And I’ll be very surprised if he takes a crusader’s vow.’
Well I won’t argue with that. If you ask me, Galhard’s more likely to end up in a nun’s habit than on a ship to Jerusalem. What I want to know is why we even came here in the first place.
‘It’s odd how you forget,’ he continues, running a hand along his mother’s chilly, chiselled arm. ‘I thought that – if I came back – I’ve been away so long, you see –’
‘Lord Roland.’
It’s Joris. Old one-eye. Haven’t heard him speak before. His voice is a rusty creak: probably lost half his throat, along with everything else. What a mess that man is.
‘Lord Galhard wants you, my lord,’ he announces. ‘You must come to the hall at once.’
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns to go. But Roland calls him back, using that frosty, Commander-of the-Temple tone that’s always so effective.
‘Wait, Joris.’ (You impudent scum-bucket.) ‘Has something happened?’
‘Visitors, my lord.’
‘What visitors?’
‘Women, my lord.’
Women? Women? Well that’s informative. Roland removes his hand from his mother’s impassive likeness.
‘Tell my father we’re on our way,’ he says.
Chapter 6
T hey’ve lit some rushlights in the hall. If you ask me, it wasn’t a wise thing to do: now you can see that the tables need scrubbing. You can also see how dirty the walls are, all covered in grease and smoke stains. They must have been white, once, with red flowers painted on them. Now they’re a greyish, mottled colour – the colour of Galhard’s feet.
He’s taken his boots and stockings off, and appears to be trimming his toenails with a hunting knife. Berengar’s still lounging near the hearth with Ademar, and a few dozen dogs. There isn’t a single woman to be seen.
‘My lord?’ says Roland.
Galhard grunts. He’s concentrating hard. (Must have toenails like slabs of whalebone.) Berengar speaks for him.
‘It’s this Good Woman, again,’ he remarks. ‘Esclara-monde Maury. We thought you might be useful.’
‘Good Woman?’ Roland’s totally mystified.
‘She’s got a couple of farms up near Saint-Marrin-la-Lande. Right next to our forest there, at Lavalet. Bunch of nuns, or something. Lord Galhard gave her the rights to any wood she could collect, in return for harvest gifts and jurisdiction.’
‘You mean an abbess?’ says Roland. He’s still confused.
Galhard snorts.
‘I told you.’ (Berengar.) ‘It’s just a couple of houses. With a few men working the land. She’s nothing but some merchant’s widow, from Carcassone.’
It still doesn’t make sense to me. But there’s no more time for explanations: someone’s already walking up the outside stairs. You can hear the sound of a woman’s voice, low and urgent.
Galhard drops one foot, and picks up the other. He’s about as welcoming as a fist in the face.
‘Here she is,’ says Berengar. ‘Come in, Mistress! Don’t be shy! We’re not going to eat you.’
The poor woman advances over the threshold, less reluctantly than you would have expected. She’s wearing a long, black robe and a black scarf around her head. Her face is as white as sea salt, but her eyes are very dark. She’s even smaller than I am.
‘My lord Galhard,’ she says, falling to one knee. A chip of Galhard’s toenail flies through the air. ‘May I speak, my lord?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘My lord, it concerns your forest at Lavalet.’ She has quite a deep voice, for such a small person. ‘There’s been an assault, my lord.’
‘Go on.’
‘A man called Garnier has been assaulted. He is a good man who works the land belonging to the house where I live. He lives in the house next to mine, and he was in the forest with his son, collecting wood. But someone else was there, too.’
Galhard looks up. Now he’s interested.
‘Who?’ he says.
‘I believe it was a man called Clairin. He is a servant at the Abbey of Saint Jerome. I believe he’s been
Aj Harmon, Christopher Harmon