To Defy a King (28 page)

Hugh was joined by one of Mahelt's Irish relatives, a sturdy, dark-haired young man called Domnall. 'Now you will see the true horsemanship of our countrymen,' he said proudly. 'You knights may look very fine in your mail and you ride like hammers to war so that nothing can stand against you - but can you catch the wind?'

Hugh watched Cathal grab a handful of Brunet's mane for purchase and leap nimbly across the stallion's back, which was bare except for the saddle cloth. 'He rides like a child training on a pony,' Hugh scoffed.

Domnall shook his head. 'No, my lord; he rides like an Irishman. We do not need the heavy control of you Normans to bring our horses to our bidding.

When we fight, we do so lightly armed. We are wraiths, not giants. What need have we of such trappings?'

'But you plainly like our horses,' Hugh growled. Domnall gave him a sidelong smile. 'A good horse is a good horse. But your king is cunning. He knows the gift of such a beast makes the man who receives it obliged to pay him homage. He is bringing all into the fold and those who stay outside of it will be counted as wolves.'

Hugh grunted. 'I hardly think some of those inside it are sheep.'

Domnall chuckled. 'Indeed not, but they know who feeds the pack and leads the herd.'

The army set out from Kilkenny on the road north in pursuit of the de Laceys and de Braose. King Cathal rode with John and directed Brunet with no more than his thighs and the rope bridle. Despite his anger and irritation, Hugh had to admit that few Norman lords would be able to control a horse in that manner. It was a method all well and good for riding an animal down to the stream or back to the stables from the field, but on a longer journey or on a campaign no Norman would consider such a thing. Hugh stored it in his memory to tell his father and try himself, and also to teach his son when he was old enough to sit a horse. His expression hardened as he thought that he would also teach the boy about loyalty and honour and to whom it was due.

23

Framlingham, September 1210

Sitting on the hearth bench in her own chamber, Mahelt extended her bare feet towards the low fire and relaxed. It was late. She had dismissed her women and was taking time to drink a last cup of wine before she retired.

Tripes was curled in a corner near the hearth, his nose on his paws. Now and again he whimpered in his sleep as he chased imaginary rats and mice across his dreamscape.

She had been busy throughout the day, overseeing preparations for the harvest celebration and boon work feasts. Although she had people to run errands for her, she had done much of the toing and froing herself and was pleasantly tired. During the last week she had also taken over more of the daily duties of a chatelaine because Ida had been unwell with a cold and had stayed at her hearth with her sewing, leaving Mahelt in charge, which she had relished.

There had been no word from Ireland, but she had expected none because she knew the troops would be in the field. She was missing Hugh; the rooms seemed empty without his presence and her world somehow smaller and diminished. It was like having a space at her side where the cold air could creep in and make her shiver. She wished they had not parted in so ambiguous a fashion. She feared for him and she was worried that she might not have the chance to make things right again. She feared for her father too

- desperately. Hugh said he was too clever to be caught in the cross currents at play, but he had enemies who would stop at nothing to bring him down.

Suddenly Tripes lifted his head and growled; then his tail thumped the floor.

The door quietly opened and Hugh tiptoed into the room. Mahelt stared at him in astonishment, half thinking him an illusion of her wandering thoughts. Yet he seemed solid enough, and when he smiled at her, she was certain. Uttering a joyful cry, she sprang to her feet and flew to his arms.

He seized her and pulled her to his body, burying his face in her neck and speaking her name against her skin.

'Hugh, dear God, Hugh!' Eventually she drew away and, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, looked him up and down. His complexion was nut-brown, and when she pushed his hat off his head, she saw his dark-gold hair was sun-bleached at the crown and tips to the white of flax. A sheep fleece was draped over his arm and she assumed he had been using it as a saddle cover.

'You should have sent word ahead and I would have prepared a fitting welcome! You must be hungry and thirsty.' She hastened to pour him wine from the flagon and watched his throat ripple as he swallowed. Her joy at the sight of him was so strong that it was almost pain.

'I ate bread and cheese in the saddle,' he said with a dismissive gesture. 'I wanted to push on to Framlingham. I wanted to be with you tonight . . . I wanted to be home.'

Hearing the need in his words, Mahelt threw her arms around him again. He stank of sweat and hot horse, of smoke and dirt and the battle camp.

Removal of cloak, tunic and shirt exacerbated the aroma, but she didn't care.

'How broad you've grown!' Greedily she touched the curve of his bicep.

'We had to put up tents, pull them down, tend the horses, wear our armour.'

He made a face, but at the same time gave a smug flex of his new muscles.

'It feels as if I've been carrying the weight of another man on my back for weeks on end.'

Close up, Mahelt was now noticing the ingrained dirt in the creases of his skin. He was grimier than a peasant child and covered in small red marks, evidence of infestation by fleas and vermin. She had vague recollections of her father returning home like this sometimes, although never quite as bad.

'You need a bath.'

'Yes,' he said without enthusiasm and flopped down on the bench. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

Gazing at him, Mahelt realised how tired he was and that 'pushing on to Framlingham' had been a literal statement. He hadn't stopped for anything, not even to wash. Briefly she hesitated, considering her clothes, and then decided it was already too late. 'The morning will suffice.' She sat against him, and as he slipped his arm around her, the cold feeling at her side was gone.

'I saw our son when I came through the antechamber,' he said, looking relieved that the palaver of a bath was being postponed. 'He was sound asleep with his thumb in his mouth. He's grown.'

'He can say "horse" now and "Mama".'

'I wonder what he will call me.' Hugh's voice was both proud and pensive.

'You can find out on the morrow.' Mahelt stroked his hair. Her loins were heavy with anticipation, but she could wait. Hugh's eyes were already closing as if there were weights on his eyelids. She wanted to ask him numerous questions, but could tell she wouldn't get proper answers. The wondrous thing was that he had ridden so hard to reach her tonight when he could have waited and arrived fresh in the morning. 'Is my father all right?'

she asked because it was the one thing she had to know.

Hugh grunted and forced his eyes half open. 'In rude health and weathering all things well. Your mother and your brothers and sisters are all in good heart too and the babies are beautiful - but not as beautiful as our son.'

There was something in his tone of voice that made Mahelt cock her head like a dog hearing an unfamiliar sound in the yard. Something was being skimmed over or else details were being omitted. However, tackling him now would be like trying to find jewels in six feet of mud.

'Come,' she said. 'You won't be able to move your neck in the morning if you sleep on the settle.' Taking his hand she drew him to his feet and led him to the bed. The sheets would have to be changed tomorrow but they were due for that anyway. She helped him remove his boots and then rolled him into bed. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down with him. 'I'm too tired to be of any use to either of us, but I still want you with me,' he said. 'I want to know you are more than a dream.'

His words melted her and she slipped off her own shoes and got in with him.

Her clothes would afford her some protection, she thought wryly, and since she had lain awake every night longing for his presence to warm the cold side of the bed, she was happy to embrace him now. Tomorrow she would deal with everything.

In the morning, Mahelt had the maids prepare a tub while Hugh was still sleeping. She fetched a narrow-tined comb from her coffer and bade one of the women bring a block of clarified fat scented with rose oil from the soap supplies. The fleabane too, and oil and ashes for removing lice. She had food and drink brought to the chamber because, although it was still early, she knew the Earl would want to talk to Hugh, but she needed him to herself first. When she could leave him no longer, she went to the bed, drew the curtains and gently shook him awake.

He gazed at her with bleary surprise. Several small dark specks bounced on the sheets and Mahelt averted her gaze. 'It's morning,' she said. 'There's a bath waiting for you and the maids needs to put these sheets in a laundry tub.'

His eyes slowly cleared and focused. 'A bath?'

'I may have lain beside you last night for love, but I doubt anyone else will want to come as close,' she said with asperity. 'Look at you! I've seen fewer fleas on a hedge-pig and you smell like a gong farmer!'

He sat up, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. 'I just wanted to get home,' he said in a timbre that sent a jolt through her because the emotions went much deeper than the delight of being with her and at Framlingham after so many weeks away. There was real need and since she did not know the reason yet, it set her on edge.

'Well, now you are,' she said briskly, 'and your wife is scolding you because you are no longer in a battle camp or on the road and you need to be made presentable for the chamber. If you were Tripes, I'd have shut you in the stables. Come.' As she tugged him from the bed, she ordered the women to strip the sheets and hang the coverlets in the air and give them a good beating. His shirt and braies she told them to boil and then cut up for clouts and privy rags.

'They're not that bad!' Hugh protested as she used finger and thumb to drop them on the laundry pile.

'They have more holes than dock leaves after a beetle attack,' she retorted.

'And enough dirt to grow leeks! Even the poorest beggar on the road would shun wearing these.'

A smile that was not quite a grin crinkled the lines at the side of Hugh's eyes. 'I missed your scolding greatly,' he said.

Mahelt clucked her tongue and gestured to him to step into the tub. She noticed the gooseflesh on his arms and told the pail-maid to tip in another bucket of hot water. Then she set about the mammoth task of getting her husband clean and sweet-smelling. She anointed his body with the rose and fat mixture, then scraped it off with the comb, bringing dirt and vermin with it. The water gradually turned the colour of a river in spate, complete with debris. She ordered a second tub filled with clean water and sent a woman to fetch the shears.

'Why in God's name did you let yourself get in this state?' she demanded crossly.

Hugh shivered because his torso was out of the water and the air from the open shutters was cold. 'Because we were constantly in the field and there was never enough time. Barely would I fall on my pallet before I had to be up again. It was easier to live in my clothes. Everyone was the same.' His expression grew bleak. 'Truth to tell, it didn't seem to matter.'

Mahelt took the shears from the maid and set about cropping his hair.

Beneath the sun-bleaching, it was tangled, greasy and infested. She cut and snipped, then treated the cropped remnants with fleabane ointment. Bidding him stand, she had the maids sluice him down with buckets of clean water.

While the women were drying him and helping him don a warm loose robe, Mahelt used the fresh water in the second tub to scrub herself and comb and treat her own hair, which she had no intention of cutting off.

Hugh wandered around the room, touching this and that as if reacquainting himself with all that had once been familiar. Mahelt donned a clean chemise and joined him while the maids emptied the tubs and scattered powdered fleabane on the floors.

'There are no snakes in Ireland but I think you must have brought everything else that crawls home with you as a gift.' Mahelt gave him a half-laughing, half-reproachful look. She went to put her comb down on the coffer, and then stared at the parchment scroll lying beside her jewel casket and unguent pots. A narrow strip of red ribbon secured it from unrolling, and it was attended by a scattering of pale blackberry flower petals. Frowning and smiling in mystification, Mahelt unfastened the tie and opened it out. A bundle of strung tally sticks fell from the middle and clattered on to the top of the coffer like wooden fingers. The parchment itself was an official document written in Latin. 'What's this?'

Grinning, Hugh went to the hearth bench and retrieved the fleece he had draped over the back of it the previous evening. 'I thought you might have a yearning to be a shepherdess, or perhaps a dealer in fleece, or cloth and parchment. They are yours to do with as you will, and this is proof of their quality.'

Eyes wide with surprise, Mahelt took the fleece from him. It was white and curly with a slight shine in the twists. 'You have bought me a flock of sheep?' She felt the glorious softness under her fingers, and then the suede underside, tactile and supple. This was a surprise she would never have anticipated and she was filled with laughter and warm, tearful feelings of love. These sheep were hers to do with as she chose - a source of income to manage as she saw fit.

'I thought of you when I saw them grazing in the field,' he said. 'We came across them in the Marches not far from Leominster when I saw them.'

Mahelt smiled at him with wet eyes. Lifting the fleece she rubbed it against her cheek. 'Hah, I remind you of a sheep?'

Hugh laughed and shook his head. 'Not in that way. While I was riding I looked at the sky and saw clouds and the way they changed reminded me of you. And then a flock of sheep reminded me of the clouds and it seemed a natural and right thing to do - to gift my wife with the softness of a washed fleece and the wherewithal to have something for herself.'