‘How long will it take you to deliver your message?’ Wace asked.
‘Not long. I’d hope that we can be on our way the following morning.’
A roar erupted from across the room and I turned abruptly as a group of Englishmen slammed their cups down upon the table in front of them. One of them, a heavy-set man about the same age as myself, began to splutter, droplets spraying from his mouth, until a friend slapped him on the back. Red-faced and blinking as if in surprise, he wiped a sleeve over his dark moustache before joining the rest in their laughter. After a moment he noticed me watching and I returned to my wine.
‘I need a piss,’ Eudo announced to no one in particular. He stood up, resting a hand on the table to steady himself, and made, half stumbling, for the door. I didn’t think he had drunk so much, but when I went to pour myself a fresh cup, I found the pitcher all but empty, with only the dregs left.
‘How many cups has he had?’ I asked.
Radulf pointed to the pitcher. ‘Has he finished it?’
‘We’ll have to get another,’ Philippe said as he looked about for the innkeeper.
‘Maybe if we wait for him to return, he’ll pay for it,’ Godefroi added, grinning slyly.
I glanced at Wace, but he only shrugged. ‘I should make sure he’s all right,’ I said, standing and wrapping my cloak around me. It was still damp, despite having been hanging beside the fire, but it was better than nothing.
The chill of the air struck me as I opened the door. It was still raining, though more lightly than before. I raised my hood over my head, gritted my teeth and ventured out. The ground was slick with mud, and I took care where I trod. Water dripped from the thatch; all about large puddles gleamed in the light from the doorway.
I found Eudo by the stables around the side of the alehouse. He had one arm extended in front of him, propping himself against the wall; even above the sound of the rain I could make out the steady trickle of water on to the sodden ground.
‘Eudo,’ I said.
He kept his back to me. ‘What do you want?’
I shivered as the wind gusted again, its icy fingers grasping at my skin even through my cloak. ‘I want to talk.’
He made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and I saw him fiddling with the laces on his braies before at last he turned. His face lay in shadow; there was no moon and the only light came from inside the alehouse.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he slurred as he began to trudge unsteadily through the mud towards me.
‘How much have you drunk?’ I asked.
‘What does it matter to you?’ He wasn’t wearing his cloak, I noticed. He stumbled forward, his dark hair damp and matted against his head, trying to make his way around me, but I stood in his path. ‘Let me past.’ His breath stank of wine.
‘You’ve had enough,’ I said.
‘I’ll do what I want,’ he said with a snort. ‘You’re not my keeper.’
‘You’ve been like this ever since Lundene,’ I said, watching him carefully. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You pretend to be interested but I know you don’t care.’
I felt myself tense. Whatever it was I had done, it had clearly upset him far more than I had thought. ‘That’s not true,’ I said.
‘I know you – don’t think that I don’t. I’ve known you longer than anyone. When you disappear in the middle of the night like you did in Lundene, I know there’s something not right. I know when there are things you’re not telling us.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ I asked, trying to keep the anger from my voice. Of course he was right; I hadn’t told any of them the whole story about that night. But how could he have guessed that?
He shook his head, his mouth set in disgust. ‘You’ve changed. Since Dunholm you’ve kept more and more to yourself. You talk to the priest but never tell us anything. You never tell me anything.’ He pointed at his chest and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I’ve been your friend for all these years. After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me enough—’
‘Do you think I’ve found it easy since Dunholm?’ I burst out.
He glared at me. ‘You think it’s been any easier for me or for Wace? We were all there, all of us. Not just you.’
I’d opened my mouth when I stopped. So caught up had I been in my own grief that I had not understood how much Lord Robert’s death had affected him too.
‘What is it that you want?’ I said, more quietly. I could hear voices and the sound of footfalls upon the mud by the front of the alehouse, and I was wary of attracting too much attention.