He nodded, satisfied, as if there was any other answer I could have given. I couldn’t break my oath to him, especially after I had failed in my duty to his namesake, my first lord, Robert de Commines. He had paid for my failure with his life, and I was determined not to let the same thing happen again. I would not suffer such dishonour twice. Nor had I any wish to surrender Earnford, my home, which I held only as Robert’s tenant and which was worth more than anything in this world to me. That was what would happen if I broke my vow. I would become one of those lordless, landless, wandering warriors, despised and distrusted by all. That was not a fate I wanted for myself.
Beneath his cloak my lord’s shoulders hung low. His angular features looked more gaunt, and even in the gloom I spotted the dark patches beneath his eyes. Suddenly he seemed much older than his years: no longer as commanding a figure, or as confident. As always, he was dressed all in black from his shirt and tunic to his trews and boots, and even his scabbard. It was an affectation he had always considered fashionable, but which now lent him the appearance of a mourner, and perhaps he was indeed mourning: for the loss of his family’s former standing, for the loss of all his hearth-knights who had been slain at the hands of foemen in this last year.
Perhaps, too, he was already in mourning for his father, the once-powerful Guillaume Malet, whose health, it was said, was rapidly worsening. He had first fallen ill during his imprisonment by the Danes last autumn, and although he had recovered somewhat in the months since then, that illness had never completely gone away, but kept returning, and every time it did it left him all the weaker. None of the physicians summoned had been able to say exactly what it was that ailed him, or rather each one had his own opinion and clung rigidly to it, shouting down all the others whose assessment differed. Neither had they been able to agree on any one course of treatment, save for the usual bleedings and poultices and herb-infused ointments, none of which seemed to bring any relief.
Knowing how he was suffering, it seemed strange that King Guillaume should have demanded the elder Malet’s services on this campaign, especially since he showed no inclination to call upon his counsel. As with everything, the king wished it, and so it happened. For the first few weeks all had been well, and it was hoped that whatever ailment troubled him had passed. Within days of arriving here at Brandune, however, Malet had succumbed once more, and this time he seemed worse than ever.
‘How is your father?’ I asked.
‘He suffers still. This foul marsh air does him no good. Every day he is plagued with bouts of flux. He eats little and what he does manage he often heaves back up. Let me take you to him, and you can see for yourself.’
I wasn’t sure that Malet would wish to see me, and doubtless Robert must have known that, but he was already halfway towards the door and so I kept my feelings to myself as I followed him outside. A scrawny grey cat that must have been left behind by whoever had previously owned this hall looked up from licking its paws as we crossed the yard towards a smaller building that stood opposite the turf-roofed hall. Smoke rose thickly from the hole in its thatch, obscuring the stars. I had hardly even seen Malet in recent weeks, let alone had a chance to speak to him. Much of the time he was too weak even to leave the house where he was quartered, while I was often out on patrol or escort duty. For a brief time I had served him, just as I now served his son, but after the business with the priest ?lfwold, he had dismissed me from his employ.
‘I fear he will not be with us much longer,’ Robert said, his voice low as we neared the building.
‘I pray that he recovers.’ In spite of the bad blood that existed between Malet and myself, the sentiment was heartfelt.
Robert shook his head sadly. ‘He will not recover. It is simply a matter of how long he can cling to life.’
I didn’t know what to say to that, but thankfully I did not have to, for at that moment Robert opened the door. Inside it was warm, much warmer than the hall. A freshly stoked fire burnt; against one wall was piled enough wood to last all night and all the next day too, I didn’t wonder. Malet, my erstwhile lord, sat on a stool facing the hearth with his back to the door, wrapped in furs as he sipped at a bowl of steaming broth. Beside him, stirring an iron pot that hung from a spit over the flames, crouched a man in his middle years, dressed in loose woollen robes. Around his neck hung a wooden cross carved with an intricate pattern of intertwining vines, and I took him for Malet’s chaplain. His face held a stony expression as he saw us come in.
‘My lord is not strong enough to receive anyone at this present moment, I’m afraid.’ His voice, unlike the fire, was entirely lacking in warmth.
‘Not even his son?’ Robert asked with a frown.
‘Come, Dudo,’ Malet said to the priest. He gave a cough and slowly set the bowl down on the rushes beside him. ‘I am not as frail as all that. Besides, where are your manners?’
‘I simply think, lord, that it would be better if you rest. The hour is late and—’
Malet waved him silent as, with not a little effort, he rose to his feet and turned to greet us, a gentle smile upon his face.
A smile that vanished the instant he saw me.
‘It’s you,’ he said, scowling. ‘Why do you continue to plague me? Am I not sick enough already?’