Warlord(67)

This was the Lady of Alle, I assumed, and the first thing I absorbed about her was that she was truly, incandescently beautiful; even approaching her forties, as she must have been, she stole the living breath from my lungs: raven hair peeking from under a neat white coif, deep green eyes, pale, almost translucent skin, a swelling bosom above the waist of a sixteen-year-old. From half a dozen yards away I caught a waft of her perfume: something floral yet creamy – she even smelled utterly delicious. I found my anger at her boorish husband washing away as I drank her in, like a thirsty man downing a full jug drawn from an icy well. She kissed me on the cheek, a cool, brief touch of her lips that made the hair on my arms stand up, and said: ‘Good day, nephew, I am Adèle – what a pleasure it is to finally meet you.’

And I found myself seated at the table, with the Seigneur and Roland and this heavenly creature in human form, while the servant poured wine for us all.

The rain rattled against the closed shutters of the solar, and brought me back into the world. When I had taken a sip of the wine, I turned to Adèle and, trying to control my fluttering belly, I said: ‘Why did you call my father a fool?’

‘I’m afraid he was a fool. He could have come to us at Alle, and lived with us, after the … the incident. We could have found a way,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we could have found a way for all of us to live together. There was no need for him to run off to England like that—’

‘You are the fool,’ the Seigneur d’Alle interrupted his wife brutally – and I glared at my host, hating him for his rudeness to the lady. The Seigneur completely ignored my look and continued: ‘After what had passed, there was no earthly way that I would have allowed Henri within a mile of the castle. And you know why!’

What sort of brother was he, this Thibault, this Seigneur d’Alle, to condemn a member of his own family for a trifling misdemeanour – without even ascertaining whether the accusation were true or not?

I got to my feet, and put my hand on my hilt. ‘I do not believe my father was a thief,’ I said. ‘By my sword, I say that he was innocent and wrongly blamed for this crime. And I have vowed that I will find the real culprit, and I will fight any man who says that Henri d’Alle was a thief – any man!’ And I looked at Roland for a moment, and then locked my gaze with the Seigneur. He stared back at me, his blue eyes unwavering – but I saw a mocking smile on his mouth. He said: ‘You would fight for his honour, would you?’ Then he said ‘Hmm-mm …’ a two-toned nasal grunt through closed lips but no more.

‘Come, Thomas, I can see that we are wasting our time here. These … people … do not wish to help us clear my father’s name and we cannot force them to. Let us go.’

We were halfway to the door when Adèle caught up with us. ‘Do not leave in anger,’ she said. ‘The Seigneur is always out of sorts on days like this.’

‘Days when his relatives come to call?’

‘No, only when it rains. He cannot go out; his old wounds plague him so in this weather, and he says he feels like a caged bear. He certainly has the temper of one. Please, I beg you, call again some other day. I would like … I would very much like to know Henri’s son.’ And her smile was so beautiful that I felt my heart melt. ‘Promise me that you will visit us soon,’ she repeated.

I nodded and mumbled something, and she warmed me again with her look. ‘Roland here will show you out.’ I saw that her son was standing, unnoticed, at her shoulder. ‘And you must not forget your promise to come again.’

Roland escorted us to the front door, opened it and stared doubtfully out at the rain, which was sheeting down. The Rue St-Denis was flowing with water, a raging black torrent in the centre of the broad road washing the filth of the city down towards the Seine.

‘Are you sure that you would not prefer to wait a little while before departing?’ he said.

For a moment I hesitated, imagining how pleasant it would be to rest in a cosy parlour by a glowing brazier with a cup of warmed wine, but then I thought of having to endure the company of the Seigneur, and I steeled myself and bid my host goodbye. Just as Thomas and I were about to step out into the downpour, I turned to Roland and said: ‘Forgive me for asking, sir, but how did you get that mark?’



‘This?’ he said, pointing to the raw oozing patch that covered half of the left-hand side of his face and a portion of his neck. ‘I got this in battle; I got this at the Castle of Verneuil in Normandy. It was made by the touch of burning oil dropped from above – this, Sir Alan, was your work, I believe.’ And he smiled at me, crookedly, painfully, with the unwounded half of his handsome face. I saw young Thomas’s cheeks go pale, and his eyes widen. But I could find nothing to say to an enemy in peacetime, a man who three months ago had been trying to kill me; so I merely shrugged and stepped out of the door.