Knights of the Hawk (The Conquest Series) by Aitcheson James

Author:Aitcheson, James [Aitcheson, James]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781409052319
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2013-10-23T18:30:00+00:00

Sixteen

THERE WAS FEASTING that night, as Beatrice had promised, and there was drinking, too. Robert ordered the fattest hog from the pens slaughtered and we roasted it on the hearth-fire in the castle’s great hall, while barrels of ale and mead and wine were brought up from the cellars. Cups and horns were filled and raised in honour of Guillaume Malet and, afterwards, of his son as well, to whom all present now owed their allegiance. Cheers went up in Robert’s praise, but I did not join in, instead preferring to keep to the benches along the sides of the hall, where the shadows lingered, so he was less likely to notice me, and where I could quaff my ale in peace. I watched as he greeted and embraced those who had been his father’s vassals, who had come to Heia not just for the funeral and feast, but also to pay homage to their new lord and, most importantly of all, to seek confirmation of their land grants. Occasionally I glanced towards Beatrice, who sat at the high table on the dais together with her husband, her mother, the chaplain Dudo and other guests more esteemed than I. If she saw me, though, she gave no sign of it.

Eudo, ever fond of his drink, was already insensible and lay asleep on the bench beside me, snoring loudly, Wace had ventured outside for a piss, while Serlo and Pons were at the camp across the river, where most of Robert’s vassals and their retinues would be sleeping tonight. All of which meant that, not for the first time of late, I found myself on my own, with only my thoughts for company.

Elsewhere men were shouting and hollering out bawdy songs that I recognised by the tunes if not by the words, which were almost indistinct. One of Robert’s younger hearth-knights had climbed on to a long trestle table from where he proceeded to declaim his undying love for his sword-brothers. Some were holding contests to see who could drain a pitcher of wine the fastest, who could be spun around the most times in a circle without falling over, who could drink the most before emptying the contents of his stomach. Mice scurried along the roof-beams and in the shadows under the tables and stools, in search of crumbs of bread and cheese and anything else that had fallen amidst the rushes, and men were flinging chicken bones at them, seeing who could come closest to striking one. A few had brought dogs with them, which roamed the hall, eating scraps thrown to them, barking at one another and occasionally yelping when someone trod on a paw or tripped over them.

And then, above the singing and the yelling and the belching and the thumping of fists upon tables and the clatter of wooden wine-jugs and the sounds of someone spewing in the corner, I made out what sounded like Godric’s voice.

‘It’s the truth,’ he was saying loudly. ‘I’m telling you I killed him!’

I spotted him then, in the shadows on the other side of the hall.

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