The Champion (4 page)

‘He covered his tracks too well, picked his moments. He was high in authority, second only to Prior Guiscard, and I was a known troublemaker. Whose word do you think would carry the most weight?’

Hervi worked with purposeful strokes and a grim mouth. ‘Did he touch you?’ he demanded after another long pause, his voice quiet and hard.

‘On the dorter stairs, going down to matins. But before that there had been beatings. He derived pleasure … carnal pleasure from the use of the birch.’ Alexander shuddered. He could still feel the sting of the strokes on his naked back, could still see Brother Alkmund’s lust-congested face as the scourge rose and fell, rose and fell. ‘I punched him in the eye and he fell down the stairs into two other novices. If they had not been there to stop his fall, he would have tumbled all the way to the foot and broken his neck.’ He spoke without expression; it was the only way he could maintain control of his raw emotions. ‘My wrists were tied; I was beaten and thrown into the cells. They held me there for three days without food or water. It is not difficult to see skeletons dancing out of the walls when you think you are going to die.’

Hervi ceased work on the stallion, the rag clenched in his fist, his hazel eyes filled with disgust and fury. ‘The sons of whores,’ he said through his teeth.

‘Not all of them were like Brother Alkmund. Many of them feared him, but they dared not speak out against his rule because he was so senior a monk. To have defended me would have brought trouble down upon their own heads.’

‘I’d not have stood by and let a grown man abuse innocents with his perversions,’ Hervi growled, and turned his head aside to spit. ‘Did you escape, or did they let you go?’

‘The preceptor, Brother Willelm, came to me on the third morning with bread and water. He freed my wrists so that I could eat, and he “forgot” to lock the cell door behind him. Brother Willelm disliked me because I would not obey the rules, but he liked Brother Alkmund even less. He thought that if I disappeared it would be better for all concerned, particularly the health of the priory. I begged and stole my way from Cranwell to London, then worked my passage across the narrow sea on a Rouen-bound wine galley.’

‘Christ, I’d like to have an hour alone with those monks and a honed gelding knife,’ Hervi muttered.

Alexander plucked a stalk of grass and shredded off the seedhead. ‘I couldn’t go to our brothers at Wooton Montroi. The monks would have concocted some tale more believable than mine, and I’d have been beaten senseless; you know what Reginald’s like. Even if he agreed to keep me for the sake of the blood tie, he’d be constantly rubbing my nose in the fact that I’m the youngest son, born to a near-heathen and of small consequence. I could never live the life of a retainer at his hearth.’

‘So you came to me instead,’ Hervi said wryly.

‘You didn’t opt for Reginald’s hearth either.’ Alexander wandered over to the black horse again, and stroked its dull hide.

Hervi raised a pained brow, indicating agreement without making a comment that would draw him into deep water, and untied the dun. ‘I’ll graze this one a distance away,’ he said. ‘Two stallions in proximity will only lead to conflict, and your nag would likely be killed if they were to fight.’ He shook his head in censure. ‘I know you had a difficult time, Alex, but whatever my straits, I would never let a horse of mine descend to that condition.’

Alexander reddened at the rebuke. ‘He isn’t mine. I’ve only had him for three days.’

‘Then where did you get him?’

‘I found him.’

‘You found him?’ Hervi’s tone registered disbelief.

Alexander twisted a handful of the coarse dark mane around his fist. The horse butted him affectionately in the back. ‘I was walking through a forest near Domfront when I came across a traveller sleeping beside his fire.’ He shivered at the memory. ‘But the fire was cold and the man was dead. He was old; I think that God must have taken him as he slept, for there was not a mark upon his body. His horse was tied tightly nearby and frantic with thirst. I watered him at a nearby stream, then I said a prayer over his master and took that which he no longer needed – his cloak and shawl for warmth, the cold gruel in his cooking pot, the knife from his belt, and the horse.’ Alexander released the hank of hair and smoothed out the kink that his grip had made. ‘He’s only young, I looked at his teeth. No more than four or five years old. He’ll prove useful once he fills out.’

‘Remains to be seen,’ Hervi said without attaching any real meaning to the words, for his thoughts were upon all that Alexander had endured to reach him.

‘I know he will.’ Alexander’s voice quivered with the force of his determination. ‘And so will I. Hervi, I want you to teach me. I need …’ The voice tore. ‘I need to armour myself.’

A lump of pity and rage filled Hervi’s throat and he had to swallow before he could speak. ‘We’ll start as soon as there’s more meat on your bones,’ he said huskily. ‘You’re not up to swinging a sword yet.’

Alexander nodded agreement, but when he looked at Hervi, his brown-gold eyes were ablaze. ‘But I will be soon.’

Hervi returned the nod. ‘Yes, soon,’ he said gruffly. Certainly the lad possessed the grit it took to become a jouster, probably the aggression and recklessness too, but the price of such moulding came high. He crossed the space between them and slapped Alexander across the shoulders to dispel the dangerous burden of emotion. ‘I’ve never had a squire before.’

Alexander smiled wanly. At least he had been accepted. Hervi might just as easily have substituted the word ‘millstone’ for ‘squire’. He had never possessed an attendant before because he could not afford one. ‘I’ll pay my way,’ Alexander promised. ‘I can sing and play the harp. I also read and write, if anyone should need the services of a scribe.’

‘Oh, there’s always need for a song and a scribe,’ Hervi declared, his tone still over-jovial. He squeezed Alexander’s shoulder again, then returned to his horse and led it further into the field.

Alexander followed at a safe distance. ‘Do you always wear your surcoat and mail when you go to practise?’ he queried.

‘I wasn’t practising. I was seeking an employer.’ Hervi had uprooted the tethering stake. Now he knocked it into the ground at the new place and secured the stallion. ‘Most of us have patrons – greater lords for whom we fight. There are very few knights who take to the field alone. Individuals are more open to attack, always the first to be picked off. It is best to fight with someone to watch your back.’

Alexander tried to look knowledgeable. ‘Did you find a patron?’

‘Indeed I did.’ Hervi’s eyes gleamed. ‘Although I should say “we”, since I went a-wooing with Arnaud de Cerizay. We’ve been accepted into the retinue of Geoffrey Duredent of Avranches for the duration of the tourney. Twenty per cent of any prizes from captures go to him in person, and another twenty into the chests for the ransom of Richard Coeur de Lion from the hands of the German emperor. The rest is ours. Geoffrey has promised to feed us at his board on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. We have fought for him before; he’s an open-handed patron.’

Alexander absorbed this, together with Hervi’s enthusiasm, and felt a glimmer of anticipation spark through his veins. ‘Aren’t there any individual contests?’

‘On the Thursday.’ A warning note entered Hervi’s voice. ‘Only the best knights run head to head, some would say the most foolish. It takes great skill, long hours of training for both man and horse, and you have to be able to afford to lose. You only have one attempt at success. If you fail, you cannot recoup your loss unless you have another horse and the balls to go back and try again. Most don’t.’ He smiled sourly at his brother. ‘Minstrels paint bold and glorious word pictures of tourneys, but they do not sing the truth.’ He wiped his hands down his chausses as if disposing of the subject. ‘Are you hungry?’

Alexander nodded. His stomach had digested the milk, bread and apple in short order, and was now ready to be refilled.

‘Good,’ Hervi said briskly. ‘There’s a stream at the foot of this field. I’ll lend you my spare clothes and you can go and scrub the filth of the road from your body. We’re eating at Arnaud de Cerizay’s family fire, and that’s a privilege worth using soap for. It was Arnaud’s wife and daughter who came to care for you yesterday, Clemence and Monday. Arnaud took care of your horse.’

Alexander had vague recollections of a small, competent woman with lines of laughter and of care at her mouth corners, and of a girl with a clear grey stare, and a shining plait of golden-brown hair.

‘Arnaud and me usually fight together as a team,’ Hervi said as he led Alexander back to the tent to find the replacement clothes. ‘He has no great stature on the field, but few men ever get past his guard. His wife is the daughter of Thomas FitzParnell of Stafford,’ he added with a little shake of his head, as if at some misfortune.

Alexander’s ears pricked with interest. ‘Stafford and his son are patrons of Cranwell Priory.’

Hervi stared at him. ‘Thomas of Stafford a patron of monks?’ he said in disbelief. ‘Pigs might fly!’

‘Oh, it’s all kindling and no fire,’ Alexander replied as they entered the tent. ‘He’s like Reginald. Pays lip service because it is essential for every man of standing to be thought of as generous and godly even when the opposite is true. He didn’t take a crusader’s vow, he paid silver to Cranwell instead – and half of the coins were clipped.’

‘I can believe that. I doubt FitzParnell has a single generous bone in his body.’

Alexander looked curiously at Hervi. ‘What is his daughter doing on the tourney circuits?’

Hervi rummaged among the debris scattered around the tent and found a linen bag fastened with a braid drawstring. ‘She fell in love with Arnaud de Cerizay, who was a penniless knight recently employed by her father, and ran away with him rather than marry the man chosen for her. There was a huge scandal at the time, but you wouldn’t remember, you were little more than a babe in arms when it happened.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Arnaud took me under his wing when I first joined the tourney route as an aspiring champion with more dreams than good sense. We’ve watched each other’s back ever since, shared the triumphs and the failures – of which there have been many. There’s a clean shirt and some linens in here.’ Hervi thrust the bag into Alexander’s hand, delved again, and came up with a crumpled but reasonable tunic of sage-green wool. ‘First town we come to, we’ll find you some fabric for new clothes.’ He bundled the tunic on top of the bag, together with a leather jar of liquid soap. ‘Go on, get you down to the stream.’

Alexander made his way slowly down the field. His legs were aching and there was a gentle throb of renewed weariness behind his temples, but at least he was free. There was fresh air on his skin and the grey clouds had thinned to show streaks of blue between. He had a place in the world of his own choosing, and the wherewithal to climb fortune’s ladder.

The stream was lined with sedges and stood about ten yards wide at its broadest point. A moorhen paddled frantically away from him in a race of silver droplets. Reeds long as jousting lances clacked and swayed together at the water’s edge. Alexander dropped the clean garments on a patch of lush grass on the bank and sat down. For a moment he rested, a glint of afternoon sunshine warming his spine. In the distance he could hear the shouts of men practising their art and the thud of a lance against a quintain target. He imagined himself astride a warhorse, a lance couched beneath his arm, a shield braced across the left side of his body. The smooth power beneath him, carrying him towards the moment of impact. The shock of steel upon wood, pressuring him back against the high saddle cantle. Cries of adulation for his prowess. As he set about disrobing, a faraway smile played at his mouth corners.

The water came up to his midriff and it was cold. Alexander drew a shocked breath, his stomach clamping until it almost touched his spine. Shivers arrowed through him and his teeth chattered violently. Even had he been in the rudest of health with a surplus of meat on his bones, it was not the kind of day to linger over outdoor ablutions. He took the soap jar, tipped the contents over his head and body and set to with a will, scrubbing away several weeks of accumulated sweat and grime.

Beneath the pummelling his skin reddened. His eyes stung from the strength of the soap, and he squeezed them shut. He ducked his head in the stream to swill the soap away, then stood up, thrusting the water from his face and hair. Then, gasping with exertion and cold, he opened his eyes.

A young woman was approaching the stream, a stone water jar swinging from her hand. She appeared to be lost in her own thoughts, her eyes upon her feet, which performed intricate little skipping movements in time to the tune she was humming. Her head was bare, proclaiming her unbetrothed, still a child, although her figure bore womanly curves. A heavy plait of rich brown hair secured with a blue ribbon hung to her waist, and as she came closer, Alexander recognised her as the girl who had fed him soup yesterday. This was Monday de Cerizay, the daughter of Hervi’s partner, at whose fire they were going to dine.

She crouched upstream of Alexander and sank the stone jar in the water to fill it. Still singing, she raised her head, and her grey eyes widened as she saw him standing there, naked, his modesty and hers protected only by the transparent distortions of the water. Droplets trickled down the fine dark line of his chest hair and disappeared into the stripe of fuzz below his navel. Her cheeks reddened and she turned quickly to the jar.

Alexander wondered whether to speak or remain silent. It was not a situation for which he had any precedent. He decided that he would have to say something since he and Hervi were to be guests at her father’s fire. ‘Demoiselle.’ He gave her the formal greeting, and thought how foolish it sounded,

She nodded shyly in return, and although her cheeks remained pink, she darted him another glance. ‘Are you feeling better today?’ Her eyes travelled to the discoloured bracelets on his wrists, then over the gaunt protrusion of his ribcage.

‘A little.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It was kind of you and your mother to concern yourselves with me yesterday.’