Captives (19 page)

Chapter Twenty Nine

The wind was cold, and Fitz hated it. It was the one thing about this country that he believed he could never quite grow to love: the weather. Always cold, always harsh, it seemed to get worse with every passing day that he spent here.

Admittedly, his bad temper was not solely due to the weather. Despite the many conversations that Fitz had had with the King since their first, he had not been able to change his mind about attacking the North. Fitz shuddered at the thought of just how many people would die in the next few months. Hundreds. Thousands even. It would be the most devastating thing to happen to these people since…

Well. Since the Normans had first arrived.

Fitz blew onto his cold hands. Dawn was still waited for, but most of King William’s army was already awake. It did not do to be unprepared for the call to leave, especially when they were about to depart on such a solemn journey.

Catheryn would probably be asleep now, Fitz thought. She had no idea the terror that he and his people were about to unleash onto her people, and she would be devastated if she did know. Fitz hoped fervently that her daughter had remained in the South. It would break Catheryn to know that she was here, in the North, in danger.

And yet so many daughters were; and sons, and mothers, and husbands. And their world was about to end in blood and fire.

Fitz shook his head, and began to stomp to the hastily constructed shacks where his horse had been stabled. It was none of his business, what Catheryn may think and feel. He should not even be thinking of her at all – and yet it was hard; in this, her very own country; to pull his thoughts away from her. They liked to dwell on her, and it was almost impossible for him to forget her.

Sometimes, when Fitz was low in spirits and cold under the blanket that he had been given, he thought of the beautiful woman who had made him realise just how precious his life was. He had never given it much thought before: his life had been something that had belonged to other people. He swore it to his betters, he pledged it to his wife, he played dangerously with it in battle – but it was never something that he valued. Now he had been shown what a world of love could be like, and he mourned its death before it had even taken a breath of life.

But enough. Fitz began to saddle his horse, pushing any thoughts of the blonde haired woman out of his mind.

As much as he could.

“Fitz!”

He turned around, and saw Marmion walking towards him, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“You are up early,” Marmion remarked. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, my lord… you look terrible.”

Fitz laughed, in spite of himself. “Always one for compliments, you were.”

“No, I mean no disrespect,” Marmion said hastily. “But I am worried about you. You have not been the same since your sickness.”

Fitz shook his head. “Nothing has been the same since my sickness, but I thank you for your concern. Am I to look forward to your company today?”

Marmion smiled, awkwardly. “Well, actually, Fitz… King William has given me some men of my own. He has been impressed with me, ever since the coronation of Queen Matilda. You do not mind, do you?” he rushed, looking fearfully at his old master.

“Not a bit,” Fitz said, “I smile on your good fortune. It was high time that someone noticed what a fine man you are, and now the finest among us finally has.”

Marmion’s smile turned to one of relief. “Then truly, you are not angry?”

Fitz shrugged. “What am I to be angry about? The only problem that I can see for me is that I will have to grow accustomed to seeing your face infrequently. I know that we shall remain friends.”

The two men embraced, and Fitz was reminded strongly of Roger. Here was another young man who sought his approval.

“Now be off with you,” Fitz said kindly. “I imagine your men will need pushing out of their beds.”

“Much like I did,” Marmion winked. “Now I know how it feels to be the one pulling off the rug!”

Fitz chuckled as he watched the impetuous young man stride away from him. Rays of light had begun to fall from the sky since their conversation began. Morning had come.

A scuffle caught his attention, and Fitz turned to see another young man walk into the stable, hesitate, and then bow deeply.

“My lord.”

Fitz knew the boy, but it was a while before he could put a name to that face. In fact, he had finished preparing his steed before the name came to him.

“Orvin.”

The young man turned, a frightened look on his face. “My lord? I apologise, I was not aware that you wanted to be alone – I can return…”

“Peace,” Fitz said kindly, and the features of the young man relaxed. “Orvin, son of Ulfwulf, of the South, it is good to meet with you again.”

Orvin smiled, and pushed some of his blonde hair back from his eyes. “And you are well met, William FitzOsbern, son of Osbern, of Normandy.”

“I did not know that you were to accompany us.”

“I follow King William.” Orvin’s Norman was good, but his Anglo-Saxon accent was strong despite himself. “Where he goes, I go.”

“And where he kills, you kill?”

Fitz cursed his tongue as soon as the words were spoken, but they could not be taken back.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly, noting the wide eyes of the Anglo-Saxon man. “I spoke hastily, I spoke without thought. Please forget it.”

“It is of no matter,” Orvin said smoothly, but a heightened colour filled his cheeks. “You are not the only man who despairs at this action, and yet follows his King with loyalty in his heart.”

Orvin was finished with his horse, and began to lead it out of the stable. Fitz watched him go, and then a thought struck him.

“Orvin?”

The man paused, and looked back at Fitz.

“I know that you seek patronage; a lord,” Fitz said quickly, “and I seek a young man to ride beside me. Will you join me?”

A smile broke out on Orvin’s face, and Fitz was amazed to see just how dramatically it changed him. He seemed older, and more certain of himself, of who he was.

“It would be my honour, my lord.”

Orvin walked up to Fitz, dropped to his knees, and with his head lowered offered up his clasped hands. Fitz brought them between his own palms, and began the ritual.

“Will you, Orvin, son of Ulfwulf, of the South, swear yourself to me?”

“I will.”

“In times of battle and times of peace?”

“I will.”

“When times are hard and when joy reigns?”

“I will.”

“Then rise, Orvin, son of Ulfwulf, of the South, for you are sworn to me.”

He rose with a smile on his face.

“I am honoured to be a part of your company, my lord.”

Fitz smiled but there was no happiness within it. “Do not be too hasty, my friend. The day is just beginning, and if I am any judge, it will contain much sadness.”

The two men, with their horses saddled and ready for the day ahead, walked out into the dawn.

“To horses, to horses!”

The cry came from one man wearing a costume of deep red, but it was soon taken up by the men surrounding the camp.

“To horses!”

“This is it,” muttered Fitz, sure that no one would be able to hear him under the din of the rattling of swords and the neighing of awakening horses. “This is the moment where I truly lose my soul.”

Orvin did not seem to have heard him. Fitz could not help but see parts of Catheryn in him: the blonde hair seemed to be an Anglo-Saxon trait that many had, but there was also a softness in him, an acceptance that this was his life now – another feature that Anglo-Saxons up and down the land had acquired, as it became clear that King William and the Normans were not leaving.

“Orvin,” he said quietly, and the young man was immediately at his side. “I have a few last things that I have not packed in my tent. Could you fetch them for me?”

Orvin did not even reply – he was already running towards Fitz’s tent. Fitz smiled. He already knew which tent was Fitz’s out of the hundreds that had been put up around the castle as more and more men amassed here, ready to destroy the North.

It did not take Orvin long to bring the last of Fitz’s belongings to him, and the two of them began to stow them safely within the various leather bags that were attached to their horses. As they worked, someone behind Fitz coughed. He coughed again.

Fitz rolled his eyes – reminding himself painfully of Catheryn – and turned around.

“Can I help you?”

The man before him was small, and slight, and holding out a letter. The parchment was slightly soggy, as if it had been accidentally dropped in a puddle, and picked up again hastily. It had not dried out well.

“Letter for you, my lord FitzOsbern,” the man panted slightly, but managed to keep his breath. “From Normandy.”

“From Normandy?” Fitz took the letter, but did not recognise the hand. “Thank you.” A small coin was passed to the man, who then vanished into the crowd of men milling about, shouting orders and laughing at a man who had slipped in the mud.

Orvin looked at the letter curiously. “Will you not open it, my lord?”

Fitz shook his head. “Whatever news it contains can wait.”

“But what if it is urgent?”

“It will not be.”

Orvin looked at him, confused. “How will you know, if you do not read it, my lord? There are plenty of men here who are just staggering from their beds; their horses are not ready. We have some time yet before we must leave.”

Fitz looked around. He was right, of course: but in truth, he did not want to read the letter. Although it did not look like it, it could only be from Adeliza’s hand, and any word that he read from her would only remind him more painfully that the affection that he felt for her… just wasn’t enough.

But he sighed. He could not ignore it forever, and Orvin was right. There was time.

“All hail the King!”

Once again, the cry that was begun by one was raised by many. Fitz saw King William stride amongst his men, commenting every now and again to raucous laughter. Fitz’s heart was sore, tired of battle, and yet this man, this King that he followed, seemed ready once more to slaughter innocents.

Faced with two evils – the letter, or talking to King William once more about the terrible acts that they were about to commit – he chose the former. Breaking open the seal, the parchment unfolded to reveal only a few lines.

Fitz put out a hand for his horse, and put most of his weight on the bridle. Adeliza was sick; she had the same illness that had tormented him, that had dragged away their Isabella from life. And in the lines that Catheryn wrote, it seemed that Adeliza was about to be dragged away too. Suddenly all of the emotions that had seemed lacking in his marriage, all of the times that he had smiled with his wife, laughed with her, cried over their children’s hurts, planned for their future – they filled his head so quickly that he almost clutched it as if in pain. Perhaps the love that he had been looking for… what he thought he could have with Catheryn… maybe that was not the only love there was. Perhaps what he and Adeliza had was love, after all. And now he could lose her.

“Fitz?”

And to think that the news should come in the words of the woman that he had loved; that he did love; that he could not love. That Catheryn should be the one to write to him.

“Fitz, can you hear me?”

Where was Roger? He had left his son in charge. Why had he not contacted him before now?

“Fitz, if you don’t answer me, I shall call a doctor!”

Fitz blinked. King William was standing before him, and a look of – was that concern?

“I am sorry, my lord King William.” Fitz spoke briefly and quietly, and then turned away to mount his horse. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Orvin had done the same.

“Fitz, what is going on?”

“Which way south?” Fitz’s question was to the entire crowd that had gathered to stare at him. Several men pointed in the same direction.

Fitz spurred his horse on, and Orvin followed him.

“Damn it, Fitz!”

But the cry of King William was falling fast behind them, and the wind caught at most of it. All Fitz could think of was going south, getting to the water, crossing the water – and getting to Adeliza.

“My lord?” Orvin was riding beside him, and although he raced along with him at the same speed, there was a look of shock on his face. “Where are we going?”

“Normandy.”

“Fitz!”

His name was called out by a voice that he knew well. Fitz slowed down, and allowed King William to catch up with him.

“What the devil is going on, Fitz?” King William panted slightly at the effort. He was not a young man anymore.

Fitz thrust the letter into his hands, without stopping. Nothing would stop him.

King William leaned back in his saddle while he read the short letter, and the colour drained from his face.