Gerfalcon [The Neustrian Cycle #1] by Leslie Barringer

Author:Leslie Barringer [Barringer, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Renaissance E Books
Published: 2005-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

Upon the following morning, when Raoul got to horse, the blaze of a score of Alain's surcoats lightened the mid-November gloom of the bailey of Montenair. Yseult looked curiously at him, as a child will watch a fly whose wings he has torn off; and Roul contorted his features into the semblance of a smile before he looked away.

All in a creeping mist the banner of Montcarneau hung slanted from its poke in the hand of a grim squire; its field was quartered red and yellow, and in each quarter grinned a wolf's-head of the other colour.

"I would gladly exchange you, beasts, for grey wolves of the forest," thought Raoul.

Then Alain came to mount, drawing on shining gauntlets, and there was a great jingling of bits and stamping of horsehoofs.

You will accompany the Count Alain to Ger," the Castellan had said to Raoul on the previous night. Since then he had not deigned to notice him. Only the Countess had been kind, giving Raoul a new cloak and leathern gloves; but no one thought of finding any spurs, and the gelding assigned to him moved sorrily enough amid the trampling destriers.

Nevertheless he was not obviously a prisoner; he wore his sword, and the Countess had sent the snub-nosed page to polish up his steel cap and clean the boots of humpbacked Dirck that one Herluin had stolen from the keep of Campscapel…

Alain had clashed into his saddle when the watchman's horn wailed twice from a gateway turret. Raoul stiffened where he sat and fixed his eyes on the bailey entry…

Mud-splashed riders and weary horses filed beneath the arch; and under the foremost lifted visor a haughty Olencourt face lit with a tired smile at sight of the glittering Count of Montcarneau.

"Ha, Rogier!" boomed Alain. "Well met! I will in again to hear what the Duke has said."

As Alain swung to the cobbles Raoul edged his mount forward. "Rogier!" he cried joyfully. "Rogier! You remember me!" Tall Rogier treated him to a puzzled stare.

"Why, yes," he said vaguely. "You are Raoul of Marckmont. What in the name of the Pope are you doing here?"

And with one quick hand-clasp from the saddle he swung past toward the steps of the keep, where the Castellan awaited him.

"What indeed?" murmured Raoul, looking after him. "But … no, I will not dismount until he comes again. He must have ridden from Belsaunt before dawn. At least he knew me. And now to wait."

The gay group on the steps dispersed. Alain's red and yellow vanished in the wake of Rogier's green and white. Roger's half-dozen armoured riders got stiffly to earth, growling and jesting with the grooms and with the men-at-arms of Montcarneau. Odours of stable and kitchen mingled on the damp air. Raoul counted the bricks in a row on the wall in front of him, counted the merlons on a reach of crenellated rampart, counted the years since he last saw Rogier, the months since he went to confession, the weeks since he fled Ger…

The quarter of an hour went by.

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