The outlaws, p.2
The Outlaws, page 2
Unimpressed by Robert’s grief, one of the ravens decided it was safe enough to descend again. The fat black bird landed so close that Robert could almost touch it. It cocked its head and regarded him as if to say, don’t you dare bother me, boy.
Robert snatched his walking stick and held it as if to strike the arrogant bird. “Who did this!” he screamed. “Who did this!”
The big raven did not answer. It jumped into the air and flapped to a low branch.
Robert clambered to his feet, swaying.
“Who did this?” Robert whispered to the forest. But it did not answer either.
Robert sank crossed-legged on the path, head in his hands. He remained there for a long time, eyes closed, hoping when he opened them the world would have turned back to the way it was.
A rustling in the branches brought Robert back to the world. He looked round and saw that the ravens were growing restless.
He took a deep breath, then another and then a third.
He emptied his sack, which he spread across his father’s ravaged face and then covered him with his cloak. There was no way the ravens could peck through these.
“You can’t have him,” Robert said to the ravens in the trees. “He belongs to us.”
He waved his walking stick, jumping to strike the ravens in the lower branches, and the flock scattered. He threw the half-loaf and cheese as far as he could. Let them eat bread and not men.
Then he ran back to the village to tell his mother.
CHAPTER 2
Shelburgh
October 1173
“The steward’s here,” Eadwin said, approaching Matilda wearing a worried expression. “He wants to see you.”
Matilda rested her tankard on her lap and scanned the throng assembled in the village churchyard for Harold’s wake. The yard was choked with people. The yard was often crowded and festive after mass, but this day was exceptional. Harold had been popular in the village and just about everybody in Shelburgh who could walk and some who couldn’t were here. “Where?” she said.
“By the gate,” Eadwin, who had been one of Harold’s closest friends, said. “There.”
Matilda nodded. Earl Roger ruled here, but the steward ran things, both in the castle and in the village. For him to seek out someone like her so far down the social ladder was odd in the extreme.
She put her tankard on the folding chair and walked around the fresh mound of earth to the gate.
People saw her coming and, judging by their expressions, they knew something was up. They fell silent at her approach and drew out of her way, until she stood before a tall man whose face had the sagging look of a wax figure left too long near the fire. Richard d’Evry’s rheumy eyes fell on her, drinking in the way she looked.
Then those eyes flicked beyond her to the crowd in the yard, where the nearest spectators were watching them with the looks seen by bettors at a bear-baiting.
“You asked for me, your honor?” Matilda asked.
He nodded his large head and smiled. “I wanted a word with you. Walk with me, will you?”
He turned away, and she didn’t have a choice but to follow. Even though the family was free, unlike most people in the village, they still had to answer to him for the five acres they rented in the village fields.
They crossed the commons and reached the road heading toward the river. “I wanted to discuss,” he said, “your situation.”
“Our rents are paid for this quarter,” she said. She had been with Harold when he made the October payment two weeks ago, the day before he left for Alecoc’s. There were witnesses: she struggled to remember who else had been there.
“And next quarter? What are you going to do with two half grown boys who can’t bring in a half penny a day between them?”
Matilda experienced a moment of relief that Richard was concerned about the future and not the past. “I can weave and sew.”
“Perhaps, but it won’t bring in enough. It hasn’t up to now.”
“I’ll manage,” Matilda said with more certainty than she felt. She had a box of pennies buried in the dirt under the bed, and she’d raid it when she had to. But eventually, she knew, it would run out. When they couldn’t make their rent, the steward was certain to expel them. Born in Ireland of Danish parents, she had no family in this country to fall back on, other than Harold’s good-for-nothing brother, Nicholas, who was a poacher and some-time fletcher when he bothered to put aside his ale cup, and could not be counted on to help. They’d be just another group of beggars wandering from village to village, and starving in the woods. She’d been so consumed by grief during the past week that she’d given no thought to any of this. But the bubble of fear that normally was not very far away began to boil.
“Bravely said, but you have your children to think about. I thought I might offer you an opportunity.”
“What opportunity?”
“Respite for your children. Peace of mind.”
She regarded him, unable to speak. The black thought of what he was about to propose blossomed in her mind and clamped down her tongue.
“You have only to grant me ... certain liberties. And in exchange, I will see that your wants are satisfied and your children protected.”
Her heart pounded in her ears so that the noise of the wake receded. She had the urge to shout “NO!” in his face. But she had to answer carefully. He was a powerful man who could make life difficult, even impossible, if offended. “I am flattered that your honor thought me worthy of such attention, but I am not able to think about such things now.”
“Ah, your grief. It must be overwhelming.”
“It will be a long time before I can forget,” she said, thinking not of Harold’s face but how he smelled when they brought back his body.
“It was a terrible thing, a tragedy.” He stopped walking and faced her. “You will think about it, though?”
“Your generosity is more than an ordinary person should expect.”
“A pretty answer,” he said, signaling to a young man on a horse on the other side of the commons. The young man spurred his horse forward, leading another. “Enjoy your wake.”
“What did Richard want?” the alewife asked as if she didn’t care when in fact it was obvious she cared very much.
“He wants to fuck me.” Matilda put down the tankard and stared over her shoulder to the churchyard, where the wake was still going on despite her absence. She thought about going back, but she was feeling a little drunk on free ale, and she didn’t want to face any questions. Questions like this one, which she had answered more honestly than was prudent.
“Most men do, you know. Now that Harold’s gone, I suppose they’ll be lined up clear to my house.”
“It’s a curse,” Matilda said. “I wish I was ugly. That’s all men’ve wanted since I had my first period. That’s why I was stolen in the first place.” Ever since she was a child, people had told her how beautiful she was. For some, it was the color of her hair, yellow as ripening wheat. For others, it was her eyes, pale blue as the sky. For some it was her breasts; for yet others her hips, wide and inviting. She didn’t feel beautiful, though. She thought her nose was crooked, her freckles off-putting, and her ears stuck out too much. And by this time, she had borne four children. Yet she had retained her shape. She was grateful for that. But it was such a burden, and had brought more trouble than benefit.
“Well, that actually turned out all right, didn’t it? You’d not have found Harold otherwise.”
“No,” Matilda said. “I wouldn’t.” That had been just over eleven years ago. Harold had been a soldier then. He and his best friends Eadwin and Grelli the huntsman had been in King Henry’s army, and found her chained to a post in a Welsh farmyard. He had put his cloak around her and had been kind even though the Welsh had left her covered in shit and smelling like a privy. She had loved him ever since.
“Well,” the alewife said, “some women don’t see it as a curse.”
“I don’t feel right doing it for money.” Screwing anybody for any reason would be an infidelity to Harold. Matilda fixed an eye on the alewife, all two of her. “You don’t do it for money.”
“Ah, no. That’s true. I’ve Aelgifa for that trade.” Aelgifa was the village whore. The alewife grinned. “But she’ll make room if you change your mind.”
“Bitch.”
The alewife threw back her head and laughed, and Matilda laughed with her.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Matilda said.
“I expect one thing you’re not going to do is give it to Richard.”
“No. I won’t.”
“You didn’t tell him that, though.”
“No.”
“You can’t put him off forever.”
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“I’ve thought you many things, Matilda, but not tender-hearted.”
They shared another laugh.
“You could get married again,” the alewife said. “That might solve your Richard problem.”
Matilda didn’t answer right away, and when she did, she said, “I’ve got to find work for Robert. Real work. Not just ditching and hedging and chasing crows and breaking clods. Work that pays.”
The alewife looked thoughtful. She leaned on her elbows. “It’s a long shot, but I know someone you might see.”
“Who?”
“That wool merchant who comes through every summer, Jean of Gloucester.”
“He wants to sleep with me too?”
“I’m sure he does, now that I think about it. But his clerk, that fellow named Jack or Jacques or something.”
“Jacques. His name’s Jacques. He’s French.”
“Whatever. He said something to Aelgifa about them losing a stable boy who can manage pack horses. Robert knows how to do that, doesn’t he?”
“It’s been months since they were here. They’ve probably got someone now.”
“But they don’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jacques sent Aelgifa a letter. It was in the letter. It came yesterday. The fool is smitten, but this is what she gets for letting him have it free.”
“No,” Matilda sputtered in disbelief. The thought of anyone receiving a letter in the village was mind-boggling, let alone a letter for Aelgifa. And more amazing still: it had come yesterday and she was just now hearing about it.
“So all you have to do is get to Gloucester.”
“Gloucester.” Matilda was dismayed. “That’s a long way away.” She had no idea how far, except that it was somewhere off to the south.
There was shouting from the churchyard. Matilda turned to see a pair of boys had squared off with singlesticks. These were used for play, but the boys were hitting at each other as hard as they could, egged on by the crowd. The combatants collided at grips and fell over the stone fence about the yard, where they rolled to their feet and continued. The revelers spilled into the commons to watch.
She spotted Robert on the edge of the crowd watching the fight. Harold’s younger brother, Nicholas, stood next to him. Nicholas looked so much like his brother that Robert could be mistaken for his son. But where Harold had been sunny, Nicholas was morose. He drank more than he should and was given to fighting. Over her objections — and with Harold’s approval — he had taught Robert the singlestick, as well as how to wrestle and fletch an arrow, which was his normal trade when he wasn’t off somewhere in someone’s army. She feared Nicholas’ influence on the boy.
Matilda put down her tankard and crossed the commons to them. Everyone was so focused on the battle that no one noticed her coming, and Robert was not aware of her until she put a hand on his shoulder.
“I haven’t done anything,” he said.
“Not yet,” Matilda said. “Come away.” She drew in a deep breath, trying to clear her head of the ale and dispel thoughts of Gloucester. It would mean breaking up the family if it came to pass, because once Robert went to Gloucester he’d be gone for good.
Then she remembered that the family was already broken.
She would have cried if there weren’t people who would see.
Gloucester
October 1173
Matilda stepped up to the shop window on Saint John’s Lane, hoping deep in her heart that this was just a fool’s errand.
A young man with black hair looked up from a writing desk in the far corner where he was scribbling something when he became aware she was standing there. “Yes?”
“Are you Jacques?” Matilda said.
The young man frowned. He wiped ink from his fingers with a rag. “I am.”
“I have a letter for you.”
Jacques looked surprised. “You do?”
“From a mutual friend. We were coming here and she asked me to deliver it.”
“She?” Apprehension dawned, due to the fact that Jacques didn’t write many letters to women in distant places. Jacques hurried around the desk.
Matilda held out the letter. Jacques snatched the folded parchment and cut the seal with his knife. He read the letter with the wide-eyed eagerness of a starving man having just been given a meal, turning his back just enough to prevent Matilda from reading it. He needn’t have bothered. She knew the letter almost by heart, because she’d been there when Aelgifa had dictated it to the vicar at her suggestion. Not that Aelgifa had needed much prodding once the suggestion of making a reply had been put to her with the dividend that delivery was free. She seemed to like Jacques.
“Master Jean wouldn’t happen to be here, would he?” Matilda asked.
Jacques turned back. “He might be. Why?”
“I just thought to say hello.”
“He knows you?”
“Of course. He comes through Shelburgh every summer.” Well, the last part was true, at any rate.
Jacques tapped the letter on his fingertips, thinking. “All right. A moment, then.”
“Oh,” Matilda said, hating to have to say the words, “Aelgifa said you mentioned you had lost your stable boy. Is it true?”
Jacques paused in the doorway. “Yes.”
“Have you replaced him?” she asked, trying as hard as she could to make the question sound off hand.
The effort must not have been successful, because Jacques glanced over the counter at Robert, whose attention was absorbed by a party of mummers who were just then trooping by.
“Not yet.” He went out.
Jacques returned followed by a man about thirty carrying a roll of woolen fabric, which he stacked on top of a dozen others occupying shelves along the far wall. He turned to Matilda and regarded her with cool eyes. He wasn’t what anyone would call handsome, but then neither was he repulsive, just ordinary: ordinary black hair, ordinary high forehead, ordinary pale face. The only disordinary thing about him was a goatee that might have worn better on an aristocrat rather than a middling prosperous wool merchant. Jacques said, “She wanted to see you.”
Even with the goatee, Matilda recognized him as Jean the wool merchant. He said in an accent that was foreign and not Norman, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“Matilda Attebrook.”
“Jacques says you know me.”
“I know of you.”
Jean nodded. “He must have heard wrong.”
“I think he might have been carried away with his message.”
“Perhaps. I heard you had delivered a letter. Normally, he is quite reliable.” Jean rested his hands on the counter. “He says you asked about the stable boy.”
“I did.”
“For him?” Jean glanced at Robert, who had lost sight of the mummers and was now watching a cart holding a bear in a cage.
“He’s a hard worker. He knows horses.”
“He’s rather small.”
“He’s big enough.”
“Horses are large creatures, especially to such a small boy.”
“He’s been around them all his life.”
“Being around them doesn’t mean he knows anything about the work.”
“If he doesn’t work out, you can send him back.”
“And what if I am in Chester and find him lacking?”
“By the end of the week you’ll know.”
Jean stroked his goatee. “I don’t know.”
“Then try him now. He will make an acceptable groom.”
“I think I will.” He beckoned them to enter the shop and led them through the house to the rear garden, where a small stable sat beside a gate to a back alley. Two of the three stalls were occupied. “Tack the roan.”
Robert looked at Matilda and licked his lips in uncertainty. Although he had some experience with plow horses, he had next to none saddling riding horses: his exposure to a riding horse had been the practice the vicar had allowed on his nag before they had set out. She nodded encouragement, although now she was certain she had made a mistake coming here and that her wish for failure would be fulfilled, bringing embarrassment with it.
After some hesitation, Robert rummaged for currying brushes and a hoof pick. He led the roan out and tethered the halter to a ring by the door. Then with deft strokes he brushed her down. Matilda had a few tense moments when he struggled to lift the roan’s hooves to pick them clean; but Robert managed the task without the horse falling on him or planting a hoof on a foot.
He found the saddle pad and laid it across the horse’s back high on the withers. Matilda’s hands twitched, since they wanted to readjust it as she thought the vicar had instructed. But she remained still. The saddle came next, and because the top of Robert’s head did not quite reach the height of the horse’s back, there was a moment when Matilda thought he might fling it in the air to get it in place, which she was sure would not be satisfactory. But somehow, Robert managed to settle the saddle without a jar.
Then, for Matilda, came the most excruciating part: the bridle and bit. Bridles always seemed to her to be such a messy, inscrutable tangle, yet Robert sorted it out, and slid the bit into the horse’s mouth without incident or a shriek from his mother, who worried about a loss of fingers. Horses have a nasty bite.
Jean said, without giving any indication whether Robert had passed the test, “You can untack her and put her up.”
