PROLOGUE
Yuriev Monastery, Novgorod Republic, April-May 1242
We were already in disarray when the arrow slammed into my shoulder, punching through my mail coat and nearly felling me from my horse. Our charge across the ice had been peppered with missiles fired with deadly accuracy, and the freezing air was raucous with the screams of dying men and thrashing animals. I could still see the eyes of the mounted archer who had loosed the arrow widen in triumph. His face I would never forget. Was he a Mongol? For some reason it mattered to me. I had never fought these fierce people from the steppe but their reputation and ferocity were well known. I was not even aware they had been part of the Novgorodian army. Whether this had affected the outcome of the battle, only God in all his wisdom knew. We had been so confident. Overconfident. Our defeat had been absolute.
I woke in a room with whitewashed walls. An old, bearded man, his craggy face not unkind, loomed over me, his fingers gentle as he probed my wound and changed my dressing. Nevertheless, despite his care, searing flames coursed through me with every touch of his parchment-dry fingers. When the burning finally subsided, I blinked my eyes open. Through tears, I saw a small picture on the opposite wall of a man with a halo around his head spearing a serpent. It must have been Saint George killing the dragon. The halo made him look more like an angel. The bearded man mumbled to himself in a soft voice as he worked, however the language was unfamiliar. It sounded Slavic, probably Russian. That could only mean I was a prisoner.
With any movement, shafts of fire shot through my body, an agony so great I thought I would pass out again. By Christ Almighty and all His Holy Saints, I just wanted it to stop. But, of course, it didn’t. It was unrelenting. Perhaps when I was younger, I would have borne it better. Who knows? At my venerable age, death should come as a welcome relief and I almost felt ready to succumb to it – to give up my fight and drift into the hallowed afterlife. Almost, but not quite. I was not yet ready to die. There was still too much to be done. There was still my vengeance to be had. A vengeance that stretched back to my youth.
The room was cool, but at times I felt like a sizzling pig roasting on a spit. The old man put strips of damp cloth on my face, but it hardly helped. Only blessed unconsciousness relieved me of it. My body fought a desperate battle to survive.
It is strange that, despite everything, the gift of life is most precious when it is about to be taken away.
*
But survive I did. In the weeks following the battle, the fever gradually released its grip and I could feel my strength slowly returning. I was still as feeble as a child, but my bearded nurse nodded his head and smiled encouragement as he spooned a watery cabbage soup through my cracked lips. Perhaps I would live after all.
Now, at least, I could sit up in bed, but any other movement still sent stabbing bolts of pain through my chest. I was too weak to get up, and one time the effort broke the healing scabs on my wound, causing me to sink back into the pit of sweat my cot had become. It was clear to me now that the bearded man was a monk, a monk of the heretical Greek Church, and I was in the infirmary of a monastery. Nevertheless, my skin crawled and itched with lice, my hair was filthy and unkempt, and there was nothing I could do about it. Outside, the bells of a church clang the times for prayer. Never in my life had I felt so helpless, unable to piss or shit without help from the bearded monk and one of his helpers, a pale-faced youth of no more than seventeen or eighteen winters.
I still did not know how long I had lain there, but one morning I received a visitor. Or, more accurately, two visitors. I had been dozing when the door banged open without warning and the bearded monk led in two men. The first was tall, at least my height, and I am taller than most, but younger – young enough to be my son. He had the athletic build of a warrior, and his angled face was framed by a shortly trimmed beard and sandy-brown, shoulder-length hair, plastered across his head with sweat as if he had just taken off a hat or helmet. He wore a red cloak edged with fur worn over his left shoulder, fastened with a gold clasp fashioned in the shape of the three-barred Greek cross on the right shoulder, and a blue brocade surcoat over a long-sleeved white shirt. On his feet were high, leather riding boots of obvious quality, although they were spattered with mud. When he looked me in the eyes, I felt the power behind his gaze despite his youth. There was a harshness there, a cynical coldness strange in someone so young. He said something to the other man, who was older, of slight build, with long auburn hair tied back from the nape of his neck. This man was no warrior. He looked more like a scholar, and his chestnut-coloured, homespun tunic, although of good quality cotton, clearly denoted his lower rank. It was this man who spoke to me in Latin.
‘Prince Alexander Yaroslavich Nevsky of Novgorod the Great, welcomes you to Yuriev Monastery and hopes you are recovering from your wounds.’
His words slapped me in the face. Alexander Yaroslavich had commanded the Russian army in the battle on the ice where we had been defeated, as well as being victorious against the Swedish army two years earlier on the Neva River. My surprise must have been obvious because the young prince, Alexander, smiled at my reaction, speaking again quickly before waiting for his words to be translated.
‘You are one of six German knights captured in the battle,’ the interpreter continued, ‘but you were the most badly wounded. Prince Alexander says that under Brother Dimitri’s care and with God’s grace, you have made a vast improvement. But it is doubtful that at your age you shall ever be able to take up arms against his people again.’
‘How long have I lain here?’ I said in Latin. As a warrior monk of the Livonian Order, my Latin was respectable, though not as good as my Low German, or Norman French – the language of my birth.
‘The battle by Lake Chudskoe was over a month ago. You were carried here in a wain.’
A month already. I struggled to rise but the bearded monk who had tended me all this time, whom Prince Alexander had named as Brother Dimitri, came forward to restrain me. I collapsed back in a wave of dizziness. While I lay there panting, my weakness open to all, the three men spoke quickly to each other.
‘What are you saying?’
They looked at me and Alexander motioned for the interpreter to translate again.
‘Brother Dimitri had to remove the arrow that was still lodged in your left shoulder when you were brought here. He says some links of mail also had to be extracted from the wound before the arrow could be pushed through and pulled out with forceps. You were close to death and had lost much blood. Luckily, no organs or bones had been damaged…’
‘Then how could I have been in this bed for over a month? I have seen many arrow wounds in my time… I should have recovered by now.’
The interpreter glanced towards Dimitri before answering. ‘As recommended by renowned physicians, Dimitri inserted a strip of bacon to help drain the pus and then dressed the wound with compresses. But nonetheless, the wound went bad. You have been fighting this poison for the last weeks.’
‘And what happens now?’
The two of them turned to Alexander who said something in his language.
‘Prince Alexander has not yet decided. You will be treated until you have recovered fully, then probably be ransomed back to your Order. But there is one thing…’
‘What is that?’
‘Brother Dimitri thinks you are not German, despite wearing the insignia of a Teutonic knight. When you were delirious, you spoke in another language, a language unknown to him despite his learned status. Prince Alexander is interested to know from where you originally hail?’
I closed my eyes for a moment. I must have been babbling in Norman French. It had been so very long since I had seen my homeland. ‘I am a Norman, from a country far to the west of here. A country called England.’
The interpreter flinched as if he’d just smelt a latrine. After a moment’s hesitation, he translated my words and fixed me with eyes suddenly hostile. Was it my imagination or had something cold entered the room?
He translated Alexander’s reply. ‘Prince Alexander knows of your land,’ he said. ‘He is most interested to know why you would travel so far to make war on his people.’
I looked the interpreter directly in the eye. There was no mistaking his enmity – enmity that had not been there before. ‘And what do you think?’ I said, addressing my question to the scholarly interpreter.
‘I think it is normal for the bastard Norman English to take lands that do not belong to them.’
He had spoken in French, although his accent was strange. ‘And what is an Irishman doing working as a translator for the Prince of Novgorod?’
He looked uncomfortable at my question and I saw Prince Alexander watching our exchange with amusement. Dimitri was oblivious to the hostility in the room, nodding his head and smiling. Alexander said something in his language to the Irishman.
‘Prince Alexander desires to know your name?’
‘My name is Richard,’ I said. ‘Richard Fitz Simon. And what is your name, Irishman?’
The interpreter looked to Alexander, wanting to avoid the question. But despite the Russian prince’s lack of knowledge of our language, he seemed to know what we were talking about. The man was intelligent, but then again, he had defeated our army. Our proud Christian army. Alexander said something and the Irishman turned back to me. ‘My name is Fergus,’ he said reluctantly.
Alexander said something more while I waited patiently for a translation.
‘My lord is intrigued by your story,’ Fergus said. ‘He comes often to Yuriev to pay respects to his brother Theodor and the other Novgorodian princes who are buried here. He shall come and see you again. You have aroused his curiosity and he is interested in your story. It seems we are all destined to meet again.’
And with that they left, leaving me to my thoughts and pain.
*
Three days later, they allowed me up for the first time. I was supported by Grigori, the pale-faced youth who had assisted me before, and, of course, Brother Dimitri. Our progress was slow, passing through a dark passage lit by an oil lamp ensconced in the wall that reeked of fish oil, exiting through a door into sunlight. I blinked in discomfort, unused to the brightness after the gloom of the infirmary. We hobbled past a small herb garden built alongside a squat wooden building that formed one of the walls of the monastery. The monastery itself was enormous, with an expanse of grass stretching to a colossal, barn-like church topped by three silver domes. As big as any cathedral I had ever seen, it looked more like a fortress, with tall narrow windows and white flaking paint that fluttered in the breeze. It must have stood over a hundred feet high. Of course, I had seen Greek churches in Dorpat in Estonia and Pskov but this was, without doubt, the largest.
A sharp pain stabbed at my shoulder and we stopped at a low wall where I could sit for a while. It was a balmy day and the sun on my face felt good. A kitten, one of the many cats that wandered freely around, came and rubbed itself against my leg, purring happily. I studied the huge building. Despite it being a heretical church, I would have liked to have gone inside, but Dimitri made it clear by a shake of his head that this was not possible. As if this was not clear enough, Grigori spoke in faltering Latin. ‘No allowed… monks pray now… now you must indoors.’ He picked me up again, supporting my good shoulder, and we returned the way we had come, back into the wooden building and the gloominess of the infirmary.
Prince Alexander visited again the next day. I was sitting up in bed, daydreaming of the past, when the door opened and the tall nobleman and his Irish interpreter entered. This time, both men pulled up stools and sat on either side of my bed. Fergus was carrying a letter, its seal of a horseman with a raised sword in his right hand still unbroken. There was no sign of Brother Dimitri.
‘Prince Alexander is pleased to see you are recovering,’ Fergus said in a neutral voice.
‘As am I,’ I replied. ‘Last time you were here you told me some of my brethren knights had also been captured. It would please me to see my old comrades again.’
Fergus translated my words and Alexander shook his head.
‘This will not be possible,’ the Irishman translated. ‘They have already been ransomed back to your Order. You are the only German…’ he coughed to cover his mistake, knowing I was as much German as he was, ‘still confined here.’
‘And now that I am in recovery,’ I said, unsurprised at the news. ‘When will I be released?’
‘You are far from a recovery,’ Fergus translated. ‘Prince Alexander believes releasing you too early could jeopardise all the good work done by Brother Dimitri. You are unfit to travel and, in the meantime, must remain a guest of Novgorod the Great. He also believes you are of a higher rank than the other captured knights and therefore worthy of a more… fitting payment.’
Without knowing the identities of the others captured, I had no idea of the truth of this. However, it was credible; I was one of the highest-ranked knights in the Livonian Order.
‘And of course,’ Fergus said, smiling maliciously. ‘You are no longer a young man.’
That was true enough; I was fifty-three at my last count, an old man. And at that moment, I felt every year.
An idea came to me, although in truth I had been considering it for a while – I’d had nothing else to do. If I was to be confined to my bed or as a prisoner I might as well use the time. ‘As I am to be kept here longer,’ I said to Fergus in French, ‘then I would like to have the chance to write to my son… an account of my life perhaps, so he understands his background and heritage.’
I waited patiently as Fergus relayed this. To my surprise, Alexander clapped his hands together and beamed at me, speaking quickly to the Irishman who then slowly translated his answer.
‘Prince Alexander finds your idea of merit,’ Fergus said. ‘But only on the condition that whatever is written can be translated into Russian.’ His face crumpled as he understood the implication of what he had said. He would be tasked with the duty himself. ‘It is normal among the Rus for written records to be made. Even as we sit here, in this very monastery, scribes are writing up a chronicle of the history of Novgorod.’
I regarded Alexander, who was grinning in enthusiasm. All the power and harshness of his face had disappeared and he looked young, very young. This only made me feel older and more irritable. But at least I would have the chance to write my memoirs for my son, to let him know his responsibilities and inform him of his birthright, in order for him to seek the vengeance I might not be able to achieve.
‘Prince Alexander is interested to learn how a warrior monk can have a son,’ Fergus went on. ‘Did you not swear a vow of chastity before joining your Order?’
I sighed and turned away. Of course, I had, but life was never easy. The Devil finds ways to lead even the most pious from the path of purity. And being pious had never been one of my strengths. ‘I have no wish to talk of such matters now. If the Lord Prince wants to know, then he will have to read what is transcribed.’
The Irishman translated my words and for a moment I thought I had angered his master. It is no easy thing to defy a prince – even if he was the enemy. But the shadow that flashed over Alexander’s face was replaced with a smile. He spoke quickly to Fergus, who appeared to question what had been said, dropping his head and nodding. I waited, interested for the translation.
‘The Lord Prince Alexander says you are still too weak to undertake this chore alone. He desires that I,’ Fergus’s voice had fallen so low I thought he would gag over the words, ‘come here daily from the city to act as your scribe and write your words. I am then to translate them later into Russian for the Lord Prince.’
I looked at him and laughed, enjoying his predicament. I have never liked the Irish. It seemed this dour, unenthusiastic helper and I were going to spend much more time in each other’s company. I did not realise then how fruitful that task would ultimately prove.
But where to begin? My early recollections were so distant they felt like they belonged to someone else. I glanced at the letter, cradled on Fergus’s lap, and a memory came back to me, of another letter, so many years ago. A letter that had changed my life. That would be as good a place to begin as any.
We started the chronicle the next day.
PART ONE
England 1203
Chapter One
My name is Richard Fitz Simon and this is my story. It is the truth, as God is my witness, although if I am honest, I think the Almighty gave up on me many years ago.
It is not a story I should have to tell. As the first and only son of the Lord of Cranham, my future was preordained. I would inherit my father’s castle and estates, continuing to rule much as he had, until I too grew old and feeble and passed it on to my own son. That was the way of things. Or at least the way it should have been. However, life for me turned out differently.
I was born in the year of our Lord 1189, the same year Henry II died and his eldest son Richard was crowned king, before he took the cross. When I was a child, I was naively proud of sharing my name with the Lionheart. Now, this memory is just a child’s foolishness. Richard was probably one of the worst kings ever to rule over the Kingdom of England, mainly because as an adult he was hardly there. When not on crusade to Outremer or imprisoned by the Duke of Austria, he spent more time in Normandy or France than he ever spent at home. England proved to be little more than a golden goose for him.
In my opinion, King Richard was a vain bastard interested only in his own glory. But when I was a child, I thought differently. I was proud of my kingly name. But then the young have always been fools.
The Lionheart may have been dead a long time now, but sharing his name was not the only thing we had in common. I too spent most of my life abroad, on a near-permanent crusade in lands most people have never heard of, far from the hot suns of Outremer and the Holy Land. I fought in the forgotten wars to help bring the light of Christ to the pagans of the eastern Baltic. It was a life of duty and hardship. And it was a thankless task.
My story begins at the point when I was just fourteen, early summer in the fifth year of the reign of King John. I remember peering over the battlements on the keep of our castle at Cranham with my father, Lord Roger. He was never a talkative man, and as a child I found him more than a little intimidating. It was sunny, with clouds skimming across the sky and the sheep shearing season underway. My father had summoned me to the roof, and I stood waiting for him to speak. Despite living in the same castle, he was rarely at home, and when he was, he had always been unapproachable; a distant and stern figure I would normally only see at mealtimes. In his hand he carried a letter, its seal broken, which he must have just opened. The frown on his face suggested displeasure at what he had read. I had seen the messenger sitting in the hall on my way up and was curious about the news it contained.
For the first few moments we stood in silence, gazing out over the castle, feeling the breeze brush our hair.
‘Take a look, Richard. Everything you see is our land. Our barony is small compared to most, but it is fertile land, good land. And remember we are the feudal tenants-in-chief. Do you know what that means?’
‘The land belongs to the king…?’
‘All land in England belongs to the king!’ my father growled. ‘What makes a feudal tenant-in-chief different?’
I could not remember and shook my head.
He frowned. ‘It means I have no liege lord. Our family own the land directly from the king and we answer only to him. The biggest landowner in this area is Lord Bigod, Earl of Norfolk.’ He pointed off towards the south-east. ‘He owns most of Suffolk and Norfolk and has several castles much bigger than this one. But he is not my liege lord.’
Little did I realise then that he planned for me to squire for Lord Bigod – but I am getting ahead of myself.
My father changed the subject. ‘When she was alive, your mother used to enjoy coming up here. She said she felt like a goddess looking down on the world…’
My memories of my mother were vague. She had died giving birth to my little sister Alice. I think my father never forgave my sister for that unfortunate fact. He had never really spoken about my mother before, though I knew he missed her. I wanted to know more. ‘Did you marry mother for love?’
‘Of course not,’ my father said, irritated again. ‘No one marries for love. But I grew to love her. If your mother still lived, things would be very different.’
I said nothing, scared of ruining the moment.
‘Alice would have turned out differently, I am sure. I blame myself for her being so wild. If only she could be more like Isabella.’
Isabella was my older sister by four years. She had recently been given in marriage and now lived with her new husband miles away. I did not miss her; we had never been close. Alice, on the other hand, felt more like a little brother. I had spent most of my earlier years playing with her. She hated all things girlish and loved to climb trees and play knights in the castle yard, outwrestling most of the younger boys of the household and often coming home with scuffed knees or a torn dress, much to the chagrin of her nursemaid or my father.
What could I say? Alice was by far my favourite. She was a wildcat.
‘It is why I never remarried,’ my father continued. ‘I did not want to sully your mother’s memory. There will never be anyone quite like Mathilde, God rest her soul… not for me anyway.’ My father turned and fixed me with his hard stare. ‘Sir Hugh says you are progressing well with your weapons training. He also says you are growing into an accomplished rider. All of this is good, Richard, but do not neglect your studies with Father Bertram. A lord needs to know more than just how to fight. Learn everything you can from whomever is teaching you. Knowledge is power. Always remember. Knowledge is power.’
My father’s acknowledgement of my successful training with Sir Hugh de Burcy filled my heart with pride. Praise from my father was praise indeed, however qualified. Sir Hugh was my father’s chief knight, a grizzled old warrior and veteran of the same crusade to Outremer led by King Richard. My father had told me that was why he had kept me at our castle in Cranham rather than sending me to another noble family for fostering at the age of seven, which was the custom. He wanted Sir Hugh to tutor me as a page. There was little about swordplay or riding he didn’t know. In addition, as a page, I began to learn the things I would need to know to be a squire and ultimately a knight.
And of course, it was true I enjoyed everything Sir Hugh taught. I may not have been the best swordsman in the kingdom, but I was very fast and better than most my age. Hugh would spend hours in the practice yard teaching me and the other two boys he tutored the rudiments of combat. Scarcely a day would pass that I would not go to bed with a new bruise or cut somewhere on my body.
I looked at my father, but he was staring out across the river and the fields beyond and did not seem to notice. He was not a tall man, in fact at fourteen I was only half a head shorter myself, and despite being over forty, his grey hair was only slightly receding.
I turned to look over the castle. It was a modest affair, consisting of the small stone keep on which we stood, surrounded by a palisade built of wood in the Norman fashion. Another palisade split the outer bailey with the much smaller inner one, where my family lived. It was nothing compared to some castles in the realm, but it was ours and it was home.
My father waved the letter towards me. ‘We shall be receiving visitors in just over two months. Your Aunt Cecilia and your cousin Walter. They will be here by Michaelmas.’
Aunt Cecilia was the wife of my uncle Gilbert, who was fighting for the king in France. I had never met Gilbert, my father’s younger brother, but I looked forward to hearing about his exploits in the war.
‘I assume you are aware of the situation in Normandy from discussions at dinner. Your uncle has lost his holdings to King Philip of France. Cecilia and Walter are not just coming to visit. They shall be coming here to live. They have nowhere else to go.’
At the time, I did not understand the implications of this. Family coming to live with us was surely a good thing.
‘Your Aunt Cecilia…’ My father paused.
I had never seen my father when he was not in total control.
‘She is not the easiest of women.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Listen carefully,’ my father growled. ‘This is important. You do not understand what this means. I do not want you to give her any cause for judgment. You are my only son and a direct reflection on me and the entire family. I am expecting you to help welcome them – especially your cousin Walter. I have yet to speak with Alice, but that can wait. I am trusting you to help control your little sister. All she cares about is her damned horse. God knows how difficult Alice can be at the best of times, but she seems to listen to you. I shall be holding you responsible for her behaviour.’
This was not good news. Alice didn’t listen to me any more than she listened to anybody else. And although we were still close, my studies and training had created a distance between us.
‘I am thinking of sending her away, anyway,’ my father said. ‘She needs to learn how to behave like the lady she shall one day become. Either that or send her to a nunnery.’
If it was not my father speaking, I would have burst out laughing. I could no more imagine Alice in a convent than a Saracen in a church.
There was a pause as my father gazed out across our land, before turning to me again. ‘Always remember Richard, one day when I am just bare bones crumbling in the earth, all of this shall belong to you.’
I knew that already, of course, but the words still felt like honeyed mead. A feeling of contentment surged in me. These were happy times. Little did I know that my problems were just about to begin.
*
It was a month before Michaelmas in 1203, St Giles’s day I believe, although I am not sure anymore. I was confined to the cramped room next to the chapel that served as the classroom, learning Latin with my two fellow students, John de Vere and Robert Percy, both sons of knights that served my father and decent enough companions. I have never been good with my letters and listening to the chaplain droning on had almost sent me to sleep. We all jumped when the door was flung open and Sir Hugh appeared. ‘Excuse me for interrupting, Father Bertram, but Lord Roger summons his son at once.’
My heart immediately started thumping. What could be so important he would disturb my lessons? I followed him out of the tiny room into the bustle of the castle yard.
‘Your father is waiting by the stables,’ Sir Hugh said, leading me in that direction. The outer bailey was reasonably large, with a blacksmith’s workshop, stables, chapel, storerooms and the new hall my father was building. A sandstone gatehouse that housed my father’s men-at-arms led to the village.
By the entrance to the stables, I saw my father waiting with another man. A messenger dressed in a yellow tabard with a red cross – the livery of Lord Bigod. My pulse surged.
My father turned to us as we approached and he gave a rare smile. ‘This is Richard, my son. Please repeat to him what you just told me.’
The man bowed his head. ‘I have been instructed by Lord Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, to accept your father’s request for you to enter into the service of my liege as a squire. You are to arrive at Framlingham in November, on the day after Martinmas.’
Words caught in my throat. This was everything I’d always wanted. I beamed at him like a simpleton.
‘You are to attend with your own horse and weapons. Sir Hugh de Burcy has spoken well of you and my lord looks forward to accepting your service.’
‘Thank you,’ I managed to say. ‘It is a great honour.’
‘Are you sure you will not break bread with us?’ my father said, addressing the messenger. ‘You have ridden far. I can arrange for your horse to be fed and groomed.’
‘Please excuse me, but I must regretfully decline. I have further messages to deliver and the sun is already high in the sky.’ The groom held the horse as the messenger swung himself up into the saddle.
My father thanked him, and I watched as the gate to the village creaked open and the messenger walked his horse through, disappearing from view. This was one of the proudest moments of my life, especially as Sir Hugh had spoken so highly of me. I would be sent to Framlingham, one of the greatest castles in all of East Anglia.
‘It is a great honour to be accepted by a noble of such high rank, Richard,’ my father said. ‘I expect great things of you. Act your best at all times.’
‘Thank you, father. I will not disappoint you.’
He nodded in satisfaction, turning to return to the keep. ‘Now I have work to do. We shall talk again later.’
My father left me with my mind reeling, excited about the prospect of becoming a squire, and dreaming of being a knight.
*
The next few weeks saw frantic activity around the castle and the surrounding fields. It was the busiest time of the year and the peasants worked tirelessly, harvesting crops from their fields as well as the demesne land that belonged to my father. Extra labourers were hired to get the crops in and help transport them to the barns and most of the village were involved. The days were long and tiring, but after a wet early summer, the last few months had been unusually hot with no rain. While the weather had not completely ruined the harvest, it was still bad compared to the years I could remember as a child. And the last three harvests had been even worse. So, the work progressed, with everyone working towards the feast that would take place at Michaelmas, although it promised to be a frugal affair. My father was particularly busy, receiving rents due, hiring new servants and collecting debts, working closely with his steward, Wilhelm, on the household accounts as people continually came and went.
I was in the Northmead, the meadow directly next to the palisade that ran down to the river, practising mounted swordplay with John and Robert under the watchful eye of Sir Hugh. The Northmead was left untilled because it was often prone to flooding, but the previous two months of dry weather ensured the ground was hard and the grass yellow. I was mounted on my young courser, Cobalt, a gift from my father when I had become a page. He had given both my sisters horses as well, but I was particularly proud of mine, a spirited grey mare. Robert was reeling from a clout round the head I had just given him with my wooden practice sword, when a servant from the castle appeared, speaking briefly with Sir Hugh.
‘Richard!’ Hugh waved me towards him. I cantered over to where he waited. ‘That was a good strike, but remember to keep your shield up, otherwise you leave yourself vulnerable. Your father has sent a message. You are to prepare yourself and go to the hall to welcome your aunt and cousin who have just arrived. You are relieved of training for the rest of the day.’
Excitement welled up in my chest. It was early afternoon with the sun directly overhead, which meant I had most of the day free, a rare opportunity. My father had told me Walter was already fifteen, a year older than me. It would be good to have another friend of my own age to train with. I rode Cobalt back across the Northmead, past the wattle houses of the village and through the outer gatehouse, stabling her quickly and instructing the groom to rub her down and feed her. I passed through the second gate and into the inner bailey. The main keep was not large, squarely built of tan-coloured stone and three stories high, acting as the last line of defence as well as being the family home, although since becoming a page seven years before, I now lived in a low building next to the brewery and the falconry mews. I returned to the room I shared with Robert, stopping to stroke Gaston, an old, half-blind spaniel that liked to sleep at the end of my bed. I hung my sword on its hook above my narrow pallet, shaking off my mail hauberk and padded gambeson underneath. The room was cramped, with a sloping roof, wooden walls and a small shutter, which we always kept closed because it opened out to where the shaft from the privy in the keep dropped its waste. I changed into my finest black tunic and rushed out to respond to the summons.
Alice was on the steps that led up to the entrance to the keep. I called to her and she smiled, waiting for me on the top step. We entered through the stout wooden door, pushing through the curtain that hung to keep out the worst of the draughts and into the gloomy, smokiness of the hall.
The chamber had a high table on a raised dais at one end where the family normally sat for mealtimes and two lower tables. Fresh rushes covered the floor. Four men and one woman were finishing a meal of soup and bread at the nearest table and I assumed these were the retainers and servants who had accompanied my aunt. My eye passed quickly over them to the high table where my father sat with his steward, Wilhelm, a woman in her late thirties and a youth I presumed was Walter.
My father stood and waved us over to where they were seated. ‘Let me introduce my son Richard, and my youngest daughter Alice. This is your Aunt Cecilia and your Cousin Walter.’
I bowed my head towards my aunt. She wore a chemise underneath a long aqua-blue gown with tight sleeves widening to the wrist in a trumpet shape. On her head was a wimple and veil of the same colour. She gave me a long stare, as if trying to see into my heart. She gave a pinched smile and inclined her head. Fine lines spread from her eyes and whilst not attractive, she possessed an aristocratic air that made her appear almost regal. I disliked her immediately.
Walter looked to be roughly the same size as me. In contrast to my dark hair, his was sandy brown and cut shorter, and he wore an emerald doublet with bright silver buttons. He looked at me briefly, turning to stare at the embroidered wall hanging of a hunting scene that hung along the main wall next to the fireplace. My first impression was that he didn’t want to be here.
‘Richard,’ my father said, ‘why not show Walter the castle? I am sure he would like to see his new home while I discuss matters with Lady Cecilia.’
Walter came to his feet reluctantly, and I saw he was only slightly taller than me. I led him outside and Alice followed.
‘Will you be joining us for training?’ I asked Walter. We descended the steps. ‘Our instructor is very good. He took the cross with King Richard in Outremer.’
Walter shrugged. ‘It is beneath me to train with children. I am used to fighting with the squires and adults.’ His accent sounded strange to my ears and I bristled at his words, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘My father is a great soldier. He always made sure I got the very best of training. Unfortunately, things have changed.’
I stifled a comment and looked round at Alice and rolled my eyes. She laughed.
Walter stopped to glare at my sister. ‘What do you find so amusing?’
To her credit, Alice just shook her head. ‘It was nothing. Come and see our horses. Perhaps we can all go for a ride and show you our father’s land.’
We led Walter through the inner gate and into the outer bailey. He looked around, hardly hiding his disdain.
‘In Normandy,’ he said, ‘the castles are built of stone. This place would not hold for long if it was besieged.’
‘England is peaceful at the moment,’ I said. ‘All the fighting is in France.’ I looked away to see Robert Percy striding across the yard. ‘I need to speak with my friend for a moment,’ I said, glad to get away from our new guest. I spoke to Alice, ‘Take Walter to the stables and I will catch you up.’
Walter and Alice walked in the direction of the stables and I called Robert over. My friend had a bruise on his forehead where I had struck him with the practice sword earlier.
‘You landed me a good one in training,’ Robert said with a wry smile. He pointed with his head towards the back of Walter and Alice who were entering the stables. ‘How is your cousin? You don’t seem very happy? I thought you were looking forward to him coming.’
‘I was, but he seems to be an arrogant shit. He thinks he’s too good for us. Anyway, forget him. Why are you not training? Did Sir Hugh realise that without me your sword practice would be pointless?’
Robert laughed. ‘He released us. I am going fishing in the river. Want to come?’
I shook my head. ‘I have to look after my cousin. I will see you later.’
Robert continued back to the room we shared in the inner bailey and I walked towards the stables. I was about to open the door when I heard shouting coming from within. It was Alice.
I flung the door open and dashed inside, stopping in shock. Walter was whipping Alice’s rouncey Angel with a leather strap. He was like a man possessed, flaying at the horse with all his strength. Alice was distraught. Tears streamed down her face as she begged him to stop, but he hardly seemed to hear. She stepped between him and the horse and he turned his attention on her, whipping the strap across her face.
Anger exploded inside me and I rushed forward, shoving him away from my sister. He stumbled forward and turned, his eyes wild with fury, pulling his arm back to lash me. I smashed my fist into his face, hearing his nose crack and feeling blood splatter across my hand. He howled in pain, dropped the strap and clutched his face. Giving him no chance to recover, I hammered my knee into his stomach and grabbed his hair as he doubled over and continuing to punch him in the face with my free hand. He fell to the ground and I rained more blows down on him. After what he had done to Alice, I could have beaten him senseless, but two powerful hands grabbed me from behind and flung me into a bundle of hay in one of the empty stalls.
‘Stop this lunacy immediately!’ It was Sir Hugh, black with rage. ‘This is no way for a lord’s son to behave.’
Walter was groaning on his hands and knees, his face a bloody mess. Alice was sobbing, a red welt vivid on her cheek.
‘Your father will be furious when he hears about this,’ Sir Hugh snarled at me, looking at Walter who was whimpering. ‘And hitting girls might be acceptable behaviour in Normandy, but it most certainly is not here!’
Walter came to his feet, clutching his nose, his eyes wild with hostility.
‘You had better go and get your nose seen to,’ Sir Hugh said. ‘It looks like it’s been broken.’
Walter almost ran for the door. Hugh let him go, looking at me as his anger finally cooled. ‘I thought I taught you about the importance of keeping a level head and not losing your temper.’
‘He struck Alice. What was I supposed to do?’
‘You did not have to beat the boy half to death. Wait until you have calmed down and go to the hall and see your father. Go before you are summoned – it might go better for you.’ He turned and left, shaking his head.
I looked at Alice. She had stopped crying and was comforting Angel. ‘I hate him,’ she said. ‘I wish you had killed him. I’ll get him back for this, just you see.’
‘No, you shall not,’ I said. ‘I’ve punished him enough and do not want Father to have an excuse to send you away. He is thinking about it, you know.’
Alice shrugged. ‘If that pig is going to live with us then maybe it will be better.’
‘Do not say that,’ I said. We hugged and I wiped the tears from her face. My knuckles were bruised and I cleaned the blood and snot from them with a cloth. ‘We had better go to Father and face whatever punishment he has for us. He must have heard from Walter by now.’
Outside, we received looks from the household servants. I groaned at the thought of the whole castle learning about what had happened. We walked into the inner bailey, my feet moving ever more reluctantly towards the punishment I knew would follow. But I had no regrets about what I’d done. Walter was a bastard and he deserved everything that had happened.
Inside the hall, my father sat anchored in his chair at the high table, idly stroking one of his hunting dogs. Walter was being tended at one of the lower trestles by my aunt and a servant. Everyone looked up as we entered.
‘Is this the way you treat guests in England?’ Aunt Cecilia’s eyes narrowed as she glared at me. Walter at least had the dignity to look ashamed. My father’s gaze bored into me before he turned to Alice. ‘Walter says your horse attacked him in the stables, and when he tried to discipline her you attacked him.’
My sister raised her chin in defiance. ‘That is a lie.’
‘And that you, Richard, came up behind him and punched him in the face.’
I shook my head. Surely my father could not believe this nonsense.
‘This is a serious matter,’ my father said. ‘I would not tolerate it when servants fight, let alone my own family. Lady Cecilia and Walter are guests in our house. I want to know the truth of the matter. Alice, tell me what happened in the stables?’
‘I was showing Walter the horses,’ Alice said, without hesitation. ‘He started laughing at Angel and hit her around the head…’ I could see she was fighting to hold back tears. ‘Angel tried to bite him… but she did not… she didn’t touch him. Then Walter said he knew how to punish bad horses and he… he whipped her with a strap. I tried to stop him and he began to hit me with the strap –’
‘She lies!’ Walter shouted.
My father came to his feet. ‘Quiet! You have said your piece; now it is Alice’s turn.’
Cecilia stood up. ‘Are you going to believe this little girl over my son?’
‘Please sit down, Cecilia. You are my brother’s wife and a guest in my hall, but I am the lord here. My Alice can be wilful, but I have never known her to be deceitful. Richard, give us your account’
I took a deep breath and explained what I’d seen when I entered the stables. ‘And I saw Walter strike Alice so I lost my temper and hit him… I was pulled off by Sir Hugh.’
‘So, you freely admit striking Walter,’ my father said.
‘Yes… but only because he struck Alice.’
‘It looks like you almost killed him. He thought for a moment, before turning to a young servant that hovered by the edge of the high table. ‘Go and fetch Sir Hugh. I shall hear all witnesses of this sordid affair before making any decision.’
The servant disappeared. I looked at Walter who scowled at me, taking satisfaction in his swollen face, although the bleeding had now stopped. Sir Hugh arrived a few moments later. His gruff voice resounded around the hall as he recounted what he’d seen. When he had finished, I looked at my father. Although his face remained impassive, I knew his punishment would be harsh.
‘I am very displeased with all three of you,’ he began. ‘For this episode to have taken place on the day of our guests’ arrival only makes it worse. You are all to blame for what happened in the stables. Tomorrow is a holy day, the feast of Michaelmas, but after mass, instead of celebrating, all three of you shall spend the time keeping a vigil in the chapel under the watchful eye of Father Bertram, where you can reflect and seek guidance from God.’ He looked at Walter and then me. ‘You are both on the cusp of manhood. I do not wish to interfere with your training to become knights. Your vigil shall be followed by twenty strokes of the birch the following morning, to be carried out by Sir Hugh.’
I knew better than to say anything, but Walter groaned. Lady Cecilia flushed in fury. Nevertheless, she kept her mouth shut.
‘Alice. It is clear to me that unfortunately at Cranham you have failed to learn the virtues and finesse required to be a lady. Soon you will be of marriageable age, but your behaviour to date makes that an unlikely prospect. I have decided to send you away as soon as I can find a noble house willing to take you.’
My heart dropped and I stole a glance at my sister. She looked as though she would cry, but I sensed the news did not entirely displease her. It was a normal thing to be sent to another noble’s household. I could hardly wait myself to go to Framlingham. Maybe it was for the better, but I would miss her terribly. All because of that bastard Walter. It was clear we would never be friends.
