Chapter 6 #2
Waltheof, son of Siward of Northumbria, had only a few manors, but by heredity he was one of the great men of England.
He had a sound claim to the earldom of Northumbria, but it was his personal strengths which set him apart.
There was something about Waltheof. Even though he was only two years older than Aimery, he drew men to him as if with golden thread.
People remembered the stories that told of his grandfather marrying a woman who was half faery, half bear.
If William was shrewd, and William was undoubtedly shrewd, he would bind Waltheof Siwardson to him.
Aimery picked out Waltheof, listening attentively, a smile on his long, handsome face.
There was an air of elegance to him, but no one who had ever seen him fight thought him weak.
His dress and decoration were almost as richly English as Aimery’s except that he favored darker colors.
Waltheof’s strange amber eyes moved and Aimery followed the gaze to Judith, who was listening to the song with rapt attention.
So, Waltheof guessed. Perhaps it was already settled. My Lady Judith, he thought, you have an interesting wyrd.
Continuing to sing, he let his eyes travel around the room. His gaze halted and he fumbled a note. New arrivals were entering the hall. Robert d’Oilly and a soldier Aimery feared was the survivor of a certain escape from bondage.
He forced his eyes onward, hoping he had not missed a whole verse or repeated one.
The less attention he attracted the better.
The whole notion was ridiculous, however, when he was sitting alone in the central space in scarlet and gold.
He could only hope the contrast between his splendor and a ragged, dirty outlaw was enough to prevent identification.
As soon as Tristan and Yseault met their sad end, d’Oilly surged forward. “My Lord King!” he boomed. “I come with a tale of violence and mayhem!”
“More entertainment?” queried William. “Be welcome, Lord Robert. Have you eaten?”
D’Oilly moved to stand close to Aimery, who occupied himself in tuning his lyre. D’Oilly was a heavily built man of middle years, strong, hard, and of limited intelligence.
“Nay, sire, and I will not eat just yet,” d’Oilly said. “We have a dangerous miscreant in our midst, sire.”
The king looked around. “Dozens of them, Lord Robert,” he said dryly. “But come, tell us your tale.”
With a wave of his hand, d’Oilly summoned his guard forward. “This man can tell it better, for he was there. He is the sole survivor of a massacre.”
Aimery decided his position had advantages. The man was clearly over-awed and had eyes only for the king. He would pay little attention to someone close to his side.
“Sire,” the man said nervously, “I and four fellows were set upon by a giant, and all but me were slain.”
The king looked at him. “Come, man. That’s intriguing but not much of a story. Can you not do better? What kind of giant? How many heads did it have?”
The man’s eyes widened. “One, sire. It . . . he was just a man, sire. But a tall one.”
“Ah. And he killed four soldiers. With his bare hands?” he queried humorously. “Sounds like that damned Golden Hart again.”
“Yes, sire,” said the man.
The king regarded him more seriously. “It was this creature calling itself Golden Hart?”
The man shook his head frantically. “N-no, sire. But it . . . he killed with his bare hands. Or at l-least,” the man stuttered, clearly wishing the floor would open and swallow him, “at first he did. He was building the bridge, you see, sire. Then he killed Pierre with his bare hands and took his sword. Then he cut off Loudin’s head.
Then he ran Charlot through. Gregoire was killed by the other. ”
“Another giant?” The king affected astonishment, but Aimery could see how shrewdly he was sorting all this out.
“No, sire. Another slave. He slit Gregoire’s throat.”
Aimery saw the grimace that passed over d’Oilly’s face at the word slave and smiled. The man must have been under orders not to mention the circumstances. Well, d’Oilly was known for thick-headedness, and he was showing it.
“Slave,” repeated the king thoughtfully. “How came you by slaves, Lord Robert? The practice of enslaving people for crimes has been out of favor for decades.”
Sweat broke out on d’Oilly’s brow. “Er . . . not exactly slaves, sire. Laborers. We needed people to build the castle and the bridge.”
“These were tenants doing their day-labor, were they?”
“Er . . . no, sire. We needed extra work and so we . . . They would have been paid when the work was done, sire.”
“Would they?” queried the king. “And this giant objected to the delay in payment, perhaps, and killed four guards.” He leaned forward, amusement gone. “You were rightly served. You will treat my subjects fairly or feel my wrath.”
Robert d’Oilly went pale, and there was an uneasy shuffling throughout the room as others decided to change their hiring practices.
After a moment, the king eased back in his seat. “I would dearly like to know how this giant did it, though. Perhaps your guards need to improve their skills.”
“He fought like a demon!” protested d’Oilly and poked at his man. “Tell the king!”
“Aye, sire,” said the terrified man. “He used his sword like a warrior trained. I reckon few men in this room could have stood against him. He threw it after me as I ran and almost speared me.”
The king’s brows drew together, and he sat in thought.
When he spoke, however, it was merely to say, “Lord Robert, I commiserate with you on the loss of your men, but you were breaking my law. Let all take heed that my people shall not be enslaved. A lord is entitled to his due labor and no more without consent and payment. We will put this matter aside as finished. There is no question, of course, of punishment of those who were enslaved. Or of murdrum fines, or wergild.”
After a bitter moment, Robert d’Oilly bowed his acceptance. As he turned to find a seat, the king spoke again. “If you come across this warrior giant, however, Lord Robert, I would be most interested in meeting him. Do your people not know who he was?”
“No, sire. He was merely a packman traveling through. Some even say he was a lack-wit used as a beast of burden by his master. There’s no making sense of these people.”
“Hmm. I certainly doubt he was lacking all his wits or your guards must have been a sorry lot indeed.” Then the king smiled in the charming way he could on occasion, and which made those who knew him particularly wary.
“But come now, take a place and eat your fill. And let your man come sit by me here and tell me more of this wondrous tale.”
D’Oilly found himself shepherded off to a table and food; the man-at-arms would have a clear view of Aimery de Gaillard pinned in the center of the hall with attention focused on him. Aimery smiled and began a cheerful tune.
Nothing untoward happened. The man-at-arms scarcely glanced at the musician and was soon dismissed by the king. He seemed shakenly grateful to escape the royal presence intact. Aimery could understand that.
The king then called on another to provide entertainment and directed Aimery to sit on the stool by his knee. His smile was bland. “You haven’t lost your skills, Aimery.”
“I hope not, sire, since they please you.”
“They please me. Tomorrow I have ordered an archery contest. How are your skills there?”
“Not rusty, sire. But it isn’t my strongest point.”
“Riding at the quintain?”
“There I should be a credit to my masters.”
“Fighting with the sword?”
Aimery met the king’s eye. Was there extra significance in that question? “I believe my swordfighting to be good, sire.”
The king nodded thoughtfully, then his eyes slid over Aimery’s finery.
“If ever I find the treasury low, I’ll throw you in the fire and melt you down.
Here, since you have a taste for such things.
” The king pulled off a ring made of twisted golden wire.
It was unusual in design, perhaps Saracen work or from the dark lands beyond.
One thing it wasn’t was English. William pushed it onto the third finger of Aimery’s left hand. “A reward, Aimery. Wear it.”
Did William know the significance of the ring? That to be ring-giver meant to be a great lord; to be a ring-bearer meant to be that lord’s man to death and beyond? Almost certainly he did.
Aimery bowed. “I will treasure it, my liege.”
The king fixed him with stern eyes. “Just be sure to wear it. Now,” said the king, as if something had been established, “what do you think of this giant?”
Aimery felt his heartbeats and worked at appearing calm. “He sounds like a peasant who lost patience with injustice, sire.”
“Unusual, wouldn’t you say? And that he be skilled with a sword?”
“With respect, sire, that guard would have to make a good story of it so as not to appear a coward. They were all doubtless drunk and the peasant lucky.”
William smiled. “Likely enough. Now, what are your thoughts on Golden Hart?”
Aimery put on a politely questioning expression. “Golden Hart, sire? He’s supposed to be a rebel, a rebel of the people. I suspect a myth is growing up rather than that it is a real individual.”
The king was watching him like a hawk. “Is that all you know?”
Aimery avoided that. “I don’t think Golden Hart offers a serious threat to your realm, sire.”
“I know that,” said William flatly. “No one offers any serious threat to my realm.” As if to prove the point, William gestured to Edwin of Mercia, and the earl hurried forward, eager to please.
“Earl Edwin, tomorrow we will have a trial of arms. It would please me to see some of the English skills, the spear and the ax. Would any English subjects be willing to arrange this? My showy mongrel here will doubtless take part.”
Edwin bowed eagerly. “Of course, Your Majesty.”