Captives (16 page)

Chapter Twenty Five

The journey had been long, but finally it was over. Fitz spat on the ground as he dismounted awkwardly from his horse.

“My lord!”

A young man rushed towards him, and helped him descend the last foot towards the ground. Every part of Fitz ached, and he could feel the tiredness that had so wrecked his bones since his illness flowing back into every sore muscle. He would need to rest before he could re-join the royal court.

Months of travelling around England had continuously brought him back to his bed, and yet he had never fully succumbed to the illness that had threatened his life. It had been a long summer – longer than Fitz had ever thought possible or ever imagined. When he had left his home in Normandy at the beginning of the year, it had been with little thought to his return. And yet now here he was, with the winter approaching once more, and the last of the autumn warmth disappearing day by day.

“May I be of any assistance, my lord?”

Fitz looked hazily at the Anglo-Saxon man who was waiting patiently to hear his response. A mat of blonde hair covered his head, as it did on so many of the native people, but there was a look of kindness and of gentleness on his face.

“My name is Orvin,” the man said in a strong voice, “and I offer the assistance and hospitality that my people are known for.”

His eyes seemed to challenge Fitz to dispute this, but Fitz was too tired to start another battle when it seemed as though his own body was fighting one.

“I thank you, Orvin…?” Fitz knew that using the full name of an Anglo-Saxon was a great show of respect, and he saw no reason to forego the pleasantries.

Orvin was evidently pleased. “Orvin, son of Ulfwulf, of the South,” he said. “You do me much honour, my lord.”

“And you me,” Fitz said stiffly, “and yet I fear I shall show much dishonour to a good friend of mine if I accept your services. Would you be so good as to fetch Marmion from inside? I had hoped that he would be here to greet me, but –”

“You have been sorely disappointed?”

Fitz smiled at the familiar voice. He needed familiarity, here in the evening of a long day while he waited outside the tents that contained the knowledge of his future. Whatever King William had planned for him, it had not been contained in that letter.

“Marmion,” Fitz’s smile broadened as the man who had spoken came into view, “you are older but probably not much wiser.”

Marmion did not hold back – he pulled Fitz into a hug that he probably would have been afraid to try when they had last met. Fitz saw Orvin slip away.

“It is so good to see you,” Marmion said. “In truth, it warms my heart to see you standing so strong. We had heard that you were knocking on Death’s door.”

“He did not want me,” Fitz shrugged. “And so I have returned. Thank you for your letters: they have kept me sane for many months.”

Marmion laughed. “I hoped that the gossip would entertain you.”

Fitz joined him in his laughter. “It was more the certainty that there was a world outside of my sick chamber. To know that other people were living normal lives, far away from the smell of vomit and the nightmare of fever… it was very comforting.”

Marmion’s face fell slightly to see his lord so serious, and he clasped a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“The sick chamber is put behind you,” he said quietly, “and now you have reached the King’s camp. He has been looking for you these four days.”

“Then perhaps someone should remind our King just how long it takes to cross the small sea,” Fitz said dryly. “Normandy is a long way from here.”

Marmion nodded, and beckoned that Fitz should walk with him towards the encampment. “I think our lord King has more pressing concerns on these shores at present.”

Marmion’s voice was dark, and Fitz suddenly felt cold.

“What has happened?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Marmion said hastily.

“Ah,” said Fitz. He knew politics. “So it has not happened yet, then?”

“Nothing can escape you, can it, my lord?”

“I was figuring out court intrigues before you were born, Marmion,” Fitz said heavily.

Marmion did not reply, but pushed open the huge door of the castle that seemed to have appeared in front of Fitz like a sorcerer had put it there.

His companion laughed at the expression on his face.

“The gully disguises it well, do you not think?”

Fitz’s mouth was still open.

“Come.”

The older man followed the younger into warmth, and light. The entrance hall was full of men in red robes, many of them talking hurriedly in hushed tones. Fitz’s stomach turned: this was the opening of war, his mind told him. This is exactly how it started, what seemed like years ago, back in Normandy. This was how they decided to go conquering.

“Sit, my lord,” Marmion beckoned Fitz towards a large chair, rich with furs, and right next to the fire. “If you will rest, I shall bring you food. You must be starving.”

Faces around the room turned to stare at him, the newcomer. Many of them were unrecognisable to Fitz. Had he really been gone that long?

“I must admit, my appetite is not what it was,” Fitz said quietly. “But I would be happy to sit and rest. The journey has robbed me of what little strength I had when I left Normandy.”

Marmion nodded silently. It was plain just by looking at Fitz that he had greatly suffered. There were lines of exhaustion on his face, and he limped slightly, wincing when he put his left leg down to the ground.

“Then sit,” Marmion said gently. “And I will leave you to relax.”

Fitz lowered himself gingerly into a chair, and then relaxed his aching muscles. The seat felt good.

Marmion began to walk away, but Fitz called him back.

“Wait – Marmion?”

“My lord?”

Fitz waited until his old servant was close to him, and then spoke in a lowered tone.

“The man that greeted me when I first arrived… Orvin?”

“Orvin, yes my lord.”

Fitz hesitated, but then continued. “What do you know of him?”

Marmion thought for a moment, and then spoke slowly.

“I think he is of good family – Anglo-Saxon family, that is. His father accepted King William’s rule, and thus his name and house was protected. Orvin is currently looking for patronage – he is the second son.”

“That would explain it,” Fitz murmured. Without another word, he waved Marmion away, and started concentrating on the most important thing to him at that moment; resting.

In fact, he rested so well that he was dozing within moments. It was some time later that a loud crash caused him to wake.

Fitz stared round the room with nervous eyes, trying to work out where the noise had come from. The sun had really set now; more candles had been lit, and the room was glowing. But there were now only a few others in the room, and none of them had made any noise. They were, however, all staring at the outer door.

Someone had knocked.

The door opened without anyone replying, and the first man that walked through was wearing the same red robes that Fitz had seen adorning many a man within the castle. Following him was a tall dark man, splattered with rain and mud. His hair was wet, and was smeared across his forehead. Several men followed him, each one just as wet and just as tired.

The tall, dark man looked hastily around the room. His eyes could obviously not discover what he was searching for, and he gripped one hand into a fist.

The inhabitants of the castle could not help but smirk at the motley band, but Fitz stared at them. Whoever they were, they had obviously come a long way, and on a matter of great importance.

One of the servants in red stepped towards them. Fitz saw with disgust that he was not going to treat the visitors with honour – and Fitz was right.

“And?” The servant had a sneer on his face as he spoke.

The tall man did not seem to notice it. “I would see your lord. If convenient.”

Fitz could barely catch the words, so quiet was the newcomer’s voice.

“It is not convenient. What makes you think that he will see you?”

The servant’s reply was in just the vein that Fitz had expected, but it still shocked him. How could a servant speak to a man like that? Despite the dirt of the stranger, it was quite clear that he was of noble birth. You could see it in his carriage, the way that he held himself, and the way that his men stared at him, just waiting for any signal to act.

Fitz would have challenged the servant on his rudeness, but it did not seem to bother the tall man. Instead, he smiled. Before Fitz realised exactly what had happened, the tall man’s followers had encircled the servant, and twitching hands were reaching for sword handles, appearing from under cloaks.

The tall man spoke again, and his voice was just as quiet as before – but there was a depth and a passion in it that Fitz had not heard before.

“Because I have travelled far to see him. Because I am a lord of this realm. And because I’m asking nicely.”

The man smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. Fitz did not blame the servant for swallowing nervously, and backing away from the reach of the itching fingers, ready for a fight.

The servant muttered, “I will speak to my lord.”

The servant started walking towards a different doorway at the back of the room; Fitz thought that would be the end of it – but just before the man passed through the doorway into the corridor, he threw a shout over his shoulder.

“Though don’t hold your breath!”

He was gone before anything could be done. One of the men that had come with the stranger stepped forward as if to follow, but his lord stopped him.

“I’ve been holding my breath ever since I left home,” Fitz heard the tall man mutter, as if to himself. “I’ve been holding my breath for the last three years.”

Fitz stared. The man stood, tall and proud, and yet there was a brokenness about him. Fitz did not recognise him; despite his title of a ‘lord of this realm’, Fitz did not remember seeing him at the royal court, nor at the coronation of the Queen. Who was this man, and why did he come here to the King’s court in such a way?

The servant by this time had returned, and one of the men clutched at his lord’s arm. They both looked towards the man in the red robes.

“My lord will see you now.”

And Fitz could see that the servant was not happy about it, and so he tried to hide his grin, in case it was spotted.

The tall man spoke briefly. “Thank you.”

However, it was not to be so easy. As he and his men started to walk towards the corridor, the servant put up his hand.

“No. Just you, my lord Melville,” said the servant. “Your men may remain here and warm their hands. They are not to come also.”

Melville, thought Fitz as the two men argued it out. It was not a name that he knew. Of course, it would be foolish for him to suppose that he would know each and every man that roamed these lands – but to come at such a time, in such a way. It must be important news for the King.

Eventually the man called Melville capitulated, and he followed the servant out of the room alone. The men that he left behind stood awkwardly. They all looked tired, and one looked particularly exhausted. Fitz watched him as he swayed.

Fitz stood up. Enough was enough.

“My brother Normans,” he said gently. “Will you not rest by this fireside with me? Like you, I have travelled far, and have just stopped to allow my feet to recover.” He saw their hesitation. “You are most welcome.”

The men all looked at one – the man who had placed his hand on his lord’s arm to tell of the servant’s return.

He nodded. “I am grateful, my lord. You do us much kindness by your welcome.”

They came towards the fire, and stood around it, trying to dry off their soaking wet clothes.

“Please,” Fitz said, still standing. “Have my chair.”

But one of the men smiled. “Peace, my lord father,” he said formally. “I thank you for your offer, and return it to you. Sit, and we shall enjoy the fire together.”

Fitz smiled with gratitude, and collapsed back into the chair. In truth, he was not entirely sure whether he would have been able to stand for much longer, but he hated the way that these men had been treated. Had they no entitlement to respect?

The moments passed, and still this Melville did not return. The servant that had led Melville out of the room returned, and after spying Fitz, walked towards him hurriedly.

“My lord FitzOsbern,” he said in a gracious voice full of deference. “I did not see you there – permit me to offer you welcome.”

Fitz looked up at him in disgust. “And what have I done to afford such a welcome?”

The servant was confused. “My lord?”

“These men are guests here just as much as I,” Fitz said. “And yet you treated them like dogs. What is your name?”

The servant’s eyes flickered over Melville’s men, warming themselves by the fire.

“William,” he said bitterly. “William of Bologne.”