“And you think this man, de Treville, will be able to bring order to the shire?” Kenrick asked.
“He is the younger son of a knightly family in Normandy who came here to make his way in the world. He has served the King well, they say, and has a reputation as an efficient and ruthless commander.”
“He doesn’t appear old enough to have achieved such a reputation,” Gisela said, “though I could not see his features clearly. He was armoured and wore his helmet.”
“He must be in his middle twenties,” Walter mused, “possibly close to thirty. He’s said to be a hard man, but just.”
“Which does not augur well for Sigurd’s chances,” Gisela said gloomily.
Kenrick rose, nodding courteously at his host. “I should be returning to Arcote. My mother worries herself almost into a panic these days if I am even a fraction late returning.”
“Understandable,” Sir Walter grunted.
Gisela scrambled to her feet. “I will go with you to the stables. My palfrey seemed a trifle lame this morning and I want to make sure the grooms are examining her properly and tending to her if necessary. I was in too much of a hurry to tell Father of Sigurd’s plight when I arrived home to give instructions properly.” She slipped her discarded mantle round her shoulders as Kenrick drew on his own which had been draped over a stool.
He watched her as she spoke anxiously with the head groom, who reassured her about her palfrey’s condition and promised to keep the animal under surveillance for any signs of further discomfort.
Kenrick’s desires were quickened by her nearness as they moved together outside the stable while he waited for his own mount to be brought out. He would have declared himself to her father long ago had it not been for his doubts about his mother’s declining health.
She had seemed to ail continually since the death of his father two years ago and, more and more, clung to her sturdy, handsome young son for comfort, so much so that her constant demands for attention were becoming irksome. He looked now at Gisela’s radiantly healthy countenance and mentally compared it with that of the sickly, pale creature awaiting him at Arcote.
He longed to wed Gisela and take her to be mistress there, but knew there would be constant conflicts of wills between the two women and was not sure if he could honourably request Gisela’s hand of her father. He was aware also that she was now ripe for marriage and if he did not do so soon, he might well lose her. He must tackle his mother on the delicate subject of his marriage, tonight if possible or tomorrow if she had insisted on retiring early to her chamber.
Gisela watched him as he rode off, a smile lingering round her lips. Kenrick was a kindly man. He would never have uprooted Aldith so ruthlessly and so precipitously brought about this terrible trouble to Sigurd.
She had been considering recently that perhaps Kenrick, who came so often to Brinkhurst on some excuse or other, would ask for her hand in marriage. She had also allowed herself to consider that life at Arcote with so considerate and admiring a young husband could be very pleasant indeed.
She liked the openness of Kenrick’s expression, his curling brown hair and wide-spaced grey eyes. At twenty he was not over-tall, but well set up, hard-muscled, an attractive man who could handle himself well with weapons and in the wrestling ring. Despite his prowess he was not boastful and she perceived no hint of cruelty in his make-up.
In fact, secretly, she thought Kenrick too easy on those who served him and much too compliant with Lady Eadgyth, his demanding mother. Were she to become his wife, she would lead him gently in the way he should rule at Arcote.
Alain de Treville strode purposefully into the hall of Allestone Castle and bawled for his squire, Huon. He stopped as he entered through the screen doors to see he had a visitor, who rose from his seat by the fire to meet his host.
“Rainald,” Alain said delightedly, “how good it is to see you. Do you come on the King’s business?”
The two friends clasped arms and Rainald de Tourel stepped back in some alarm when his friendly squeeze of the arms was met with a sharp, hastily suppressed gasp of pain.
“By all the saints, Alain, you are hurt? Have you been ambushed?”
Alain de Treville sank down wearily into the opposite armchair and looked up as Huon came running.
“Not exactly.” He grimaced. “I was involved in an altercation about the clearance of land in the wood when one of my tenants took strong objection and decided to end me.”
“God in Heaven!” De Tourel snapped at the boy, who was staring in dawning horror at the blood welling up on his master’s sleeve through the improvised bandage, “Get that Jewish physician here at once and bring warmed water and towels. Your master has been wounded.”
The boy scuttled off and de Treville leaned back, grimacing as the pain of the wound was beginning to make itself felt.
“Stand up,” Rainald de Tourel ordered. “Let me help you off with your hauberk. The boy will be back soon with your physician. How in the name of the Virgin could this happen and you well guarded, I hope?”
De Treville did as his friend commanded and gave only the slightest of grunts as the painful business of divesting him of his mailed hauberk was concluded. He explained briefly what had occurred.
“I cannot, in justice, blame the men for being off guard. My back was turned and I had no expectation of the attack. God be thanked I heard the boy approach over the fallen leaves, though he moved like a cat, and was in time to prevent him stabbing me in the back or, more likely, the neck.” He grinned faintly. “I have the lad securely locked in the guardhouse.”
“You should have hanged him out of hand,” de Tourel commented tersely, “and left the body dangling from the keep to show the rest of the villagers you mean business.”
“Yes, I might well do that after he’s been brought before me in the manor court, but the lady will not like that. Already she considers me a Norman barbarian and a tyrant to boot.”
“What lady is this?”
“Ah, I forgot to tell you that bit. The two Saxons were defended by a young termagant, the daughter of my nearest neighbour, the Demoiselle Gisela of Brinkhurst. I think she was far more concerned about the boy’s fate than my survival, more or less told me the whole business was my own fault for insisting on my right as desmesne lord.”
Rainald made a comical gesture. “She appears to have made an impression on you, my friend. Ah, here is your physician and the boy with water and towels.”
An elderly Jew, clad in the dark blue gaberdine robe of his calling, came unhurriedly to his master’s side and bent to examine the wounded arm. Behind him hovered the alarmed Huon.
“Mmm,” the physician murmured. “It does not appear too serious, my lord, but we must cut your sleeve and lay it bare, then we shall know more. Our most imperative task is to ensure there is no dirt or fragments of cloth in the wound. It may need to be stitched.”
Alain grimaced again. “Oh, very well, Joshua, submit me to your torments. I’ll not complain.” He set his teeth again as the physician opened his small chest containing instruments and medicaments, extracted a slim, long blade and slit the long woollen sleeve of the tight-fitting tunic de Treville wore beneath his hauberk, then with gentle fingers probed the cut.
The Jewish physician worked quickly and in silence, gesturing to Huon to come close with the metal dish of warmed water. He declared it unnecessary, after examination, to stitch the wound, but drew the edges together carefully after cleansing it with vinegar and wine, which made de Treville gasp and curse briefly, then he bound up the wound, made obeisances to the two Norman knights and, waving to the boy to withdraw with him, left the hall.
He