the enclosure, where he lay like a stranded crab, his hands still clutching the reins. ‘Bastard!’ he wheezed through his helm. ‘You bastard!’