скачать книгу бесплатно
His repast complete, Henry contemplated what he should do. He had no duties here, beyond waiting for that lout Roald. A glance toward the window showed that the storm had blown itself out overnight. The sky was clear, and the sun shone as if it were still summer, so he decided to take a stroll about the castle.
As he passed through the hall, he noted that neither lady was there. Lady Mathilde was probably running around issuing orders somewhere. As for Lady Giselle, maybe she was trying on gowns or brushing her hair or whatever it was beautiful ladies did while their sisters ran the household.
He halted on the steps leading down to the courtyard and surveyed the fortress of Ecclesford. A keep—square, squat, ugly and old—stood at the southern end of the yard, while various other buildings had been built against the inside of the protective wall. The stables were to his right, with barracks above, judging by the men’s garments hanging out of the open windows to dry. At least one was a gambeson, the quilted padded jacket soldiers wore beneath their mail.
The small building in the corner opposite the stables with the carved door was probably the chapel. Good Father Thomas could have spent his days leisurely there, saying mass once a day and otherwise doing whatever he wanted. Truly, he seemed a kind and honest churchman, and Henry hoped he saw more of him.
The kitchen had to be the building attached to the hall by a covered corridor, so that should fire break out, it wouldn’t spread to the hall. He sniffed the air and recognized the wonderful smell of baking bread and gravy.
When he had been released from his imprisonment, the first thing he had asked for was wine, but what he had enjoyed most was his first bite of a loaf of freshly baked bread. It still seemed to him the very taste of freedom.
Turning his thoughts from those days, he noted the well near the kitchen, which meant that if the castle were ever besieged, water wouldn’t be a problem, unless some bloated carcass of a beast was thrown over the wall and landed in it by a stroke of luck for the attacking force. As was usually the case, several women were clustered around it, drawing water and gossiping, no doubt. He wondered what they made of his presence here.
He looked up at the wall walk, trying to determine how many men patrolled the battlements. Not enough, that seemed certain, and several of them stood together, clearly much more interested in what was going on in the courtyard than keeping watch over the village and the approach to the castle.
Sir Leonard de Brissy would have had them all in the stocks and so would he…but this was not his castle or his garrison to command. He was a guest, so he would keep his opinions to himself. Besides, he could easily imagine how Lady Mathilde would take any suggestion he attempted to make.
When Henry started across the yard, the bustle came to a momentary halt while those at their work stopped to look at the Norman in their midst. The women gathered at the well eyed him with approval, while laborers repairing the base of the wall near the gate were considerably less impressed.
As before, Henry ignored their scrutiny, paying more attention to the guards, if they could be called that, at the gate. They leaned on their spears, chatting as if they were passing the time in a tavern. As Henry strolled out the open gates, they barely glanced his way.
God’s blood, if he were in charge here, they’d be having bread and water for a week. No wonder Roald had not yet come to make his claim. He probably assumed he could simply saunter through the gates whenever it pleased him, demand the castle, and no one would be able to stop him.
How Lady Mathilde thought such a garrison could defeat Roald…
He came to an abrupt halt. In the open area between the dry moat and the village, Cerdic and another man, stripped to the waist, were fighting with clubs. Other men had formed a half circle around them, apparently offering advice or encouragement. Both combatants were intent on each other and clearly determined to win, yet he didn’t detect animosity—just determination.
Not a fight between enemies or a settling of accounts, then. A practice? God save him, could it be? Was it possible there was some kind of attempt to train these men after all? But why clubs?
One of the men in the semicircle spotted Henry and made a comment to the man next to him. Soon others were staring at him, and in the next moment, Cerdic and his opponent had turned to look at him, too.
Having nothing better to do, Henry sauntered toward them.
“What dost thou seek, Norman?” Cerdic demanded.
“I was wondering what you’re doing with those clubs.”
Cerdic and his companion exchanged amused and smug smiles. “We use clubs instead of axes when we practice lest we slice off fingers,” Cerdic replied. “We leave the swords for more dainty men.”
So, that was the way it was going to be. “Then perhaps you’ll let me watch and learn a trick or two.”
Cerdic sniffed. “Why? Thou and thy countrymen do not use axes.”
“I was taught to use any weapon that might be on a battlefield. Sir Leonard used to say a lance could be broken, a sword knocked away and a mace ripped from your grip, so the wise knight learns to fight with anything that might come to hand.”
A challenging gleam appeared in Cerdic’s storm-gray eyes. “I would see how a Norman fights with an ax.”
The blood quickened in Henry’s veins, as it always did when he was challenged. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we test each other here and now?”
The men muttered excitedly and Cerdic darted them a satisfied grin before addressing Henry again. “With these toys, or real axes?”
“Since I would rather not lose a limb, I’d prefer a club.” Henry was determined to beat Cerdic, but he wasn’t a fool. Accidents happened in practices, too, and it was obvious Cerdic didn’t like him.
Cerdic’s grin grew. “Very well, Norman. The toys.”
Cerdic nodded to the man he’d been about to fight. With a sneer and a few words Henry was sure were not compliments, the fellow handed his club to Henry.
Cerdic could call them toys if he liked, Henry thought as he tested the feel and weight of the club, but this thing could break bones.
As he swung his weapon back and forth, then up and around his head, he studied Cerdic out of the corner of his eye. He wouldn’t be easy to defeat. He was full of the confidence that came from skill, and he was one of the more well-muscled men Henry had ever seen. Although Henry didn’t believe Cerdic would kill or seriously wound a guest of the ladies of Ecclesford, he didn’t want to have to hobble about on a broken leg, or nurse a broken arm, either.
“Until the first man cries mercy?” Henry proposed.
His opponent nodded.
“Care to make a wager on who it will be?”
That brought another grin to Cerdic’s face. “Ten silver pennies ’twill be thee.”
“Done,” Henry said. He glanced at the other men. “Wonder who they’ll bet on?”
“Me to win, thee to lose,” Cerdic said in a low voice.
And then, with a blood-curdling cry, the man ran at Henry, swinging his club back and up and around, to bring it crashing down on Henry’s head—had Henry still been standing there. With lightning-fast reflexes honed by hours of practice, Henry deftly sidestepped the blow and shoved his shoulder against Cerdic, knocking him sideways.
Growling an oath, Cerdic righted himself and turned to see Henry holding his weapon with both hands, his body half-turned. Henry swung low, aiming for his calves.
Hissing like a snake, Cerdic leaped back, his arms wide with surprise. “Dog! Thou wouldst break my ankles?”
“You could have broken my head if your blow had landed. If this were an ax and I’d hit, you could have lost your feet.”
Scowling, Cerdic raised his weapon again and shuffled, by wary inches, closer to his opponent. Henry hesitated, not sure if he should try to strike low again, or knock the weapon from Cerdic’s hand.
That hesitation cost him, for Cerdic suddenly jumped forward, bringing his weapon straight down. Henry lunged to the left, nearly sprawling on the ground. He righted almost at once and managed to hit Cerdic’s club.
Cerdic struck back instantly, his club coming down on Henry’s. Shoving it off, Henry backed up a step or two, but the men watching had surrounded them, ringing them in, and he had less room to maneuver than he thought.
Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to give up. He was going to win and show these soldiers that he really did know how to fight with something other than a sword or mace or lance.
He would prove his skill and do Sir Leonard proud.
As fierce resolve coursed through his veins, he watched Cerdic like a hawk would a field mouse it wanted for its dinner and shouted at the men to give him room. They did, backing up a little, although they muttered in complaint as they did.
“I need no more room to defeat thee,” Cerdic said through clenched teeth, also keeping his gaze on Henry, no doubt seeking an opening, too. “Canst thou not fight in close quarters, Norman?”
“Aye, indeed, I can,” Henry replied, circling him in a crouch. “Very close.”
With that, and although he was right-handed, he swung his club from the left. As he’d expected, that caught Cerdic off guard and he was unprepared to defend a blow from that side. The club flew from his hand, striking an unfortunate fellow in the front row.
That would teach him to stand too close, Henry thought, even as he seized his chance, and with a deft turn of his body, shoved Cerdic backward with his left shoulder. The man landed on the ground, spread-eagled, flat on his back and weaponless.
In the next moment, Henry’s foot was on Cerdic’s throat. “I believe I have the advantage, my friend,” he said, still holding his club in case Cerdic was able to break free or grabbed his left ankle and tipped him back, as Henry would have done.
Apparently, however, that move didn’t occur to Cerdic, who gave him a disgruntled frown. “I yield.”
Henry removed his foot and reached out his hand to help Cerdic to his feet. The fellow would have none of it, however. He rolled onto his side and got up unaided. “Thou didst not say thou could use either hand.”
“I wasn’t born able to do that,” Henry replied, prepared to be friendly, especially since he had won. “I was trained to do so. It isn’t easy, but any man may learn how, with enough practice.”
Cerdic merely grunted as he went to his clothes on the ground nearby and fetched a small purse. The other men continued to regard Henry with wary caution, and perhaps—or so he hoped—a little respect.
He’d probably made more of an enemy of Cerdic, though. However, if a man hated you on sight for something that was not your fault—your birth, or your rank, or your looks—there was little to be done to change it, and Henry did have his pride. Even so, had he been staying at Ecclesford for the winter, he would have willingly lost the contest, if only to ensure himself a little less animosity from the men of the garrison.
“Here,” Cerdic said, handing him ten silver pennies.
“Thank you,” Henry replied, sincerely happy to have them. As Lady Mathilde had been informed, he had nearly nothing in his purse, and while he wouldn’t take payment for helping ladies, he would certainly pocket the winnings of a wager fairly won, and with some effort. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll see what sights the town has to offer.”
From the smirks on the faces of the men, he could guess how they thought he’d be spending his money. In that, they were quite wrong. He enjoyed wine, to be sure, and women, but not today, and not here. Not when there was a lady to woo.
So instead, the pleased, triumphant and slightly richer Henry sauntered through the village of Ecclesford, surveying the buildings and the wares in the marketplace, and trying not to notice that everybody stopped and stared at him as he passed by. He could also easily imagine what they’d be saying about him in the tavern and around the well when they heard of his defeat of Cerdic, and that it wouldn’t be flattering. That was only to be expected, and since his visit here was not likely to be long, he wouldn’t let their hostility disturb him.
All in all, Ecclesford seemed a fairly prosperous place. The main road skirted a green, and several two-story structures—stalls on the bottom, living quarters above—surrounded it. Women were both selling and purchasing goods ranging from bread, to chickens in small wooden cages, to bolts of woven cloth. He spotted the sign for an inn called, to his amusement, the Cock and Bull, and the ringing of a hammer on an anvil proclaimed the smithy. Another group, this time of men, were gathered outside the entrance, some standing, the older men on a bench that faced the west and setting sun. A massive oak grew near the smithy, and its spreading branches, now yellowing in the autumn, still provided some cooling shade on this warm day.
On the other side of the village beside the millpond, he paused to take a deep breath and realized that he stank of sweat. He needed to wash, and well.
He could always ask the servants at the castle to prepare a bath, he mused, until he thought of the very friendly Faiga. He was tired after his contest with Cerdic and didn’t particularly feel like fending off any unwelcome advances.
He glanced at the pond. It looked deep and inviting. A dip in those cool waters would be just the thing—except that he would be in plain view of half the village if he did that here.
Seeking a more secluded spot, he kept walking until he rounded a curve in the road and came upon a grove of willow trees along the riverbank, their graceful branches hanging to the ground, some grazing the river itself as it made its leisurely way toward the sea. Yes, this was much more to the purpose, he thought, ducking under the branches and removing his clothes.
Naked, he waded gingerly out into the water, wincing as he walked barefoot over the rocks and pebbles. When the water was up to midthigh, he dove.
The shock of cold water hit him like a blow, but he didn’t come up for air immediately. He struck out with strong, clean strokes.
Sir Leonard had insisted his charges learn to swim, too. All had succeeded, more or less, and this was one skill in which he’d excelled. Merrick, who was otherwise the best warrior, had proven to be surprisingly awkward in the water, while Ranulf always seemed to be rowing Sir Leonard’s boat.
Smiling at the memory of the time he and Merrick had overturned the boat and dumped Ranulf into the shallow water before Sir Leonard had embarked, Henry broke the surface and rolled over onto his back. Ranulf had been furious—but he’d deserved it.
How merry they’d been in those long-ago days, even the usually silent Merrick. Now Merrick was a great lord, married and with a child on the way. As for Ranulf, Henry wondered, and not for the first time, what exactly had happened that time Ranulf had been at court without them. Something certainly had, for he’d returned a colder, more cynical man.
No doubt it had to do with a woman. Who could understand the fairer sex? They were mysterious, unfathomable creatures, bold and haughty one moment, fearful and uncertain the next….
What the devil? When had Lady Mathilde become the model for her sex? If anything, she was the opposite of what a noblewoman ought to be—quiet, demure, gentle…dull, boring, lifeless.
He was being ridiculous. If there was any woman here worth pursuing, it was the beautiful Lady Giselle who, fortunately, wasn’t already betrothed.
He wondered why. If Lady Mathilde had been the eldest, he would have assumed that their father believed that the younger daughter shouldn’t marry before the eldest. Certainly finding a man willing to marry the brazen, outspoken Lady Mathilde would prove a difficult task. Since Lady Giselle was the eldest, perhaps no suitable candidate for either lady had been forthcoming.
Cooler now, and cleaner, and still determined to ignore any wayward thoughts involving the younger lady of Ecclesford, Henry walked out of the river. He swiped the water from his body as best he could, then tugged on his breeches. He threw on his shirt, but decided against putting his tunic and sword belt back on. He sat to draw on his hose and boots, then rose, grabbed his sword belt and, with his tunic hanging over his arm, started back to the poorly defended Ecclesford.
“Sir Henry?”
He halted and slowly turned around when he heard Lady Mathilde call his name. What in God’s name was she doing here and had she seen him naked—again? He wasn’t normally the most modest of men, but he didn’t enjoy feeling as if his entire body was available for her perusal.
Fortunately, Lady Mathilde was far enough away that she probably hadn’t seen him in the river or on the bank. Thank God.
Her head was uncovered and she carried a basket in her hand. Her chestnut hair hung in a single braid down her back nearly to her waist; that must be her veil tucked into her girdle. With her plain light brown gown and uncovered hair, she looked like a simple country girl.
The first woman he had ever made love to had been a dairymaid.
God’s blood, it had been years since he’d thought of Elise, and the passionate excitement, unique to youth, to be found in her welcoming arms. That must explain the sudden heating of his blood and the rush of desire in his loins.
Whatever Lady Mathilde looked like and whatever she aroused, she was no milking maid eager to instruct him in the ways of love.
“My lady,” he said, bowing in greeting as he waited for her to reach him, glad his shirt hung loose to midthigh.
She ran a puzzled gaze over him. “Have you been in the water?”
“It’s a warm day,” he replied, “and I thought I’d save your servants the trouble of preparing a bath. Cerdic challenged me to show my skill and I obliged. Afterward I wanted to wash more than my face and hands.”
Her brows knit with concern. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”
He couldn’t help smiling a little. “He was the one left lying on the ground.”
“You defeated Cerdic?” she asked incredulously.
He shrugged with chivalrous modesty. “As I said, I can wield more than a sword.”
She started walking toward the castle, her strides betraying her agitation.
He’d better keep quiet about the wager, he decided as he fell into step beside her. “Would you rather I let him hurt me?”
“I don’t know why you had to involve yourself at all,” she snapped, her full lips turned down in a peeved frown.
“I had nothing better to do. Neither you nor your sister were in the hall to offer suggestions as to how I might spend my time while I was your guest.”
He let the implication that they had been remiss in their duty hang in the air between them.
“I thought Giselle would be in the hall when you finally deigned to get out of bed,” Lady Mathilde replied, her voice betraying some slight remorse. “She usually does her sewing there, and there was no need for her other skill today.”
“Other skill?” he asked, curious as to what that might be and trying not to get annoyed with Lady Mathilde’s less-than-ladylike tone.
“She tends to the sick in the castle and the village.”
A most excellent quality in a knight’s wife, Henry reflected. His recent recovery would surely have been aided, and made all the more pleasant, had he been cared for by such a physician. “And you, my lady?” he inquired politely. “Are you similarly skilled?”
“The smells of the sickroom make me ill and the sight of a bloody wound turns my stomach.”
