Chapter 7
Geoffroi was just leaving the stables the next day on his way to the hall, hungry for the midday meal, when he heard the boy Eric shouting to one of the cottars who had come to the manor to sell his wares. “Dunn, did ye hear the news? Rhodri has returned to Talisand!”
The cottar looked up from his cart of kettles. “Has he now? When?”
“A few days ago. He has said he will play for us tonight after the evening meal. Steward Hunstan told me all who would come are invited. ’Twill be almost like it was ere the Normans came.”
By now Geoffroi knew enough English to understand their conversation. At his approach, the boy’s face turned scarlet as he realized the Red Wolf’s man overheard what he was saying. “Eric, are you talking about the Welsh bard who was here before?”
“Yea, sir.” The boy’s posture relaxed, possibly because he was grateful not to be scolded.
“I should like to hear this bard entertain us in the hall this eve. Is there a singer at Talisand who could join him?”
“Well…” he hesitated, “Sarah can sing. She and the bard often sang together.”
“Indeed? You may tell Sarah her new master would have her sing with the bard tonight.” Geoff had observed the way Ren looked at the servant girl.
At least her singing would take his mind from the missing Lady Serena about whom he had brooded overmuch.
And some entertainment for the men would not go amiss.
“I will look forward to hearing her myself.”
“I will tell her, sir. Ye willna be disappointed. She has the voice of an angel!”
* * *
Occupied with plans for the castle all afternoon, Renaud rose from the trestle table in his chamber, comfortable with his decision.
He had finally chosen the site for the castle, though in truth the location had been in his mind all along.
The same bend in the river that protected Talisand’s manor would become the source of his castle’s moat.
And the motte that would rise from the yard to form the foundation for the timbered structure would look down on the manor.
From the top of the new donjon, he and his men would have a view of the entire countryside.
A knock sounded, interrupting his musings.
“Enter.”
His chamber door opened and Geoff strolled in. “Are you still wanting to review the changes to the stables?”
“Aye, I’m long ready.”
“Then I’ve good news. The work is done. Sir Niel awaits your examination of the new building. I think you will be pleased. There is room for all the horses and the groom and stable boys.”
“Splendid!” He strode to the door, eager for a chance to stretch his legs. “We will have need of it as I fear Talisand will have harsh winters.”
Renaud descended the stairs, Geoff on his heels. Looking into the hall as they passed, Renaud saw the long tables crowded with knights and men-at-arms sitting down to the evening meal. He would delay his dinner to see the new stables.
The smell of freshly cut wood filled Renaud’s nostrils as he entered the new structure, along with the scent of hay and horse, familiar smells to a knight.
“This will serve us well,” he said to the young Sir Niel, standing inside the large open door where he waited for his lord.
Niel had been Renaud’s squire before Mathieu and knighted only a few years before Hastings.
The scar on his jaw was a lasting reminder of his bravery in that battle, but with his light brown hair and blue eyes, he was still attractive to women, mayhap more so.
Fresh hay had already been laid in the stalls and stable boys were leading in some of the horses.
Renaud strolled down the middle aisle, taking in the new construction that provided more than a dozen timbered partitions on each side.
As he walked along, his gaze drifted up to the second level where a large hayloft had been added.
“There’s enough room above to house the stable boys,” said Sir Niel, “and a separate chamber for the groom below.”
Renaud rested his hand on the knight’s shoulder. “The work appears sound, the structure proof against the cold drafts of winter. The men have done well.”
“Your knights and their squires are content the horses will nay freeze come Christmastide, my lord,” said a grinning Sir Niel.
Renaud nodded as Mathieu joined them. “I’ve already brought your horses in, my lord,” said the squire. “They are fed and groomed and in the far stalls. We have oats aplenty.”
“Good work, Mathieu. And where is my young page?”
“Polishing your sword and cleaning your shield, and before that he helped with the horses. He’s a good lad, Jamie is.”
“Aye, he is. See that you both eat. The meal has begun.” Geoff cast a longing look toward the hall, causing Renaud to add, “And have Maggie send some food for Sir Geoffroi and me. We will eat here.”
“Yea, sir.” The squire dipped his head and took his slim body off toward the armory.
Renaud turned to Niel. “You as well. Go eat your supper. The groom and stable boys can answer any questions we might have.” He wanted the opportunity to get to know the lads who’d been retained to care for the knights’ horses.
“It feels like those times we rode with Duke William,” said Geoff, when some while later, they sat on crates eating their meal.
“Aye, it seems a familiar pastime,” agreed Renaud.
An hour later, Renaud had finished the meal Maggie had sent him.
The rabbit stew had been tasty. And the conversation he and Geoff had shared with the stable lads had filled him with excitement.
He would breed Belasco, his gray stallion, to some of the English horses for a stronger stable of horses.
Content the new stable met all his requirements, he stood to go. “You can release the carpenters to turn their attention to William’s castle,” he told Geoff. “Come, let us leave the lads to the horses. I have a craving for a drink.”
“Aye, that would be most welcome.”
Renaud crossed the yard, hearing faint music coming from the hall.
Opening the door he was confronted with a voice from heaven itself.
The hall was dark save for the light from the central hearth and the torches still burning at the edges of the large rectangular room.
He and Geoff stood in the shadows, listening.
Aethel, who had apparently been watching for him, walked in their direction carrying tankards of ale.
Her brown eyes conveyed the same invitation Renaud had seen before, but gaining no different reaction from him, she took her leave.
Renaud drank deeply having grown accustomed to the dark brew and turned his attention to the picture before him.
Sarah sat on a stool in front of the hearth, singing in a foreign tongue.
It might be Welsh as he had heard the language before.
Her long brown plait lay over one shoulder, drawing his attention as she inclined her head with the song.
The light of the fire reflected on her face, rendering her skin the color of honey.
Facing her, on another stool, sat a man with curly black hair and short-cropped beard.
He was clothed in the colors of the forest over which he’d donned a brown leather jerkin.
In his arms he held a small harp, his fingers moving rapidly over the strings as he plucked a lively tune.
A circle of children sat at their feet, many with chins resting in their upturned palms, their elbows braced on their crossed legs while they listened with rapt attention.
Sarah’s voice lifted high then dipped low, sending notes flowing about the room like magical ribbons of sound. When the man’s tenor voice joined hers, the two voices entwined like lovers as they smiled at the children and at each other.
Renaud watched transfixed. The servant girl was more beautiful, more animated than he had seen her before. Her hand reached out to caress the cheek of a child. There was love in her eyes. She will make a good mother.
Without turning his head, he asked Geoff, “Who is that singing with Sarah?”
“It must be the Welsh bard, Rhodri. I had heard he arrived and intended to provide us with entertainment. We were so consumed by the work on the stables I forgot to mention it. You remember, Ren. He is the one who was here before at the old lord’s invitation.
The boy Eric told me the girl had the voice of an angel. He was nay wrong.”
“You understand the Welsh tongue—of what do they sing?”
“’Tis a traveling song. She sings of the beauty of the hills and valleys and the adventure of the road. He joins her, but sings of the love left behind.”
Renaud could not dismiss the thought that troubled him. What servant would understand the Welsh tongue well enough to sing it? Had the bard taught her whilst their heads rested on the same pillow? He frowned. “It seems the Welshman taught the people more than the bow.”
“’Tis a bit of talent he has,” said Geoff. “I have never heard the ballad sung so well.”
Renaud’s eyes narrowed as he continued to gaze at the two singing, their heads close together like two lovers exchanging endearments.
The Welshman gazed intently at Sarah, and she returned his regard.
Clearly they shared a great affection for each other.
So it was not only the old lord’s son for whom she made room in her heart.
Did she also make room for the Welshman in her bed?
Notwithstanding her protests, he wondered if she was a maiden still.
How could a woman so lovely be left alone for so long?
As her voice rose with the song, Sarah smiled at the children sitting at her feet.
He had never seen her smile like that. It was a dazzling smile.
She was beautiful, bewitching—happy. The lovely sound of her clear voice wrapped around him like a warm cloak, filling him with a sudden desire to possess her.