laughter soon fades as we pass through the thick walls, emerging onto an open stretch of gravel with a great stone keep at one end. God be praised! What a work is this!
‘You have to watch how you conduct yourself around Fanjeaux.’ The Archdeacon swings a leg over his saddle, and drops lightly to the ground. ‘They’re quite capable of refusing entry, if you put on airs. Come on, Isidore, down you get.’
Down. I have to get down. But I seem to have lost the stirrup . . .
‘Here, take my hand,’ he says. ‘I’ll hold the horse. Just bring your other foot – that’s it.’
By the blood of the Lamb! What’s happened to my knees?
‘Are you all right?’ He peers at me as I sway and stagger. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t last. You’ll soon develop the muscles to cope.’
I’m coping perfectly well, thank you.
‘Can you walk? Would you like to lean on my shoulder?’
No, I wouldn’t like to lean on your shoulder! I’m not an old man! I don’t need your help and I don’t need your sympathy. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The Archdeacon looks around. There’s a pall of smoke hanging over the clumsy huddle of buildings propped against the inner wall of the bailey: they’re made of wood and mud brick, and there are lights showing through some of their doors. I can smell cooking, and see people lurking in the shadows, but no one moves or utters a word of greeting. Only the dogs approach, growling and sniffing our ankles.
Good dogs. Nice dogs.
‘Useless bunch of ill-mannered pus-bags,’ the Archdeacon mutters. Undaunted by the hostile atmosphere, he raises his voice to address a man in a leather cap, who’s slouching on a doorstep with his arms folded. ‘You there! Fellow! If you’re not busy, you can take our horses.’
‘Where to?’ A frightening voice, like a thunderclap, but the Archdeacon doesn’t flinch.
‘Why,’ he says, winningly, ‘to the stables, of course. I am a guest of Dame Cavears.’
The man grunts. He comes forward and snatches the reins from the Archdeacon – who takes a very deep breath, holds it for an instant, and slowly lets it out again.
‘Come, Isidore,’ he murmurs. ‘I think we’d better announce ourselves.’
I can hear a baby crying. I can see a ruined tower, all gaping holes and piles of rubble. There’s a discarded shoe lying in the dust near my foot, and a goat nibbling at a cabbage-stalk. But there’s no music, no dancing, no silken flags. And that smell – it smells more like salted herring than roast peacock.
Oh Lord, am I to be disappointed once again? Why are things never as good as the poets and philosophers tell us they are? Is it because I’m unworthy to drink of the river of thy pleasures?
Or am I simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time?
‘Come, Isidore.’
It’s the Archdeacon; he’s heading for the keep. How can he move so swiftly, after all that riding? When he reaches the stairs he bounds up them two at a time, like a young goat, and waits for me at the top with his foot tapping.
The door of the keep is disappointingly small, with no carvings or pillars to ornament it.
‘Now don’t worry if Dame Cavears teases you a bit,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘She’s an old lady, and she’s practically blind, so you have to be tolerant. Just stand up straight and take it like a man. That’s what I do.’ He grins at me, and winks. ‘Don’t fret yourself, boy. Remember what I said? The women in this country love priests.’ He gives me a push.
‘Go on,’ he urges. ‘In you go. I’m right behind you.’
Chapter 4
14 July 1209
B ehold the house of Hezekiah, full of precious things. Behold the merchandise of fallen Babylon: the gold and the silver, the silk and the linen, the vessels of ivory and brass. Painted chests, as blue as sapphires and as red as rubies; tablecloths heavy with embroidered flowers; tapestry hangings like the pages of some great illuminated manuscript,
‘You have to watch how you conduct yourself around Fanjeaux.’ The Archdeacon swings a leg over his saddle, and drops lightly to the ground. ‘They’re quite capable of refusing entry, if you put on airs. Come on, Isidore, down you get.’
Down. I have to get down. But I seem to have lost the stirrup . . .
‘Here, take my hand,’ he says. ‘I’ll hold the horse. Just bring your other foot – that’s it.’
By the blood of the Lamb! What’s happened to my knees?
‘Are you all right?’ He peers at me as I sway and stagger. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t last. You’ll soon develop the muscles to cope.’
I’m coping perfectly well, thank you.
‘Can you walk? Would you like to lean on my shoulder?’
No, I wouldn’t like to lean on your shoulder! I’m not an old man! I don’t need your help and I don’t need your sympathy. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The Archdeacon looks around. There’s a pall of smoke hanging over the clumsy huddle of buildings propped against the inner wall of the bailey: they’re made of wood and mud brick, and there are lights showing through some of their doors. I can smell cooking, and see people lurking in the shadows, but no one moves or utters a word of greeting. Only the dogs approach, growling and sniffing our ankles.
Good dogs. Nice dogs.
‘Useless bunch of ill-mannered pus-bags,’ the Archdeacon mutters. Undaunted by the hostile atmosphere, he raises his voice to address a man in a leather cap, who’s slouching on a doorstep with his arms folded. ‘You there! Fellow! If you’re not busy, you can take our horses.’
‘Where to?’ A frightening voice, like a thunderclap, but the Archdeacon doesn’t flinch.
‘Why,’ he says, winningly, ‘to the stables, of course. I am a guest of Dame Cavears.’
The man grunts. He comes forward and snatches the reins from the Archdeacon – who takes a very deep breath, holds it for an instant, and slowly lets it out again.
‘Come, Isidore,’ he murmurs. ‘I think we’d better announce ourselves.’
I can hear a baby crying. I can see a ruined tower, all gaping holes and piles of rubble. There’s a discarded shoe lying in the dust near my foot, and a goat nibbling at a cabbage-stalk. But there’s no music, no dancing, no silken flags. And that smell – it smells more like salted herring than roast peacock.
Oh Lord, am I to be disappointed once again? Why are things never as good as the poets and philosophers tell us they are? Is it because I’m unworthy to drink of the river of thy pleasures?
Or am I simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time?
‘Come, Isidore.’
It’s the Archdeacon; he’s heading for the keep. How can he move so swiftly, after all that riding? When he reaches the stairs he bounds up them two at a time, like a young goat, and waits for me at the top with his foot tapping.
The door of the keep is disappointingly small, with no carvings or pillars to ornament it.
‘Now don’t worry if Dame Cavears teases you a bit,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘She’s an old lady, and she’s practically blind, so you have to be tolerant. Just stand up straight and take it like a man. That’s what I do.’ He grins at me, and winks. ‘Don’t fret yourself, boy. Remember what I said? The women in this country love priests.’ He gives me a push.
‘Go on,’ he urges. ‘In you go. I’m right behind you.’
Chapter 4
14 July 1209
B ehold the house of Hezekiah, full of precious things. Behold the merchandise of fallen Babylon: the gold and the silver, the silk and the linen, the vessels of ivory and brass. Painted chests, as blue as sapphires and as red as rubies; tablecloths heavy with embroidered flowers; tapestry hangings like the pages of some great illuminated manuscript,
Similar Books
Love Inspired Historical October 2013 Bundle: A Family for Christmas\The Secret Princess\Taming the Texas Rancher\An Unlikely Union
Rhonda Gibson, Winnie Griggs, Rachelle McCalla, Shannon Farrington
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel)
Maegan Beaumont
Newborn Conspiracy
Delores Fossen
Deadly Lullaby
Robert McClure
The Divided Family
Wanda E. Brunstetter
Side Show
Rick Shelley
Mercy, A Gargoyle Story
Misty Provencher
The Carrot and the Stick
C. P. Vanner
Fade Back (A Stepbrother Romance Novella)
Stephanie Brother
Anita Blake 20bis - Beauty: An Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Outtake
Laurell K. Hamilton