disappeared.
‘Benedict,’ I said, crossing the room towards him, ‘come now, man, that was unduly harsh. Surely, it was only a soldier’s crude jest—’
‘
You
do not speak to me about this matter.’ Benedict was still furious. He waved a shaking finger at me then turned on his heel and left the hall.
I turned to Hubert de Burgh. ‘My lord, surely this is grossly unjust.’
But de Burgh was not interested. ‘Sir Alan, this is not your concern. That man served under Sir Benedict, and my nephew has the right to punish him in any way he chooses, save by the taking of his life. I cannot interfere – how would you like it if I oversaw how you disciplined your men? He will be punished for his insolence, and that is an end to it. Now, if it please you, I must get on with my accounts.’
He turned back to his parchments and his waiting bailiff.
I was appalled but there was nothing I could do. Worse, it seemed my own teasing of Benedict had made matters harder for the prisoner.
The next day, summoned for a feast at noon, I was standing by the window in the great hall, looking out over the pretty town of Falaise. My mood was black. I was bored and lonely and I felt guilty about the poor man in the stinking dungeon below my feet. What was I doing in Normandy? The war was a sham. The enemy were far away. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere doing garrison duty in the midst of men who despised me – and whom I despised – and for what? For Westbury? I should beg Robin for another loan to feed my villagers, and go home. I was just pondering some comfort I could bring the wretch below before his sentence was carried out, a kind word, a meal, a drink of wine infused with poppy juice for the coming pain, perhaps, when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘Greetings, Sir Alan, how wonderful to see you again. But what is it? You look awfully grim. Is everything all right?’
I turned and looked into the lovely face of Tilda Giffard, who was smiling up at me with her blue-grey eyes. I felt something turn over in my belly at the sight of her, and, for a moment, it was as if I had no wind in my lungs. Then I beamed, all thoughts of returning home and of the wretch in the dungeon below my feet forgotten. I was so pleased to see her that I was within an inch of throwing my arms around her and hugging her to my chest. But, thank God, I did not. Instead, I said much more formally than I meant, ‘Lady Tilda, what a great pleasure to see you. I didn’t know you were in Normandy. And what brings you to Falaise?’
‘Oh, Daddy has been at the castle at Avranches for months now, keeping the border against the savage Bretons. He recently had fresh news from his scouts…’
Her voice had the same smoky timbre that I remembered well. And her lovely eyes sparkled with mischief. I had thought of her from time to time since our meeting in Nottingham, mostly at night alone in my blankets when my troubles kept me awake, but she had been very far from the forefront of my imagination. Seeing her now was like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud. She looked perfect: her hair black as midnight under a stark white headdress; white skin and blood-red lips; a few delicate locks hanging before the perfect swirl of her ears; a long, slim neck and a hard, determined chin; her body encased in a tight gown of some shimmering white material that emphasised the narrowness of her waist and the inviting swell of her breasts …
I realised I was staring at her chest and lifted my eyes guiltily.
‘…and so we came here to pay our respects to Lord de Burgh, and of course to take council over this news from Brittany.’
I realised I had not been listening to a word she said. Something about Duke Arthur’s movements along the border. But before I could apologise or ask her to repeat herself, a trumpet sounded and we were summoned to the feast.
‘I do hope you will be sitting near me at the high table,’ said Tilda, squeezing my forearm with her
‘Benedict,’ I said, crossing the room towards him, ‘come now, man, that was unduly harsh. Surely, it was only a soldier’s crude jest—’
‘
You
do not speak to me about this matter.’ Benedict was still furious. He waved a shaking finger at me then turned on his heel and left the hall.
I turned to Hubert de Burgh. ‘My lord, surely this is grossly unjust.’
But de Burgh was not interested. ‘Sir Alan, this is not your concern. That man served under Sir Benedict, and my nephew has the right to punish him in any way he chooses, save by the taking of his life. I cannot interfere – how would you like it if I oversaw how you disciplined your men? He will be punished for his insolence, and that is an end to it. Now, if it please you, I must get on with my accounts.’
He turned back to his parchments and his waiting bailiff.
I was appalled but there was nothing I could do. Worse, it seemed my own teasing of Benedict had made matters harder for the prisoner.
The next day, summoned for a feast at noon, I was standing by the window in the great hall, looking out over the pretty town of Falaise. My mood was black. I was bored and lonely and I felt guilty about the poor man in the stinking dungeon below my feet. What was I doing in Normandy? The war was a sham. The enemy were far away. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere doing garrison duty in the midst of men who despised me – and whom I despised – and for what? For Westbury? I should beg Robin for another loan to feed my villagers, and go home. I was just pondering some comfort I could bring the wretch below before his sentence was carried out, a kind word, a meal, a drink of wine infused with poppy juice for the coming pain, perhaps, when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘Greetings, Sir Alan, how wonderful to see you again. But what is it? You look awfully grim. Is everything all right?’
I turned and looked into the lovely face of Tilda Giffard, who was smiling up at me with her blue-grey eyes. I felt something turn over in my belly at the sight of her, and, for a moment, it was as if I had no wind in my lungs. Then I beamed, all thoughts of returning home and of the wretch in the dungeon below my feet forgotten. I was so pleased to see her that I was within an inch of throwing my arms around her and hugging her to my chest. But, thank God, I did not. Instead, I said much more formally than I meant, ‘Lady Tilda, what a great pleasure to see you. I didn’t know you were in Normandy. And what brings you to Falaise?’
‘Oh, Daddy has been at the castle at Avranches for months now, keeping the border against the savage Bretons. He recently had fresh news from his scouts…’
Her voice had the same smoky timbre that I remembered well. And her lovely eyes sparkled with mischief. I had thought of her from time to time since our meeting in Nottingham, mostly at night alone in my blankets when my troubles kept me awake, but she had been very far from the forefront of my imagination. Seeing her now was like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud. She looked perfect: her hair black as midnight under a stark white headdress; white skin and blood-red lips; a few delicate locks hanging before the perfect swirl of her ears; a long, slim neck and a hard, determined chin; her body encased in a tight gown of some shimmering white material that emphasised the narrowness of her waist and the inviting swell of her breasts …
I realised I was staring at her chest and lifted my eyes guiltily.
‘…and so we came here to pay our respects to Lord de Burgh, and of course to take council over this news from Brittany.’
I realised I had not been listening to a word she said. Something about Duke Arthur’s movements along the border. But before I could apologise or ask her to repeat herself, a trumpet sounded and we were summoned to the feast.
‘I do hope you will be sitting near me at the high table,’ said Tilda, squeezing my forearm with her
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