evenings, or when I am troubled. I had it brought over from Normandy with some of my other things after I took up residence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ve been up since three this morning and walked and ridden many miles. I think that it’s time I retired for the night. When you’re ready, call Kendrick for assistance- don’t try to get back to the bedchamber by yourself. And take the Bible with you.”
As she idly turned the pages Anne considered her host. A warrior and leader of men. Undoubtedly brave, yet literate, thoughtful, careful of his obligations and lacking in arrogance. His treatment of even his slaves showed care and common courtesy. Judging by the brief look that she had so far had at the books of account, he was a wealthy man who owned or controlled much of Tendring Hundred. And he was a good-looking young man. All in all, the man was a most unusual combination.
Alan and his small party of four Saxon men-at-arms set out on horseback for Colchester early next morning, with two additional horses, being the price that Alan had agreed with the armourer for his new hauberk. They collected the outlaws Linn and Pearce, who rode the spare horses- in Linn’s case poorly as he had never been trained to ride.
As they rode through the southern gate of the old stone Roman wall that surrounded the town, kept in reasonable condition because the town was on the River Colne and over the years had been subject to frequent attack from raiders from the Eastern Seas, the priory bell was tolling for Nones at mid-afternoon. They stopped briefly at an inn, ‘The Three Hounds’, which was nearly in the middle of the town. Alan to dropped off his overnight bag and booked a room- his men would sleep by the fire in the Commons- and arranged for the horses to be stabled before he took the short walk to the newly-built castle to see the sheriff. They soon found that Robert fitzWymarc was away and not expected back for a week, but his deputy Roger saw them promptly enough and heard Pearce’s story with a cynicism similar to that of Alan himself.
“What do you think, Sir Alan?” asked the Deputy-Sheriff.
“I don’t know,” replied Alan thoughtfully, sipping at a cup of wine with which he had been provided. “The story doesn’t get any more convincing the second time you hear it. Still, there may be truth in it and it may be worth paying attention to what he says. I think it’s just a story to save his life- but it’s a very good story. Whether it’s good enough for him to avoid getting his neck stretched, I’ll leave to Sir Robert. The boy I’d just let go, but a week in the cells awaiting the sheriff’s pleasure won’t do him any harm. I’d appreciate it if you let me know what happens eventually.” With an abrupt change of topic Alan continued, “Has the warrant arrived as to when the campaign to occupy the north is intended to start, when we muster and where?”
“Yes indeed. Word was received several days ago. We muster a week after the Feast of the Annunciation, on the 2nd of April at Alan of Brittany’s castle in Cambridge. That’s in three weeks time. You’ll be aware that King William intends to return to Normandy shortly? No? Well, he’ll be leaving any day and his half-brother Bishop Odo of Bayeux and his cousin William fitzOsbern will be left in charge here in England.
“FitzOsbern will be leading the expedition north. Odo is busy in Kent with various disturbances down there. The English and their new Norman neighbours are having some differences that they’re sorting out with the sword. I think that it’s probably some upstart Normans stepping on sensitive English toes.” Alan remembered that fitzWymarc was a part-Breton, and presumably some of his men such as Roger had come to England at the request of Edward the Confessor a dozen or more years before. They probably viewed themselves almost as locals. Roger continued, “If needed, there’ll be a second muster six weeks later at Nottingham to replace those who have completed their forty days service. You have your men recruited?” Alan nodded. “Good. Sir Robert will be marching with our first contingent on the 30th March, six days after The Annunciation Day of the Lord, if you would care to join us on the journey?” Alan agreed readily and then took his leave as it was getting late.
After a walk to the priory in the gathering darkness Alan knocked on the wooden door in the stone wall surrounding the priory buildings. He was permitted entry, received directions to the school and was told that Osmund was currently teaching a class. In fact two classes were in progress when Alan walked into the cold and dimly-lit teaching-hall. A group of youngsters were being taught letters by an elderly monk, each student peering closely at the page in front of them as they worked. A younger man was teaching a small group of youths the principals of rhetoric. Just then the bell for Vespers began to toll, ending work for the day. The students quickly packed up their school-things before attending the service.
As he strode over to intercept the younger teacher Alan noted that he was thin, of middling height with lank dark hair almost to his shoulders and had a face dominated by a large nose. His tunic and breeches had once been of reasonable quality but were now thread-bare, but he proudly wore the traditional seax long-knife of the freeman at his belt.
“Excuse me!” called Alan in Latin. “Are you Osmund the scribe?”
“I suppose that is as good a description as any- that or
“I’m Alan of Thorrington and I have need of an honest and skilled scribe. Lady Anne of Wivenhoe has recommended you to me as being
Osmund hesitated as Alan reached him and stood a pace away. “Certainly, my lord. Perhaps if we off to the refectory where they are about to serve the evening meal we can sit and talk at our leisure.”
With a flash of insight Alan realised that the free meal that Osmund received as part of his teaching stipend was probably all that was keeping body and soul together. Having extensive experience himself with the poor fare and small meals provided at a priory he reached forward and clapped Osmund on the shoulder and exclaimed, “We can do better than that. I’m staying at ‘The Three Hounds’ and they have a good board. Come and eat with me.”
They walked through the darkened streets of the town, Osmund with the confidence of a man with an empty purse and the knowledge he had nothing worth stealing, Alan with the watchfulness that a warrior shows in any circumstances, automatically examining each dark alley as they passed.
‘The Three Hounds’ was a high-class inn, catering for merchants, guildsmen and the well-to-do. The Commons was warm and dimly lit by rush torches attached to the walls and posts by sconces. The room was slightly smoky, with the smoke from the fire in the central hearth drifting through the air before slowly finding its way out of the small hole left in the roof. There was a quiet buzz of conversation as the dozen or so customers conversed in quiet tones over the small tables scattered around the room. Alan’s escort of four warriors looked quite out of place, playing dice together in a corner. Alan chose an unoccupied table a little distance from the fire and relaxed as he sat down, using one foot to drag a spare stool opposite him and then putting both booted feet up as he leaned back. Osmund sat carefully upright on his own chair. The inn-keeper, a big fat middle-aged man with a bald head, hurried across, wiping his hands clean on his apron as he did so.
“What can I get you, Masters?” he asked in a gravelly tone.
“Two quart pitchers of your best ale. What food do you have tonight?” demanded Alan.
“Pottage, of course, flavoured with nice fat bacon. We also have a good leek soup. Leverpostej- Danish pork- liver paste on dark rye bread with pickled beet, onions and cucumber. Goat stew with onions and herbs. Very nice! Pork rissoles with sage, shallots and parsley. Buttered vegetables and roast gourd. The oven is still lit, so we can whip up a nice steak and kidney pie or chicken pie. For dessert an apple pie, fresh fruit or cheeses. We have some fine Gorgonzola, Camembert, Emmenthal and an unusual very hard but piquant cheese that we get from a local cheese-maker- he ages it for several years,” replied the inn-keeper.
Alan paused for a moment. “Leek soup, Leverpostej with wortes and with a dash of dark vinegar. Then the goat stew with gourd. While we’re eating those, cook a steak and kidney pie for two, which we’ll have with the buttered vegetables. Apple pie and a cheese platter. Plenty of fresh bread. Keep the ale coming.”
After a nod the inn-keeper walked off towards the kitchen, shouting to the serving-wench behind the counter to bring the ale. The good-looking blonde-haired lass turned to the firkin behind her and adroitly drew two quart pitchers before walking with swaying hips across the tavern to the table and placing the pitchers before the two diners.
“Much better than eating at the refectory, don’t you think?’ asked Alan as he saw Osmund carefully studying the well-filled low-cut front of the serving-wench’s dress. Osmund grunted a reply.
Soup and bread arrived promptly and for the next hour the two men worked their way through the various
