Dazed, not quite believing what had happened, I looked up and saw the two boys standing over me. The taller of the two, fair-haired and freckled, grinned and pointed his sword at my neck. ‘Do you yield?’
‘I yield,’ I said, laughing as I pushed his blade away and got to my feet. Not five yards from where I stood was a wooden feeding-trough: that was what I must have stumbled into. Though it could have been worse, I thought. I could have fallen in it.
I glanced towards the hall, where Beatrice still stood, and there was a smile upon her face. I tousled each boy’s hair in turn while I regained my breath, then wiped the sweat from my brow. ‘Keep practising and you’ll both make good knights one day,’ I told them.
They seemed pleased by that, and in truth they had fought well. So much in battle was a matter of luck, whether good or ill, but the best warriors were those who made the most of their luck, who took advantage of their enemies’ mistakes, and that was what these two had done. I left them to carry on by themselves as I made my way across the yard towards Beatrice.
‘Defeated by a couple of boys,’ she said as I approached. ‘You disappoint me.’
‘They show great promise,’ I replied. ‘Your father is fortunate to have such able young fighters in his household.’
I watched them as they finished marking out a duelling circle, and picked up their practice swords and wicker shields. They rushed together, exchanging blows before just as quickly backing away again, circling about, each searching for the all-important opening.
‘There are many who can wield a sword,’ Beatrice said. ‘Though from what I’ve heard, there are few who can match your prowess.’
‘If you believe that, then you couldn’t have seen me fall over that horse-trough.’ I spoke only half in jest. For all the hours I had spent in the practice yard of late, my sword-arm still felt slow, my body heavy. Nor was I nearly as steady on my feet as I would have liked, even without mail shirt and chausses to weigh me down.
She smiled gently as she tucked a wisp of hair beneath her hood. ‘I’ve heard much about you,’ she said. ‘My father told me how you fought in the great battle at H?stinges, how by your valour and your quick thinking you saved your lord’s life.’
At H?stinges, but not at Dunholm. ‘That was more than two years ago,’ I said. ‘A lot of things have changed since then.’
She paused a moment, then said, ‘You know that what happened to Earl Robert was not your fault.’
I frowned. How much exactly had her father told her? ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said, turning to walk away, though I didn’t know where.
Within a matter of heartbeats she had fallen into step beside me, hitching up the hem of her dress to stop it trailing in the dirt. ‘You can’t blame yourself for his death.’
‘Then whom should I blame?’ I asked as I rounded on her. Though slight of frame, she was fairly tall for a woman, only a head shorter than I, and we stood almost eye to eye as she held my stare. Certainly she was determined; in that respect she seemed much like her father.
‘It wasn’t just your lord whom you lost at Dunholm, was it?’ she asked after a while. ‘There was someone else. Someone dear to you.’
A picture of Oswynn rose to my mind, her hair falling to her round breasts, and I saw myself holding her, just as I had held her before I left her that night. The night that she had died. But how could Beatrice know, and why did she torment me with such questions?
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ she said quietly as she looked down.
‘No,’ I said, glaring at her. ‘You shouldn’t.’ I had no wish to talk about Dunholm, or about Lord Robert, or Oswynn, especially not to someone like her, who knew nothing about them.
‘I’m sorry. For what happened, I mean.’
‘I don’t need your pity.’ I made for the well that stood beside the forge, hoping that she would grow tired of hounding me. My throat was parched from the fight and I needed something to cool it. I found the bucket still half full, and I rolled up my sleeves and splashed some of the brown water into my face, gasping at how cold it was, sweet yet at the same time earthy. It trickled over my chin and neck, down the front of my tunic, like icy fingers playing across my chest.
‘My father thinks highly of you,’ Beatrice said from behind me.
I let out a sigh and turned, raising a hand to shield against the sun which was in my eyes. ‘Why do you persist in following me, my lady?’
Her face was in shadow and I could not read her expression. ‘Because you intrigue me, Tancred a Dinant.’
My face was still dripping and I wiped my sleeve across it. I felt stubble upon my chin and realised I had not shaved in the last few days. Unshaven, sweating, my hair unkempt, my arms covered with scars and bruises; I wondered what I must look like to someone like her, the daughter of one of the most powerful men in England. What could possibly intrigue her about me?