Ely.’ Romain started with surprise. Caught up with his tale, he had all but forgotten her presence, and he was astounded that an ignorant village girl would speak with such authority of matters surely so far removed from her sphere.
‘Yes, like Hereward,’ he agreed, turning to beam at her. He had become so accustomed to the shy blush that flooded her face as she diffidently returned his smile that it was remarkable now because of its absence. Instead the clear grey-green eyes stared levelly back at him and he thought he saw the corner of her wide mouth turn down in a swift wry quirk.
Again he was struck by the faintly alarming thought that he did not really know her very well . . .
But there was no time for that now. ‘So, my grandfather was given the manor of Drakelow, everything and everyone in it,’ he said, taking up his tale. He sensed Sibert’s sudden tension, as if he were about to speak, but, not wanting to be interrupted again, he hurried on. ‘Fulk had brought with him to his new home his wife, my grandmother Mathilde, who was like him of noble Norman blood, and their two sons, Baudouin and Athanase, who at the time of the Conquest were fifteen and fourteen. Baudouin, I am told, had pressed to be allowed to ride with his father into battle but the most that my grandfather permitted was that he might be a part of the reserve troops, and in the end he was never in any great danger. In due course the family settled in their new home and the younger brother, Athanase, wed the daughter of another Norman. Her name was Amarys and she was my mother.’ He paused, but it was purely for effect. ‘My birth was difficult and my mother did not recover from it. She died in 1071, a few months after I was born.’
He had half expected some sort of sympathetic acknowledgement from the girl; none came.
‘It was not the end of tragedy for my family,’ he went on. ‘The summer of 1076 brought sickness to the region. The symptoms of the illness were a high fever, a rash and a violent, destructive cough that frequently brought on a spitting-up of blood. It was thought that the malady must have come in with a sailor on one of the ships that docked at Dunwich, for few suffered from it beyond the immediate vicinity of the port. Once the patient coughed blood, he was as good as dead.’ Again he paused. Then he said softly, ‘I lost my father and both my grandparents in the space of a week.’
‘You did not fall sick?’ the girl asked, but he detected curiosity in her tone rather than pity. They say she is a healer, he reminded himself. Perhaps her interest is professional. Nevertheless, the absence of so much as a single compassionate word still seemed strange.
‘No, I did not,’ he replied easily, putting aside his misgivings. ‘My nursemaid was an old countrywoman and when the first of my family fell ill she shut me up in my chamber, burned rosemary and sandalwood and made me wear an amulet.’
‘And what about your uncle?’ she persisted.
‘He was away from home. Word was sent to his hosts and he was warned to keep away while the sickness ran its course.’ He waited but it appeared she had no more questions. ‘My uncle Baudouin adopted me and made me his heir,’ he went on. ‘He is not a naturally paternal man and he has never given me much affection, but he supported me, provided a luxurious home and saw to it that I was educated as he saw fit. It is more,’ he added, ‘than most people have.’
He heard the girl mutter something under her breath. Sibert was silent and he sat as still as if made of stone. No doubt it would not last; the tricky part of the story must now be spoken.
‘Even while the Conqueror lived,’ Romain said, ‘we were anxious about what would happen when he died.’
‘ We? ’ the girl said.
For a simple and ignorant villager, Romain thought, there was quite a lot of irony in the one short syllable.
‘I am sorry. By we I mean my own family and the wider community of
‘Yes, like Hereward,’ he agreed, turning to beam at her. He had become so accustomed to the shy blush that flooded her face as she diffidently returned his smile that it was remarkable now because of its absence. Instead the clear grey-green eyes stared levelly back at him and he thought he saw the corner of her wide mouth turn down in a swift wry quirk.
Again he was struck by the faintly alarming thought that he did not really know her very well . . .
But there was no time for that now. ‘So, my grandfather was given the manor of Drakelow, everything and everyone in it,’ he said, taking up his tale. He sensed Sibert’s sudden tension, as if he were about to speak, but, not wanting to be interrupted again, he hurried on. ‘Fulk had brought with him to his new home his wife, my grandmother Mathilde, who was like him of noble Norman blood, and their two sons, Baudouin and Athanase, who at the time of the Conquest were fifteen and fourteen. Baudouin, I am told, had pressed to be allowed to ride with his father into battle but the most that my grandfather permitted was that he might be a part of the reserve troops, and in the end he was never in any great danger. In due course the family settled in their new home and the younger brother, Athanase, wed the daughter of another Norman. Her name was Amarys and she was my mother.’ He paused, but it was purely for effect. ‘My birth was difficult and my mother did not recover from it. She died in 1071, a few months after I was born.’
He had half expected some sort of sympathetic acknowledgement from the girl; none came.
‘It was not the end of tragedy for my family,’ he went on. ‘The summer of 1076 brought sickness to the region. The symptoms of the illness were a high fever, a rash and a violent, destructive cough that frequently brought on a spitting-up of blood. It was thought that the malady must have come in with a sailor on one of the ships that docked at Dunwich, for few suffered from it beyond the immediate vicinity of the port. Once the patient coughed blood, he was as good as dead.’ Again he paused. Then he said softly, ‘I lost my father and both my grandparents in the space of a week.’
‘You did not fall sick?’ the girl asked, but he detected curiosity in her tone rather than pity. They say she is a healer, he reminded himself. Perhaps her interest is professional. Nevertheless, the absence of so much as a single compassionate word still seemed strange.
‘No, I did not,’ he replied easily, putting aside his misgivings. ‘My nursemaid was an old countrywoman and when the first of my family fell ill she shut me up in my chamber, burned rosemary and sandalwood and made me wear an amulet.’
‘And what about your uncle?’ she persisted.
‘He was away from home. Word was sent to his hosts and he was warned to keep away while the sickness ran its course.’ He waited but it appeared she had no more questions. ‘My uncle Baudouin adopted me and made me his heir,’ he went on. ‘He is not a naturally paternal man and he has never given me much affection, but he supported me, provided a luxurious home and saw to it that I was educated as he saw fit. It is more,’ he added, ‘than most people have.’
He heard the girl mutter something under her breath. Sibert was silent and he sat as still as if made of stone. No doubt it would not last; the tricky part of the story must now be spoken.
‘Even while the Conqueror lived,’ Romain said, ‘we were anxious about what would happen when he died.’
‘ We? ’ the girl said.
For a simple and ignorant villager, Romain thought, there was quite a lot of irony in the one short syllable.
‘I am sorry. By we I mean my own family and the wider community of
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