A Note: as with my previous stories set in the tumultuous years before and after the Norman Conquest, bear in mind that these characters would not sound like this. Most of the people in this story would be speaking Norman French or in some cases Middle English. But since you and I are not fluent in those, I've opted for a conversational modern English that, I figure, probably reflects the relative informality of the time.
Almost everyone, by 1100, would have been at least somewhat bilingual. The Anglo-Saxons had been delightfully plain-spoken, if not ribald, and linguistic evidence suggests that the invading Normans adopted this custom at least until the 13th century (when things grew more formalized as the English language evolved).
I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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I daydreamed as I did my stretches: a woman, big-breasted, soft in my arms and wet as she sank down onto me. Nights of bliss, tangled in her hair, covered with her laughter. A baby, born squalling after nine months, blinking in confusion as he came from the womb. Blinking with my eyes.
The limb still hurt, the ache duller by the day, muscles easing into their new requirements along the troubled bone slowly and obstinately. But I gritted my teeth against the pain and pushed harder, leaning against the rough stone of the gatehouse, trying to make the arm do what it used to be able to do.
I sighed. Almost three years since the wound, and still I couldn't trust that fucking arm.
The day was otherwise flawless, the kind of English summer day when the tree-shadows are deep beneath a bright, lazy sun. The kind of day when I, as a boy helping my mother make cheese, had fought hard against the lulling hum of her bees, struggling to stay awake after a morning spent being taught my letters by the monks up the hill. A proper education for me had been part of my father Bernard's price for completing a new rose window for the abbey church.
I wondered sometimes whether the monks had ever figured out that Bernard had broken the old window in the first place, so as to get the commission.
That was over now, though, that life: I'd not been back to Eyensbury in five years, since my father had finally died. I'd been overdue to leave to fight Mowbray's Rebellion at that time, but Lord Geoffrey had graciously given me leave to go home and bury Father. "Just a week," the old knight had grunted, but I'd seen sorrow in Geoffrey's eyes too: when he'd come across to seize this land with Duke William, Bernard of Brittany had been Lord Geoffrey's squire.
I sighed and swung my left arm around from the shoulder, every swing reminding me how stiff the muscles still were, and I was just about to start stretching again when I heard a shout from the parapet. I scowled. "Yeah? What the fuck?"
"Riders coming. Fast."
I sighed. "Yeah." I pushed off the wall and glanced down at where I'd left my sword propped against the banister, quickly deciding I didn't need it. The parapet was ten feet away, and I very much doubted the city was about to come under attack. "Any idea who it is?" I asked, mounting the steps. Perrin was there, with one of his little girlfriends, and she drew a sour glare from me. "I told you not to bring women up here." God giggled in my ear as my eyes roved over her chest, but I ignored Him.
Perrin shrugged, insolent as usual. "Just because you're not getting any, doesn't mean the rest of us should follow you." The kid shut his mouth, though as I shifted my glare his way. "Sorry. It's just a dust cloud so far. They're staying to the road."
"They?" I leaned out over the gate and squinted. "How many?"
"At this distance? More than two, less than ten." Both of us shaded our eyes against the high sun, peering silently out over the hills of Wessex. "They ride well enough," he went on.
I grunted. The leader was on a large horse, with a distinctive gait, and I thought I spotted blue clothes through the dust. "Big horse for a big man," I observed. I'd seen that gait before, but they needed to get closer before I could be sure.
"The King?" Perrin frowned. "I didn't think he was coming back until after Sunday?"
"Yes. Lord Geoffrey told me the plan was to return Tuesday." There had been a steady flood of dead animals coming back from the New Forest for a week now, the hunting party obviously successful. "Well. Whatever. Run down and open the gate. Obviously, whoever is in that cloud wants to come in, and a man traveling openly with such haste is probably important." The shapes on the road resolved themselves through the dust. "Once the gate is open, run and fetch Giffard. He's probably in the castle." I judged the speed of the riders and frowned. "And hurry."
Perrin scuttled off, leaving his wench to lounge in quiet sullenness in the shadow of the gate tower. "You can leave too, woman."
"Not until I'm paid," she snapped.
I rolled my eyes, making no attempt to conceal my irritation. "Did he fuck you?" I demanded, nodding to where Perrin was scampering through the gateyard.
She smiled, one of those disquieting and mysterious feminine smiles that made my unused cock stir. "Want me to tell you all about it, soldier?"
"Leave," I rasped, hoping she'd get the message: she could not be here when the visitor arrived. "Do you know William Giffard, the King's chancellor?"
"Heard of him," she sniffed, "but no, I don't 'know' him." Her leer left me in no doubt what she meant by
know
. "Why? Should I care?"
"He's the law here," I shrugged, "and he likes women no more than the King does. Especially fallen women," I added somewhat stiffly. "You don't want him to find you here."
She scowled. "Tell Perrin he owes me," she spat, drawing herself to her feet: she was handsome, I could see, a sturdy girl of maybe twenty years, sure of herself. She was just the kind of woman I'd have spent money on myself, before.
"Sure," I shrugged, my attention drifting back out over the hills. Yes, I could see now, I knew that horse. "That rider is the King's brother," I told her, "and you'd not want
him
to find you here either."
"But you don't care?" She preened, arms high, yawning. "Hoping for a piece once Perrin finishes with me, soldier?" She quailed a bit at the look I gave her, mixed from equal parts bitterness, contempt, and regret. "Guess not. I'll find him later, I suppose."
"Yes." I turned toward the castle, its gate already down. Giffard should arrive around the same time the distant horsemen did, and in the event that's exactly what happened; I turned, the wooden stairs shaking at Perrin's approach, just as the riders came within hail. "Who's there?" I shouted, the usual meaningless ceremony.
"Henry Beauclerc," came a hoarse voice from within the cloud, accompanied by several raspy coughs, "come to see Walter Giffard."
"Pass, with God's blessing," I called back, Perrin and I both ducking the rolling cloud of road-dust that drifted up over the parapet. We stood there blinking at each other as Henry passed through the gate below us, then we shrugged and turned to look down on Giffard. Because it never hurts to eavesdrop.
"Henry," Giffard called, his head cocked, "what brings you here?" The chancellor reached up to take hold of Henry's bridle, one bushy eyebrow raised. Beauclerc had brought five riders, all of them easing into the city now, leaning sore-hipped over panting horses. "Is the King coming back early?"
