The Champion (46 page)

Monday grabbed her arm and shook her vigorously. ‘Stop that before I slap you!’ she commanded. ‘Weeping the roof around your ears will not find my son. You stupid, feckless girl, I suppose you were gossiping again!’

‘I wasn’t, madam, I swear it, on my soul I swear it!’

Somehow Monday restrained herself from assaulting the maid beyond a shaking. Recriminations were a waste of time and small use to a lost child. ‘Well, search again,’ she said urgently. ‘He’s only three years old, he can’t have gone far!’ Her own words,
only three years old
, rang a knell of panic in her ears. Dragging Ursula by the arm, she hurried towards the door.

Alexander’s blond squire was standing right beside it, laughing at a jest told by one of the other young men. It was only because of his proximity that Monday spared the time to speak to him, and in a manner so brusque and to the point that it left the youth quite bewildered.

In the courtyard, she found her manservant enjoying a game of dice and a cup of wine with two foot soldiers. He was none too pleased at being plucked from such diversions, but when he heard the reason, irritation turned to anxiety.

‘Now,’ said Monday to her weeping maid, ‘show me where you lost him.’

Alexander did not see William Marshal to make his report. He was greeted by Philip, one of the Marshal’s clerks. As usual there were ink stains on the man’s fingers and a spare quill tucked behind his ear.

‘I will tell him you are here as soon as he opens the door,’ Philip said in a voice incongruously deep for his slight, boyish build. ‘For the nonce he is closeted with the Archbishop, and whatever news you have for him, I doubt it will match the gravity of King Richard’s illness.’

‘Richard is sick?’ It was news to Alexander, who had literally just ridden into Rouen, and knew nothing of the happenings in the world beyond England and Wales.

‘An arrow in the shoulder on campaign in Poitu. The wound festers and Lord William has been instructed to take over the tower of Rouen. Prince John is in Brittany at the court of the lord Arthur.’ The little clerk flexed his stained fingers. ‘I do not know which way to turn, my lord has kept me so busy writing writs and orders. If your hands want occupation whilst you wait …’ He gestured towards two trestle benches where scribes were industriously at work.

‘Later,’ Alexander said, and touched Philip’s arm to show that he was not rejecting him out of hand. ‘If Lord William is so busy, my report can wait, but there is someone expecting me down in the hall.’

The clerk shrugged as if to say he had expected as much. ‘You young men are all the same,’ he said, from his vast experience of thirty years.

Alexander descended to the hall, his mind in a whirl. There were so many things to think about that he did not know where to begin. A mortally ill Richard would put a new spin on the political thread. There were few candidates for the succession and none of them possessing Richard’s charisma and military acumen. John, or Arthur. Lord William would be supporting the former, of that Alexander was certain. The Marshal’s loyalty to the house of Anjou was solid, and stemmed in a great part from his respect and affection for the dowager queen Eleanor, mother to John and Richard.

He arrived in the hall, his breath short as if he had just run up the stairs instead of down them. Richard, John and Arthur would have to wait. With eager, anxious eyes he scanned the hall, but there was no sign of a slender figure clad in dark-green silk. He swore beneath his breath, for he had been gone so short a time and he had thought that she would stay. There had been no time before, everything had happened so fast, but now he began to wonder what she had been doing at the tower. She had not been dressed like a servant, and the only women of rank to be seen were the wives and daughters of the nobility. Had she married during those years of silence, and if so, was her husband among these men in the hall? Perhaps he had been trespassing on forbidden ground. Perhaps many things, all questions and no answers. Then he saw his squire shouldering towards him with the swiftness of urgency.

‘Huw, what is it?’ His stomach lurched, for the youngster’s expression was troubled.

‘I was coming to find you, sir. A lady came up to me and said to tell you that she had to leave. Her young son has gone missing in the market crowds, and she is frantic for his safety.’

‘Her son?’ Alexander tried to remember if there had been a gold ring of possession on her heart finger.

Huw scratched his short, freckled nose. ‘Yes, sir. She’s only been gone a moment.’ He looked over his shoulder as if still expecting to see the hem of her gown vanishing around the doorpost. ‘Sir …?’

Alexander thrust past him and strode towards the doorway. Huw deliberated a moment, then hastened after his master.

There was no sign of Monday in the bailey, and at first Alexander thought that he had lost her. An enquiry to a gate guard, however, assured him that she was not far in front. He saw the curiosity and speculation in the man’s eyes, but did not stay to satisfy it, or have his own satisfied.

‘Huw, keep your eyes skinned; if you see her yell out,’ he said to the following squire.

‘Yes, sir … Who is she?’

‘She was a girl I knew named Monday de Cerizay. Who she is now, I do not know.’ Alexander narrowed his eyes the better to search the throng of people entering and leaving the tower precincts. The news about Richard Coeur de Lion had been like a hot stick poked in a nest of ants. Every single one of Rouen’s citizens seemed to be abroad this noontide.

The Welsh squire fastened his gaze on the crowd. In the green silences of his native forests, he had a keen eye, sharper by far than his master’s, but in the bustle and noise of a large market town, it was Alexander who was more attuned, and caught the flicker of dark green, the movement of a slender figure among dozens of others, and pushed his way towards it.

‘Monday … Monday!’ He cried her name, and on his second shout, she turned. He caught up with her, and touched her arm. ‘Can I help?’

Her eyes were wide and frightened, the clear grey ringed with white, and her chest rose and fell with the shallow speed of her breathing. ‘My son,’ she said. ‘He is little more than a baby, and he is lost somewhere in this quarter of town. He could be stolen away or end up dead in the gutter … there are so many dangers, and he doesn’t know any of them.’ She caught her underlip between her teeth, and chewed on it, striving for control.

‘What does he look like, what is he wearing?’

She gave him a strange, sidelong look. ‘He has dark hair and eyes,’ she said shakily. ‘He is three years old and he is wearing a green tunic, the same shade as my dress, brown leggings, new boots with green drawstrings, and he has a toy wooden sword with him. His name is Florian.’

Alexander nodded as he absorbed the information. ‘And where shall we bring him, if either Huw or myself should find the lad?’

Her hesitation was very brief, no more than the space of an indrawn breath. ‘There are five houses close to the west side of the cathedral, facing towards the river. Mine is the first one. The walls are limewashed, the roof is tile. You will not miss it.’ She swallowed with difficulty and touched her throat.

‘I will search the booths where last I saw him. If you and your squire would hunt around the perimeter of the market and down … down by the river.’ The last word conjured up such tragic images that she could scarcely bear to speak it.

‘Of course.’ He took her hand and briefly squeezed it in reassurance, at the same time glancing down. There was indeed no heart ring on her manicured white fingers, but a wealth in gold and jewels on every other. It meant nothing. Not all women wore their wedding rings on that finger, and whoever her provider was, he was certainly wealthy.

She pulled away from him, and melded into the crowds with her maid and her manservant.

‘Did you hear that, Huw, a small boy wearing green and brown.’

‘Yes, sir. Be like hunting a single tree in a whole forest,’ the squire said dubiously, glancing around at a sea of muted colours, green and brown prevalent among them.

‘You had better pray that this particular sapling is found unharmed,’ Alexander said. ‘I don’t know the boy, but his mother means a lot to me, and I owe her a debt from long in the past. Come, you take the north side and down to the river. I’ll take the south.’

Herluin made leather scabbards for swords and daggers. He had been a fully fledged craftsman since the age of nineteen, and had worked on this same stall in Rouen for twenty years. He was good at his craft, and he made a living secure enough to support a wife, three daughters and two apprentices.

Today, in the spring warmth, he was working on a hunting dagger for no less a person than William Malpalu, bailiff of Rouen. The damp leather was stretched on his working board, and Herluin was carefully impressing the outline pattern, of a hare and hounds chasing each other down the front of the scabbard, when he became aware that he had an audience.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the small boy.

Herluin showed him. He had patience and an affinity with children. It also never did any harm to be pleasant to a youngster whose father might be a customer or a potential customer. Eyeing his clothes, taking note of the confident attitude, Herluin judged him to be well born, of wealthy merchant stock or above.

‘Could you make one for my sword?’ Florian produced the wooden toy from his belt.

Herluin examined it gravely. ‘Perhaps I could my young master, but it would cost money. Is your mother or your nurse hereabouts?’

Florian turned and stared around. He shook his head and gave a small shrug. ‘Mama had to go somewhere,’ he said. ‘Ursula’s talking to a friend, but I can’t see her now.’ His voice was totally calm, no sign of panic whatsoever. ‘She gets lost sometimes.’

Herluin pursed his lips, considering. ‘Best stay here with me until she finds herself, then,’ he said, and taking the boy into his booth, gave him a date pastry to eat and some of the less dangerous tools to look at, his thimbles and stamps for embossing the leather, a blunt engraving tool, and small pots of vegetable dye to paint the imprint of the designs.

Still there was no sign of anyone claiming the boy. ‘What’s your name, lad?’ Herluin asked.

‘Florian,’ said Florian through a mouthful of a second date pastry, crumbs on his lips and on Herluin’s working trestle.

‘Do you know where you live?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Over there,’ he said, wafting a vague hand in the direction of the cathedral. ‘My brother stayed at home with the nurse, but he’s only a baby. I got some new shoes today, look.’ He waggled his feet at the scabbard-maker, deliberately making the glass beads bounce on the end of the green drawstrings.

‘Fine, very fine indeed,’ Herluin admired, and at the same time felt a spark of hope. He recognised the design of the shoes as belonging to Oswald, one of the cordwainers on the far side of the market. Green drawstrings and those particular glass toggles were his trademark. If the shoes had been bought today, then Oswald would know the customer. ‘Come,’ said Herluin to his small visitor, and swung him up in his meaty arms. ‘That maid of yours has been lost for quite long enough. Let’s see if we can find her.’

Calling to another trader to keep an eye on his stall, Herluin prepared to set out in the direction of Oswald’s shop. He had barely taken a step outside his booth, however, when he saw the young man standing about ten yards away, unmoving in all the movement of the crowd, his hands resting on his belt, and his gaze doing all the walking, from face to face, halting and seeking, halting and seeking. He was well dressed, in a bright-brown tunic and costly blue mantle. There was a gilded sword belt at his hip and a fine scabbard held what appeared to be an expensive weapon. What made Herluin study him more closely, however, was the physical resemblance between him and the little boy. They had the same dark hair and shape of head, the same brow and eyes. And obviously the man was intently seeking something, or someone.

Herluin strode forward. ‘You looking for this sprogling, master?’ he queried.

The young man turned. He looked at Herluin, then at Florian, his gaze dropping to the new shoes. Then a smile lit in his eyes, and the tension left his mouth corners. ‘Yes, I do believe I am, if his name is Florian,’ he said.

Herluin frowned. ‘You do not know him?’

‘No. I am a friend of his mother’s and I was helping her to search for the lad. She told me that he was wearing new shoes with green drawstrings, brown leggings and a green tunic.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘And that he had a rather fine wooden sword.’ The smile in his eyes now curved his lips and made the resemblance between himself and the little boy all the more startling.

Florian wriggled in Herluin’s arms, demanding to be set down. Slightly puzzled, the sheather did so. ‘I thought you were his father, you look like enough,’ he said to Alexander.

‘No, I …’ Alexander began with a laugh of denial, then stopped. He crouched down to the little boy, who was looking at his sword with a definite spark of lust in his eyes. Their colour was a rich sable brown, far darker than Alexander’s, but an exact match for the Byzantine lady Anna de Montroi. Was it possible?

A surge of shock washed through him. Three years old, Monday had said. His name was Florian, and St Florian’s eve was at the beginning of May. Alexander counted nine months back from there.

‘Dear Christ,’ he murmured softly beneath his breath, and looked at the little boy with wonder and shock. Florian reached out a small hand to trace the design on Alexander’s scabbard and touch the brass mountings. Alexander cleared his throat. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Time we found your mother.’ He stood up and held out his hand. Without demur, Florian took it. He would go anywhere with a knight who wore a sword so beautiful at his side.

Alexander drew a coin from his pouch and gave it to the sheather for his trouble, thanking him for taking care of Florian.

‘I couldn’t let him wander. I’ve three children myself.’ The craftsman shook his head. ‘You surely look like father and son.’

Alexander smiled. ‘There is a resemblance, isn’t there?’ he said, without confirming anything.