Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“She will come about, Jerval.”

“It seems you are privy to all of it, Mark. You spoke to Mary?”

“Aye. She told me some of it. It is a strange and wonderful thing, but Mary would fight to the death for Chandra. She refuses to hear any criticism of her friend. All she told me really was that Chandra acquitted herself quite well, that she’d fought as well as any of us—I couldn’t deny it—and that I was just being an oaf and blindly following your lead, which wasn’t fair of me. She stuck her chin in the air as if to challenge me, and then said this was according to Bayon and he wouldn’t lie to her.”

“Bayon much admires her.”

“I don’t like that. Mary deserves better than he,” Mark said.

“No, I meant that Bayon admires Chandra.”

“He is young yet. Now, I saw Mary and Chandra speaking together last night and it seemed like a very serious conversation.”

“Mary is probably advising her how to behave with your mother.”

After a few moments, Jerval said, “Soon we will know if Sir John is in league with Alan Durwald. Even though I am certain that he is guilty, I still have difficulty believing the fool has the gall to betray us.”

“I agree with you. Oldham is not well fortified. We could take it in a week, if he tried to break his oath of fealty. Do we stop at Penrith?”

Jerval shook his head. “Nay, I wish to see what Sir John is about, then return to Camberley.”

Mark smiled. “Ah, back to the eye of the storm.”

“She’s held herself remarkably silent.”

“Do you know, Jerval, I believe she was truly frightened. The tales I have heard about Alan Durwald make my blood run cold. He held her captive for several hours.”

“If she was frightened, I was too angry to notice.”

They reached Oldham early that evening. It was a small keep that sat on a flat stretch of ground on the northeast perimeter of the de Vernon lands, its thick stone outer walls its only noteworthy defense. Jerval searched the walls for signs of resistance, almost disappointed when he saw none. He was itching for a good fight, as much as were his men. He called a halt and rode forward to the edge of the moat. Men lined the walls, but none said anything.

The drawbridge was lowered slowly, its winches groaning, and Jerval wondered if they had ever been oiled. He gave Malton orders to scout all the outbuildings for signs of the Scots once they were within, and their troop filed into the bailey. Sir John stood awaiting them, surrounded by his ill-kempt men and even filthier servants.

Jerval had not seen Sir John in over a year, and time, he saw, hadn’t improved him. Heavy-jowled, his face ravaged by too much ale, his belly fat from too much food and too little exercise, he was dressed richly in a long robe of red velvet. His fingers were beringed. He looked like royalty amongst beggars. Beside him stood a thin scrap of a woman, as ill kempt as the servants. It took Jerval a moment to recognize that she was Lady Faye, Sir John’s wife.

“Welcome, welcome, Sir Jerval,” Sir John said, rubbing his hands together as Jerval dismounted and strode toward him. “Come into the hall. Your esteemed father does well? Your mother?”

Jerval only nodded before turning to Lady Faye and saying, “I give you fair greeting, my lady.”

Sir John grunted, his eyes narrowing on his wife’s face as she whispered greetings to Jerval. “Are you stupid, Faye? Have wine brought for our guests.”

Lady Faye skittered away. Jerval said nothing, merely nodded to Malton, then turned to follow Sir John into the keep, Mark at his side.

He was used to Camberley, used to smells of food and wax and rosemary, and now Hawk, his father’s boarhound. A healthy smell. But here he both saw and smelled filth. The reeds strewn over the stone floor of the hall hadn’t been changed in a very long time. When his boots crunched over some bones, the remains of a long-ago supper, a rat scurried out, darting between his feet.

Sir John spread his hands in front of him, seeing the look of disgust on Jerval’s face. “Last winter was hard, my lord, and many of the sheep died. As for the serfs, they are lazy louts, and the crops not what I expected. My wife has not the wit or will to keep the hall as clean as I would wish.”

Jerval nodded toward Sir John, thinking that he did not appear to have suffered at all. “And the Scots? Have you lost stock to them?”

Sir John answered quickly, “Aye, my lord, the dirty mongrels. My men can never catch them, but they try, they always try.”

Sir John’s wife leaned over Jerval’s shoulder to pour wine into a tarnished silver goblet. She slipped on some refuse in the rushes and some of the wine splashed onto his surcoat.

“Clumsy bitch!” Before Jerval could assure the poor woman that no harm was done, Sir John had struck her and sent her sprawling.

CHAPTER 19

Sir John was breathing hard, his fist raised to strike again. “Women. They are such useless, whining creatures. And this skinny sheep cannot even give me a son.”