you’ve been gone. They are down to the bottom of the barrels in the granary. We never had the resupply that your friend Fitzwalter promised us. We’ll be eating rats and sparrows before long, and we’ll be grateful to have them.’
I remembered a great siege in Normandy that Robin and I had endured more than ten years ago, and shuddered. I had been worn down to skin and bones and towards the end of that affair we had subsisted on a watery concoction of old bones, spiders, beetles, moss, uncured leather, anything we could boil up for some scrap of nourishment.
‘So do you think we will starve to death first,’ I asked Robin, ‘or be slaughtered by the King’s mercenaries when the castle is no more than a heap of smoking rubble?’
Robin actually laughed. ‘That’s the spirit, Alan. Keep up these merry, thigh-slapping jests and we will never have to worry about becoming downhearted.’
I openedmy mouth to say something cutting – and then closed it. What was the point? We would fight; we would do our duty as men, as knights – I had no doubts about that – and then we would die. No doubts there either.
After dinner was done, I found myself standing beside Osbert Giffard, a bald, middle-aged knight I knew slightly, by the fireplace in the south-western half of the hall. He was staring into the flames with a gloomy expression on his long face, which was scarcely surprising; I doubt my own mien was a picture of joy. He grunted an offhand greeting, looked again at my face and appeared to recall something.
‘Am I right in thinking that you were at Château Gaillard, Sir Alan, during the great siege … oh, it must be eleven years ago?’
I admitted it.
‘So you know what we can expect here then.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I wish I did not. It will go hard for us.’
He nodded. ‘A cousin of mine was at Château Gaillard,’ he said. ‘He said it was very bad. Though he managed to survive it. He’s dead now, of course. Murdered by some brigands in the north, we were told.’
I said nothing for a while, but I found my hand was resting lightly on Fidelity’s hilt. I was almost certain he was referring to Sir Joscelyn Giffard, who had been with me at Château Gaillard. Tilda’s father. Shortly after the siege, I had killed him in a duel, man to man. But, if Sir Osbert did not know this, I was not about to tell him that I had slain one of his kinsmen. His remarks put Tilda into my mind. I wondered if she was still sitting under the willow by the stream at Westbury, forlorn, destitute.
I said, as casually as I could, ‘Sir Joscelyn had a pretty daughter, I recall. Do you know what became of her after her father died?’
He gave a snort of derision. ‘Oh yes, Matilda. A slut. Quite the little whore. She was betrothed to Henry, my eldest, but she set out toseduce my second son William when he was just fourteen. She can’t have been much older than my boy at the time. My wife Sarah caught them at it, going like a pair of stoats in one of the barns on the estate. Caused no end of trouble between my two boys. Sarah sent Matilda packing, straight back to her father quick as thought, you may be sure of that.’
Even though I knew it to be true, I resented hearing Tilda called a whore by this priggish old baldicoot. There was no reason to fall out with him over a woman who had sought my destruction but, nevertheless, it rankled.
‘What happened to the girl when her father was gone?’
‘Joscelyn always said he would put her away in a nunnery, get the Church to beat the sin out of her. She’s probably singing psalms and praising Jesus in some chilly cloister about now. Who cares, anyway. She was no good, that one, and her father wasn’t much better, if you ask me. Never trusted him. Good riddance to both of ’em.’
‘So you would not find a place for her in your household, if she came to you now, say, in some kind of trouble?’
‘God, no. Sarah would never allow it. She is a bad apple, Matilda. Let
I remembered a great siege in Normandy that Robin and I had endured more than ten years ago, and shuddered. I had been worn down to skin and bones and towards the end of that affair we had subsisted on a watery concoction of old bones, spiders, beetles, moss, uncured leather, anything we could boil up for some scrap of nourishment.
‘So do you think we will starve to death first,’ I asked Robin, ‘or be slaughtered by the King’s mercenaries when the castle is no more than a heap of smoking rubble?’
Robin actually laughed. ‘That’s the spirit, Alan. Keep up these merry, thigh-slapping jests and we will never have to worry about becoming downhearted.’
I openedmy mouth to say something cutting – and then closed it. What was the point? We would fight; we would do our duty as men, as knights – I had no doubts about that – and then we would die. No doubts there either.
After dinner was done, I found myself standing beside Osbert Giffard, a bald, middle-aged knight I knew slightly, by the fireplace in the south-western half of the hall. He was staring into the flames with a gloomy expression on his long face, which was scarcely surprising; I doubt my own mien was a picture of joy. He grunted an offhand greeting, looked again at my face and appeared to recall something.
‘Am I right in thinking that you were at Château Gaillard, Sir Alan, during the great siege … oh, it must be eleven years ago?’
I admitted it.
‘So you know what we can expect here then.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I wish I did not. It will go hard for us.’
He nodded. ‘A cousin of mine was at Château Gaillard,’ he said. ‘He said it was very bad. Though he managed to survive it. He’s dead now, of course. Murdered by some brigands in the north, we were told.’
I said nothing for a while, but I found my hand was resting lightly on Fidelity’s hilt. I was almost certain he was referring to Sir Joscelyn Giffard, who had been with me at Château Gaillard. Tilda’s father. Shortly after the siege, I had killed him in a duel, man to man. But, if Sir Osbert did not know this, I was not about to tell him that I had slain one of his kinsmen. His remarks put Tilda into my mind. I wondered if she was still sitting under the willow by the stream at Westbury, forlorn, destitute.
I said, as casually as I could, ‘Sir Joscelyn had a pretty daughter, I recall. Do you know what became of her after her father died?’
He gave a snort of derision. ‘Oh yes, Matilda. A slut. Quite the little whore. She was betrothed to Henry, my eldest, but she set out toseduce my second son William when he was just fourteen. She can’t have been much older than my boy at the time. My wife Sarah caught them at it, going like a pair of stoats in one of the barns on the estate. Caused no end of trouble between my two boys. Sarah sent Matilda packing, straight back to her father quick as thought, you may be sure of that.’
Even though I knew it to be true, I resented hearing Tilda called a whore by this priggish old baldicoot. There was no reason to fall out with him over a woman who had sought my destruction but, nevertheless, it rankled.
‘What happened to the girl when her father was gone?’
‘Joscelyn always said he would put her away in a nunnery, get the Church to beat the sin out of her. She’s probably singing psalms and praising Jesus in some chilly cloister about now. Who cares, anyway. She was no good, that one, and her father wasn’t much better, if you ask me. Never trusted him. Good riddance to both of ’em.’
‘So you would not find a place for her in your household, if she came to you now, say, in some kind of trouble?’
‘God, no. Sarah would never allow it. She is a bad apple, Matilda. Let
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