Chapter 60
August, 1181
Avranches, Normandy
The page ran up the twisting steps, hardly mindful of the steep ascent or even where he put his feet although the way was dim and the grudging light from his tallow candle fluttered dangerously with his movement and threatened to extinguish itself with every footfall. The boy was young and knew where he was going; the candle had been given to him not for his benefit but to use to light the lamps in the chamber to which he hurried. He was on an important errand, one which would make up for being pulled rudely from his pallet, ordered to wash his face and dress carefully and packed off up the steps to deliver his message.
As he reached the landing, he paused to collect his breath. He suddenly felt very nervous. He would be closer to the viscount than he’d ever been and he worried that he might stammer or drop something or present the wrong apparel…He wished that he hadn’t been chosen for this honor. He glanced longingly back at the steps, now almost hidden in darkness.
But there were others waiting on his fulfillment of his task, not merely the viscount. He confronted the closed wooden door before him and debated knocking or simply entering, finally deciding upon the latter. After all, if the viscount didn’t want his pages walking straight into his chamber, then he would have barred the door before going to bed. Tentatively, he lifted the latch; it went up very easily and he knew the door wasn’t barred.
In contrast to his earlier energy, the boy now crept deliberately across the floor so as not to make a sound. The flame of the candle was steady. There was the bed and in it, the shape of a man. The boy could hear his rhythmic breathing, soft and low, and hesitated again. He’d never woken someone so important before. How would the man react? Perhaps he was in the middle of a good dream. Would he be angry? Annoyed? Would he shout at him, perhaps cuff him? He was a powerful man, not merely a viscount of Normandy but an earl, a premier magnate, of England—he could do anything he wanted and who would deny him?
“Did you come here with some purpose, boy, or just to ogle?”
The voice was gruff and sharp. The page’s head shot around. Sitting in an alcove under the window was Roger of Haworth. The unexpected sight so startled the young messenger that he gasped and dropped his candle onto the floor, where it quickly ignited one of the rushmats placed there to protect the lord’s feet from chill.
Haworth cursed and jumped down from his seat. He snatched a blanket from the bed and began beating at the flames. In little time, the fire was out, leaving the room in darkness and filled with choking, hazy smoke.
He coughed and was about to turn on the boy, when Hugh’s voice came casually from the bed. “Is there a problem, Roger?”
“No, my lord.” He hissed at the page, “Fetch another light!” His eyes were adjusting again to the darkness and he could see the cloud hanging in the air. He waved his arms in an effort to dispel what he could, sending it in the direction of the open window.
Hugh sat up, watching him. “You shouldn’t be doing that, Roger. You’ll aggravate your side. Anyway, it’s not accomplishing much.”
“That damned boy almost killed us!”
“You must have frightened him.”
“I told that bloody steward not to send anyone up this morning!”
The boy came running back with a lamp. Following a terse command from Haworth, he used a spill to light the candles on the room’s two tripods, then bowed deeply to the viscount and his captain and hastily retreated.
Hugh yawned. “He’s very busy, Roger. I’m sure he didn’t forget simply to offend you.” He shoved the remaining bedclothes back, swung his feet to the floor, stood up and stretched. “I see you’re ready to go.”
Haworth’s anger dissolved instantly at the sight of the body he loved so much. After all the years, after the betrayals, he was still in thrall to this man. And his devotion must finally be reciprocated, he thought, for hadn’t Hugh been faithful to him since that final confrontation with the Bastard? He had been lucky; the arrow had been stopped by a rib—shattering it, of course; even now he couldn’t lie on his right side and damp weather gave him pain every time he breathed but he would have been killed except for that rib—and there had been the inevitable illness afterwards which the Welsh healer had brought him through. Those days at Llanlleyn and the services of the Welshman, subsequently brought to Hawarden, had cost Hugh plenty in cattle, horses and coin, Haworth knew, but Hugh never mentioned it. And wasn’t he the reason the earl had abandoned Hawarden? With the near fatal shooting, Hugh had had enough. Once Haworth had been well enough to travel, Hugh had left a skeleton garrison at the castle, paid off most of his mercenaries, taken his treasures and retreated with Haworth and a moderate bodyguard to various of his English properties. It was, Haworth thought, as if the knowledge that he’d almost lost Haworth had finally made the earl realize how much he loved him.
“Ready, yes, my lord.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic, Roger.”
Haworth knew Hugh disliked unsolicited advice but he was obviously expecting it or his voice wouldn’t have held that familiar note of irritation. Haworth obliged him. “I don’t like this, my lord,” he said earnestly. “What Lord Aymer proposes is dangerous. How could he even think to involve you?”
“He remembers whose side I backed during the Great War.”
“But surely the king is watching you…”
“We’ve been through this before, Roger! Henry’s not a brooder. And the only thing he schemes at is marrying his children to partners whose land will increase his empire. It’s been three years! Either the Bastard never told him or it’s not important enough for him to care about.”
“I hope you’re right…”
“I am.” He looked around. “You haven’t used the pot, have you?”
“Of course not, my lord! I went to the privy.” Haworth got to his knees and poked underneath the bed. He emerged with a chamberpot which he placed on the floor in front of Hugh.
Over the sudden noise, Hugh continued, “And just in case I’m wrong, I don’t wish to offend my neighbors, do I? I might be the one looking for allies. So I’ll entertain Aymer and his brothers for a few days, pretend sympathy with their plight and promise them nothing.” He finished relieving himself in silence and then went over to a side table. “Anyway, I don’t think they’re serious. The prince has been successfully asserting his physical power in Aquitaine for a few years. They can’t fight him. Better for them to try to obtain satisfaction through legal means. If they appeal to the king, he would probably intervene.” He splashed water over his face and held out a hand for the towel Haworth placed in it. “Didn’t you sleep well, Roger?” he asked. “You woke me several times with your tossing.”
Haworth picked up the frothing pot and put it outside the chamber door. “I’m sorry, my lord. I was restless. My side ached and it was hard to get comfortable. That usually means bad weather.”
“Oh? The women won’t like rain.”
“Perhaps you might suggest they don’t join us…”
Hugh threw the towel to him. “Roger, we spoke of this last night. They want to come. What do you care? They won’t have anything to do with you. You frighten them.”
“Women don’t belong on a hunt, my lord. They ruin it. They don’t know when to keep quiet, they can’t control their horses and they laugh too much. We probably won’t kill anything.”
Hugh grinned. “Just keep your arrows away from them, Roger! I don’t want any accidents…”
The hunting party departed the castle after Mass, a long and noisy line of woodsmen, hunters, horses, dogs, servants, carts and wives. There were only two in the last category but to Haworth’s prejudiced ears, they were making the loudest noise. Their high-pitched voices and squeals of laughter made him gnash his teeth in annoyance.
He rode near the front of the line next to Gilbert le Loop, the huntsman. Gilbert was only in his early twenties, young to be the premier huntsman of a great estate, but hi
s father and predecessor had died of a fever the year before Hugh and Haworth had arrived and the steward had simply appointed him in his place. Gilbert had grown up at Avranches and had been his father’s constant companion. He knew every deer and rabbit trail in the forest at the northern limit of the demense and he described to Haworth the quarry he had in mind to offer Hugh, a large and well-proportioned stag which he called the Young King.
For someone who spent most of his time stealthily tracking game, Gilbert was unnaturally garrulous, Haworth thought dourly, but at least his chatter obscured some of the more offensive noises behind them and it had a certain friendly charm. Haworth was used to young men who were awed into silence while in his presence but Gilbert le Loop seemed unaffected by his status and spoke to Haworth almost as if they were equals. Perhaps on this territory, they were.
Dawn crept over the land as they left the cultivated fields and entered the forest. Gilbert ceased his speech long enough to breathe a few deep lungfuls of air and squint into the western sky. “I think we might get rain later,” he said. “I smell it. And I thought I saw a bank of clouds on the horizon in the west. It all depends on the wind.”
Haworth, who didn’t need to smell rain to know it was coming, asked, “What wind? It’s still as a corpse out here.”
Gilbert shrugged and grinned at him. “That’s what I mean. The wind will have to pick up if we are to have the rain.”
When the sun was a hazy orange disk low in the eastern sky, filtering between the towering oaks and poplars, the hunting party reached a clearing. Gilbert whistled piercingly and the beaters halted, pulling back on the dog leads. The huntsman said to Haworth, “We’ll stop here instead of our usual spot. Better for the women.” Before Haworth could reply, he turned in his saddle and called back to Hugh, “My lord! We’ll break our fast here!”
The next few moments were pandemonium as grooms ran up to help the guests from their horses and servants set up trestle tables and put out food and drink. Hugh and his male guests, Aymer, the viscount of Limoges and his two half-brothers, William, the would-be count of Angoulême and Aymer the younger, stood in a small circle laughing as they spoke, which told Haworth they were no longer discussing the transgressions of the prince. The wives of the two Aymers sat close to each other and blathered away. The dogs barked because they smelled food and were hungry, not having been fed that morning to make them keener for the hunt and the beaters and woodsmen stood in their own version of their lords’ circle, presumably discussing much the same subject as Hugh and his companions, Haworth thought, as the amount of laughter coming from them was comparable. Haworth’s head ached.
After dismounting, Gilbert had gone to speak a few words with Hugh and now he returned and said to Haworth, “The stream is just beyond that row of bracken. I’m going to have a wash and then I’ll take the dogs on ahead and flush out the Young King.”
Haworth was aware of Gilbert’s quirky ritual of bathing before setting off after his prey. The young man claimed the water washed the scent from him and made him less threatening to the animals he chased and while Haworth mostly doubted this, since he put the same clothes back on, it couldn’t be denied that he was an excellent tracker and no one had ever returned from his hunts empty-handed.
“I wonder you didn’t stop at our usual spot, then,” he remarked. “The stream is right at the edge of the clearing.”
“That’s why I said this one is better for the ladies, Sir Roger.” Gilbert winked at him. “They won’t be able to see me in all my glory and tear their hair out because they can’t have me.”
Haworth almost choked. He thought Gilbert was only half-joking. He glanced back at the chaos surrounding the breakfast board and didn’t see a place for himself. “I’ll join you,” he said, when he’d recovered his breath.
While Gilbert stripped himself naked, walked out into the middle of the shallow stream and lay down in the slow current, immersing himself so that only his nose broke the surface, Haworth contented himself with removing his leather hunting jerkin and the linen tunic underneath. He squatted at the gravelly edge of the stream and splashed water over his upper torso and head, as much for something to do as to refresh himself, gasping a little in shock at its icy temperature and wondering how the other man could lie in it for so long.
Another moment passed and Haworth became concerned. Perhaps Gilbert had had some kind of seizure…but then the huntsman suddenly sat up with a noisy, joyous whoop and gave a mighty swing of his head which whipped the fair hair, now considerably darkened by wetness, off his brow. A few drops spattered into Haworth. He straightened up and began wiping himself down with his shirt to cover his confusion. Gilbert was more than competent in his work but otherwise behaved in a manner better suited to a child than a man. There were at most fifteen years between them but Gilbert made Haworth feel old enough to be his father.
“Sir Roger, is that scar from the wound you received in Wales?”
Haworth automatically glanced underneath his arm to the jagged, puckered scar and the neater cut running a short way down his side where the Welsh physician had opened the wound to remove the arrow point and bone splinters and permit blood to wash it clean. He recounted for Gilbert the circumstances leading to the shooting without mentioning the Bastard or Rhuddlan but making it sound as if it had been just another battle against the Welsh. Gilbert had never seen a longbow but had heard of its tremendous power and was obviously impressed that a man could be shot with one and yet survive. “My lord was right about you,” he said with admiration. “He told me you’re invincible, Sir Roger, and seeing that wound and hearing your tale, I believe him.”
They rejoined the party as breakfast was ending. The two women had somehow ended up on either side of Hugh and Haworth saw that as soon as one stopped talking, the other started. Indeed, when Hugh spotted him, the look of relief on his face was plain. He smiled and said something to the ladies and then extricated himself from the bench and went to meet his captain and his huntsman.
“Thank God you're back!” he exclaimed in a low voice to Haworth. “Those damned women are making my head spin! I let slip that we had stopped at Stroud for a time before ending up here and they’ve been pestering me with questions about my daughter ever since. And one of them had the audacity to ask why Eleanor and the little boy don’t live with us.” He gave the other man a quick nod. “Gilbert, what’s your plan?”
“I will take the beaters and the dogs up ahead, my lord, and scout out the Young King,” the young man said cheerfully. “It’s early yet. I’ve no doubt he and his herd are still feeding and I’ve got a good idea where I’ll find them.”
Hugh looked from Haworth to le Loop. “The Young King?”
“A fine stag, my lord. I’ve been following him for over a year. Just waiting for an important occasion.”
“Yes, yes, but why do you call him the Young King? Is there a more impressive one out there?”
“No, my lord, only me. I’m the king of this forest and the Young King is here only at my sufferance.”
Haworth laughed, a harsh sound. Gilbert inclined his head and trotted off towards his horse. Hugh watched him go and then turned to Haworth. “Do you find him amusing, Roger? I don't think I’ve heard you laugh in years.”
“He’s…different, my lord.”
Hugh snorted. “I think the word is charming, Roger.”
“If you don’t mind, my lord, I’d like to go with him.”
The earl gave him a curious look and then shrugged. “By all means…”
Gilbert was right; the Young King wasn’t far away. Less than a league from the clearing, the dogs picked up his scent and the intensity of their yapping increased tenfold. One of the woodsmen ran back to Gilbert and said excitedly, “We’ve found where they’ve been feeding!”
The huntsman leaned towards Haworth as they rode after the man. “This is hardly sport,” he remarked. “The Young King is so brazen he doesn’t bother to vary his trail. Look there,” he pointed to a tree
whose trunk was tufted in one area with what looked like a brown-grey fur. “He rubs his head in the same spot every day and the rough bark sloughs off the velvet from his antlers.” He laughed. “Fearless, that’s him! He knows I’ve been watching him for months. I even take a dog or two with me every so often so he’s gotten used to smelling them, too. And he doesn’t care! He thinks nothing can touch him.”
The beaters and the dogs waited just ahead. Le Loop threw down his reins and hopped off his horse. He walked toward an object on the ground and beckoned to Haworth, who dismounted and joined him. “Look at that, Sir Roger,” he said with awed glee. “Did you ever see spoor so large? I tell you, the Young King is immense. Lord Hugh will look like a champion when he takes him down.”
“The earl will probably give that honor away,” Haworth answered, staring at the steaming pile.
Gilbert shrugged indifferently. He found a tree suitable to his purpose and had one of his men boost him up until he was able to catch a lower branch. He climbed the tree as effortlessly as he rode his horse, Haworth noted, and admired the lithe, energetic body without envy. He himself could no longer move as easily, especially since Llanlleyn, but he had accepted that as a part of getting older and at any rate, the last three years had made him a content man and he could look upon anything without envy and with uncomplicated enjoyment whereas once he would have been begrudging and callous. It was because of Hugh, of course. Now he had Hugh, faithful and solicitous.
Le Loop slithered down the tree. “I’ve seen him! They’ve stopped to graze again.” He paused and frowned, as though he were thinking. Then he said, “Sir Roger, how good are my lord’s guests?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them hunt, although Aquitaine is known more for its troubadours than hunters.”
“Then may I suggest this plan—you and I will ride back to join the party. The beaters will come up behind the deer, separate the Young King from the others and drive him towards us.”
But Haworth was reluctant to return to the hunting party. It was blessedly quiet in this part of the forest. “Why?” he asked bluntly.
“The Young King is a massive creature, Sir Roger,” Gilbert said with uncharacteristic solemnity. “If he crashes through my lord’s guests, even wounded, he will cause injury. But if I am there to make certain at least one arrow flies true and strikes him dead, I will prevent such harm.”
He couldn’t argue with well-meaning intent, so he nodded and the huntsman gave the appropriate instructions to his men, hoisted himself back into the saddle and turned his horse’s head back toward the path they’d just come up.
Le Loop was describing to Hugh and the men from Angoulême the probable path of the Young King once the beaters flushed him. Haworth, who wasn’t expecting to shoot, waited to one side. To his relief, the women had stayed back at the clearing with the baggage and the servants. The only others present were the guests’ attendants, all mounted and ready to give chase should the stag escape the trap.
He watched the forest. Under the shelter of the trees, the air was still and heavy with dampness. His side ached and when he looked up into the sky, he saw the tops of the trees swaying.
Hearty laughter diverted his attention and he glanced over at the earl. Gilbert was apparently regaling his listeners with some ribald tale, for the men were grinning and would occasionally break into chuckles. Then Haworth saw the huntsman lean over and clap his hand onto Hugh’s shoulder; the others laughed again and Haworth, momentarily outraged, started to snatch up the slack in his reins in order to ride to them and demand le Loop remove his hand. But he relaxed almost immediately. Le Loop meant nothing by it, he was certain; the young man was maddeningly familiar with everyone and Hugh would not appreciate misguided intervention.
A sharp whistle suddenly pierced the air. “That’s the signal!” Gilbert called excitedly. “Prepare yourselves and remember: take careful aim! If I know this beast, you’ll only have one clear shot!”
As Haworth had predicted, the earl’s three guests were invited to put themselves forward, each to have an equal, first chance at the kill, while Hugh himself dropped back. Haworth went to stand next to him but discovered that Gilbert was in his place. He was annoyed but thought little of it as the huntsman had been standing there for some time as he had told his stories. And then there was no time to think: the Young King came crashing out of the undergrowth, headed straight towards them.
Haworth saw the stag’s momentary hesitation as it caught sight of the hunters standing in its path but instead of veering to one side as another deer might do, it seemed to increase its speed. Indeed, it let out a high-pitched scream as it ran, as though it were challenging the very men who sought to kill it; the Angoulêmers loosed their arrows at one time and then pulled their horses out of harm’s way. From his vantage, Haworth saw that only one of the arrows had hit its mark and it was a feeble puncture to the right foreleg; obviously a lucky shot, but it didn’t appear to affect the Young King’s gait in the least. He hadn’t expected to shoot, but his bow was in his hand just in case and now he quickly fit an arrow to the cord and took aim but even this practiced, fluid movement was too slow. The stag suddenly leaned back on its powerful rear legs and then it was flying in the air. Haworth’s arrow passed underneath it and landed harmlessly in some tree a fair distance away. He watched in horror as the animal sailed right at Hugh, still screaming its challenge. There was an answering shrieking of horses being pulled this way and that; the attendants were scrambling to get out of the stag’s path and the Angoulêmers were shouting something Haworth’s mind could not register. He reached for another arrow but Gilbert had been right; he’d had only opportunity for one: shooting the Young King in the rump would not slow its impetus. And Hugh was just standing there! Haworth yelled but the earl didn’t move. Gilbert le Loop was standing in his stirrups, javelin pulled back to his ear, waiting, almost casually it looked to an increasingly frenzied Haworth, but then in one motion he snapped it forward and dove for Hugh, sweeping him off his horse and bringing him to the ground. Haworth saw the javelin hit the stag square in its massive chest; there was an immediate splay of blood and then the animal landed, scattering the remaining horses. Its front legs crumpled under its weight and Haworth could hear its gurgled breathing. It pawed vainly for purchase on the ground, trying to stand, but the blood was seeping away too rapidly; it gave one great shuddering gasp and collapsed into stillness.
From Haworth’s position, he could not see Hugh. For all the men and horses strewn around a small area, it was eerily quiet. Haworth dismounted and started to run to the spot where he’d last seen the earl but was stopped in his tracks by a strange sound. At first he thought the stag, which was lying legs spread apart on the path before him, was not yet dead but he saw no movement from the body and the noise continued until he realized it was Gilbert le Loop laughing.
Not six yards from the carcass he found the huntsman and Hugh entangled on the ground. Gilbert was laughing so hard it was apparent he couldn't move, which meant that Hugh, whose face bore a look of amusement, was trapped beneath him. Haworth stood over them and lashed into the young man. “Are you out of your mind, le Loop? What kind of lunacy was that? You might have killed the earl! You might have killed all of us!”
Gilbert collected himself and got to his knees. He reached a hand to Hugh and together they helped each other up. “I did give fair warning, Sir Roger,” he said. “I did say the Young King was fearless and magnificent.” His eyes came to rest on the fallen stag with a reverential expression. “I did not lie.”
“No indeed!” Hugh seconded firmly. He slapped Haworth’s back companionably. “No harm done, Roger! Of course, we may never find my mount…”
“I believe if I hadn’t brought you down, my lord, that horse would have thrown you when he bolted,” Gilbert said.
“So, Roger? A lucky escape.”
“I’ll send someone after your horse,” Haworth said a little stiffly. He felt disgruntled. Gilbert’s delib
erate manipulation of the hunt, no doubt intended all along to make him look like a hero, had put everyone in danger yet he was the only one who minded. William and the two Aymers trotted up and dismounted hastily, falling over themselves to congratulate the huntsman and ogle the dead animal.
He’d have to return to the clearing to find a groom to send after Hugh’s horse, which was probably closing in on the castle by now. As he turned away, he could hear Gilbert describing how he had waited until he’d judged the moment perfect to hurl the javelin. There came the sound of dogs barking frantically. The beaters had returned. As he put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle, Haworth glanced back a last time at the hunting party. Gilbert’s mouth was still moving although now it was difficult to hear what he was saying because of the clamor of the hounds. He was bending over the carcass and had produced a long knife. The blade glinted very briefly in a shaft of sunlight filtering through the tree tops and Haworth squinted. Impatiently, he pulled his horse’s head around and touched his spurs to its flanks.
Despite the mildness of the day, the hall remained full after the heavy main meal. The rain Haworth had felt since the morning and Gilbert had predicted now seemed imminent to everyone. The sky had turned a thin white, with the orange disk of the sun showing plainly but dimly. At the dais, the two Aymers and William pressed their case onto Hugh in voices unrestrained by drink and the flush of the successful hunt. Haworth, at the end of the table, paid scant attention although he was annoyed. One of the reasons the viscount had given Hugh for the hunt was because he suspected the king’s spies in Hugh’s household; spies Henry might have placed, in the guise of knights or servants, after the Rebellion. He and his half brothers had wanted a private conversation. Now listen to them, Haworth thought sourly; if the king himself was anywhere in Normandy, he would be able to hear their plotting without the expense of paying spies.
Abruptly, he left his place. The hall was crowded but everyone moved out of his way as he walked through it, pausing once or twice to exchange a word with soldiers who greeted him. His side ached; he thought it was strange how he felt more pain after being still for a time, as when he slept or sat down to a meal, than during some strenuous physical activity. He rolled his right shoulder to try to relieve the stiffness.
The air outside was thick and moist and a steady wind blew in from the west. Haworth looked up into the sky. There would be more than a mere rain; he sensed a storm. The worst possible ending to a bad day: stuck in a hall all night with the men from Aquitaine and their silly wives. He would excuse himself early and go to bed.
“Sir Roger! Sir Roger!”
His eyes focused on the figure hurrying across the ward towards him, one arm upraised to catch his attention and the other holding a tan bundle. It was Gilbert le Loop. He hadn’t seen the boy since the killing as he had waited in the clearing for the hunters to return and Gilbert had remained behind with his men to do a preliminary butchering, but his displeasure with him had eased. The huntsman suffered from an abundance of self-assurance, ebullience and the need to show-off but these were the faults of youth and sooner or later the world would take him down a peg. Haworth halted but said nothing.
Gilbert stopped a small distance from him. His expression was like a dog’s, hopeful but wary. “I’m happy to meet you, Sir Roger,” he said.
Haworth frowned slightly. “Why?”
The young man took a step forward. “Because my lord told me you were angry with me,” he said. “And I wanted to apologize to you and present you with this.” With a dramatic flap, he unloosed the bundle in his arm and shook out the hide of the stag, perfectly recognizable but for its lack of hooves and head. Gilbert had to hold the top with his arms reaching high and even then the bottom trailed a little on the ground.
“Is this the Young King?” Haworth asked unnecessarily, but he was so surprised at such a gift that he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Gilbert’s head peeked around the hide. “Yes, Sir Roger. The hide belongs to the one who brings down the beast, so it’s mine to give. I hope you will accept it. I’ll have it scraped and cured and tanned, of course. I just wanted you to see it in near its proper size. It will shrink with the working.”
Haworth put out his hand and touched the rough hairs. “This is a fine hide, huntsman. You would do better to give it to the earl. He might reward you in some way.”
Gilbert lowered his arms and started to roll up the hide. “I’ve no need to gift my lord, Sir Roger, and it was he who suggested I offer it to you. I respect his word. I know I’m fortunate to hold the position I have at my raw age and it’s at his sufferance I do so. Will you accept this token?”
Refusal would have meant slighting Hugh as well as Gilbert le Loop but that thought didn’t enter Haworth’s mind at the time. It was a combination of the huntsman’s youth and hopeful eyes which made Haworth feel parentally magnanimous and when he nodded his acceptance and spoke his thanks, he provoked a transformation of Gilbert’s expression into delight, which he couldn’t help but respond to with his own crooked smile.
Haworth awoke with a start and touched a hand to his cheek. It was wet. He frowned, confused. Had some melancholy dream awakened him? He couldn’t remember…Then he felt the splash of water on his face again and realized the rain he’d expected all day had finally arrived and was spattering in through the unshuttered windows.
He reached out to his right but the other side of the bed was empty. Now he was fully awake. He sat upright. By the scant light of the lamp he’d left by the door, he could see that Hugh had not yet joined him; the sheets were smooth and undisturbed. He thought it was perhaps earlier than he imagined but another glance at the lamp, almost sputtering from dwindling fuel, told him it was early morning—past time for Hugh to be with him. It was evident the earl had never come up to his chambers after supper.
Haworth’s grip tightened on the mattress. If Hugh was not with him at this hour, then he was with someone else.
In the years since Robert Bolsover’s death, Haworth had felt that Hugh was pulling away from him. In consequence, he’d done everything he could think of to make himself indispensable in Hugh’s life, culminating in that near-fatal clash with the Bastard’s men at Llanlleyn. He’d thought that almost losing him had finally opened Hugh’s eyes, especially as the earl had never been so attentive and so caring in the sum of their years together as he had been in the last three. It was Hugh himself who had put that idea in Haworth’s head; how many times had he gently run his fingers along the red, puckered scar or kissed it as if amazed at this tangible proof of Haworth’s undying loyalty and steadfast commitment to him?
Perhaps he had not been as vigilant as he ought to have been. Perhaps the earl’s kindness and outward devotion had made him too relaxed in his position to sense if Hugh was restless and looking for someone new.
A few weeks earlier, Haworth had also awakened to find Hugh was not in bed beside him. For a little time, he hadn’t been concerned, thinking Hugh might have gone to the garderobe or in search of wine or something to eat, but Hugh had not returned. Haworth had pulled on clothes and gone to the hall, but couldn’t find him. He’d gone back to the chamber, resolved to stay awake until Hugh appeared, but when, a little before dawn, the earl had finally walked in, stripped himself and eased into bed, Haworth hadn’t spoken a word. For some reason he couldn’t quite articulate even to himself, he’d had the feeling he wouldn’t want to hear the answer to any question he might ask.
But tonight, after a day of curtailed meals, a day spent in the company of people he disliked and a day whose weather had given him a nagging ache in his side, he wanted to know the truth. He deserved to know the truth! He got out of bed and his feet touched mats dampened by the rain coming in through the windows. He picked up the clothes he’d flung over the table before he’d gone to sleep and pulled on a tunic and leggings. He thrust his wet feet into his boots and laced them with quick, practiced fingers. His eyes went automatically to h
is sword and he hesitated. Then his jaw tightened and he scooped up the weapon and his belt. By the time he had reached the hall, he had wrapped the belt around his hips and stuck the sword in a loop on his left side.
The hall was dark and mostly quiet. There were the usual soft noises of people sleeping and here and there a couple sat close together and whispered, their bodies blending in the grainy dimness into one large, huddled lump. Haworth judged the easiest route to the outer doors and took it, his stride sure and brisk.
Because the night was warm, the doors had been left open. There was a small half-circle of wet stone where the rain was spattering in and Haworth halted abruptly. He’d forgotten about the rain. Across the ward, he could see it falling hard and fast against the backdrop of the torchlight flickering in the covered guard towers.
“Do you need something, Sir Roger?” a voice asked.
His head spun to the left. In a small alcove by the doors, out of range of the rain, two men-at-arms stood.
“You don’t want to go out in this weather,” the second man added. “We can get whatever you want.”
He hesitated again. But he wanted to know! “Actually,” he said calmly, “I’m looking for the viscount.”
Was it his imagination or did the two men exchange an uneasy glance? “We saw him leave just before the rain started,” the first man said. “He rode out of the castle. Unless he came through the postern, he hasn’t returned.”
“But there’s no problem, Sir Roger!” the second man assured him in a voice so full of false cheer that Haworth knew the two men knew everything. “He said he’d be back before dawn.”
Haworth stepped close to the men. “Where did he go?”
“He didn’t say—”
Haworth’s hand flew out and grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt. He pulled the guard towards him. “Where did he go?”
“He didn’t say, Sir Roger!” the first man said nervously. “But the rumor is he visits the huntsman.”
Haworth released the other man and stepped back, staring at the two of them. Blood throbbed in his head and he could hardly breathe. “Bring me a horse and have the gate opened,” he said in a tight voice. When neither man moved, he barked, “Do it!” and the two of them hurried out.
By the time Haworth reached Gilbert le Loop’s dwelling at the edge of the forest he was soaked, although he scarcely noticed. His mind was churning with fragments of sentences the huntsman had spoken in apparent innocence but which now seemed to have incriminating significance…“I have no need to gift my lord…”“My lord told me you’re invincible…” The implication that he and Hugh spoke often. He remembered le Loop’s hand on Hugh’s shoulder and his dramatic leap onto Hugh and the way he’d pinned the earl on the ground…And how had he been so blind to the obvious? Gilbert was young and blond, brash and arrogant—the very qualities to which Hugh had ever been susceptible.
He drew up at the gap in the low stone wall delineating the huntsman’s compound. For someone of his age and status, Haworth thought, Gilbert lived finely. The wall enclosed a timbered house, several outbuildings, a substantial kitchen garden and a row of small fruit trees on its inner side. He sat for a moment, considering the number of people who might be inside the house but couldn’t remember le Loop speaking of companions or servants. Perhaps a woman to clean and cook for him—perhaps his mother yet lived. If he had brothers they would probably be younger—otherwise he wouldn’t have been the one to take his father’s position. Haworth absently wiped a drip of rain off his cheek. He decided potential interlopers were a negligible factor and urged his horse through the opening in the wall.
The house, one storey of living area with cellars underneath, was dark and silent to his left. To his right were three rougher buildings. One must, he thought, be the stable and the others some kind of storage buildings. He glanced at the house, suddenly doubtful. Surely if the earl were inside there would be a light. Surely Hugh couldn’t risk sleeping if he were to return to his chambers before dawn. What if the guards—the rumor—had been wrong? What if he himself were wrong? He would look like an old, jealous fool. If, however, Hugh’s horse were in the stable, then Haworth’s dark suppositions would be vindicated.
He dismounted, tied the reins to a crabapple tree by the wall and crossed the yard to the first building. As he put his hand to the short bar of wood fitted into two notched protuberances on either side of the door, he heard strange noises from within; snuffling and shifting sounds quite unlike the usual sounds made by horses. A little puzzled, he swung the bar up and opened the door. At that moment, chaos was unleashed.
This wasn’t the stable but the kennels where the huntsman kept the earl’s hounds. There were crates and pens inside, generously proportioned and provisioned with straw, and filled with barking, frantic dogs, disturbed in their sleep and faced with an unfamiliar intruder.
The clamor was loud and unnerving. Haworth hastily stepped backwards and slammed the door shut. The barking did not abate, nor did it seem to decrease in volume. He knew what would happen next and he turned towards the house to meet it. Sure enough, a moment later he saw a light moving across the darkened windows and then the door to the house flew in with sudden force. A figure appeared on the threshold and despite the rain and the night, Haworth recognized it immediately. “Who is it?” the huntsman demanded, loudly and sternly. “Answer me! Who is it?”
Haworth moved into his line of vision. “It’s I, le Loop,” he answered. “Roger of Haworth.”
Was there a slight hesitation before le Loop repeated his name? And then, pulling the door closed after him, the huntsman hurried down the steps and across the muddy yard. He stopped a few yards from Haworth. “What brings you here, Sir Roger?” His voice sounded cautious to the other man.
“I was told I would find the earl here.”
They were both speaking loudly because the barking continued, even more frantic now as the dogs recognized their master’s voice. The noise grated on Haworth’s already thin nerves but le Loop didn’t seem bothered. “The earl?” he echoed.
Haworth studied him. In the vast darkness, clad only in a thin, unbleached tunic now wet from rain and clinging to his lithe frame, Gilbert’s demeanor was not as self-assured as it had been during the hunt—this despite the fact that he stood in his own home. He seemed vulnerable, uncertain what to say or what to make of this strange interruption of his night. His face looked young and bewildered, not calculating or triumphant. He was not like Bolsover or de Vere…Haworth didn’t feel the same hatred for le Loop as he had for the other two. The boy had never crossed him; indeed, had treated him with respect.
“Yes,” Haworth said when it was clear Gilbert would say no more. “You remember? The man who owns the castle above the plain? This house of yours?” Suddenly he frowned. “Can’t you quiet those hounds?”
“Yes, of course, Sir Roger!” The young man seemed relieved to be told what to do. “If you will just move aside…”
Wordlessly, Haworth stepped to his left. Gilbert pushed the bar up and stepped over the threshold. Without warning, Haworth gave his back a might shove and le Loop went flying. Haworth pulled the door shut and set the bar down. He didn’t think there was another exit from the building but didn’t bother to waste time investigating. He was quite certain Gilbert wouldn’t chase after him.
He turned towards the house.
There was now a yellow light showing behind one of the two shuttered windows in the long side of the house facing him. He was aware of nothing now except his own apprehension. There was no rain, no shrill dogs, no night, no horse tethered to the crabapple tree…There was only a hand around his heart, squeezing painfully, a grip so tight it was hard to draw breath. He stared at the window, trying to breathe, feeling lightheaded. For the first time in his life, he was frightened. He could, he thought, just turn around and leave.
But he couldn’t leave. He started walking across the yard.
He didn’t understand why this time was different than
the others. This time he blamed Hugh, not the young man with whom he’d taken up. But why? Because he thought more kindly of Gilbert le Loop, whom he considered cocky but not calculating? Or because it was one time too many? Or because he’d thought Hugh had finally come to realize it was Haworth he needed, not those dazzling youngsters with their fair hair and taut, slender bodies?
He climbed the wooden steps to the door and opened it.
The room into which he stepped comprised most of the house’s living space. There were two simple plank doors at the far end to his right where two rooms had apparently been partitioned off and almost immediately to his left was a large hearth, but apart from these features the house was mostly this rectangular room. There were shelves and hooks fixed onto and into the wall opposite the door upon which were arrayed various household implements and nonperishable stores and there was a collection of outer garb hanging on pegs in the wall by the door. He took it all in without really seeing it and then, because there was nothing else to look at, his eyes went to the focal point of the room: an enormous wooden table with a long bench on either side.
Hugh sat facing him, a lamp set on the table beside him. Like the huntsman, he was only casually dressed, as though he’d been naked and had hastily thrown on some clothing when the dogs had barked their warning.
Haworth stared at him, confused by his reaction. He’d been angered by the realization of Hugh’s betrayal; he’d spent the time waiting for the saddled horse to be brought to him and riding to le Loop’s house gnawing on every possible encounter Hugh and the huntsman may have had, embellishing every word, every casual greeting, until the affair seemed to dwarf his own relationship with Hugh in its passion and intensity, until all his years with the earl had been reduced to a trivial fling. But some of his anger had dissipated when confronted by the young man’s cautious civility and now it was further deflated by Hugh’s calm, self-possessed posture at the table and his steady, returning stare.
“Well…” Hugh said mildly when Haworth did not speak. “I won’t say this is a surprise.”
The hand around Haworth’s heart squeezed violently and his face twisted with anguish. “Why?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Why what, Roger? Why aren’t I suprised to see you? Why after three years? Why Gilbert le Loop?” He paused. “Why aren’t you enough?”
Again the hand squeezed and now there was also a sharp pain in his stomach, as if someone had just stabbed him with a dagger. “Yes, my lord…” he croaked. “Why aren’t I enough?”
Hugh looked at him for a moment before replying, his eyes dark in the scanty light, expressionless. Then he said, “I don’t know,” in a flat voice.
Haworth felt lightheaded. He moved clumsily to the nearest bench and sat down. He leaned his elbows on the table, put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
“Roger…I have a deep affection for you. I respect you as a soldier, a knight and my captain. You've been nothing but loyal—”
His head snapped up at that. “Everything I’ve ever done has been for you, my lord!” he interrupted plaintively. “I thought, especially since Llanlleyn, that you finally understood that.”
“I’ve always known it, Roger. And have always been grateful. I’m sorry you’re upset.”
“But you don't really care, do you, my lord?” he said bitterly. “And you can’t tell me it won’t happen again with someone else.”
Hugh frowned. “Someone else? Roger, what have you done with Gilbert?”
“I locked him in the kennels with his precious hounds. Safe enough.” Hugh’s expression of relief was so obvious that he perversely added, “For now.”
“Roger, he’s the innocent party in this—”
“Innocent? No, my lord, he is not innocent in this!” Haworth scrambled to his feet. “He is no more innocent than Bolsover or de Vire! Perhaps I will have to take care of le Loop as I took care of those two!”
Hugh was suddenly very still. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.
“What I said.”
“Are you out of your mind, Roger?” But it was spoken calmly, as if Hugh didn’t believe him. “Robert Bolsover was killed in a hunting accident and you told me the Bastard himself murdered de Vire.”
“There was no accident, my lord! My aim was deliberate. As for that turd de Vire…well, you sent me after him and I found him. It was the Welsh who captured me after I’d killed him and then Richard Delamere. I didn’t see the Bastard until I was taken to his camp.”
The shock on Hugh’s face was plain even in the poor light. Haworth had been speaking with an anger prompted by Hugh’s concern for the huntsman and disregard for the man who’d been his most loyal servant for almost twenty years but now he relented. He didn’t want to hurt Hugh; that would make him the same kind of man as the others. He leaned over the table and reached a hand towards Hugh’s shoulder but the earl pulled back.
“Roger, please tell me you’re lying. Please tell me this isn’t true! The story you told me about Ralph…”
“I made it up, my lord. I had to! You were at death’s door, don’t you remember?” Haworth spoke in a quiet, urgent voice. He sat down again and looked earnestly at Hugh. “You hadn’t left your chamber for months! You were going to die! I told you that story because I knew the idea of vengeance against the Bastard would spur you into action! Would make you live!”
“But you killed him, Roger! Why? And Robert Bolsover as well? Why, Roger? Because they were rivals for my attention?”
“No! Because they would have destroyed you, my lord!” He tried to keep his voice even but he was strangely elated. He’d long wanted to explain everything he’d done to Hugh; he wanted no secrets between them. He hadn’t envisioned this time, this place, these circumstances but it was all right. He’d get the burden of secrecy off his shoulders and then he and Hugh could start again. “You cared for them more deeply than they cared for you—they wanted only what your money and power could give them—they cared nothing for you as a man!”
“But that was my decision, Roger, not yours—”
“My lord, you were too entangled to think clearly. You couldn’t make a rational decision. I had to intervene! To save you!” Haworth’s heart was beating so rapidly he had to pause to take a breath. “I admit, I was jealous of Bolsover. But that’s not why I killed him. His influence over you was too great for a man of your position. You’d given him land and income and horses—you’d even married his sister! Who knows where it would have ended if I hadn’t put a stop to him! And afterwards—you thanked me! Don’t you remember, my lord? You said you’d been wrong to get involved with a man like Robert Bolsover. You said it must never happen again. You said I must not let you make a fool of yourself again!”
Hugh was shaking his head. “I don’t remember that…”
“And then I saw it starting again with Ralph de Vire!”
“You hated Ralph…”
“No, my lord. I hated the influence he had over you.”
Hugh did not reply. He sat at the table, no longer looking at Haworth but at some point on the long plank. Haworth said nothing although his stomach was churning. He thought the earl was carefully considering everything he’d said; he thought once Hugh went over it all, he would understand his captain’s actions—and admit they had been necessary.
Then Hugh stood up. He looked down at Haworth, whose face was tilted toward him expectantly. “This is the most fantastic story I’ve ever heard, Roger,” he said quietly. “I will not bring charges of murder against you—”
“Charges!”
“—if you agree to leave my service at first light. I will give you coin, three horses, a new hauberk and sword. As long as you swear never to come near me again, I will not divulge the circumstances of your dismissal.”
Haworth was stunned further. “You’re dismissing me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Hugh leaned over the table. “Roger, you are a man obsessed. It's best for the both of us
, but particularly for you, if we are no longer with each other.”
“My lord, didn’t you hear what I said? I did what I did for you! To help you! ”
Hugh’s voice was sharp. “You did it for yourself, Roger!”
Haworth got to his feet. “How can you say that? It isn’t true!” he protested.
But Hugh wasn’t listening. He’d turned away and now Haworth watched as he picked up the lamp from the table, walked to the far end of the room, opened one of the doors and disappeared behind it. Haworth stood in the sudden darkness, staring helplessly at the door, bewildered by the turn of the conversation. He’d laid it all down for Hugh very plainly. Why didn’t Hugh see the truth of it? And now, he thought miserably, it was going to happen again with Gilbert le Loop.
After some time, the far door opened and Hugh re-appeared, holding the lamp before him. He’d gotten properly dressed, including boots and sword. He took a few steps forward and then stopped and frowned at Haworth. “Are you still here? Take your horse, go back to the castle and spend the remainder of the night in the barracks. In the morning, see my steward. Everything will have been arranged.”
“My lord, perhaps I didn’t explain correctly—”
“You explained very well, Roger!” With an angry step, he crossed the floor and Haworth thought he would keep going, through the door and into the yard but he stopped abruptly when he was close to him, as if he’d had second thoughts. After a long pause, he turned to face Haworth and his expression, which had been so horribly rigid only a moment before had calmed. “We have a long history, Roger,” he said. “Because of that, it’s hard to see our relationship end.” And then, as Haworth started to reach out to him, he added, “But I can never forgive you for what you did.”
“My lord, what will you do?” Haworth said frantically, his voice rising as Hugh moved off towards the door.
He meant what would Hugh do without him to watch his back and perhaps the earl even knew this, but his answer was matter-of-fact and firm. “I’m going to release Gilbert and have him saddle my horse. Then I’m going home.”
And Haworth heard the unspoken but implicit, final two words, “without you.” They echoed in his head, cold and unfeeling, despite the years of friendship and affection between them. In an instant, his anguish grew into an outraged despair. Hugh was walking to the door; he’d switched the lamp to his left hand and had put his right on the latch. Any moment now he would be out of Haworth’s life forever. Haworth wanted to cry out, “My lord, what will I do?” because he knew that without Hugh, his life was meaningless. He didn’t even realize he was trailing after the other man…
In less time than it took the earl to lift up the latch and begin to pull in the door, Haworth had seized him by the arm. Hugh swung around angrily. The light from the lamp flickered violently. “What do you think you’re doing, Roger?” he demanded and tried to pull his arm free.
Haworth, however, was the stronger of the two and his grip tightened rather than eased. “I’m not letting you go to him, my lord!” he said between gritted teeth. Now that Hugh was facing him, he grabbed his other arm. “He’ll only ruin you in the end and if you send me away, I won’t be here to help you! I’ll stop it now!”
Hugh struggled in his captain’s grip. “Don’t be ridiculous, Roger! Let go of me immediately!”
For a moment they wrestled each other. At first, Haworth heard only the grunting of men vying for position and the scrape of boot heels on the wooden floor and then there was a sudden crash and he heard shouting. It began as an uncomprehensible babble from far away but grew louder and louder in little time until it filled the room and he had to squeeze his eyes shut so he would not see it. But it was impossible to keep it out of his ears. The noise was deafening. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears but that would have meant releasing his hold on Hugh and then the earl would flee and he’d be left alone, forever. As long as he could hold Hugh, he would. He tried to raise his voice over the din, to explain to Hugh why he had to hold onto him, why he couldn’t let him go to the huntsman, why he was the only one who had ever loved him and, unlike the others, didn’t want anything of him but love in return…And why didn’t Hugh understand this? Why? Why had Hugh accused him of being selfish because he’d killed de Vire and Bolsover when he’d killed them out of sheer love? Did he deserve to be treated like a criminal, cast out of Hugh’s service and told never to come near him again when he’d done it all to save Hugh’s sanity and body? Was his near-death in the field outside Llanlleyn of such small consequence that Hugh would not even think to mention it? Did all those years of devotion count for nothing because he wasn’t blond, young and arrogant? It wasn’t right!
He was breathless from so much talking, so much exertion. The room seemed suddenly hot and suffocating and the earl was heavy in his hands. Somehow, they’d fallen down onto the floor in their struggling. As he paused to catch his breath, Haworth became aware that the awful shouting had finally stopped but had been replaced with a different roar, crackling and steady. He tried to breathe again but the air was hot in his throat. He looked down at Hugh and saw his face was brightly lit by the fire. Hugh did not move. His eyes were open and staring at Haworth but despite his dulled senses, Haworth knew immediately that the earl didn’t see him. He didn’t understand what had happened; he was dizzy and his mind was confused. And it was impossible to breathe! That was odd: that he was so tired he couldn’t summon the strength to breathe. He looked at the earl again as his elbows buckled. He thought Hugh would not mind very much if he rested his head on his chest just one last time…
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