‘We can borrow from the moneylenders in York.’
‘We burned York two winters ago,’ Drogo pointed out.
‘Lincoln, then, or London. Paris, Milan, if necessary. I don’t care!’ Margaret squeezed her temples.
‘My lady, a loan would be secured against our property, movable and immovable,’ said Olbec. ‘We could forfeit our estate.’
Margaret rounded on the Count. ‘And I could lose my son. I implore you, rescue him. If you don’t, I’ll return to Normandy and enter a nunnery.’ She clutched her throat. ‘No, I’ll swallow poison. I couldn’t live knowing that my family had done nothing to save my first-born.’
Olbec knuckled his eyes. ‘Even if we could raise the finance, who would man the expedition? Who would lead it? I’m too broken-down to make such a journey and Drogo’s services are pledged to William for the Scottish campaign.’
Margaret had no answer to that.
Vallon caught Hero’s eye. ‘It’s clear that you won’t settle this matter tonight,’ he told Olbec. ‘Our part’s done. By your leave, we’ll take our rest.’
Drogo blocked him. ‘I’m not done with you.’
‘Let them retire,’ Olbec ordered.
‘He’s a mercenary. He didn’t journey here out of love for Walter.’
‘You’re right,’ Vallon said. ‘Your brother swore that my labours would be handsomely rewarded. He boasted of his rich inheritance.’ Vallon’s gaze wandered over the stark wooden walls. ‘If I’d known the truth, I’d have left him to rot.’
Olbec struggled to his feet. ‘You deserve a reward, but you’ve heard how things stand. Listen, I know a good fighting man when I see one. Ride with us on the Scottish campaign. Prizes will be won in the north, and I swear that a generous share of the spoils will go to you.’
Vallon inclined his head. ‘You flatter me, but this climate makes my sword arm stiff and slow. I’ll follow the wind as soon as it turns south.’
Olbec subsided in grumpy resignation. ‘Then all I can give you is my thanks and a safe conduct.’
Vallon bowed.
Drogo barged against him. ‘I’ll escort you myself.’
*
‘Don’t blame you for turning down the old man,’ said the man-at-arms who guided them out. ‘You think Northumbria is bad, but Scotland — what a shithole. The natives eat the same food as their horses and live in hovels I wouldn’t put a pig-’
‘Drogo and Walter are stepbrothers,’ Vallon cut in.
The man-at-arms chuckled. ‘Sounds like Sir Walter forgot to tell you.’
‘Yes,’ said Vallon with fake resentment. ‘He claimed he was the sole heir.’
‘Right, it’s like this. Drogo’s the eldest son of the Count’s first wife, a farm girl from the next village. She died giving birth to Richard. Reckon she took one look at his face and lost the will to live. Lady Margaret had been married, too. Widowed at fourteen, when she was still carrying Walter. Much classier breed. Her family holds land near Evreux. But here’s the strange thing. Walter and Drogo were born on the same day. Sort of twins.’
‘And rivals.’
‘Been fighting since they began to crawl. Would have killed one another by now if Lady Margaret hadn’t persuaded Walter to go abroad.’ The man-at-arms laughed. ‘So golden boy’s alive. Doesn’t surprise me. Could talk his way out of hell, that one. But you don’t need me to tell you how smooth-tongued he can be. Here we are,’ he said, pushing open a shed door with a mock flourish. ‘The guest suite.’
Clean rushes carpeted the floor. A basin of water steamed on a brazier. Clothes had been laid out on two sleeping platforms.
The man-at-arms lounged against the door. ‘You didn’t say where you were from.’
‘Aquitaine,’ Vallon said, steering him out. ‘Nowhere you would have heard of.’
Hero collapsed on to his bed. There wasn’t a bone or muscle in his body that didn’t cry out for relief. Through sticky eyes he watched Vallon strip off and wash himself. Where his clothes had protected him from the weather, his body was as white as a peeled stick. Hero had a vision of the warriors carved in stone on the walls of Salerno cathedral.
Vallon shook him awake. ‘Did you foul yourself when the Normans charged?’
Hero’s response was slurred. ‘No, sir.’
‘Even so, you’re filthy. Wash yourself. You’ll feel better for it.’
Hero hobbled over to the brazier.
Vallon yawned. ‘Drogo’s going to be a problem.’
Hero shuddered. ‘He’s a wild beast.’
Vallon laughed. ‘Born with wasps in his hair and a wolf at his throat. Still, put yourself in his skin. We’ve brought him the worst news imaginable.’
Hero turned. Vallon lay on his back, his sword by his side.
‘Sir, considering that he has us at his mercy, you seem remarkably unconcerned.’
Vallon didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Lady Margaret’s a determined lady, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, sir. How did you know she was in the party that came to our rescue?’
‘Because I wrote giving warning of our arrival.’
Stung that Vallon hadn’t told him, Hero risked a criticism. ‘You took too great a risk, sir. You should have waited in Durham until she sent for us.’
‘I wasn’t sure how much influence Drogo wielded. Suppose we’d waited and Drogo had turned up to escort us. He would have returned to the castle with sad news — an ambush on a lonely road, the foreigners slain … ’ Vallon waved a hand.
Hero toppled back on to his bed. He was so tired that at first he missed the significance of what Vallon had said. He jerked upright. ‘You knew about Drogo, too?’
‘I made enquiries about the family in London. I’m not so foolhardy as to rush into the unknown.’
Hero crossed his arms over his chest. His mouth set in a resentful line.
Vallon’s head rolled to face him. ‘I didn’t want to burden you with more fears than you already carry.’
‘Thank you for your consideration,’ Hero said in a tight voice.
Vallon smiled. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’ve acquitted yourself better than I expected. To tell the truth, I never thought you’d get as far as the Channel.’
Hero’s lip trembled at this double-sided compliment. ‘Then you’re not angry with me.’
‘Angry for what?’
‘For leading you on this vile and unprofitable enterprise.’
‘You didn’t lead me anywhere,’ Vallon said. He reached for the lamp and nipped out the flame. ‘If anyone’s to blame, it’s that one-eyed magus we buried in the Alps.’
V
Wayland drew back the wattle shutter and watched the foreigners walking towards the hall. Since their arrival, the snow had fallen without pause for two days. Now the sky was ablaze with stars and the strangers cast shadows as black as ink.
A bell rasped. On Wayland’s gloved left hand, tethered by leash and jesses, sat a goshawk with its eyelids stitched together. He’d trapped her four days ago in a net baited with a dove. She was a passager, still in her juvenile plumage, her buff chest streaked with umber barbs. After jessing her and seeling her eyes, Wayland had left her undisturbed until he judged from the sharpness of her breastbone that she was keen enough to be handled. Since he had picked her up yesterday evening she hadn’t left his fist. She wouldn’t sleep until she ate. Until she ate, he wouldn’t get any sleep.
When the strangers disappeared into the hall, Wayland closed the shutter and turned. The arena for this battle of wills was a mews of riven oak lit by a single lamp. Behind a canvas drape at the opposite end, two
