Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

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‘Oh, Raymond. I’m sorry.’ She had not considered the wedding from his point of view. Being a girl, with no inheritance to worry about, she had not thought what would happen to her brother if the baby was male. ‘Do you remember how lovely Katarin was when she was a babe?’ she said.

To her relief, Raymond’s face softened. ‘Aye, but she’s a girl.’

‘This new baby could well be a girl. And then you will have got yourself stewed up over nothing.’ She gave him a straight look. ‘Don’t spoil today, Raymond. Mother has longed for this for years.’ She took his hand. ‘Think. You’ll gain nothing but Papa’s anger. Try to calm down, Raymond, please. For Mama’s sake.’

‘I’ve put a lot into Kermaria,’ he said, and Gwenn sensed he was weakening.

‘You have. I know that, and don’t you think Papa appreciates your efforts? He’s a fair man, Raymond, he’ll see you’re looked after. Don’t spoil the wedding, please.’

A dubious smile lifted a corner of his mouth.

‘Come on, Raymond, let that smile break through. And then we can go in and dance at our parents’ wedding.’

The smile broadened. ‘You’re a witch, Gwenn, but you’re right. I’ll try and smile today, and I’ll bite my tongue.’

Gwenn looked warmly at him. ‘And pray for a girl?’

He shot her a sharp look. ‘And pray for a girl.’

Chapter Fifteen

By the time August was almost over in that same year of 1185, three months of strong sunshine had baked the earth as hard as fired clay. The sun’s harsh rays had been beating relentlessly on the marshy waters around Kermaria so that the pools dwindled, shrinking almost out of existence; and the waterfowl that lived in the wetlands were forced to congregate on shrinking and ever more crowded patches of water. Fish swam sluggishly in the stagnant waters, easy prey for the herons and divers who gorged themselves till their bloated bodies could hardly take off from the water. Against all predictions, the heatwave continued. The lakelets began to smell, and the time came when the gasping fish could no longer survive in the murky shallows. When this happened the herons and divers left.

It had been the hottest summer that Yolande could remember.

In a rare moment of idleness, she was sitting in the window seat on the first-floor solar, gazing dreamily at the bridge and marsh beyond the village. One hand rested on her burgeoning belly, and with the other she shaded her eyes. She rocked her body to comfort herself, for the heat was distressing her. A pile of sheets sat on the window seat opposite. However hard she worked, there was always more to do. Yolande threw the linen a half-hearted scowl – she was too tired to be more than half-hearted about anything in this heat. Leaning heavily on the stone window ledge, she succumbed to the feeling of lassitude that she had been wrestling against all day. It was well in to the afternoon, and she’d done enough to warrant a brief respite.

This pregnancy had not been easy, and she still had a month to go. Yolande knew she had nothing to worry about, but she wished she did not feel quite so huge. It was five long years since Katarin had been born, and it was strange how easily one forgot the discomforts a pregnancy could bring. She had no recollection of feeling so swollen with her other pregnancies. A ridiculous idea came to her, that if this baby should grow any more, she must surely burst. The idea took root in her mind and, shaking her head to dislodge it, she pushed the shutter wide. She must increase the draught through the solar. In winter she spent all her time keeping out the draughts, but at this moment she’d exchange her eye teeth for a whisper of wind. The incessant heat was making her breath come in short, shallow gasps, but she knew the babe was well. And, as if the child in her womb could read her thoughts, it moved vigorously. Yolande smiled. There was nothing wrong with this one. If only it would not push so hard against her ribs and lungs.

‘You’re not helping,’ she gently admonished the child in her womb. ‘You should leave room for me. You can’t manage without me, remember?’ Another twinge – a kick? – was all the answer she got, but it satisfied Yolande.

A blow-fly, huge and drunk with the heat, buzzed in through the window. Yolande followed its flight, too drowsy to attempt to swat the nuisance. The fly lurched out again, and her gaze wandered out over the landscape. The flies had hatched in their thousands that summer. Great swarms of mosquitos hung in the air. She could see shadowy drifts of them, floating over what was left of the marsh, twisting slowly in the fetid air like fragments of a gossamer veil hung out to dry. Shimmering dragonflies hovered over lily pads. Everyone had slowed their pace. The abundance of insects made even the swallows lazy, and they skimmed across the patchy pools so slowly it was miraculous they stayed airborne.

The dark, holly green of the tunic her husband was wearing caught her gaze. Jean was with her brother-in-law on the bridge, presumably inspecting the tower’s defences. The natural protection of the moat, formed by marsh and stream, had gone, dried up along with the rest of the water, and this was causing Jean no little concern. What they all needed was rain. The water in the well had turned cloudy that morning; the garderobe stank, and she couldn’t spare the water to have it swilled out lest the well went completely dry.

A tightening sensation in Yolande’s belly drew her attention momentarily back to herself. The sensation was not unpleasant. She had noticed it many times before in her earlier pregnancies, and knew she did not have to call anyone. Her labour was a month off, more’s the pity. She waited for the sensation to pass before resuming her perusal of her husband’s parched domain.

They needed a deluge. The peasants too, were panting for rain. The little that had fallen on the field strips had done no more than wet the surface, leaving thirsty crops unsatisfied. A few raindrops had run over the surface of the parched earth and evaporated almost at once. Yolande did not need to consult the sky to know that no rain was on its way. It was a solid blue dome, as it had been for weeks. They needed a downpour, something like the one which had sent Noah scrambling to his ark. Anything less didn’t stand a chance of penetrating the cracked topsoil. A shower in this heat would scorch the already withered leaves, and shrivel them to nothing. Down in the yard, she could see deep fissures in the ground. The sun had wrought terrible changes in the landscape of Kermaria. The sun had scarred the earth. The peasants would harvest early, and there would be hardship this winter. Sir Jean’s store of coin, carefully hoarded from the plenty reaped at last year’s harvest, would be eaten into in the dark months.

Sighing, Yolande eyed the tower of darning which cried out for her needle. ‘I’ve been slothful long enough,’ she spoke to the babe inside her. ‘Come along, we’d best get started.’ She bent forward, reaching for needle and thread, but noticed the tightening sensation was back. She relaxed back into the seat, holding her body still to allow it to pass. Except that it did not pass. A sudden tug on the muscles of her womb drove the breath from her lungs. And then the window seat no longer felt comfortable. She dropped to her knees, leaned her head on the seat opposite, and waited.

‘Mama! What is it?’

Was that Gwenn’s voice? Turning her head, and trying to see past the discomfort which threatened to fill every fibre of her being, she saw Gwenn and Katarin had entered the solar. Releasing her sister’s hand, Gwenn ran towards her. Disoriented by her unexpected precipitation from the wide world beyond her body, into a narrow one which contained only herself, the babe in her womb, and the pain, Yolande found words difficult. It was as though Gwenn and Katarin were separated from her by a thick curtain.

Pale, but composed, Gwenn took the situation in at a glance. Like most girls her age, she had seen all this before. She had assisted at Katarin’s birthing. In a world where boys were made guards at eight years of age and fought with armies at twelve, girls were involved early in every aspect of domestic life. Life was short, and many girls were married at twelve, with their own households to run. They had to learn young. ‘Katarin,’ Gwenn said, ‘go and tell Klara to fetch the midwife, and ask her to boil some water.’

‘Too soon,’ Yolande jerked out. Gwenn knelt beside her. Relieved to relinquish command of herself into Gwenn’s capable hands, Yolande let her daughter remove her veil.

‘Can you walk, Mama?’

‘A moment...give me...a moment.’ Yolande rested her head against the cool stone seat while the first fury of the spasm passed. Gwenn – Yolande blessed her for her understanding – did not fuss her, but waited patiently until it had gone. At length Yolande directed a weak smile at her. ‘I’ll try now. But it’s too early. If I rest...’ she dragged in a lungful of stale, unrefreshing air ‘...perhaps it will go away...till the babe is fully grown.’

Gwenn sent her an unreadable look, but all she said was, ‘Lean on me, Mama. Save your strength.’

Never had the solar seemed so large. They had to stop twice to let the contractions pass; and each time Yolande was more drained, each time they felt fiercer than the time before. Finally, they gained the haven of the bed and Yolande sank onto it with an exhausted sigh. ‘My thanks, Gwenn.’ Her daughter looked so worried that she added, ‘I’ll rest and it will pass.’

‘No, Mama.’ Gwenn shook her head, tugged off her own veil and cast it into the corner by the washstand. ‘You can’t rest.’

Yolande could not accept that. She was hot and wanted to sleep. She struggled onto an elbow. ‘But Gwenn, I want to rest. Later I can cope with it... Later, but not now.’

Her capable daughter rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands, though her hands must have been trembling, because water splashed from the ewer. ‘Sorry, Mama,’ Gwenn repeated, heartlessly. ‘You can’t rest.’

‘But, Gwenn...it can’t–’ And then her muscles contracted so viciously that Yolande gasped and fell back. Gwenn twisted round, and it was the concern darkening her daughter’s brown eyes that forced Yolande to accept the truth of what her body was doing. She was in labour.

A series of thumps heralded Klara’s entrance into the stuffy chamber. ‘My lady!’ her tirewoman wailed, wringing her hands. ‘I’ve not actually attended a birthing afore. What do I do?’

That was all they needed, an ignorant assistant. Lost in another wave of pain, Yolande forced the words past her teeth. ‘Look to my daughter. She...watched Katarin...being born.’ Then a sharp convulsion engulfed all rational thought.

Gwenn was brisk. She had to be. ‘You’ve sent for the midwife, Klara?’

‘Aye. Berthe’s coming, and they’re dredging the well for water to boil.’

Gwenn took her mother’s hand. It was hot. ‘Good. My mother’s waters have broken.’

Have they? Yolande thought distractedly. So that’s why she insisted that I could not rest. Odd that I should not have noticed...

‘The babe will be born early,’ Gwenn continued, ‘and my mother needs all the help we can give her. First, help me remove her gown.’ Gwenn fumbled with the lacings. ‘Has Sir Jean been informed?’

‘Aye, mistress.’ Klara’s hands were shaking more than Gwenn’s. ‘Master Raymond’s gone to tell him. But I didn’t let on how grave things would be–’

A furious glance cut off the rest of Klara’s thoughtless tattle. How could the woman be so dense as to say such a thing within her mother’s hearing? Fortunately, her mother was focused on the inner workings of her body and had not heard. Grabbing Klara’s wrist, Gwenn hauled her into the solar. ‘Don’t let me catch you saying that again in Mama’s hearing,’ she hissed.

‘But it is grave, mistress.’ Klara might not have attended a birth before, but she had heard the midwives chattering. It was the lot of women to die in such a way, and if God willed it that the Lady Yolande should die bringing forth her only legitimate child, then that was His judgement, and no one should fight it. Lady Yolande had survived more than most women – three bastards she’d borne. Fatalistically, Klara met the determined gaze of one of the bastards in question and went on, ‘And you’d best face it. At her age, and with it being so early,’ the maid sucked in a breath, finishing kindly, ‘we’ll be lucky if we save the infant.’

‘Don’t say another word, Klara. You’re wishing her dead!’

‘Not I.’ Genuinely shocked, Klara fixed Gwenn with an earnest look. ‘But there’s little chance, mistress. Do you recall that eclipse? That was a portent, that was.’

Tongue-tied with a numbing combination of anger and dread, Gwenn gritted her teeth. Klara was revelling in this, and her blind acceptance of a disaster which had not yet come upon them, sickened her.

‘I told my father at the time,’ Klara said dolefully, ‘it was a sign.’

A low groan issued from behind the curtain, and Gwenn moved towards it. She brushed the curtain aside. She felt racked by the doubt that showed so clearly in Klara’s eyes and the seed of latent superstition which she knew dwelt in her own heart. Outwardly, she’d show no fear. ‘No more heathenish babblings, Klara. Understand?’

Klara’s dolorous gaze fixed on Yolande. Slowly, she nodded.

‘And one thing further. Don’t look at her as though she were breathing her last.’

Another nod.

From some hidden store, Gwenn found a ragged smile and pinned it to face. ‘Good,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, Klara, wash your hands. We have a baby to deliver.’

***

A month ago, the stream had turned into a trickle. Now it had dried up altogether, and the bridge spanned an empty ditch instead of a brook. Jean and Waldin were standing on top of the bridge, peering into a moat that was covered with burned grass instead of green duckweed.

‘Not good is it, Waldin?’ Jean frowned.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Waldin rested heavy boot on the low parapet wall and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Tied to his arm was one of Gwenn’s red ribbons, and with no wind to lift it, the silk fluttered only when the knight moved. ‘Jesu, I’ve never known it so hot.’ Waldin’s head needed shaving again and, fingering his scar through the stubble growing on his skull, he grinned as he recalled the first conversation he’d had with his niece. He’d grown fond of Gwenn.

‘There’s no need to grin about the drought,’ Jean said, irritably. ‘It’s not amusing. For Christ’s sake, what are we going to do? With the river dried up, we’re vulnerable to attack, and I’ve only a dozen guards, not counting us and our squires, and not even a captain to order them.’ And if the heat wave doesn’t let up, Jean thought bitterly, I’ll not be able to afford a captain’s pay. He needed to replace the captain he’d lost. With Yolande’s time drawing near, Jean was increasingly concerned that Kermaria should be well fortified and well manned. He’d have to take on another dozen men. Financial considerations had delayed him. With a month to go, he had time in hand, but with this drought sapping his resources, he had wanted to stave off any expenditure as long as he could. Since Waldin’s arrival they’d not had a shortage of volunteers, but the harvest would be poor that year, and he had to take that into account.

Waldin directed his gaze to the crop of sun-ripened weeds sprouting in the waterless moat. He found it hard to take Jean’s worries to heart. He had not survived fifteen years on the circuit to die in a petty squabble over this desiccated bog. ‘I can see rye growing down there,’ he observed, before he could check himself.

Anger flashed briefly in his brother’s eyes. ‘I’m being serious, Waldin,’ Jean snapped, for the heat was getting to him too. ‘If you’ve no sensible suggestions to make, you can go back to Raymond. Crossing swords with boys seems to be all you’re fit for these days.’

‘Someone’s got to teach your lad,’ Waldin said, equably. ‘He’s got the finesse of a butcher. Why, that Saxon lad shows more promise than your son.’

‘Ned Fletcher? I thought he’d shape up.’

‘Aye. He’s been exercising hard. A strong lad, and keen. And the questions he asks! You could do worse than make him your captain. I find Fletcher useful when demonstrating the passes to Raymond. I don’t know who taught your son before me, Jean, but–’

‘It was difficult in Vannes,’ Jean put in stiffly, guiltily aware that he had only supplied priests to see his son was literate, and that he had himself to blame for Raymond’s military deficiencies.

‘Aye, well, I came home none too soon. Fortunately, Raymond has a natural aptitude with horses, but as for his swordplay,’ Waldin clucked in disgust and then shut his mouth abruptly, for Raymond was racing towards them, raising a cloud of dust.

‘Papa! Papa!’ Raymond skidded to a halt amid a hail of pebbles. ‘It’s Mama! The baby! You’d best come at once!’

The brothers exchanged glances. ‘Early isn’t it?’ Waldin asked.

‘Yes, but my wife’s done this before. She knows what to do. Is the midwife called, Raymond?’

‘Aye. Come quickly, Papa!’ Raymond plucked his father’s sleeve.

Shaking his head at his son’s impetuousness, Jean gave him a complacent smile. ‘No need to hurry, my boy. Babies take their time.’

‘But, Papa–’

‘I’m coming.’ Jean draped his arm companionably round his son’s shoulders and steered him down the road. ‘We’ll wait in the hall, then we can be the first to know whether the child’s a boy or a girl.’

‘I hope it’s a girl.’ Raymond muttered at the dusty ground, and the tension in his body reached his father through the arm about his shoulders.

‘Raymond? What’s the matter?’ When Raymond stared blindly at a magpie’s feather lying by the road, Jean gave him a friendly hug. ‘You’re not sulking, are you?’

Raymond raised hard green eyes. ‘I hope the brat’s a girl.’

‘These thoughts are unworthy of you.’ Jean spoke gently. ‘If you are jealous, you have no need to be. If the child is a boy it will not affect my relationship with you. You are my firstborn. No one can take that away from you. This new child, boy or girl, cannot affect that.’

‘You hope for a boy,’ Raymond said, mouth one sulky line.

St Clair saw no advantage in lying to his son. ‘Aye, but boy or girl, I will love the child.’ He gave his son an affectionate squeeze. ‘I do need an heir.’

‘An heir!’ Raymond flung off his father’s arm and thumped his chest. ‘What’s so wrong with me? Why can’t I be your heir?’

Jean drew in a sharp breath. A portion of him could sympathise with Raymond, but he could not excuse him. It was the way of the world that legitimate children should inherit. Raymond knew that. Even legitimacy was no security, for estates could not be broken up, and it was common for the eldest, legitimate son to take all, while younger, legitimate children must fend for themselves. That was why Waldin had chosen to carve his way through the lists. Waldin had not let the fact that he had been a penniless second son sour his nature. It had been the making of him. He had understood that a small estate could not be sliced up like so much bread.

‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Raymond. You know the reason.’

‘Aye! It’s on account of my birth, and the fault’s not mine. The fault is yours, Papa, yours! Why didn’t you marry Mother before I was born?’ He groaned his frustration. ‘Why did you leave it so late?’

A heart-wrenching cry floated out on the hot, motionless air. The three men froze mid-stride.

Waldin laid a blunt hand on his nephew’s back. ‘Have a care for your lady mother, will you?’ Another harrowing cry had the hoary, unvanquished champion of many a battle wincing like a green page. ‘Where the hell is that midwife?’

In the yard, Ned Fletcher and Roger de Herion, Jean’s squire, had been fencing in their shirtsleeves. The two were at rest now, still breathing heavily, eyes trained on the high solar window. Waldin was unable to prevent himself running critical eyes over the pair of them. Fletcher, as usual, had his stance right, but Waldin grimaced when his eyes reached his brother’s squire. ‘De Herion,’ he barked, ‘what did I tell you about keeping your fingers behind the guard?’

Roger started. ‘But, sir, we’ve finished. We’re at ease.’

‘If your sword’s unsheathed, hold it properly. God’s blood, it’s a weapon not a walking stick! You could learn by watching Fletcher. He’s at ease, but he’s ready for anything that might come at him. You should be, too.’

Jean had reached the steps. Tight-lipped, he indicated that his son should precede him into the hall.

But Raymond was still angry. ‘I shall pray for a girl, Father. And you’d best do the same, because if it’s a boy I’ll not let it take precedence over me. Burn me to ashes, but I’ll make its life hell. If this babe is a boy, sir, he’ll never succeed to your–’

‘Enough!’ Jean barked. ‘We’ll talk later, you and I.’ He leaped the steps, two at a time.

Raymond glowered after him, but he was aware of his uncle’s lowered brows.

‘You can thank the saint that guards you,’ Waldin said, ‘that your father is too preoccupied to heed you. I’d think twice before I’d voice such a threat again, if I were you.’

Raymond scowled and barged into the hall.

‘Mama’s crying,’ Katarin said, rushing towards her father almost before he had lifted his boot over the top step. There was a hush in the hall, for everyone was listening to the scurrying feet, thumps and groans in the bedchamber. Katarin knew something mysterious was going on, something secret. She was used to being present in most important events in the household, and after she had summoned Klara she had run back to her mother. But Gwenn had waved her away as though she had no more business in her mother’s chamber than a fly on a butcher’s slab. ‘Is it a secret, Papa?’ she asked. Katarin liked secrets, but only if they were hers to share. Her father stared at the door at the foot of the stairs and did not respond. As he often kept his distance, Katarin was unperturbed. She jammed her thumb into her mouth and kept her eyes hooked onto her father’s face. She longed for a cuddle, but the most she could hope for was not to be sent away. Instinct told her that today, if she was quiet as a mouse, her father might welcome her presence.

Hesitantly, for Katarin’s keen eyes observed that the skin was drawn tightly across her father’s features as it did when he was angry, the little girl touched her father’s hand. She removed her thumb from her mouth. ‘Papa?’ Her father inclined his head, and his lips shaped a smile that even her child’s eyes could see was counterfeit. ‘Papa? Aren’t you going to see if Mama is getting better?’

Jean’s expression softened, and to Katarin’s delight he scooped her up in his arms and hugged her. ‘No, my little blossom, I am not.’

Pleased with this contact, Katarin beamed, and when her father went to the trestle and sat down with her on his knee, her joy was complete. ‘Why not, Papa?’ she asked, wriggling with pleasure.

‘Because, sweet girl, we have to wait.’

‘It is a secret!’ The smile on her father’s face was becoming more like a proper smile with every second that passed.

‘In a way, it is,’ he agreed.

Raymond stumped up to a bench, accompanied by Waldin. Ned and Roger de Herion came in, shrugging on their tunics. They made straight for the ale jugs.

Katarin put her mouth to her father’s ear. ‘Do you know what the secret is?’

Her father rolled his eyes mysteriously. ‘I do.’

‘Tell me, Papa. Tell me the secret.’

Emulating his daughter, Jean put his lips to her tiny, pink ear. ‘Your mother is having a baby.’

Katarin gave another excited wriggle, her unformed child’s features composed themselves, and her question flew straight as an arrow to the nub of the matter. ‘Will it be a boy or a girl, Papa?’

Jean shot his firstborn a look, but Raymond was glooming into a wine cup. ‘That, my flower, is the biggest secret of all. Only God knows the answer to that question. We will know soon.’

‘How soon?’ Katarin was wondering what her father’s moustache felt like, and whether she dared to stroke it. From the solar there came a strangled shriek that was more animal than human. ‘Mama!’

Jean squeezed his youngest daughter, and as her arms twined round his neck, he wondered bleakly who was comforting whom.

‘It won’t take long, will it?’ Katarin asked. Her father’s moustache tickled her cheek.

‘Let’s pray not, for your mother’s sake.’ And observing that his daughter’s eyes were more green than brown, the knight asked, ‘How old are you, Katarin?’

‘Five, Papa,’ she said, proudly.

‘Five, eh?’ Katarin was five years old, and he had only just noticed what a pretty colour her eyes were. He resolved to try and spend more time with her. ‘You’ll be able to help with the baby now you’re so big.’

Ned was breaking a crust on the lower trestle with an expression of studied neutrality on his face.

‘Fletcher!’ Raymond bawled. ‘Throw that wine jar over, will you?’

Ned looked startled to receive such a peremptory summons, as well he might, for he was no was no manservant, but good-naturedly he did as he was requested.

‘Here, Fletcher,’ pointedly ignoring his elders, Raymond kicked out a bench for Ned, ‘Do the honours for me, would you, and pour one for yourself? I like drinking in congenial company.’

Ned looked at Jean, who tiredly indicated that he could take a place at their board.

‘I know a prayer,’ Katarin chirped up.

‘Do you, sweet?’ Pressing a kiss on Katarin’s downy cheek, Jean disposed the child more comfortably in his arms. ‘You say it quietly to yourself, while I talk to Uncle Waldin. Your prayer will help Mama.’

The hazel eyes filled with pleasure and, thumb in mouth, Katarin began mumbling the Paternoster.

‘Obliging child,’ Sir Jean murmured, realising from his daughter’s glazed expression that she would be asleep in a few minutes.

‘You’ve another lovely maid in the making there, Jean,’ he commented.

‘Aye.’ Jean steered the conversation away from children. ‘I hear that France is planning a Grand Tourney the like of which has never been seen.’

Depositing brawny arms on the table, Waldin leaned forward. ‘When’s it to be?’

‘Next year, after Lammastide.’

The wide shoulders drooped. ‘I’d hoped it would be sooner than that. Where will it be?’

‘I’m not sure. Paris, I think.’

‘Paris,’ Waldin murmured.

‘I thought you’d retired, Waldin,’ Jean teased.

The champion gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘So did I. I thought I was being very clever saving my skin before I got too old, but I confess I miss the circuit. You’ve no idea what it can be like, Jean. The noise. The excitement. The horses feel it too. They know, Jean.’

‘Do they like it?’ Ned cut in.

‘What? The horses? Oh, aye. They like it alright. You should see them champing at their bits before the baton falls.’ Waldin flushed, the force of his enthusiasm embarrassed him. ‘It’s hard to convey how I feel.’

‘It’s in your blood,’ his brother said.

‘Aye. It’s a fever that’s got into my blood. And now I’m home. I’m old enough to know better, I’ve enough money in my scrip to last several lifetimes, and good lads to pass my knowledge onto,’ he jerked his head at his nephew and Ned, ‘I should be content.’

‘Will you attend the tournament?’ Ned’s blue eyes were bright with interest.

Waldin hoisted heavy shoulders. ‘Who knows? A year’s a long time, Fletcher. Maybe I will go, but I’m sadly out of practise.’

‘I’d love to go,’ Ned said.

Waldin smiled a smile of complete understanding. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask my brother to give you leave, and you could act as my squire.’

‘Would you?’ Delight shone from every line on Ned’s face.

‘I might, if you continue to improve the way you’re doing at the moment.’

‘Thank you, sir. Sir Waldin, I’ve been wanting to ask you...it’s about swords...’

‘Go on, lad.’

‘I was hoping you’d explain why Damascened swords are prized so.’

‘Damascened swords, eh? Excellent in single combat, but they’re of no use in a mêlée. I don’t recall mentioning Damascened swords to you, Fletcher.’

‘You didn’t, sir. But last time I ran an errand to the armourer, I overheard his conversation with another customer. They were extolling the virtues of Damascened blades.’

‘Damascened swords first came over from the East,’ Waldin was happy to explain. ‘There’s no denying they will carry an edge no other sword can take, and they’re have a flexibility I’ve yet to see in another sword. But they’re too light for the tournies. A knight needs a sword with more clout in a mêlée.’

‘How are they made, sir?’

‘In simple terms, the sword smith beats out the steel over and over, before folding it back on itself. Then he starts the process all over. It’s a very skilled and lengthy business.’

‘Expensive, I should think,’ Ned said.

‘It is that.’ Waldin grinned. ‘Only princes and dukes can afford them.’

‘Could the heavier swords be made to take a similar edge?’

Here, Fletcher,’ Raymond plucked peevishly at Ned’s tunic, ‘you’re supposed to be talking to me.’

The excitement vanished from Ned’s face as swiftly as though someone had snuffed a candle out. ‘My apologies, Master Raymond.’

‘Pour me more wine.’

Lifting the flagon, Ned looked across it at Waldin. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise, sir,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone in order to be your squire.’

‘You ought to try and forget the tournaments, Waldin,’ Jean said. ‘You were courting disaster to go on as long as you did, and at your ripe old age you’d be begging for it.’

‘It’s a form of madness, I cannot deny that,’ Waldin agreed. ‘But there’s glory in it.’

Jean looked tenderly at the sleeping child in his arms. ‘I’ve never understood your fascination with glory, Waldin. When it comes down to it, you end up spilling a gallon of blood, and it seems to me it’s largely a matter of chance whether it’s your blood or someone else’s.’

‘I understand,’ Ned put in.

‘Heaven help us,’ Jean said, in a resigned voice. ‘Your prating about glory is unsettling my men, Waldin.’ He glanced warmly at Ned. ‘I want to keep my sergeant. I don’t want to lose him to the jousts.’

‘Oh, I’d come back, sir, but it’s good to dream.’

Raymond felt it was time he stuck his oars in. ‘Dream!’ He snorted. ‘All you ever do is dream.’ Predictably, Ned flushed. Raymond turned his fire on his uncle. ‘And as for wasting yourself for glory’s sake, Uncle, I agree with my father. You’re mad. I would only risk myself for something...tangible.’