The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 32 There is no Covering for Destruction

When you live five years with a horse, you understand his moods and I knew that Tenebrous was increasingly impatient to be home. With snorts and prances and tosses of his head, he would catch my eye, as if to say 'let's hurry.' For these were familiar lands, they were my lands. The scents from the woods and fields were right; the colours of the ripening grains and grapes were right; and even the few clouds that there were in the sky seemed to be drifting over us at a height and with a shape that seemed exactly right.

Poor Tenebrous, I would not indulge him and allow him canter to his stable. For one, Argentus behind us was heavily loaded. Having gifted Tristan to Marguerite at Nangis I had then to sell the cart, for I was not going to risk the spirit of the destrier by harnessing him to it. It was necessary, therefore, for the horses to take turns with the burden of my equipment.

There was another reason, too, that I did not hurry. Without having planned it, I found that the landscape was helping me recover my childhood memories. This was important to me, because unless I could recover something of the youth I had been, I doubted I would ever again truly feel joy in being alive.

A nearby oak tree had been a favourite for a whole group of my friends, the reason being a long, low branch upon which we could sit. It had served as a practice mount, of course, with each of us eager to take our turn as the brave knight holding his seat while under attack from the sticks of treacherous churls.

If I were here at the tree alone, or with Timeous, my squire who had died of a fever on the outward journey, I'd enjoy sitting still, making no sound, until in every direction the crickets began to hum. Then too, I might spot a frog making its awkward, stealthy way towards the pond that lay in the hollow of a copse to the northeast. And if I were lucky, a hawk would appear from the south (where they nested in the steep rocky face of the hills) and hunt out of a blue sky, diving with exhilarating speed upon its prey in the nearby fields.

Here the road passed a large farm belonging to one of our tenants. And although I never knew his name, I had met the farmer once when running through his yard in pursuit of William. There, I had been absolutely terrified when the farm dog came racing out of the house, barking as if to bring the sky crashing down. It was a sheepdog and today I would not fear its kind. Then, however, the slavering canines of the dog seemed about to tear out my young throat as I was backed into a corner, arms across my body, quivering with fear.

The farmer had come out of the house, given a derisive laugh and called off the dog. 'Lord Guibert, is it?' And he simply shook his head.

William came over, wide-eyed, while a blush that I knew was turning my cheeks red was still upon me. I made him swear never to talk about the incident, not even in jest and when he thought we were alone. For I was ashamed of the fear I'd displayed. In my heart too, I swore private revenge upon the farmer. Foolish child that I'd been. Today I was smiling at the memory and if the farmer had been in view, I would have waved to him.

As the road began to climb away from the river, up towards the castle, several people from the village recognised me and ran towards me. I waited for them. First to arrive were a group of children and soon afterwards came their parents. These were seven of the twenty-two burghers of Rocadamour village, and the group included the brewer and her husband, both looking older than I remembered, though I had only been away a matter of months. One of the two village butchers was there also, in a red-stained apron. Although everyone was smiling, when they reached my horses they turned shy.

'Welcome home, Lord, we feared you dead.' It was the butcher who spoke first.

'Welcome back!' with the first of them having spoken, greetings came from all around.

'You heard Shalk's army was destroyed then?' The two weeks I had spent recovering in Nangis must have been time enough for the news to travel south.