blade with Harold’s shield wall. One of his house carls — big as a bear — swung at me with his axe. An inch closer and he’d have split me from crown to chops.’ Olbec massaged his groin. ‘A miracle he didn’t relieve me of my manhood.’
Spare me his intimate wounds, Hero prayed.
Olbec drummed on the table. ‘I’ll be plain. My wife wants another child. She’s young enough and — well, she fears for the succession.’
‘But you have three sons.’
‘Walter’s a hostage, Richard’s a milksop, and Drogo has too much red choler for his own good.’ Olbec hesitated. ‘Last Christmas a Scottish witch came begging at the castle gate. In return for a sop she told my lady’s fortune. The ungrateful hag prophesied that only one of Lady Margaret’s menfolk would be alive to celebrate Christ’s next birthday. Superstitious rubbish, of course, but you know what women are like. Or you soon will,’ he added on a glum note. ‘Anyway, the problem is … the problem is …’
‘You fail to rise to the occasion,’ Hero prompted.
A squall crossed Olbec’s face. Then he laughed. ‘You might look like a frightened frog, but you’re not stupid.’
‘I recommend rest and sweet wine. I’ve heard that mead’s a good aphrodisiac.’
‘Drink it by the bucketful. Tastes like sweetened horse piss and has about the same effect.’
‘Perhaps if you drank less.’
‘Arabs,’ Olbec said, taking a veer. ‘You have them in Sicily. I’ve heard they’re a virile race.’
‘As are you Normans.’
‘Except the Arabs use potions.’
‘Their pharmaceutical skills are more advanced than ours,’ Hero admitted. ‘They have many potions. There’s one efficacious compound that they apply to their feet.’
‘Feet? Who’s talking about feet? It’s not my feet that let me down.’
‘No, sir. You refer to your
‘If you mean my prick, we’re speaking a common language.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Right. Here’s the deal. Prepare a potion that will make me delight my lady and I’ll give you enough parchment to write the gospels.’
‘But I don’t have the necessary ingredients.’
‘I’ve told the quartermaster to give you everything you need.’
Hero could imagine what manner of things lay mouldering in the castle’s apothecary. Newts, nail parings, withered sheep’s foetuses …
‘Well, what do you say?’
Hero nodded dumbly.
‘Good,’ Olbec said, pushing himself up.
When Hero examined the contents of his pharmacopoeia, he found plenty of medicines to soothe the senses, but nothing to inflame them. He clasped his head and groaned.
The quartermaster was a surly tyrant, the remote but undisputed ruler of the kitchen annexe, his presence signalled by snarls and obscenities and the frequent yelps of his unfortunate scullions. He eyed Hero over the counter with outright hostility.
‘What’s this about? What’s the boss after?’
Hero made his first demand modest. ‘Honey.’
With ill grace, the quartermaster produced a pot and banged it down.
‘Also, some pepper and ginger.’
The quartermaster recoiled like a mother accosted by a baby-snatcher. ‘You’re not having my pepper. Do you know how much it costs?’
‘Without pepper, I can’t formulate the physic to treat your lord’s condition.’
The quartermaster crossed his arms. ‘What condition?’
‘That’s a private matter between patient and physician.’
‘Private be buggered. The whole world knows what’s wrong with the old man.’
Hero glanced behind him before replying. ‘You mean the pain and stiffness in his thighs?’
‘Ha! It’s not stiffness that plagues him. The opposite more like. Man that age, wife with appetites.’ The quartermaster tapped his nose.
‘Then give me the pepper I need to restore harmony to the marriage.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Very well,’ Hero said in a tremulous voice. ‘I’ll report your lack of cooperation.’ He made to leave.
‘Oi, pop-eye. Come back. This is what you want.’
Hero sniffed at a small linen bag. ‘What is it?’
‘My secret, but I guarantee it’ll put iron into the limpest of tools.’ The quartermaster folded his arms again. ‘Would the young scholar be requiring anything else?’
‘Only some leeches. Oh, and a mortar and pestle.’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ the quartermaster sighed, and lumbered back into his sanctum. He returned and slammed them on the counter. ‘Now fuck off.’
At the wall the company divided, the hunters cantering north towards a block of woodland, Lady Margaret’s party dismounting under a Roman milecastle overlooking the North Tyne. Vallon gave Margaret his arm. Together they walked through an arched gateway into a hushed courtyard carpeted with turf. In the far corner a flight of broken steps climbed to a wall-walk. Opposite the gate, accessed from the walkway, was a square tower. Stairs climbed the interior to the roof, where servants had spread cushions. Vallon crossed to the parapet and gazed down on the ruins of a Roman fort similar to those he’d seen in southern France and Spain. From the wood came bugle notes and the cries of the huntsmen encouraging the lymers:
A page came puffing backwards up the steps, lugging a wicker basket. The women nibbled honeyed angelica and sipped posset and chatted about the weather and their children and the frightfulness of life on the frontier. Vallon joined in the small talk until his face ached from forced smiling. He was beginning to think that this was indeed just a picnic when Margaret clapped her hands.
‘I know you’re all curious about our handsome French captain. He’s been our guest for three weeks and we still know hardly anything about him. The captain’s uncomfortable in the presence of so many ladies. I think we’ll get nothing out of him unless I quiz him alone.’
She shooed her giggling entourage downstairs. The priest was last to leave and Vallon could see from the sweat greasing his brow that his anxiety went deeper than concern about leaving a stranger alone with his lord’s wife.
The women’s voices faded. Margaret turned her rouged and smiling face. ‘I mean it, I won’t rest until I’ve sucked you dry.’
‘My history would be a great disappointment to you.’
‘Men don’t know what excites a woman’s interest. It’s not descriptions of dreary battles that titillate us. It’s the subtle personal details.’
‘You’ll find me most unsubtle.’
‘Then let’s start at the beginning. Are you married? Do you have family?’
‘No wife or family. No estate or property. I earn my living by the sword alone. As you must have gathered, it’s not a good living.’
‘It’s a handsome weapon, though. The inlay on the hilt is exquisite, and I positively
‘It’s Moorish, forged in Toledo from steel, not iron. It’s harder than a Norman blade.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Harder than a Norman sword. Can I feel it?’
‘Madam.’
‘No, let me draw it out for myself.’
