Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

He heard Mark say, “Camberley’s lands extend nearly to the border, hence our continual bouts with the Scots. At one time, Jerval’s father thought to extend the de Vernon lands to the east, and considered a marriage alliance with Chester. Luckily, Lord Richard arrived just in time and turned Lord Hugh’s eyes toward the lands in the south.”

As they approached the castle, Chandra slowed until she once again rode beside her husband. She heard welcoming shouts from the men lining the outer walls.

“They cannot wait to meet you,” Jerval said. “Look at the north tower. See that huge man hanging over the wall above the drawbridge? That is Malton, our master-at-arms. The man is the size of a bull and so strong that a hug from him could break your ribs.”

The wide drawbridge flattened over a ditch bulging with dirty water, and the iron portcullis ground upward.

“Look, she is dressed like a lad.”

“Aye, but there is no lad beneath those trousers.”

“Jerval looks besotted with her.”

And on it went.

The outer courtyard was not much different from Croyland’s, Chandra saw, bustling with animals and people, yells, laughter, the constant hum of conversation, and muddy from the last rainfall. But there wasn’t a rooster who strutted about here the way King Henry di

d at Croyland.

Jerval was yelling good-natured insults at his men, keeping a tight rein on his horse to avoid hitting the children that ran in and out of his path, greeting them by name. Like Croyland, Camberley was a huge village, enclosed within stone walls six feet thick.

The inner bailey, closed in by lower walls that were, Chandra thought, thicker even than the outer walls, made her blink in surprise. All was orderly and clean. The ground was paved with cobblestones that slanted downward to allow the rain to run easily into the outer courtyard. Low-roofed sheds were clustered about the great keep, and she sniffed the air, suddenly hungry at the smell of fresh-baked bread.

Jerval dismounted and she started to jump down from Wicket’s back when something stilled her. She waited for Jerval to lift her down, which he did.

She heard all the people cheering.

“That was well done of you,” he said. He called out names, so many names, she knew it would take her a very long time to remember all of them. So many new people to get to know, so many children, and the animals, more running free within the walls here than at Croyland.

She heard Ranulfe tell the men who stood around Wicket, “Aye, it is milady’s destrier.”

“Hard to believe,” said another man, “although she handled him easily enough when they rode in.”

Bayon said, “Our lady is like none you’ve ever known, Blanc.”

“Look at that glorious hair—I’ll wager Julianna isn’t too pleased. She had hoped for an ugly heiress.”

She followed Jerval up the winding staircase, into the Great Hall, and drew to a halt, looking about. There were no rushes on the stone floor, and there was a sweet smell in the air, as if everything had been scrubbed with perfumed soap. The stone walls were covered with thick tapestries, and the wooden tables and chairs gleamed with wax. There were at least a dozen servants, all of them looking very industrious until they saw Jerval. There were excited murmurs, and he smiled and called them together to meet Chandra.

She greeted them pleasantly, trying to memorize all the curious faces, for these were the indoor servants, and she would be seeing them every day.

After Jerval had sent them all back to work, he said, “Camberley servants respond quite well without being cuffed about. You can be certain that my mother’s commanding voice keeps them in line.”

“It smells so clean,” Chandra said, sniffing the air. “There are no dogs about.”

“No, but you’ll soon accustom yourself to it. They are kept outside. I will introduce Mary to Alma, my old nursemaid and something of a seer, who will make her comfortable. There is a small room next to Julianna’s that she may have. Now let me show you to our bedchamber,” Jerval said.

She walked beside him up the thick, winding stone stairs to the upper floor. There seemed to be a different servant with each step.

Jerval’s bedchamber, she had imagined, would look like her father’s—nearly bare, its walls hung with weapons and its floor covered with thick reeds. She was dead wrong. His chamber had none of these things. The room faced south, through rows of narrow windows paned with small squares of glass, and the afternoon sunlight filled the room with reflected light. The walls were hung with colorful tapestries, and between them were tapers held in twisted silver mounts. The floor was strewn with thick, brightly colored Flemish carpets. The bed was set upon a dais, not as large as her father’s, but encased in beautifully embroidered covers that touched the floor. There was a high, carved wooden screen set in a corner, and behind it was a large wooden tub and wooden racks that held linen and towels. She could not imagine that the king’s chambers at Windsor were more magnificently furnished.

She stood still, her hands on her hips, and announced, “This is hardly a man’s room.”

He merely laughed at the heap of scorn in her voice. “I trust you are wrong,” he said. “This man is your husband, and he gives you pleasure every night. I believe my mother added the carpets and racks, since it will also be a lady’s room.”

“My bedchamber is nothing like this.”

“No, but you are a lady, and naturally, you will want to thank my mother for her thoughtfulness.”