Warlord(108)

It was wonderful to be back at Westbury, and for a few days the joy at home-coming managed to lift the black gloom that had enveloped me since my encounter with the Master six months ago. I had so much to tell Goody and Tuck and Marie-Anne, that although we sat down to eat dinner at noon, we did not rise from the table till full dark.

The next day, after a sleepless night, I found myself inexplicably restless, prowling around the manor on foot and a-horse, like a dog sniffing the air, seeing what had changed and what had not. Since I had taken my wound, I had been beset with a strange malaise of the soul: I was constantly in a state of wariness, as if danger were just around the corner. It meant that I could not sleep, or if I did manage to drift off momentarily, I awoke with my heart pounding and drenched with sweat. Images of Sir Eustace striking me with his lance-dagger often flashed into my mind; and of the Master’s lean, pockmarked face, his commanding blue eyes. On waking, I was nervous, irritable, jumpy – but at the same time detached from my feelings. I had expected, now that I was back at Westbury, to be able to rest easily for a few months. But, to my deep frustration, I found I could not.



I have noticed that after battle or combat I have often felt a similar sensation – the sleeplessness, in particular, and the awful, blood-tinged dreams – but previously these feelings had gradually faded over several weeks, and I had regained my normal buoyant mood. Not this time. I was haunted by my experiences in France, by the deaths of Hanno and Owain, and by my own near escape from the yawning grave. Back at Westbury, I began to drink a little more each night, in an attempt to help me sleep, just another cup or two to begin with, and then whole flagons of good red wine – and another full one set by my bed, too.

It was to no avail.

It is true that after drinking deeply of the good wine that Baldwin purchased from the Aquitanian merchants, I would sometimes fall into a short sleep, but I would almost always awake past midnight, mouth dry as old leather, head beating and with a sour belly – unable to sleep again until dawn found me exhausted, sweaty and irritable.

I behaved badly in those months at Westbury, often snapping angrily at Tuck, Marie-Anne, Thomas, or even at my beloved Goody. I found myself bristling with rage and snarling at the slightest thing: a dropped cup or a door left open, a dog barking in the night. And I drank more and more wine to try to calm my nerves. Looking back on that time it is a wonder that my friends bore my company at all: I would not have been surprised if they had all decamped for Robin’s castle of Kirkton in Yorkshire and closed the gates in my face. When we all meet again in Heaven, as I am sure we will, I shall apologize to them and try to make amends. I could not explain it then: I did not understand it myself. I had faced danger and death many times before that episode in Paris. I was young, just turned twenty years, and my chest had healed to a thick pink scar – my wind was not good but it was slowly improving. But I could not shake the demons of memory that haunted my days and particularly my nights. And, although I knew I was playing the boor, I could not fathom why. I still do not fully understand it.

But if my rude and angry behaviour were not enough, there were other dark forces at work to sour the air at Westbury that spring and summer. On the third or fourth day after my arrival, Tuck took me aside and explained why he and Marie-Anne had decided to move in with Goody and abandon Kirkton to Robin’s army of servants.

‘It is Nur, I am afraid,’ Tuck told me as we strolled through the long apple orchard, admiring the delicate blossoms that adorned the trees. ‘She has taken up residence in the old, deep woods over towards Alfreton, and she appears to be gathering followers to her; a sad crew made up of the mad and infirm, the dispossessed and rejected – all women, young and old.’

‘Has she bothered Goody in any way?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid Nur has been making something of a nuisance of herself in these parts recently. She sometimes visits Westbury by night, usually at full moon, and leaves dead, mutilated animals in strange contorted attitudes – baby shrews, rats, foxes, even cats, hanged or crucified – and blood-daubed messages outside the walls. The villagers are all terrified of her and whisper that she is a witch and servant of Satan – and I am certain that, while she is surely mortal, it truly is the Devil who drives her wicked actions!’

‘Has she hurt Goody?’ I repeated, a little shortly.

‘No-ooo, she has not,’ said Tuck slowly, his red face wrinkling with thought. ‘Goody says she is not frightened by that sort of nonsense – and has threatened to give Nur another thrashing if she ever encounters her again. But it must be wearing on her soul – having an enemy so close, and someone so filled with malice. Goody would not be human if she did not find that unsettling.’