The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  Ingelric had said they called him ‘the Clever Breton’ and gave Alfric a glowing description of him, but young knights with their way to make were apt to think their own lord above all others and Alfric was still unsure what to expect.

  He stood now watching the sun come up, a queasy feeling in his stomach, and he wished his black gown was new and not so stained with the evidence of past meals. He was not, he was sure, the sort of priest Brien FitzCount would want, and he trembled at the thought of incurring so great a man’s anger. Even worse – supposing the baron should want to converse in Latin, talk of the early Fathers, discuss the Pelagian heresy or some such subject that was no more than a word to Alfric? He straightened himself, shooed a prancing hen from his doorway, and went across to the little church to say his office. A Saxon church had stood here long ago in the days of Wigod of Wallingford, cup-bearer to King Edward called the Confessor, but Miles Crispin had rebuilt it of stone with a small half-moon apse and a splay window to let in the morning sun. It had become very dear and familiar to Alfric and he knelt to ask that he might be allowed to stay here. But he had hardly said his prayer and crossed himself when he heard the sound of hooves. Clearly Brien FitzCount did not waste time in bed.

  The riders, some twenty men of the household of Wallingford castle, were coming down the rough flint track now and as they dismounted on the open green before the church Alfric saw his foster-brother Ingelric and gave him a brief smile, but his eyes were fixed on the obvious leader of them all. He saw a man whose long legs, although he sat in the saddle, betrayed his height, who was dressed in a brown tunic richly embroidered with gold thread and showing on his wrists beneath the white sleeves of his undergarment two thick gold bracelets. The baron’s head was bare, his hair a strange colour, not red as his father’s had been, but bronze – the colour, Alfric thought, of the September beech leaves in the woods above Swyncombe. He saw a long intelligent face and alert grey eyes under strongly marked brows, a thoughtful face and that of a man not given to impulsive action, who weighed both words and deeds before committing himself to either; a slender man of disciplined body, eschewing excessive indulgence.

  All this Alfric saw for he was better at judging men than at scholarly pursuits, but he was not prepared for the sudden and pleasing smile that crossed the baron’s face as he saw him standing in the church doorway.

  ‘Master Alfric, greetings. I hear that you find this place to your liking?’

  Now how did he hear that, Alfric wondered? He bowed, feeling very inadequate before this striking man who was swinging himself down from the saddle. ‘I do, my lord, and I am grateful for your patronage. If you would condescend to enter my poor house – ’

  ‘Is it not adequate?’

  Alfric looked up, startled, to find his lord’s sharp eyes fixed penetratingly on him. He had not wanted his words to be taken so literally, but he was to discover one did not dissemble nor use conventional words idly to the lord Brien. ‘Indeed, my lord, lam well served,’ he said stumblingly. ‘Pray forgive me. If you would enter – a cup of wine?’ He stopped abruptly at a glance from Ingelric, for their lord, with a brief nod, had entered first the church. There Alfric saw him genuflect and sign himself and then look swiftly round the small stone building before emerging again to cross the patch of grass and bending his head enter the door of the priest’s house. This consisted of a single room which contained a bed, a table and stool, and a large chest. A few books lay on a shelf, the dust on them betraying the fact that they were seldom opened, a fact not lost on Brien FitzCount whose observant glance took in the whole as he drew up a stool and sat down by the table.

  ‘Now, Master Alfric, the accounting – ’

  The priest, uncertain what to do first, went hastily to a cupboard and fetched a flagon and a small cup which he set on the table before opening the money chest. Again to his surprise Brien smiled, and the smile relieved the natural austerity of his face.

  ‘You are very hospitable, Alfric. I thank you.’

  And he poured wine and drank it slowly, savouring it as if it had been served at the King’s table so that Alfric flushed with gratification. After the rough manners of many barons, the arrogance with which they treated all men beneath them and from which Alfric had suffered in the past, this politeness was unexpected. ‘You are welcome, my lord,’ he said awkwardly and lifted the money bags out of the iron box for his lord’s clerk to count the contents. When it was done the latter pushed two coins back across the table. ‘You have two pence too much here, Master Alfric.’

  This was even more surprising and Alfric took the coins thankfully – an honest clerk who did not grab all he could for himself or for his master was a rarity.

  ‘The dues will be sent to Bec,’ Brien FitzCount said, ‘and the Abbot there, for his part, sends you this.’ He held out a small box of carved and painted wood, the lid showing a likeness of Christ rising from the tomb on Easter morning, the picture crude but with life in the curves of the central figure, and Alfric took it carefully, turning it to admire the workmanship.

  ‘It contains a finger bone of St. Evroul,’ Brien said. ‘It is a relic of great value and the Abbot wished you to house it here that the ties between Swyncombe and Bec might remain strong.’

  The little priest’s face was pink with pleasure. ‘My lord, it is a great honour. Pray thank the Abbot – I have no words – ’

  Brien rose. ‘I can see that you discharge your office with care. If you are ever in any need do not hesitate to send me word.’

  Alfric bowed his thanks and held open the door. Pausing on the threshold, the lord of Wallingford turned back suddenly and asked, ‘The bondsman who tills the strip of land by the mill – did he die of the sweating sickness?’

  Still more startled, Alfric answered, ‘Aye, lord. We buried him on the vigil of the Ascension.’

  Brien took a coin from the leather purse hanging at his belt. ‘Give his wife this and tell her to find another husband to care for her and her children. She need not seek me out for permission, I give it now.’

  ‘One of the miller’s sons is already – ’ Alfric began and then came to a halt.

  Brien’s smile widened. ‘Then you’d best say the words over them as soon as possible.’ He ducked his head and went out, leaving the priest standing there watching him as one of his men-at-arms handed him his reins. He rode a bay gelding and sat him well, and Alfric stared admiringly at him. This was no savage from the wild Breton coast, but a man he would have been glad to serve in any capacity.

  His foster brother, a large-limbed young man with fair skin and colouring that betrayed his Saxon ancestry came across to him as the riders began to move out. ‘You are surprised he should know of a bondsman’s trouble? When you’ve been in his service as long as I have you will find he knows everything that happens on his land.’

  ‘But,’ Alfric said uncertainly, ‘he has so many hides, here and in Lincolnshire and in Wales too, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Aye, and he could tell you of every man who lives on them, so don’t ever think,’ Ingelric gave him a broad grin, ‘that you can be indiscreet and serve Brien FitzCount as well.’

  Alfric smiled, appreciating the joke. ‘You know me too well for that. I’ve not the courage for large indiscretions and too much pride for the mean ones.’ He looked down at the reliquary from the great abbey at Bec, so famous and yet prepared to honour him, and then glanced sharply at Ingelric. ‘Tell me, we have heard wild rumours – they say the Empress will come, that she will fight for her father’s throne. Is it true?’

  Ingelric shrugged, his large blue eyes veiled. ‘How should I know the mind of royalty?’

  ‘But if she does?’

  Ingelric stared after the disappearing figure of their master. ‘He has said nothing and I cannot speculate. I must go, Alfric.’ He gathered up the reins and mounted. ‘God keep you, brother.’ He rode away after the retinue leaving Alfric standing alone in his solitary doorway. He did not really care about the Empress, but
he was concerned with what concerned the lord of Wallingford, and he crossed the green and entered his little church to pray that nothing might disturb the peace of this pleasant place.

  Riding back to Wallingford through green lanes, past fields rich with summer corn and oats, stopping now and again to collect tithes and dues, Brien was thinking of the last few days, of the round of manors and farms, of the bondmen and free, the priests and knights with whom he had talked, of the houses of religion under his protection, of all who owed him service in taxes or goods according to their state and means, of the harvest that would come in from this fruitful land of his. He cared for it, cared for the people who lived on it, and a frown settled on his face.

  Was he about to put all this in hazard?

  There was little doubt in his mind what he should do when the time came. She could have his right arm if she wanted it. Yet he had grown used to peace. He had done some good here, his lands prospered, his extensive properties were cared for, he was a benefactor to the abbey at Abingdon, even the meanest serf on his lands had the necessities of life and old King Henry’s peace still lingered. But it was threatened and he could not blind himself to the fact that men were taking sides, that there were undercurrents of unrest. Most men lived for strife, when greed and jealousy demanded that they should have more than their neighbours, that they should take what belonged to their neighbours in order to better themselves, but that was not the way he would have chosen and he found himself thinking of old King William, called first the Bastard and then the Conqueror. Here William had received the submission of Wigod, the lord of Wallingford, in the winter of 1066, and here he had begun the work of wielding into one people the Normans and the English. This work Brien’s own benefactor King Henry had continued and had meant that it should pass through his line, to Maud and then to the boy Henry – no doubt of that – and given the opportunity Brien knew there could be only one choice open to him.

  The sun was dipping behind the trees as he and his small escort approached the postern gate in the great curtain wall of the castle, the guard evidently on watch for him for the gate swung open at once.

  As he rode beneath the archway Brien saw a figure hurrying down towards him and recognised it for Roger Foliot, the newest of his young men training for knighthood, who had been recommended to him by an elder cousin, Gilbert Foliot, Abbot of Gloucester.

  ‘Well?’ he queried, lines of humour creasing his face, ‘I can see you have some piece of news. Has Earl Simon sent his steward to complain again of my cattle grazing his land? I swear I will build a stone wall between his boundary and mine.’

  Roger shook his head. He was short and strongly built with a head of thick dark hair. ‘No, my lord, not this time. The Earl of Richmond is come and begs hospitality until you ride to Oxford.’

  Surprise replaced the smile on Brien’s face and dismounting he strode off towards the hall, his dogs snapping at his heels. ‘Where is the Earl?’

  ‘When he heard your lady was from home he made free with your bedchamber, and ordered the housing of his men as if – ’ Roger stopped abruptly, aware that such comments did not come well from him.

  ‘As if it were his castle,’ Brien finished sardonically. ‘He is my brother, boy.’

  ‘Your brother, lord?’ Roger gave him a swift confused glance. ‘I did not know.’

  ‘My half-brother,’ Brien laid emphasis on the qualifying word. ‘And no one enlightened you? What has happened to the castle gossips?’

  Roger gave him a quick grin, appreciating this sally. ‘Messire de Beauprez sent me out to find you. He said nothing and I did not stay to – ’

  ‘No, he at least is no gossip,’ Brien agreed. ‘It is as well to have a steward who keeps a still tongue and his underlings to heel.’

  Roger said nothing, but his healthy colour deepened a little. He had not been here long enough to know how to take his lord’s quick tongue, the lightning shafts of humour that nevertheless left him sure that the castellan of Wallingford would tolerate no insubordination.

  Padding along beside him now rather in the manner of the hunting dogs, Roger thought himself fortunate to be in the service of Brien FitzCount rather than that of his half-brother, the Earl of Richmond, whose noisy, arrogant arrival had set the whole castle by the ears.

  The bailey was filled with the Earl’s retinue, soldiers standing about talking with Brien’s men, or stowing their gear where they could find quarters, grooms leading off horses, servants hurrying about preparing more food for this sudden influx of empty stomachs. There was a rich smell of roasting from the kitchen, a large building adjacent to the high hall, and smoke was billowing out of the hole in the roof.

  Brien crossed the courtyard, the smell of beef making him aware how hungry he was himself and, acknowledging the greetings of one or two of Alain’s followers whom he knew, went into his hall. Here his own household were assembling for supper, his steward, Amauri de Beauprez, busily superintending the laying of his own table. Several of the Earl’s knights were there and they turned to greet the castellan deferentially but of the Earl himself there was no sign and Brien, dismissing Roger with a nod, went up the narrow stair to his own chamber above the hall.

  He found his half-brother in the act of washing away the dust of travel while his own page, Thurstin, held out a towel for him. The Earl shook the water from his face and rubbed at his cheeks and beard. His hair was black and thick and wet where he had splashed it.

  ‘Well, brother,’ he said as Brien entered and grinned, showing sharp, yellowish teeth. ‘I’ve had a damned hot ride and stand in need of some ale.’

  Brien glanced at Thurstin who went silently from the room.

  ‘You are welcome,’ he said formally.

  ‘I thought you’d share your bed as you are not already gone to the court. We can ride together.’ Alain of Richmond threw the towel on to a small table, covering several books one of which lay open to reveal finely painted illuminated lettering. Like his brother he was tall and lean with a long aquiline nose, but there the resemblance ended for his eyes were dark and hard as jet, and his expression supercilious; his reputation was for hot temper among his equals and indifference that could swiftly lead to cruelty to his inferiors. It was unlikely that he acknowledged any superior other than the King, and doubtful if that was more than on the surface.

  He glanced now round the chamber and gave a sudden laugh. ‘By God, this room is more like some prior’s cell, except for this – ’ and he ran his hand down the rich hangings of heavy sendal that hung from the poles about the bed with its fur skins and embroidered pillows.

  Brien picked up the towel. ‘Damp spoils a manuscript,’ he said non-committally and folding it laid it on a stool. ‘I cannot think you came to concern yourself with my domestic arrangements. As to sleeping here there is no need for that. We have two new built guest rooms and you are welcome to one.’

  Alain sat down on the bed, his legs sprawled, his hose muddied from the long days of travel, and regarded his half-brother. ‘You are prickly today. I hear your lady is away – is that what has made you sour?’

  Brien shrugged, a faint smile on his face. ‘I am neither prickly nor sour and Mata has gone to visit the Earl of Chester’s lady who is staying with the nuns at Godstow.’

  Alain’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ah, the lady Sibyl. Is it a coincidence that she is Earl Robert’s daughter or is your lady about your business, brother?’

  ‘I haven’t a notion of what you mean,’ Brien returned coolly. ‘As far as I am concerned she is about women’s business.’

  The Earl shook the dust from his heavy mantle. ‘By the Cross, our roads get worse and nobody mends them. You know very well what I mean. We are all curious as to what Earl Robert has in his mind, for it is certain he is planning something, and if his daughter is in his confidence who better to share it than your lady?’

  His voice even colder Brien said, ‘I do not send my wife upon such work. And you have not yet told me why you are come. You h
ave not been here for years.’

  ‘Why should I not come? I am on my way to Oxford. ’

  ‘Wallingford hardly lies on your road from York.’

  ‘But I have not come from York,’ the Earl answered smoothly. ‘I have been to Winchester to see the Bishop.’

  Brien glanced swiftly at his brother, his curiosity aroused. Since Alain’s lands in the north in no way had any connection with those of the King’s brother, Henry of Blois, it must be a matter of some importance that had sent Alain there at this particular moment.

  ‘Aye,’ Alain gave a sudden laugh. ‘And I found the Bishop still very much out of countenance. By Our Lady, that was a neat trick the King played on him last Christmas. Our poor Bishop was so sure of succeeding as Archbishop when old William of Corbeil died. Perhaps he knows now that Stephen means to be King indeed.’