bonds woven from words and yet stronger than words. Bonds of my own making, that I could not escape, only endure.
Three
THE ENCAMPMENT SPRAWLED around the manor at Brandune: a sea of tents and horse paddocks, fenced-off pens for sheep, swine and chickens, and training yards marked out with stakes. Countless campfires dotted what had been pastureland and hay-meadows, and around them men cooked whatever meagre provisions had been given them that day from the royal storehouses. The king had seized the main hall, a high-gabled, timber-built structure, for the use of himself and his own household, while the various lords who had been called upon to serve on this campaign had been left to squabble between themselves for the other houses in the village.
At one time I imagined this would have been a prosperous place, untouched by the wars that had gripped the kingdom these past five years. But no longer. Where once had been pastures and paddocks, now there were only wide quagmires. Livestock had fouled the pens and barns, while outside the slaughtering sheds and on the banks of the Lyteluse carcasses of pigs and cattle had been abandoned, left to the flies and the carrion birds, which swarmed around them, feeding upon the flesh as if it were the most lavish of feasts. The recent rain had only made matters worse, causing latrine pits to overflow and making rivers of all that mud and filth. The passage of several thousand feet had done the rest, churning everything into a reeking sludge that clung to one’s shoes and caused wagons to become stuck, horses to lose their footing, and men to sicken and die from the poisonous vapours it gave off.
Bordered on its western side by the marsh and on its eastern by an expanse of heathland thick with gorse, Brandune stood on a ridge of higher ground above the slow-flowing Lyteluse river, where rowing boats, punts and ferrycraft were moored. The low-gabled building that my lord had claimed for his own use lay on the very edge of the village, a good half a mile from the royal enclosure with its stables and gatehouse and surrounding stockade. Barely twenty paces in length and built of wattle and turf, it wasn’t much to look upon, although it was in better repair than some of the other houses. One of Robert’s household knights stood on guard outside the door, a spear in his hand to which was nailed a pennon in the Malet colours of black and gold. Around his shoulders was wrapped a thick winter cloak, though it was only late September. I didn’t know the man’s name but I recognised his face, and he recognised mine, and so he let me pass without challenge.
Heavy drapes hung across the doorway to keep out the draughts. I pushed them aside to find Lord Robert holding council with some two dozen or so of his vassals, who stood or sat on various stools, barrels and chests in a circle around him. They were men much like myself, minor barons who had sworn their swords to the Malets, and in return for loyal service had been rewarded with land. Most of those faces were unfamiliar to me, for they had only recently arrived from Normandy or else had been called from other far-flung parts of England to be here, but I spotted my long-serving comrades Wace and Eudo seated on the other side of the hearth, where a peat fire was gently smoking, the only source of light in that grim, dung-reeking hall. They nodded greetings to me but said nothing, for Robert was speaking. His back was turned as he paced around the room, addressing his barons, so he didn’t see me enter.
‘The banks have been strengthened and the roadway widened, with platforms for our bowmen and catapults to stand upon,’ he was saying. ‘If the enemy do send another band to try to destroy it, they’ll find themselves cut down under a hail of steel.’
One of the barons, a rotund, red-faced man in his middle years, gave a snort as he swallowed a gulp of ale from a wooden cup. ‘That’s what we were told before. And we all remember
Three
THE ENCAMPMENT SPRAWLED around the manor at Brandune: a sea of tents and horse paddocks, fenced-off pens for sheep, swine and chickens, and training yards marked out with stakes. Countless campfires dotted what had been pastureland and hay-meadows, and around them men cooked whatever meagre provisions had been given them that day from the royal storehouses. The king had seized the main hall, a high-gabled, timber-built structure, for the use of himself and his own household, while the various lords who had been called upon to serve on this campaign had been left to squabble between themselves for the other houses in the village.
At one time I imagined this would have been a prosperous place, untouched by the wars that had gripped the kingdom these past five years. But no longer. Where once had been pastures and paddocks, now there were only wide quagmires. Livestock had fouled the pens and barns, while outside the slaughtering sheds and on the banks of the Lyteluse carcasses of pigs and cattle had been abandoned, left to the flies and the carrion birds, which swarmed around them, feeding upon the flesh as if it were the most lavish of feasts. The recent rain had only made matters worse, causing latrine pits to overflow and making rivers of all that mud and filth. The passage of several thousand feet had done the rest, churning everything into a reeking sludge that clung to one’s shoes and caused wagons to become stuck, horses to lose their footing, and men to sicken and die from the poisonous vapours it gave off.
Bordered on its western side by the marsh and on its eastern by an expanse of heathland thick with gorse, Brandune stood on a ridge of higher ground above the slow-flowing Lyteluse river, where rowing boats, punts and ferrycraft were moored. The low-gabled building that my lord had claimed for his own use lay on the very edge of the village, a good half a mile from the royal enclosure with its stables and gatehouse and surrounding stockade. Barely twenty paces in length and built of wattle and turf, it wasn’t much to look upon, although it was in better repair than some of the other houses. One of Robert’s household knights stood on guard outside the door, a spear in his hand to which was nailed a pennon in the Malet colours of black and gold. Around his shoulders was wrapped a thick winter cloak, though it was only late September. I didn’t know the man’s name but I recognised his face, and he recognised mine, and so he let me pass without challenge.
Heavy drapes hung across the doorway to keep out the draughts. I pushed them aside to find Lord Robert holding council with some two dozen or so of his vassals, who stood or sat on various stools, barrels and chests in a circle around him. They were men much like myself, minor barons who had sworn their swords to the Malets, and in return for loyal service had been rewarded with land. Most of those faces were unfamiliar to me, for they had only recently arrived from Normandy or else had been called from other far-flung parts of England to be here, but I spotted my long-serving comrades Wace and Eudo seated on the other side of the hearth, where a peat fire was gently smoking, the only source of light in that grim, dung-reeking hall. They nodded greetings to me but said nothing, for Robert was speaking. His back was turned as he paced around the room, addressing his barons, so he didn’t see me enter.
‘The banks have been strengthened and the roadway widened, with platforms for our bowmen and catapults to stand upon,’ he was saying. ‘If the enemy do send another band to try to destroy it, they’ll find themselves cut down under a hail of steel.’
One of the barons, a rotund, red-faced man in his middle years, gave a snort as he swallowed a gulp of ale from a wooden cup. ‘That’s what we were told before. And we all remember
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