Читать книгу Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight - Deborah Simmons - Страница 9

Reynold de Burgh stood on the castle battlements and looked out over his family’s lands as the first faint light of dawn rose on the horizon. He had been planning to leave his home for some time, but now that the moment had arrived, the parting was more painful than he’d imagined. He loved Campion and its people, and he felt a traitorous urge to remain even though he had made his decision.

He could linger, but he knew that today would be no different. He had only to wait until his father, the Earl of Campion, led his new wife down to the hall to be reminded of the changes taking place at the castle. Although Reynold loved and revered his sire and had come to like Joy, their happiness was a bitter reminder of his own lack.

In the past few years five of his six brothers had wed, too, and Reynold was painfully aware that he was next in line. Although he felt no anger or regrets over the marriages that had led his siblings to wives and families of their own, he knew that the future did not hold the same for him.

Yet soon everyone at Campion would look to Reynold or his younger brother Nicholas, wondering and murmuring over who would be the last de Burgh to fall. Reynold had decided it was easier to go, to escape the questions and the pitying glances that would follow, as well as the happiness of others. By the time Campion began welcoming new sons, he hoped to be long gone.

The thought made him rue the precious moments he had wasted in this last goodbye, and he hurried back through the castle to the bailey where his destrier was waiting. He had spoken to no one of his plans, but he had left a message, telling his father that he was going on a pilgrimage.

Although he had no real destination in mind, that explanation would prevent his family from coming after him. A pilgrimage, whether to a local shrine or one further away, was a personal decision that should keep his father and brothers at bay. Reynold did not want them leaving their wives and children to comb the countryside for him—especially when he did not want to be found.

Mindful of the servants and freemen who were stirring with the dawn, Reynold was about to mount his destrier when he heard the jingle of bells coming from the shadows near the castle doors. The sound might have been anything, and yet, he had a sinking feeling that perhaps he had waited too long to make his escape. His suspicion was soon confirmed by the sight of a small plump woman hurrying towards him.

‘Ah, there, you are!’ she trilled, waving an arm that sent the tiny bells on her sleeve to tinkling.

Reynold stifled a groan. Ever since his brother Stephen had married Bridgid l’Estrange, her aunts had felt welcome to come and go at Campion at their will. They were gentlewomen and provided good company for Joy in a household composed mostly of males, but there was something about the two that made their sudden appearance here at this hour unsurprising.

Reynold’s eyes narrowed. ‘I beg your pardon, Mistress Cafell, but I have no time to tarry.’

‘Oh, we know you are leaving,’ she said, waving a plump hand airily as her sister Armes emerged from the shadows to join her.

Reynold vowed they would not sway him with their wiles. In fact, he would tell them he was off to check the dam or the fields or any one of a number of tasks that he helped his father and the bailiff oversee, so that he would be rid of them. However, when he opened his mouth, he blurted out that which was uppermost in his mind instead.

‘Don’t try to stop me.’

‘We wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,’ Cafell said, reaching out a hand to pat his sleeve.

‘Of course, you must go,’ Armes said. Taller than her sister, she lifted her chin to fix him with a serious gaze. ‘It is your destiny to complete your quest.’

Her words were not only unexpected, but made no sense to Reynold. ‘What quest?’

‘Why, the usual one, I suppose,’ Cafell said, with a smile. ‘You must slay a dragon, rescue a damsel in distress, and recover her heritage.’

For a long moment, Reynold simply stared, dumbfounded by her speech. Then he snorted, a loud sound of disdain in the stillness of the early morning. ‘You’re confusing me with St George.’

‘Oh, I think not,’ Armes said, haughtily.

‘Really, Lord Reynold, some might believe the de Burghs are saints, but after coming to know them personally, I must agree with Armes,’ Cafell said. ‘Though you all have many fine qualities.’

Reynold shook his head. He had no time for these women and their curious babbling, to which only a fool would give credence. He knew full well his brothers would have scoffed at the very notion of a quest right out of romantic legend. Indeed, the thought made him wonder if one of his siblings, probably Robin, had enlisted the old women to hoax him.

But Robin was gone, living at Bad dersly, where he was holding the demesne for his eldest brother Dunstan’s wife. None but Reynold’s younger brother Nicholas could be blamed, and yet would he play such a jest? And how had Nick—or anyone—discovered that Reynold was leaving? He had kept his own council, and the only sign of his plans had been the packing he did this very morning.

‘There is no time to waste in idle chatter, sister,’ Armes said. Then she turned her attention back to Reynold. ‘You must go, but do not go alone.’ And with a lift of her hand, she summoned a young boy, leading a mount laden with its own pack. ‘This is Peregrine, who will serve as your squire on the journey.’

Reynold frowned at the youth, who appeared unfazed by his grimace. Indeed, the lad flashed him a grin before nimbly swinging up into the saddle as though eager for a day’s outing.

Reynold shook his head. If he wanted a companion, he would be better served by his own squire, who had done well for him these past two years. But he would not take Will away from his home, Campion, into danger, perhaps never to return. So why would this boy?

‘We had better hurry, my lord,’ Peregrine said, with a calm certainty. Those words, more than anything, made Reynold turn to mount his destrier. Now was not the time to argue; he would send the boy back later. As if as eager to be gone as he, Reynold’s horse stamped restlessly, but Cafell moved toward him once more.

‘Take this, too, my lord, for your protection,’ she said, handing him a small cloth pouch.

At first Reynold refused. ‘I am going on a pilgrimage, not a quest,’ he said through gritted teeth. But a sound from somewhere in the bailey made him hesitate to linger, so he looped the gift around his belt. Then he looked down at the two eccentric females who were the only family to mark his departure and felt a sudden thickness in his throat. He eyed them for a long moment, knowing he had a final opportunity to leave a message for his sire, but in the end, he said only what was uppermost in his mind.

‘Don’t let them come after me.’

Tugging on the reins, he headed toward the gates of Campion without a backward glance.

‘Reynold is gone?’ Lady Joy de Burgh spoke without her usual composure as she stood at the head of the high table, holding the parchment that her husband had wordlessly passed to her. She read the words, but was unable to believe what was written there. Without waiting for a reply, she sank down into the intricately carved chair nearby.

‘This is my doing,’ she whispered, hardly daring to voice aloud the concerns that had plagued her after she impetuously married the Earl of Campion. ‘He’s left because of me,’ she said, lifting her gaze to her husband, but afraid to see a confirmation in his own.

‘No,’ Campion said as he took his seat. ‘This has been long in coming.’

Joy might have questioned her husband further, but for the appearance of his son Nicholas, who missed nothing of what was happening around him.

‘Reynold’s gone?’ he asked. ‘Where did he go?’

Campion picked up the parchment that had fallen from Joy’s fingers and handed it to the youngest of the strapping de Burghs.

Nicholas read the missive quickly, then gave his father a questioning glance. ‘But why didn’t he tell me? Why wouldn’t he take me along? I’m eager for an adventure.’ That was obvious to anyone who took one look at the tall, dark-haired young man who was growing up—and growing restless.

‘I don’t think you’re the pilgrimage type,’ Campion said drily.

‘But why would he go alone?’ Nicholas said.

That worried Joy as well. Pilgrims, even knightly ones, travelling singly were prey to all manner of villains, from common thieves to murderous innkeepers. The de Burghs all thought themselves invincible, but one man could not best a host of attackers or foil kidnapping, piracy, injury, illness …

‘He didn’t go alone. Peregrine went with him.’

Joy looked up in surprise to see one of the l’Estrange sisters standing before them and glanced toward her husband. Peregrine? Was that the youngster the sisters had brought with them on this visit to Campion Castle? He seemed little more than a boy.

‘He did, did he?’ Campion asked, his expression thoughtful.

‘I don’t see what help a child will be,’ Nicholas said, scoffing.

‘You never know,’ Cafell said with one of her mysterious smiles. She looked as though she would say more, but her sister Armes tugged at her arm, pulling her away from the high table, the tinkling of bells signalling their passage from the hall.

‘Do we even know this Peregrine?’ Nicholas demanded.

‘Better a squire than no one,’ Campion said, obviously unwilling to debate the merits of the youth. And what was the point? No matter who Reynold had taken with him, they were only two people travelling alone on often treacherous roads.

‘What pilgrimage will he make?’ Joy asked. Durham, Glastonbury, Walsingham and Canterbury were far away, Santiago de Compostela and Rome even further. ‘Surely he isn’t going to the Holy Land?’ The thought of that longest and most dangerous of journeys stole her breath, for she remembered when King Edward, then a prince, had marched in a crusade on those foreign lands.

Silence reigned between the three de Burghs as Campion shook his head, unable to provide an answer. Joy studied her husband, but he gave no outward signs of distress, only wore that thoughtful expression she knew so well.

‘You can send someone after him,’ she suggested.

‘I’ll go,’ Nicholas said, eagerly.

But Campion shook his head.

‘He must do what he must do.’

Joy knew that her husband wasn’t infallible, but the certainty in his voice comforted her and she reached for his hand. Although Reynold was not as grim and bitter as she had once thought him, he was the unhappiest of Campion’s seven sons, an anomaly in a household so prosperous and loving. Perhaps his father hoped that this journey, though perilous, might bring Reynold what had eluded him so far in life.

Joy silently wished it so.

Seeing the fork in the road ahead, Reynold slowed his mount, uncertain which route to follow. Where was he going?

‘Where are we going?’

The sound of someone voicing his own silent question startled Reynold, and he turned his head to see the dark-haired youth the l’Estranges had pressed on him. Lost in his own thoughts, he had passed the hours since his departure in silence and had nearly forgotten about the boy. Peregrine, was it? Accustomed to the chatter of a train when travelling, Reynold wondered if his companion was mute, but then he remembered the words that had spurred him to leave.

With a frown, Reynold assessed the boy, who, though dressed simply, was clean and neat. Reynold had no idea why the l’Estranges had decided this Peregrine was fit to be his squire, but he was accustomed to choosing his own.

A proper squire would be of a good family well known to him, courageous and honourable. Many squires began as pages, serving at table before being allowed to clean a knight’s equipment. He must know about weapons, hunting and tournaments in addition to all that would be taken for granted, such as proper manners, music and dancing. And any squire to a de Burgh would have to be able to read, with wide-ranging interests and a thirst for knowledge.

Had Peregrine learned these things in the household of a pair of eccentric old women? Reynold doubted it. And even if the youth were well prepared, Reynold had no business leading him into the unknown, travelling to where he knew not.

‘My destination does not concern you, for I am travelling on alone. You may ride back to Campion,’ Reynold said.

‘I can’t, my lord.’

Was the fellow incapable of finding his way already? ‘Just turn around and follow the road behind us,’ Reynold said. ‘‘Twill lead you back home.’

The boy shook his head. ‘No, my lord, for the Mistresses l’Estrange told me not to return without you.’

Reynold grunted. Did the silly women think that young Peregrine was equipped to watch over a hardened knight? More likely, it would be the other way around, the lad becoming a nuisance the further they travelled.

‘Then I release you from service. Find the nearest village and present yourself to the manor’s lord,’ Reynold said.

Again, the boy shook his head. He appeared neither alarmed nor angry, just calmly insistent. ‘I am bound to the l’Estranges.’

‘Then make your way back to their manor and other duties there,’ Reynold suggested. Although he had never been to the l’Estrange holding, he knew Bridgid’s aunts lived on the edge of Campion lands, a journey that should not be too long or dangerous for the youth.

‘I could not. I am bound by my vow, my lord.’

Annoyed as he was by the boy’s refusals, Reynold had to respect such loyalty, especially coming from an untutored lad. He could insist, of course, but there was always the possibility that Peregrine would try to follow him, falling into some sort of mischief on his own. At least the youth wasn’t the sort of companion who would chatter constantly along the road, Reynold mused, which brought him back to the original question.

Where were they going?

Although unwilling to admit as much to the boy, Reynold had no idea. When he had decided to leave Campion, he’d had a vague notion of joining Edward’s army. But somehow fighting against the Welsh didn’t seem right when his brother’s wife had inherited a manor house there. And it was whispered that Bridgid possessed the kind of powers that you didn’t want turned against you. The l’Estranges were all … strange, and Reynold frowned as he remembered their actions this morning.

‘How did your mistresses know that I was leaving?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, my lord. However, it is rumoured that they hold the secrets of divination, so perhaps they became aware of your departure through such means. A quest, they called it,’ Peregrine said.

Reynold snorted at such nonsense. ‘I have no quest or mission of any kind to fulfil.’ He slanted a glance at the boy. ‘This journey bears no resemblance to the romances, if that is what you are thinking. We travel without the usual train and even pilgrims face dangers of which you know nothing. I will not be responsible for you undertaking such a trip, vow or no vow.’

But Peregrine did not appear daunted. In fact, the boy flashed a grin that made his eagerness obvious. ‘Who would not seek adventure, if given the chance?’ he asked, as though questioning Reynold’s sanity.

Reynold’s lips curved at the challenge, for he and his brothers would once have asked the same. And for the first time this day, his heart felt a little lighter. He had seen himself as a lone wanderer, an outcast even, though of his own choosing, but this youth might prove to be a welcome companion.

‘Then let us be off,’ Reynold said. He urged Sirius towards the right fork, away from the road that led to his brother Dunstan’s holding. This route, as Peregrine had pointed out so cheerfully, led to something new, though unlike the boy, Reynold was not looking for adventure. Indeed, he hoped not to meet with any. Or anyone.

And yet, they had not gone far along the new track before they were hailed. Squinting into the distance, Reynold saw a horse standing ahead, alone with its rider. As they neared, Reynold realised it carried both a man and a young boy. They were neatly, if not richly dressed, and looked harmless, except for a sturdy wooden staff that protruded from their pack.

‘Good morning, sire,’ the man said, inclining his head. ‘Where are you bound?’

‘We are pilgrims,’ Peregrine said, and Reynold realised he would have to have a word with the boy about the merits of discretion.

‘We, too!’ the man exclaimed, a pleased smile crossing his worn features. ‘Where are you bound?’

Peregrine did not have an answer and so looked to Reynold, who said nothing.

‘Ah. You are reticent. That is understandable. But may we ride with you? Fortune favours those who travel together.’

‘I don’t know if your horse can keep up,’ Reynold said, reluctant to add more to what had begun as his own private excursion.

‘Surely you are not in such a hurry?’ the man asked, undeterred. ‘Part of the journey is enjoying the sights and the good company of fellow pilgrims.’

It was the latter that put Reynold off, for he was not like one of his more gregarious brothers. He had always kept to himself and had no desire to lead a motley band across the country.

But the man was persistent. ‘I beseech thee, as a fellow pilgrim, to allow us to travel with you for the increased safety in numbers. I ask not for myself, but for the boy, who would seek the healing well at Brentwyn. He is lame, you see.’

At the man’s words, Reynold stiffened. His first thought was that this fellow, too, was jesting, part of some vast scheme initiated by one of his brothers to turn his departure from Campion into a prank. But why, and how? Ultimately, Reynold rejected such notions as nonsense, and as much as he would have liked to reject the man’s pleas, as well, he was a knight and bound to protect those weaker.

‘Very well,’ he said curtly.

Thanking Reynold many times over, the fellow introduced himself as Thebald and the boy, who nodded gravely, as Rowland.

‘I am Reynold, and this is Peregrine,’ Reynold said, hoping that his squire would adopt some discretion from his example. The name de Burgh was well known, at least in some areas, and he did not care to deal with whatever reactions it might bring. He had consented to ride alongside these people for a few miles, not share with them his background or his business.

To his credit, Peregrine appeared more circumspect when he next entered into conversation with the strangers. Still, he and Thebald chatted amiably, relating stories of the road and various shrines and sites. Reynold listened briefly, but having no patience for such chatter, he soon returned to his own thoughts, chiefly among them how his plans for a solitary sojourn had come to this.

Something woke him. Unlike his brother Dunstan, Reynold did not sleep upright against a tree when travelling, yet he would not be a de Burgh if he did not remain alert to the slightest sounds—and cautious. And so he came awake, but kept his eyes closed as he listened carefully.

What he heard was a rustling sound, but of man, not beast, as though someone were rifling through his pack. He lay still as stone and lifted his lids just enough to see what he might. They had made camp in the ruins of an old building off the road that provided some security, but the small fire had either died out or been doused.

The only light was that from a sliver of moon that shone through the roofless remains, but it was enough to illuminate the heavy walking stick that hovered above Reynold’s head. Thebald loomed over him with the stout weapon at the ready, while the boy who had used it to hop about earlier was now standing upright without aid, going through Peregrine’s supplies. Had they already knocked the youth senseless?

The thought of Peregrine’s fate fuelled his strength, and Reynold leapt upwards with a roar. Although wiry and tenacious, Thebald was no match for a well-trained knight, and Reynold quickly wrested the cudgel from his hand even as the thief yelled for his companion. The boy, obviously no cripple, pulled a dagger and threw it with no little skill, a deadly missile carefully aimed at Reynold’s chest.

Apparently asleep, Peregrine had awoken at the noise and shouted a warning as he rose to his feet. Reynold spared him a glance only to see him felled by the young brigand, who fought with the ferocity of a demon. The two rolled around the remains of the fire, stirring it back to life.

Snatching up the knife that now stuck from his chest, Reynold put it to Thebald’s throat. ‘Call off your dog, if you value your life.’

Eyes bulging, the would-be thief struggled for breath. ‘Stop, Rowland. Stop!’ he croaked.

The young miscreant showed no signs of hearing or heeding, so Reynold struck Thebald with the walking stick, hard enough to prevent any further mischief, and turned his attention to the brawl that was now perilously close to the fire. It was obvious that the devil was trying to roll Peregrine into the embers in hopes of burning him or even setting him alight.

With a grunt, Reynold grabbed Rowland by the back of the neck and threw him on to the ground. Before he could rise, Reynold had put his own dagger to his throat.

‘Listen carefully, faux cripple, lest you lose your life. I am lame, and yet I can gullet you like a fish.’

Even when presented with the sight of his injured master, Rowland remained difficult. He would admit nothing, and struggled so that Reynold was forced to tie him up with a length of rope in his pack. And after Peregrine and Reynold had gathered up their belongings and mounted, taking the thieves’ horse with them, the youth railed at them, screaming curses into the night.

‘I cannot believe it,’ Peregrine murmured, obviously shaken by the encounter. ‘He seemed so gentle and kind this afternoon.’

‘Let that be a lesson to you, boy. Appearances can be deceiving.’

‘They could have killed us while we slept!’

‘You perhaps, but not I.’ When Peregrine ducked his head in embarrassment, Reynold softened his tone. ‘I think they are nothing more than common robbers who make a living by preying on pilgrims. Murder is probably only a last resort for them, else they would have killed us first and then picked our pockets.’

Peregrine did not look comforted. ‘But what about that knife? I saw it strike you in the chest! Are you not wounded, my lord?’

Reynold shook his head. ‘I would not go upon the roads without mail, though I’ve covered the short coat with my tunic so I don’t draw attention.’

‘But you will always draw attention.’

Dare the boy refer to his leg? Reynold slanted him a glance, and Peregrine stammered. ‘I—I mean … It’s only that you’ve got that big sword and, well, you’re a de Burgh. Who could mistake you?’

Reynold snorted. ‘I was unremarkable enough for Thebald and Rowland to think they could master, if those were their names.’

‘Was it true, what you told him?’ Peregrine asked. At Reynold’s sharp look, he stammered again. ‘I—I just wondered because you can’t tell, by looking at you, I mean.’

‘Yes, I have a bad leg,’ Reynold said.

‘Were you injured in battle?’

Reynold shook his head. ‘I’ve had it since birth,’ he said with a carelessness he didn’t feel. But the pose came easily to him, for he was accustomed to hiding his feelings, whether it be his resentment when his brothers urged him on, making light of his affliction, his jealousy at the abilities they took for granted, or his bitterness at his place as the runt of the litter that was the grand de Burgh family.

‘Was it the midwife’s doing?’

Lost in his own thoughts, Reynold was surprised to hear the question, for no one ever asked him about his leg. He never discussed the subject. Although he could hardly reprimand the boy for simple curiosity, Reynold could not bring himself to comment, especially when the question was one none could answer. He gave a tense shrug.

‘I—I only asked because my sister helped the midwife at home, and she says sometimes the baby isn’t in the right position to come out properly. The women try to move it as best they can, but who knows what injury they might do? And some come out not at all or feet first. Is that what happened to you?’

Again Reynold shrugged. There was no use speculating since everyone involved was dead.

‘Or it could have been the swaddling,’ Peregrine said, as though thinking aloud. ‘They’re supposed to stretch and straighten the baby’s limbs, but carefully. The midwife told my sister that bad swaddling has caused men to grow up to be—’

The boy must have realised what he was saying, for he stopped abruptly, leaving his final word unspoken.

It hung in the air between them, an appellation that Reynold rarely heard, but was painful none the less. He drew in a deep breath and spoke in a tone intended to put an end to the conversation.

‘I am not a cripple.’