Chapter 5
Aimery made his way swiftly through the forest back to his camp.
He had given up acting the outlaw some time ago.
It had served its purpose and become dangerous, especially once the myth of Golden Hart came to life, but he had resumed his disguise for this one visit.
A fleeing family had brought news of the sickness there, and the heiress’ medicines.
In some way he felt responsible for her behavior.
It would seem she was trying to do some good, but that didn’t warm his heart.
Baddersley was a ruin and its people were wretched.
Her concern came far too late. It would have been more to the point to have fed the people and not overworked them, to have been easier with the whip, then they would not have succumbed to the pestilence.
Still, he couldn’t suppress a touch of admiration for her spirit. Even alone, surrounded by the enemy, she had spat at him like a cat. He’d wanted to take what she’d offered and then snatched away. He’d even enjoy the fight . . .
He caught himself up with a curse. She was a witch to be able to tempt him so when he’d seen her cruelty with his own eyes. She did nothing to control her aunt and uncle, and only cared for the people when it seemed they might die.
At the camp he found Gyrth tenderly sharpening his scramasax as he eyed another man sitting facing him. Old enemies, thought Aimery, as his squire, Geoffrey de Sceine, rose and bowed.
“Greetings, Lord. The king sends for you to Rockingham.” Geoffrey was a tall, strong young man and very Norman.
He wore his dark hair trimmed close to the scalp at the back, and his hand always rested on his sword.
If he had any problems with his lord’s fondness for English ways, he never spoke of it, though he disdainfully ignored any English he found with him.
Aimery didn’t know whether Geoffrey guessed what he did when he “went Saxon,” or if he reported back to William. It was not a matter he could control.
“What’s he doing there?” he asked in French. Gyrth scowled at being excluded from the conversation. “Learn French,” Aimery said to him unsympathetically in English before turning back to Geoffrey. “I left the king in Westminster only a fortnight ago.”
“He and the queen are on progress, Lord. It is said he has gifted Huntingdonshire to his niece Judith, and so they have taken her there. The only question,” he added with a grin, “is to whom she will be given.”
“So there’s to be an Earl of Huntingdon, is there?
” Aimery peeled off the cloth he had wrapped around his head instead of darkening his hair with soot and grease.
“That must have started the dogs growling. But I wonder why I’m summoned.
” He wondered, in fact, if this unexpected call to court meant his road had finally come to its end.
“Doubtless for the feasting which will follow the betrothal, Lord,” said Geoffrey, bright-eyed.
It was possibly true, so Aimery grinned at the younger man’s blithe anticipation. “And you are looking forward to fair ladies and contests with rich prizes, yes?”
Geoffrey smiled back and colored slightly. “Yes, Lord.” He was only four years younger than Aimery, but he had missed Senlac and did not have Aimery’s split heritage, so at times he made Aimery feel ancient. To Geoffrey, England was just a place for adventure where a man could make his fortune.
Geoffrey passed over a bundle, and Aimery took it to the nearby river where he could wash off his disguising dirt. He allowed his smile to fade.
It was only a few weeks since he’d left the court at Westminster after the queen’s coronation, and to be called back again so soon was ominous.
Other than those he considered a danger, William liked his vassals to be out in the country, making his authority felt.
Had Aimery now been identified as a potential danger?
There had been vague, scoffed-at rumors at court about a mystical hero called Golden Hart. Fortunately the stories were so wild no one took them seriously. Golden Hart could kill three armed men with his bare hands. He could disappear at will. He breathed fire like a dragon . . .
Still, William was beginning to show an interest in Golden Hart—almost as much as in the real threat posed by Hereward—because Golden Hart was becoming a focus for rebellion at the lowest level of society, the peasantry. That was one reason Aimery had abandoned the persona.
Except for this one trip. He regretted it now even though only Aldreda had seen him. And the heiress, of course.
He admitted that he could have checked the heiress’ medicines at a distance, or just trusted her good sense not to poison anyone. The bitter truth was he had wanted to see her again, to see if she now appeared as evil as he knew her to be.
And she didn’t. She was still beautiful and stirred his senses in a way no other woman could. Perhaps she was a witch.
As he waded into the cool water, he looked down and saw the clean patch on his right hand, and the design standing out there. When had that happened? He was careful these days not to give anyone a glimpse of the mark.
When the heiress had splashed water on him.
He cursed softly. Could she have seen anything in that smoky atmosphere?
He hoped not, or it was likely to be disastrous if they ever met in clean company.
She would be sure he was Edwald the outlaw, and would doubtless guess he was Golden Hart, particularly if she had an opportunity to study the design.
He imagined the relish with which she would denounce him. All the more reason to keep well away from Baddersley and Madeleine de la Haute Vironge, despite the insane urging of his heart. No, not his heart, just his body, he told himself.
He gritted his teeth and struck out for deeper, colder water. He swam fiercely to wash her from his mind as he washed the dirt from his body. When he emerged from the stream, his body was clean, but his mind was still full of a brown-eyed witch.
He dressed rapidly in a white shirt and tawny linen ankle-length braies.
Over his head he slipped a short-sleeved tunic of blue linen lawn, richly embroidered around the neck, sleeve, and hem by his mother.
The wide neck left the fine work on his shirt still visible.
He fastened a gilded belt and pulled the cloth of the tunic up around it until the folds hung at his knee to his liking.
He settled the table knife and pouch on the belt so they were easy to his hand.
Instead of the rags which had bound his tattered leggings, he crisscrossed his loose braies ankle to knee with beautifully woven bands of blue shot through with gold, and finished the binding with a complicated ornamental knot.
He slipped on low black boots, relishing their fit and comfort after the crude sandals held on with thongs.
Geoffrey came forward and gave him his leather sword belt.
Aimery set it around his waist so that Justesse, his sword, was ready to his hand.
It carried a French name, but it was an English sword, given him by Hereward and bearing ancient runes along the blade.
Next the squire passed a heavy gold bracelet which was worked in a rich ribbon design and flared to fit to the shape of his arm.
He slid it onto his right wrist. These days he always did his best to hide the tattoo.
Geoffrey’s face was carefully blank as his lord dressed in English style, but Aimery knew he noted it and did not approve.
There was not much difference in dress between the Normans and the English, yet it was there all the same—a taste in the English for brighter colors, finer fabrics, and more vivid ornamentation.
In large part it sprang from the fact that the English were more skilled in producing fine fabrics and beautiful embroidery, but it had become a subtle distinction.
Geoffrey was dressed in dark blue with black and white braid for trimming. He wore no gold at all.
“You know,” said Aimery mischievously as he adjusted the fit of his splendid bracelet, “any Englishman seeing you must think me a wretch of a lord not to have gifted you with geld.”
Geoffrey stiffened. “I do not serve you for treasure, Lord Aimery.”
“Nor treasure, nor pleasure . . . If I make you very uncomfortable,” Aimery said seriously, “I will release you to some other, more orderly lord.” If his time was come, he didn’t want Geoffrey entangled in his downfall.
The young man colored. “I do not want . . . I am happy to serve you, Lord Aimery.”
“Are you? You don’t look it most of the time.”
Geoffrey tried to resume a formal tone. “You are a fine fighter and a good administrator. You train me well and I am satisfied.” Abruptly he added, “I worry about you!” He turned fiery red. “I beg your pardon, Lord.”
Aimery was genuinely touched. “No need. I worry about myself.” He gripped Geoffrey’s arm and said seriously, “I am true to the king and always will be, Geoffrey, but if you perceive anything I do as wrong, go to him and tell him.”
“That would be dishonorable, Lord.”
Aimery shook his head. “No. Your first allegiance is always to the king. No man is expected to follow his lord into wrongdoing. Remember that.”
Uneasy and confused, Geoffrey nodded. Aimery pulled another piece of jewelry from his pouch—Hereward’s ring.
After a brief hesitation, he pushed it onto the third finger of his right hand. It said he was Hereward’s man, body and soul until death. That wasn’t true. He would wear it, however, until the day when he was compelled to renounce that allegiance.
As he walked back to the camp he pulled a bone comb through his shoulder-length hair and shook some of the river water from it. Gyrth looked him over and nodded.
“English enough for you?” Aimery asked.
Gyrth laughed. “You could do with more jewelry, lad. What sort of man wears only one bracelet? What sort of lord must he serve?” He himself wore bracelets, armbands, and a great bronze-gold clasp to his belt.