Without another word I strode past her, towards the hall’s great doors and the warmth of the hearth-fire. And this time she did not follow me.
In all that time I saw almost nothing of Malet, nor heard any word from him. Since being made castellan he had moved with his servants into what had been Lord Richard’s chambers in the castle tower. Those times that I did see him, it was often from a distance across the training yard, and he was always engaged in some business with one lord or another. Most I did not know; perhaps they were lesser tenants of the king, or even men who owed their positions to Malet’s patronage directly.
There was one, however, whom I did recognise, for I had met him before: Gilbert de Gand, whose long face seemed to me twisted into a perpetual sneer. He was Flemish by birth, just as Lord Robert had been, but though the two were about the same age he had never risen as high in the king’s estimation. Indeed I couldn’t remember a time when the two had not been rivals. We had first met when I was around seventeen years old and riding for the first time in Lord Robert’s conroi. He had taken little notice of me then, though as I had grown in standing over the years, he came to recognise me as one of Robert’s closest knights, and to regard me with the same hostility that he otherwise reserved for the man himself.
This time, however, he did not see me, for which I was glad. I didn’t expect him to have anything pleasant to say about Robert, even now after his death, nor did I trust myself to hold my own tongue.
It was a full four days before I received word that Malet wanted to see me. He was at the castle as usual, and so the vicomte’s steward supplied me with a horse, a plodding mare with a grey coat and white patches around her hocks. Not the finest mount I had ever ridden, certainly, although more than adequate, and if slow she was at least docile.
The bailey was busy that morning. In the practice yard stood a row of wooden poles, each one the height of a man and each with a rotten cabbage set atop it, which men on horseback were taking turns to ride at, slicing with their swords, tearing the leaves to shreds. By the southern gate I saw that a quintain had been set up, with a wooden target to tilt at. It was an exercise that depended as much upon speed as on accuracy: strike the target too slowly and the sandbag on the other arm would whip around before the rider had passed the post, hitting him in the back and knocking him straight from the saddle. Many were the times that I had made that mistake when I was younger.
Smoke drifted down from one of the many workshops that ringed the yard, obscuring the sun. The smell mingled with that of ox-dung and piss from the tanner’s place close by. I was just leaving the mare at the stables when I spotted ?lfwold outside the castle’s chapel: a squat building huddling in the shadow of the palisade, with only a cross fixed atop the gable to mark it out from the rest. He was standing near to the door, berating one of the servant-boys, though I could not tell what it was that he had done wrong.
He looked up as I came near, at the same time waving the boy away. ‘Tancred,’ he said, and he smiled once more. ‘Forgive me. It’s good to see you.’
‘What was that about?’ I asked, as the boy scurried away.
‘It’s not important,’ he said, the redness in his face already subsiding. ‘You’ve heard that Lord Guillaume is expecting you?’
‘I’ve heard. Where can I find him?’
‘He’s been doing business in the tower this morning. I’ll take you to him.’
He led me across the yard, past the tents of the men who garrisoned the castle, past their smoking fires and the cooking-pots hung over them. In one a stew was bubbling that smelt strongly of fish, and old fish at that. I wrinkled my nose as we hurried past. There was a gate between the bailey and the mound, but the men there clearly recognised the Englishman, for they did not stop us.
From there a bridge took us across the ditch, and then only the mound stood before us, with a series of steps leading up to its summit, which was ringed with high wooden stakes. The tower itself stood in the middle, rising taller than anything else around, casting its shadow over the city.
‘How is your leg faring?’ the chaplain asked, glancing over his shoulder as we began the climb.
‘Better every day,’ I said. I was still carrying a slight limp, despite the many hours I had spent in training. But in all it had much improved since I had first climbed from my bed a week before. ‘There’s a little pain still, but not much.’
?lfwold nodded. ‘Let me know if you are in need of anything that might ease it. My own knowledge of herbs is limited, but some of the brothers at the monastery may be able to help.’