Warlord(112)
‘Is there any news of Brother Michel?’ I asked. I seldom thought of the Master in the daytime, but he was a regular attendant to my half-dreams in the long hours of night, standing over my bound body and shouting curses.
‘None,’ said Robin, with a grimace. ‘I make enquiries, occasionally, but he seems to have completely disappeared. No one has seen hide nor hair of him, anywhere. Even in the far south, apparently.’
He took a frugal sip of his wine, and looked at me out of the side of his eyes. ‘Your old friend Mercadier is in high royal favour, though.’ An image of that scarred and brutal figure flashed into my mind; the phantom mercenary seemed to be sneering at my weakness. ‘He’s flourishing, in fact, quite the hero of the moment. He and his men have just taken the castle of Issoudun in Berry for the King – and by the way Richard talks about him, you’d think that scar-faced brute was the risen Christ.’
I shrugged. I did not care for Mercadier, but while I was fairly certain that he had killed Brother Dominic, I could not raise the proper amount of outrage in my heart that this crime warranted. I shrugged again.
‘And Prince John is back in favour, too,’ Robin continued. ‘Richard has restored to him the counties of Mortain and Gloucester, and there is talk of making him Richard’s heir. So far, he seems to be behaving himself. But then, after last time, Richard was not so foolish as to grant him possession of any actual castles.’ Robin chuckled. ‘But he can now strut about calling himself the Count of Mortain and the Earl of Gloucester. To be fair, he does seem to have learned his lesson, and there has been no hint yet of disloyalty. But my point is, Alan, we need you in France – our enemies are prospering and growing more powerful. So as soon as you feel able, come south and join us, I beg you.’
And with that he went to bed. I did not. I sat up late, burning a precious candle and drinking the rest of the wine.
Chapter Twenty-one
Robin left the next day, and with him went his men-at-arms, Marie-Anne, the two children and Father Tuck, her personal chaplain. I found myself feeling strangely resentful at their departure, and barely managed a civil farewell at the gate. Westbury seemed deserted without them, the courtyard quiet, the hall echoing and empty. Goody wept when her friends left and for some unfathomable reason I felt slightly awkward to be alone with my betrothed.
After Robin’s departure, I descended into a great, dark melancholy, which did not recede for many long months. My spirits had been temporarily lifted by the presence of hard fighting men and true friends, but when they had gone, I felt their absence like a hole in my soul. I also felt the shame of a coward, a warrior who has heard the trumpet call and refuses it, a man who has, in effect, deserted his comrades in the hour of battle.
Autumn came, and the ripe apples and pears from the orchard were gathered in, the hedgerows delivered up their purple bounty, and Goody made fools and puddings and crocks of preserves; and in November we slaughtered the pigs and salted the meat for the winter and made long loops of sausages and huge earthenware pots filled with brawn. But none of these normally joyous occasions could bring my soul back from the depths of despair. How Goody put up with me, I do not know: but she did – for a while.
She and Thomas and Baldwin worked ceaselessly to keep Westbury running smoothly, and myself diverted from my black moods. But sometimes I had had enough of their healthy company and their cheerfulness, even that of my lovely Goody – and I would retire into my chamber with my vielle and bar the door, saying that I wished to compose something special, only emerging after several days, unshaven, hungover, having come up with barely a line or so of bad poetry, to empty my piss-pot and seek more wine. In those dark months, I occasionally even wished that Sir Eustace had ended my life when he stabbed me with the lance-dagger; and one night in December I found myself sitting naked on the end of my bed, shivering with cold and holding my misericorde in both hands, the sharp point resting on the right-hand side, the heart side of my chest, opposite and level with the pink ridge of scar tissue on the left, summoning the courage for one hard final thrust. In the end, I was just too damned cold to kill myself, and merely buried myself under furs and blankets, weeping and swearing that I would do the fatal deed in the morning.
At dawn, after another sleepless night, I knew that I could not end myself. I was not yet twenty-one years old, and I told myself that I had to hold on, I had to hope that this Devil-sent soul-sickness would lift. I prayed to God, on my knees in that cold, foetid bedchamber, stinking of old wine, ancient sweat and farts, that one day I would regain my joy, and afterwards, after beseeching God to save me from my own despair, I did feel a little better.