The Firedrake (19 page)

Laeghaire was with the Count. He stood against the wall behind the Count and listened to the royal steward’s latherings. When Fitz-Osbern came in with three retainers, Laeghaire moved to make room, but there was no room. He finally opened the shutters and sat on the windowsill. The Count rose to greet Fitz-Osbern, and the royal steward wheeled, and the shouting started up all over again. The Count sat down. He was smiling. He looked over at his son, the heir Baldwin.

Baldwin came forward, speaking softly, and separated Fitz-Osbern and the royal steward. He could not separate them by much; there were eighteen men in the little room. The two stewards stopped shouting and stood, their faces bright red.

“My lords, my lords. This is most unsettling. My lord father wants me to advise you that you are arguing with the wrong man. Present your cases to the lord Herald of Flanders.”

“My good lord,” Fitz-Osbern said. “I was unaware that Flanders had this honorable post. In previous years, your lord steward has adjudicated these disputes.”

“My lords.” Baldwin turned. “My lord father.”

The Count rose. “The lord Herald of Flanders, my good lords. Sir Laeghaire of the Long Road.”

Fitz-Osbern stiffened.

The Count looked at Laeghaire. “Settle this dispute, if it please you, my lord.” He bowed, and Laeghaire bowed. He could not get off the windowsill; the Count’s chair was against his knees.

“My lords,” he said. “The banners are on the gate, are they not?”

“Indeed,” the royal steward said. “The Count of Flanders’ standard flies from the crossbar center, and my lord’s standard of France, has been placed on the left upright. The left, my good lord.”

“Approaching the gate how, my lord?”

“Why—from the town, of course.”

“But coming from the castle, it’s on the right, is it not?”

“But—”

“And coming from the town, the Duke of Normandy’s standard is on the right, is it not?”

“This is—”

“So. You are both in the right, my lords, and I fail to see the difficulty.”

The royal steward turned and crowded his way out of the room. His attendants followed him.

“Now we have room to breathe in,” the Count said. “My dear Sir William. Most pleasant to have you here again.”

“My lord Count.” Fitz-Osbern bowed. “And may I congratulate your lord Herald on his solution of the problem.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Hebert will attend to any difficulty you might encounter,” the Count said. “My compliments to your lord and lady.”

“My lords.” Fitz-Osbern bowed and went out. His retainers followed him.

“Very good,” the Count said. “Laeghaire, you amaze me.”

“No more than you me, my lord.”

“It seemed to have its advantages at the time. You may take your place among my court officers, if you like, or resign.”

“My lord, I’ll resign.”

Baldwin, the Count’s son, turned abruptly. “Do you dislike honor, sir?”

“He is my man only in name,” the Count said. “His real allegiance is to your good and dutiful brother-in-law.”

“I should think it might have been dangerous to ask him to judge that decision, then.”

“Not at all. I have it on good authority that our friendly Irishman is not listed among the admirers of William Fitz-Osbern. Isn’t that so, Laeghaire?”

“We almost fought once.”

“Or twice, or three times. Enough of that. You have my leave, sir.”

Laeghaire slid off the windowsill. He passed by young Baldwin and went out.

With Murrough he sat on the rampart and watched the swarming mass of people in the courtyard. Murrough pointed excitedly to various things going on and asked what they were. Laeghaire held him by the belt, in case he decided to fall off the rampart.

“Have you nothing to do, my lord Herald of Flanders?”

William sat down beside Laeghaire. Two knights and a page loitered dutifully at the foot of the ladder.

“A herald’s life is an easy one in a peace-loving place, my lord. Besides, I resigned.”

Murrough looked up at William. He stood, got a good grip on Laeghaire’s coat, and leaned out to grab for William. Laeghaire pulled him down. “Sit still,” he said.

“He looks much older than he must be,” William said.

“He’s a good lad.”

“He looks like you.”

“He does. Sit still.” Laeghaire switched to Gaelic. “Sit still or I’ll skin your tail end.”

“Fitz-Osbern was very upset.”

Laeghaire grinned. “He looked upset. I heard you fought in Brittany.”

William nodded. He was still watching Murrough. “With Harold the Saxon. Did you know him?”

“A little.”

“He is a good man.”

“For whose purposes, my lord?”

William looked at him. They both laughed at once.

“You knew him well enough, then.”

“My lord, he’s not a secret kind of man.”

“Unlike some. His brother is one.”

“Which?”

“Tosti.”

“Oh. Tosti.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes. Did you get what you wanted of Harold, my lord?”

“Oh, a small oath. Just a little oath.” William threw back his head and laughed. Murrough began to laugh too. Suddenly Murrough hiccuped.

“On all the bones and relics and cow’s skulls I could find,” William said. “It was an oath to bind the Pope himself.”

“Will you have to fight for England?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think so.”

William frowned. Murrough hiccuped again, and Laeghaire tilted up the boy’s head. Murrough suddenly frowned too, and looked back at William.

“If I do, I’ll send an honor guard for you,” William said. “You have my word on it.”

“I’ll take it, my lord.”

The feasting and hunting and drinking lasted seven days. Laeghaire talked with William often. One night he spent drinking with William and William’s retainers, in a little hall; the Normans made no sign that he was not one of them. They all knew him, they laughed at his mistakes with French, and everyone told stories. They told many stories about Maine. Another time they hunted together. Murrough liked William and imitated him when Laeghaire and William sat talking.

After the feasting everybody went home. The rest of the summer Laeghaire spent training squires and running errands for the Count, Hilde was round with the next baby. She sat often combing her long pale hair, thinking. He knew from the curve of her mouth that she was happy. He lay in bed one morning, playing with Murrough, and watched her comb her hair. Her hair fell over her shoulders. It shone in the sunlight from the window. He remembered the weight of her hair on his fingertips.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

“Your hair.”

She smiled. Her eyes were half closed. She sat like that often. He could not reach her. She was full with a life completely dependent on her, surrounded by her, and he could never understand it. Murrough, impatient, tugged at his hand, and he got up. She did not need him now. She had someone who needed her absolutely. She could let him look at her, without speaking; she liked to be looked at.

He shaved himself and dressed and took Murrough with him down to the field where the squires practiced. He knew that she sat there, alone, and combed her hair, and thought about the child growing curled up in her belly.

In that early autuma he could taste the peace of this place. The harvests were good, and the merchants had many things to sell. The people wove cloth and the cloth given to the Count lay in heaps in the storerooms, all colors, changing color where the shadows and light fell on it. He remembered the year before, when he had been nearly mad with boredom. Only a year before.

“Laeghaire,” the Count said. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“Ask.”

“In return I will give you your freedom to follow the Duke when he calls you. You have always had it, but I’ll give you my blessing.”

“Thank you.”

“You know that Tosti Godwinson is married to my half sister.”

“Yes. I forgot. I remember now.”

“He has been exiled from England.”

“Exiled. Why?”

“I don’t know. Some misadventure.”

He overstepped himself, Laeghaire thought. Wanting to make absolutely sure. Secret Tosti.

“He is coming here, to Ghent,’’ the Count said. “I want you to watch him. He will bring with him only a few retainers. None of them speaks any Flemish. My sister does, of course, but I think she will stay with my Countess. He will need a companion who speaks the language and knows his way around. And I want to know everything in his mind.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I don’t want him to go to Normandy. That is an order. If you suspect that he might want to go to Normandy, dissuade him. If you cannot, tell me. And by no means give him aid or go with him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“He will be here shortly before Allhallows.”

Tosti came in the first snow of the season, almost alone. He came from the coast, with five retainers and his wife, the lady Judith, and two packhorses. The Count received him in his antechamber, with the Countess and the steward Hebert and Laeghaire. The woman was tired. Her eyes sank into hollows and her mouth was thin and blue with cold. The Countess took her up to the women’s quarters right away. The Count sat in his chair and studied the others, the six men. Laeghaire saw the skin tight over the Count’s jawbone. He crossed his arms and waited.

“You cannot expect me to do you much benefit,” the Count said. “You may sit.”

The retainers sat down, still holding their cloaks tight around them. But Tosti remained on his feet. He looked guilty and proud. His face was sharp. His eyes were dark. They smoldered. Laeghaire remembered him younger. Seeing him now brought back, all the memories of him and his brothers. Laeghaire might have left England only the day before; he remembered it in every detail.

“There was a time,” Tosti said, “when you rejoiced to give me benefit, my lord Count.”

“That was before you lost an earldom and had yourself declared an outlaw. You should never play big games with men who know more of the rules than you do.”

So the Count knew, too.

The Count lifted his head. “You are in disgrace. I can offer you a place to spend your exile until such time as you may return peacefully to England. If your father were still alive, there might be better hope for it.”

“My father.”

“While you stay here, I will place my most honored knight at your disposal.” The Count laid his hand on the top of the desk. He stared at it. “You will find that he is an adequate spy. I do not wish you to leave Flanders without notifying me first of your intentions and destination. Is that clear?”

The Count did not look up. Tosti’s face changed slightly. It seemed to Laeghaire that the bones moved, fitting together in a different form. The sleek new eyes like a cat’s were full of lies.

“As you wish, my lord,” Tosti said. His eyes moved slowly and thoughtfully to Laeghaire. “Well, Irishman?”

“Your memory is as long as I hope your discretion to be,” the Count said. “You have my leave to go.”

Tosti turned and went out into the hall. Laeghaire followed him.

“I always wondered where you went after you left us,” Tosti said. He spoke Saxon now.

“I have been other places.”

“You must have. Your reputation penetrated even Edward’s rather dull court. At least some of the tales told about you must be true. The old man’s sick, you know.”

“How could I know?”

“Ears, ears, ears, ears. I heard your name once in connection with a man I should pretend to hate and loathe, since his connivances lost me my title. Where are we going?”

“To your chambers.”

“I have nothing to hide from a spy. I will tell you everything, if you care to listen. I’m a great talker, you know. My brother says it’s my worst fault. My brother. You recall my brother.”

“Which one?”

“Harold. Since Sweyn died, he has been the head of our family. Harold the Lucky, they call him. You should see him now. Are these my chambers?”

“Yes.”

“Sumptuous. Aldric, go find us something to eat. Tell him how to get to the kitchens, Irishman.”

“He can find a page just down the hall, in the alcove.”

“Call him then, Aldric. The rest of you leave me. Aldric will feed you.”

Aldric returned with the page. “He doesn’t understand me,” Aldric said.

Laeghaire wheeled. “Boy, go to the kitchens and have them send us food for six and a cask of wine. The good wine.”

The page glanced at Tosti from the corner of his eyes. “On your orders, my lord.”

“My orders. Hurry.”

Tosti snapped his fingers and pointed to the door to the next room. Aldric went to it, opened it, and looked in. He came back, yawning.