Yes, indeed I have. God rest his soul. A useful man in a fight,
so I recall.'
Raffe's
lack of deference, which might have enraged another man, seemed only to amuse
Osborn. His beard twitched as if he was trying to conceal a smile beneath it.
He turned as two younger men strolled across to join him.
'Raffaele,
you remember my little brother, Hugh. And Raoul here has newly joined my
company.'
Raffe's
jaw clenched so hard that it was a miracle his teeth didn't shatter. He barely
glanced at Raoul for his whole attention was fixed on Osborn's brother.
Hugh
curdy nodded his head at Raffe, somehow managing to invest the gesture with
utter contempt. But Raffe's back remained obstinately rigid.
Hugh
was slightly built, a hand's length shorter than his brother, and clean-shaven.
Unlike Osborn, he still boasted a full head of crow-black hair. There was no
disputing that women, on the whole, found Hugh handsome. His features were
altogether finer than his brother's, as if he had been painstakingly carved by
a master craftsman. In contrast, Osborn's face appeared to have been roughly
hewn by an incompetent apprentice. A man seeing them apart would not have
noticed the family resemblance, but put them together and there was no
mistaking the fraternal bond. For Hugh seemed to have made a study of his elder
brother's mannerisms and wore them self-consciously like a little boy walking
in hand-me- down shoes.
Now
the same barely suppressed smile hovered on Hugh's face. 'If it isn't the
gelding, and now without a rider. We shall have to take steps to rectify that.'
Raffe
fought to keep his temper. He'd been made to learn early in life that bridling
at insults from men of higher rank was not worth a bloody back or the
humiliation that went with it.
Osborn
plucked at his beard. 'I hope you're not suggesting I should ride him, little
brother. School him to the leading rein I will most certainly do, mount him
never.'
Both
Hugh and Raoul laughed, but Osborn's lips merely dickered in a smile.
Raffe
had only ever heard Osborn laugh once, but the sound of that laughter had been
seared into his soul, burning more fiercely than any executioner's
branding-iron. He remembered every detail of that night at Acre. When he closed
his eyes, he could still hear it, taste it, smell it.
It
had been a blistering day and the darkness had brought little relief from the
heat which still shimmered up from the sun-baked rocks. The air was thick with
the stench of rank goat's meat spit-roasted over fires of dried dung. The foot-
soldiers sprawled on the ground with their mouths hanging open, trying to suck
in enough air to breathe. They were too weary to stamp on the scavenging
cockroaches, or brush away clouds of mosquitoes gorging on bodies slippery with
sweat. Some had fallen asleep as they ate, pieces of flat bread still gripped
in their hands.
It
was the silence that Raffe remembered most keenly. For once, there had been no
buzzing of gossip or banter across the camp, no shouts of triumph or angry
curses as men diced for spoils. Even the horses were too sapped by the heat to
flick the insects away with a toss of their heads. The silver stars hung
motionless as drowned herring in the black sea above his head.
Raffe
had been watching them through the open flap of the tent: Osborn, seated at a
low table, Hugh leaning across him for a flagon of wine, Gerard facing them,
making his report. Three thousand dead. Gerard was trying to hold himself
upright in the chair; trying to stop his hands from shaking as they clenched
around the stem of a goblet; trying not to vomit again, though he had retched
so many times since his return to camp there was surely nothing left in his
stomach. Illuminated from within by the flickering red torchlight, the tent
glowed like the pit of hell in the darkness binding the shadows of the men in
ropes of flame.
Gerard
was
so I recall.'
Raffe's
lack of deference, which might have enraged another man, seemed only to amuse
Osborn. His beard twitched as if he was trying to conceal a smile beneath it.
He turned as two younger men strolled across to join him.
'Raffaele,
you remember my little brother, Hugh. And Raoul here has newly joined my
company.'
Raffe's
jaw clenched so hard that it was a miracle his teeth didn't shatter. He barely
glanced at Raoul for his whole attention was fixed on Osborn's brother.
Hugh
curdy nodded his head at Raffe, somehow managing to invest the gesture with
utter contempt. But Raffe's back remained obstinately rigid.
Hugh
was slightly built, a hand's length shorter than his brother, and clean-shaven.
Unlike Osborn, he still boasted a full head of crow-black hair. There was no
disputing that women, on the whole, found Hugh handsome. His features were
altogether finer than his brother's, as if he had been painstakingly carved by
a master craftsman. In contrast, Osborn's face appeared to have been roughly
hewn by an incompetent apprentice. A man seeing them apart would not have
noticed the family resemblance, but put them together and there was no
mistaking the fraternal bond. For Hugh seemed to have made a study of his elder
brother's mannerisms and wore them self-consciously like a little boy walking
in hand-me- down shoes.
Now
the same barely suppressed smile hovered on Hugh's face. 'If it isn't the
gelding, and now without a rider. We shall have to take steps to rectify that.'
Raffe
fought to keep his temper. He'd been made to learn early in life that bridling
at insults from men of higher rank was not worth a bloody back or the
humiliation that went with it.
Osborn
plucked at his beard. 'I hope you're not suggesting I should ride him, little
brother. School him to the leading rein I will most certainly do, mount him
never.'
Both
Hugh and Raoul laughed, but Osborn's lips merely dickered in a smile.
Raffe
had only ever heard Osborn laugh once, but the sound of that laughter had been
seared into his soul, burning more fiercely than any executioner's
branding-iron. He remembered every detail of that night at Acre. When he closed
his eyes, he could still hear it, taste it, smell it.
It
had been a blistering day and the darkness had brought little relief from the
heat which still shimmered up from the sun-baked rocks. The air was thick with
the stench of rank goat's meat spit-roasted over fires of dried dung. The foot-
soldiers sprawled on the ground with their mouths hanging open, trying to suck
in enough air to breathe. They were too weary to stamp on the scavenging
cockroaches, or brush away clouds of mosquitoes gorging on bodies slippery with
sweat. Some had fallen asleep as they ate, pieces of flat bread still gripped
in their hands.
It
was the silence that Raffe remembered most keenly. For once, there had been no
buzzing of gossip or banter across the camp, no shouts of triumph or angry
curses as men diced for spoils. Even the horses were too sapped by the heat to
flick the insects away with a toss of their heads. The silver stars hung
motionless as drowned herring in the black sea above his head.
Raffe
had been watching them through the open flap of the tent: Osborn, seated at a
low table, Hugh leaning across him for a flagon of wine, Gerard facing them,
making his report. Three thousand dead. Gerard was trying to hold himself
upright in the chair; trying to stop his hands from shaking as they clenched
around the stem of a goblet; trying not to vomit again, though he had retched
so many times since his return to camp there was surely nothing left in his
stomach. Illuminated from within by the flickering red torchlight, the tent
glowed like the pit of hell in the darkness binding the shadows of the men in
ropes of flame.
Gerard
was
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