Chapter Three
Selborne Castle
It was nearing the evening meal, late in the afternoon, when Val and his men returned to the castle.
As they approached from the east, they could see the pale-stoned walls of the fortress gleaming in the sunset, protecting the enormous keep and hall within her bosom.
It was a sight that Val never got tired of, a castle that had belonged to his ancestors, built by Saxon lords but fortified by the Normans.
His blood ran within those stone walls with the lineage that his mother repeatedly preached to him.
Truthfully, he was as sentimental about the place as she was.
Only he’d never tell her that.
The gates of the fortress were open, great iron panels lodged within a stout gatehouse.
Beyond was the vast bailey with its large stables near the gatehouse.
While further back by the keep, there was a stone troop house for the soldiers, two small cottages for the married knights, trade stalls, and the kitchens – butchery, buttery, store house, garden, and more.
The keep itself was enormous, built of stone by an ancestor who adapted the Norman way of building and had constructed an impenetrable tower in the middle of the castle grounds.
The keep was unique in that it was fairly self-sufficient, built to withstand a siege even if the enemy gained control of the bailey and walls.
An enormous iron gate protected an equally massive oak door, forged with iron rivets, which protected the small hall, a well and kitchen on the sub-level, several chambers that were small but well-ventilated, and even a chapel.
In all, the keep was a stunning example of functional Norman construction, as was the great hall next to it, built with heavy stone and a sod roof.
To Val, the sight of his ancestral castle was something he drew strength from.
Even as he reined his horse to a halt, he found himself surveying his castle as a Caesar would survey his empire.
This was his empire. It was true that he had inherited this property, but he had worked hard for everything else.
He didn’t consider Selborne a gift or simply his inheritance; he considered it something only he was worthy of.
Handing his steed off to a stable groom who had rushed out with other grooms to greet the incoming horses, Val began to make his way towards the keep, already inhaling the smells of the coming meal.
He could most definitely smell pork. Smoke from the kitchens hung heavy in the air.
Crossing the bailey, he was hungry already, thinking of the night ahead and conversation with McCloud.
He was looking forward to an evening with someone he’d not seen in a long time and conversation with someone other than his mother and his knights.
Just as Val neared the steps leading up to the entry level of the keep, his mother appeared in the entry door. Val removed his helm, running his fingers through his damp hair as he mounted the steps.
“Valor,” his mother said sternly as he came within earshot. “Where have you been?”
Val paused at the top of the stairs. “Horsham,” he said. “We were fortunate to capture our fugitive in Whitehill so we took the man to Lord Horsham. It is a long ride there and back.”
Margaretha eyed her son, disapproval in her expression. “I see,” she said. “While you have been rushing about all over Hampshire saving the world from cutthroats, a man and his daughter showed up on our doorstep demanding food and lodgings. He says he is a friend of yours.”
Val began to loosen his gloves. “Did he give his name?”
“McCloud d’Avignon.”
Val eyed her. “He is, indeed, an old friend of mine,” he said. “I saw him in Whitehill and invited him to sup. You were not rude to him, were you?”
Margaretha scowled. “Of course not,” she snapped. “I did not question him, although I wanted to. The man wears rags and appears destitute. Are you certain he is a friend of yours?”
Val sighed. “Not all friends come with coffers of gold,” he said. “D’Avignon comes from a very old family that lives somewhere to the south. Down by Southampton, I think.”
Margaretha didn’t appear convinced. “Why have I not heard of this friend until now?”
Val simply pushed past her. “Because I cannot tell you of every single friend I have ever had,” he said.
“I knew many men in France, men I have not told you of. But rest assured, McCloud d’Avignon is my friend.
I intend to sup with him tonight to become reacquainted with the man and I would like for you to be polite to him. ”
Margaretha followed him into the keep. “I have been. I am the model of decorum.”
Val wasn’t entirely sure of that. His mother came across like a shrew most of the time, so he was hoping McCloud and his daughter hadn’t been offended by her manner.
But to say something about it would only bring about an argument, so he kept his mouth shut.
He pulled off one of his gloves, heading for the spiral stairs that were built into the thickness of the wall.
“Where did you put McCloud and his daughter?” he asked.
Margaretha pointed up. “On the top level,” she said. “The Priest’s Chamber and the Constable’s Chamber.”
Those were designations that, one hundred years ago, were rooms that had once actually housed the castle priest and the castle constable.
Selborne no longer had a resident priest or a need for a constable, so these days they were chambers meant for guests but were still referred to by their formal designations. Val began to mount the steps.
“Are we supping in the great hall tonight?”
“We are.”
“Then I shall return to my chamber, strip myself of my weapons, and escort McCloud’s daughter to the great hall,” he said. “You will escort McCloud. It will give you time to amend your opinion of him.”
That was proper etiquette with guests but Margaretha wasn’t thrilled about it. She didn’t want to amend her opinion about anyone. She began to follow her son up the stairs.
“They can only stay the night, Valor,” she said sternly. “I do not like your friend’s manners. You should see the way he looked over Selborne when he arrived.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he looked it over most greedily. And he commented on it.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you must have done very well for yourself.”
“Well, I have.”
Margaretha wasn’t finished. “It was the way he said it,” she stressed. “Almost… envious. He even asked if you had married.”
“There is no crime in that.”
“Nay, there is no crime in that question, but it seemed to me that it was a rather bold question to ask. Furthermore, do you know they arrived on foot? They did not even have a horse between them.”
They had reached the floor above and Val came to a pause. “On foot?” he said, surprised. “When I saw them in Whitehill, it was near the livery. I assumed they had horses in the livery.”
“Nary a one.”
Val thought that was strange but not overly so. He didn’t give it much thought, truthfully. He was simply looking forward to the coming meal and conversation, and that was all that occupied his thoughts at the moment.
“Well,” he said as he turned for his chamber. “If the man wants to borrow a pair of horses to make it home, I will happily loan them to him. McCloud d’Avignon saved my life more than once in France so he can have whatever he wants. You should be grateful to him, too.”
“Valor, I….”
He cut her off. “Please, Mother. For my sake. Just… be kind.”
Margaretha didn’t reply as she watched him walk into his chamber, leaving the door open as he began to strip down of his weapons and mail.
He was unbuckling and unstrapping things, tossing them onto his bed or even onto the floor.
When he began pulling off his tunic, she turned away and headed back down the stairs, heading to the kitchens to ensure the evening meal would be on time.
As she made her way out of the keep, crossing the bailey beneath the clear, dusky sky, her thoughts were lingering on the man her son had called his friend.
A slovenly man who smelled of compost. Old, grizzled, she didn’t like the look of him one bit.
How her beautiful boy could befriend such a decayed example of a man was beyond her comprehension.
But Val was magnanimous that way; he tended to make friends easily, a likable man that was greatly esteemed by all.
In truth, she envied that quality about him.
He was a good judge of character and she was proud of that.
But in this case, she simply thought he had lost his mind.
She’d have to keep an eye on Val’s friend to ensure the man didn’t make off with anything of value when he left Selborne.
Even if Val was unconcerned with the man’s obvious poverty, Margaretha was not so blind.
She fully intended the man and his daughter would be gone at sunrise.
*
Vesper was fairly certain she had died and gone to heaven.
The tiny chamber that the gruff older woman had put her in had a small bed, but very soft, a basin for washing, and a hearth that a servant had stoked when she’d arrived.
Vesper had asked the same servant for hot water to wash with but the woman evidently thought she’d meant a bath, so one had been brought up to her, complete with soaps and towels.
It was a type of bath where it was basically a copper pot with tall sides and a stool in the middle of it, meant to sit on and bathe sitting up.
Before Vesper could protest the trouble of an actual bath, servants filled the copper pot with hot water, several inches of it, and Vesper was able to have a hot bath, something she’d not had in weeks.
The lure of that luxury was stronger than her protests.
Aye, this was heaven.