The Champion (6 page)
‘Yes, sir,’ Alexander said on a more subdued note.
Arnaud considered him. ‘Hervi tells me that you read and write Latin.’
Alexander moved his shoulders. ‘Enough to get by. I was not the most apt pupil.’
‘He wasted his time writing secular love poems,’ Hervi said drily.
Arnaud shook his head. ‘It matters not, it is another string to his bow when it comes to finding an employer. If he can prove entertaining company in the great hall of a snowbound winter’s evening, as well as fight, then he will always have a hearth at which to warm his hands.’
‘And a snug bed too, I’ll warrant!’ Hervi laughed, then bit his lip beneath Clemence’s severe look. ‘Speaking of which, it is time we made our farewells if I’m to be bright-eyed for the morrow!’ He slapped Alexander’s bony shoulder. ‘Come, lad, the moon’s half waxed already.’
Alexander rose from his stool and thanked the de Cerizays for their hospitality. The girl smiled at him, her loose plait of brown-bronze hair outlined by the lanternlight, her eyes wide and sparkling. He had wondered earlier whether to mention their encounter by the stream, but had decided against it lest it cause trouble for them both. He needed this niche in the world. The mother smiled too, but she seemed preoccupied, and although she warmly wished them good night, Alexander could tell that she was glad to see them leave.
He did not brood on the reason, for too many other thoughts were churning in his mind. Arnaud de Cerizay had said that he had the potential to become a knight, that with his background and the training to come, he was almost assured of a high career. Nervous excitement surged through his body. He thought of the girl’s grey eyes upon him and embroidered on her look until his imagination was filled with the vision of hundreds of young women tossing flowers at him in admiration as he sat astride a champing Spanish war horse. Not even the mildewed smell of Hervi’s tent and the scratchy texture of the coarse woollen bed blanket could dampen his enthusiasm. He had set his feet on his chosen road as a penniless beggar, but he knew that his destination would make him wealthy beyond compare.
And when that happened, the skeletons in the walls would be unable to touch him.
Arnaud de Cerizay lay upon his pallet and gazed up into the darkness. Beside him Clemence was silent, but he knew that she was not asleep. Her hair tickled his chest; the warmth of her thigh lay along his own. They had a modicum of privacy, their bed separated from Monday’s by a gaily coloured hanging of woven homespun. On the other side of the screen he could hear his daughter’s regular, soft breathing.
Arnaud wished that it was a midsummer evening so that he could see the pale glimmer of his wife’s hair and the slender shape of her body. The thought stirred his loins to sleepy arousal. He had been twenty years old and she sixteen when they had eloped together and married against her powerful father’s will. The lord of Stafford’s blonde virgin daughter and a common household knight.
Another sixteen years had passed since that time, and through all the trials and hardships, the pain, heartache and drudgery, their love had endured. It had to. There was nothing else to armour them against the cold. The story of their elopement had passed into troubadour legend, was sung at every camp fire by young men no older than himself when he had burned his bridges.
Thinking of young men brought to mind Alexander de Montroi and he ran a gentle forefinger down his wife’s bare arm.
‘What did you make of Hervi’s brother?’ he asked.
‘I thought him quiet,’ she said, ‘but not because there is nothing happening within. When he finds his feet, then we shall see.’
‘I like the lad.’
‘He seems pleasant enough,’ she agreed, ‘but he did not reveal enough of himself for me to make a judgement. Has Hervi discovered why he ran away from the monastery?’
‘All he said was that the boy had good reason. He would not give me the details.’ His hand drifted from her arm to the swell of her breast and gently stroked. ‘Of course, he has only heard one side of the tale, and there are always two, and often more.’ He was silent for a while, pondering, enjoying the silken feel of his wife’s skin. She did not add to the conversation, which was unusual for her. Talking in the closeness of their bed at night, wrapped in each other’s arms with the world at bay, was one of her favourite moments. She always had things to tell him, subjects to broach, matters to discuss. When she did not speak, he mooted another concern of his own.
‘It might be for the best if Monday were to wear a wimple when she goes about the camp from now on,’ he suggested. ‘She has not ceased to be a child in my eyes, but in the eyes of other men, it is obviously different.’ The memory of le Boucher’s predatory gaze tightened his lips.
Clemence captured his stroking hand in hers and held it still. ‘She has been a woman for almost a year now. You are right, it is time that she concealed her hair.’ A tremor entered her voice. ‘I was not much older than her when I first saw you across my father’s bailey.’
Her words sent a pang through Arnaud’s vitals. ‘Your hair was loose then too,’ he murmured. ‘I had never seen anything so beautiful.’ There was pain mingled with the remembered spark of the moment. Had they resisted temptation, he would still be doing guard duty at Stafford’s hearth, and she would be some rich baron’s wife. ‘Do you have regrets?’ he asked.
‘Of course I do,’ she said immediately, her breath soft against his bicep. He tightened it, preparing himself to hear what he would rather shut out. Her teeth nipped his skin. ‘Fool,’ she said with amused contempt, ‘I would follow you to the ends of the earth and over the edge of the world, you know that – or you should by now.’
He was slightly mollified, but remained wary. ‘Then what do you regret?’
Clemence sighed and curled in close to his body. ‘Sometimes I yearn for the protection of the bars of my former gilded cage and the days when even my thinking was done for me. Flying high and free has its price. I fear for our daughter. She is so young and fresh. And there is no man on the tourney circuit I would entrust with her honour or her happiness.’
Not for the first time Arnaud was visited by guilt and a sense of inadequacy. He was an ordinary knight, competent, a better teacher of the skills than he was a fighter. His one act of folly in an otherwise responsible life had been to steal the exotic bird from its cage, and he had been paying for the sin ever since. There had never been a time when they had gone hungry, he had always managed to provide, and Clemence’s skill with a needle enabled them to dwell in relative comfort for his trade, but he could not give her the security of the massive stone walls from whose shadow he had snatched her away.
‘Come the autumn, I will try to find a permanent position in a lord’s retinue,’ he replied. ‘There is bound to be someone in need of hearth knights with Richard in prison and Philip of France free to wreak his worst.’
‘You will have to do more than try this year,’ she said quietly.
Her tone sent a ripple of apprehension down his spine. ‘Clemence?’
She guided his hand down over her body, to the gentle curve of her belly. ‘I am with child again; for three months I have not bled.’
He felt the soft flesh beneath his palm, but could not discern if it was any more abundant than usual. The early nights of winter, the dark mornings, meant that he had seldom seen Clemence naked over the past few months. All conversation, all lovemaking had been conducted in the dark. ‘But that’s imposs—’ he started to say, then closed his mouth, remembering the time he had left it to the last moment to withdraw, the seed spurting from his body as he jerked out of the passage to her womb.
‘Are you sure?’ It was a stupid question. Of course she was sure. The worry, the keeping it to herself was the reason for her sharp tongue. ‘Ah, God, Clemence.’ He freed his hand from hers and slipped it around her body, offering comfort, seeking it himself while he made a swift calculation. It was late April now, almost the feast of St Mark. By Martinmas, in November, he would be responsible for another mouth to feed. Fear assaulted him in a sweeping, physical wave. Clemence had almost died bearing Monday, her hips too narrow to comfortably accommodate the baby’s head. Old Mildred sold potions to the camp whores whose fluxes came late, but their efficacy was as dubious as their contents, and he knew that Clemence would utterly refuse to dose herself. He could not bear the thought of losing her – she was all that he had – and cold sweat broke out on his brow.
‘I will seek early for winter quarters,’ he agreed huskily.
Clemence nodded against his chest. ‘I wish I had told you sooner, but I did not want to burden you until I was sure.’ Her voice was small and muffled against the bulk of his body.
‘You should have done.’ He squeezed her against him, kissed her in reassurance, and thanked God for the darkness that concealed his expression, even as earlier he had been longing for the light.
The tournament was to be held over an agreed area of three large fields, its boundaries set by the stream that supplied the camp on the northern and western edges, by a small wood to the south and by an abandoned hermitage to the east. No fighting was to take place beyond these markers. Anyone invading the nearby village to fight was to be disqualified immediately.
An enclosure of withy screens had been erected close to the centre of the first field where the fighters could claim sanctuary if they were in difficulty or needed to take a respite. It was here that Hervi brought Alexander as the morning sun climbed in the sky and the knights on the two sides began to warm up with practice charges and turns. Weapons glittered; banter was exchanged, both the pleasant and the aggressive.
‘You should be able to see the combat from here,’ Hervi said as Alexander entered the enclosure. ‘Remember to be ready with my spare lance and shield if I signal to you.’
Alexander nodded, squinting up at Hervi astride the dun stallion. The older man held Soleil on a tight rein, the tawny head tucked into the deep chest. A solid jousting helm hung from a thong on the saddle and the blue and gold shield was slung out of the way across Hervi’s broad back. The spare shield weighed down Alexander’s left arm, and his right hand curved around the haft of a blunted spear. A water bottle was slung across his shoulder and in his pouch there were two honey cakes. Other attendants, similarly equipped, were arriving at the enclosure.
‘How will you know friend from foe?’
‘Easy,’ Hervi replied. ‘Each man shouts the name of his patron lord. And if he does not own one, then he is fighting for himself.
I am Geoffrey Duredent’s man today. His opponent is Saer de Quinci. So, any man who cries “De Quinci!” on the field is fodder for the taking!’ He reined the horse about. ‘Keep sharp – and don’t move from this enclosure. If you do, you become prey, and I don’t want to afford a ransom for you!’
Alexander gave a rueful shrug. ‘Small chance of that,’ he said. ‘I can scarcely lift this shield, let alone use it. Take care yourself.’
Hervi smiled. ‘My watchdog will do that.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the scarlet-and-black-clad figure of Arnaud de Cerizay, who was encouraging a rangy bay stallion to perform circles and back-kicks. With a final salute to Alexander, Hervi set off across the field.
Alexander unslung the shield from his aching left arm, deposited it on the ground, and leaning his spear against the withy barrier, looked over the top at the tourney field. The knights were beginning to collect in two ragged lines. Men riding out to join their prospective team occasionally clashed lances with an opponent, testing strength and bravado. Horses whinnied, clods of soil were flung from pounding hooves, and the smell of excitement filled the air. Alexander’s throat grew dry and his heart began to hammer as if he too were physically involved in the proceedings.
‘De Quinci!’ yelled the youth next to him in the enclosure, and thumped the withy fencing. ‘Quinci, Quinci!’
Alexander considered retorting with his own cry of ‘Duredent!’ but seeing the size of the youth, the bulging muscles beneath the leather jerkin, he kept his voice in his throat. Tonight, when the day’s activity was over, he would compose a song to encapsulate all that he was feeling.
Above the shouts, the thud of hooves and rattle of weapons, a hunting horn blared a single, sustained note. There was a moment when the sound absorbed all other noise and movement, suspending them in its resonance, and then the two lines tore free and charged towards one another in a roar of motion.
The ground shook to the thunder of destrier hooves and the air glittered with the colours of linen and silk, the bright flash of spears like fish writhing in a net. The shock of individual impacts felt all as one to Alexander. With fists clenched on the withy barrier, he watched the blend and swirl of men, horses and weapons, and tried to follow the progress of Hervi’s blue and gold, and the scarlet and black of de Cerizay. The thump and thud of weapons meeting shields lodged in his gut and tendrils of excitement unfurled through his veins.
A riderless horse thundered past the enclosure, a mounted knight in hot pursuit, his own mount straining under the burden.
‘De Quinci!’ screamed Alexander’s neighbour, beside himself with excitement as the knight closed on the loose horse, a fine animal, richly caparisoned and well worth capturing.
Another competitor galloped up fast from the opposite side, his surcoat parti-coloured red and yellow to match the quartering on his shield. His right arm was raised, churning a flail in the air, and he brought the weapon round and down on the other man’s helm with devastating effect. The knight had no time to defend himself. Although his helm saved him from serious hurt, the force of the blow and the clang of the flail against the iron stunned him and he was easy prey for his attacker to unseat. He struck the ground with bone-jarring force, and suddenly there were two loose horses.