Edward Marston - The Lions of the North

“He could have been mistaken.”

“I doubt it,” said Ralph. “He was reared as a soldier like me. He knows how to read the marks of an enemy. And he has lived in this city for many years now. If Aubrey tells me that I must search for Olaf Evil Child, then I will.”

“Our work here will leave you little time to do so.”

“I’ll contrive it somehow.”

They were over the bridge now and trotting towards the castle. When Ralph looked up at its wooden palisade, another memory nudged him.

He gave a quiet chuckle.

“Did you enjoy the banquet last night?” he asked.

“It was the best meal I have eaten in a year.”

“I’ll wager you’ve never feasted with lions before. Romulus and Remus.

What amazing beasts!”

“They were frightening, Ralph.”

“Yet as harmless as rabbits when Aubrey stroked them. I could not believe my eyes. If you or I had tried to fondle them, they’d have torn us to shreds.”

“Yes,” said Gervase uncomfortably. “We’d have no more chance than that poor wretch who was mauled by them the other night. I have to admit that he occupies my thoughts much more than Olaf Evil Child.”

“That intruder who climbed into the castle?”

“I feel deeply sorry for him.”

“He paid the price for his boldness.”

“No man deserves to die in that hideous way.”

“I can think of one I’d gladly feed to Romulus and Remus!”

“No,” said Gervase. “You can be hard but you could never be that cruel. You would not let two wild beasts patrol your home.”

“Too true. The stink would revolt me.”

“Why does such a kind man as my lord Aubrey take such a brutal delight in the way his lions savaged a human being? And who was the unfortunate victim?”

“Nobody seems to know.”

“Who was he?” puzzled Gervase. “And what on earth was he doing in the castle at that time of night?”

Golde had a busy day. True to his word, Aubrey Maminot found time to conduct her on an exhaustive tour of the city. It was a fascinating experience. By comparison with York, her own hometown of Hereford appeared small, cluttered and curiously provincial. Over seven times as many people lived in the northern capital and every one of them seemed to be out and about, turning every street and lane into a clam-orous meeting place. York even smelled bigger: The salty tang of its fish, unloaded from the boats on the Ouse and displayed in countless market stalls, invaded the nostrils at every turn in a way that Hereford could not match.

Yet there were similarities between the two cities, and Golde took due note of them. Both had been sacked and rebuilt more than once.

While Hereford suffered from the incursions of the Welsh, it was the Danes, Scots and native aristocracy of the North who had pillaged York. Castle and cathedral dominated the border community just as it did in the North Riding. The Normans put their faith in a strong combination of high walls and religion. Both places, too, were poly-glot, and the general pandemonium was fed by a variety of languages and dialects. Golde enjoyed the simple pleasure of listening to it all.

It was York Minster that impressed her most. Even in its unfinished state, it was vast. Destroyed by Danes less than a decade earlier, it was being rebuilt on a different site at a completely different angle.

Thomas of Bayeux, the archbishop of York, was determined to make the minster an inspiring monument to the glory of God. Still swarming with craftsmen of all kinds, and marred by the unsightly presence of wooden scaffolding, the cathedral church of St. Peter was over 120

yards long, with a nave that was 15 yards across. Golde’s jaw sagged as she stood in the apsed chancel and looked up at the distant roof.

Aubrey Maminot chortled at her stunned reaction.

“We do everything on a large scale in York,” he said.

“It is colossal, my lord!”

“Wait until it is finished.”

“That will never happen in my lifetime.”

“Oh, it will, it will.”

He was a patient guide with an immense pride in the city, and Golde learned a great amount from his comments and anecdotes. But the outing was not entirely devoted to the architectural wonders of York. Knowing how keenly she felt the loss of her wardrobe, Aubrey introduced her to a sequence of tailors and dressmakers until she found one who could meet her needs in the shortest possible time.

When she returned to the castle with him, Golde was in a buoyant mood. She went straight up to the chamber she shared with Ralph Delchard and collected the apparel she had borrowed the previous evening.

“May I join you?” asked Golde.

“Please do,” said Herleve.

“I do not wish to interrupt, my lady.”

“We were all but finished here.”

Golde had found her hostess in the solar, working on some embroidery in the company of a young gentlewoman. Herleve had the same polite expression she had worn at the banquet and the same air of gracious resignation. A glance dismissed her companion and she indicated the stool that had just been vacated.

“Do sit down,” she invited.

“Thank you,” said Golde, lowering herself.

“Did my husband show you our city?”

“It is breathtaking.”

“I am glad that you like it.”

“We also managed to engage a dressmaker, so I can return this with thanks.” She offered the clothing but Herleve’s hands were both employed. “Where shall I put it?”

“On the floor.”

“I am very grateful to you, my lady.” Golde placed the bundle gently beside the stool. “It saved me in my hour of need.”

“You are most welcome.” Her needle started to move again and she did not look up. “Did you enjoy the banquet?”

“It was delightful.”

“I did not care for some of the entertainment.”

“We adored it all. Your husband went to enormous trouble on our behalf. And considerable expense.”

“Yes, he is a generous host.”

“And you were a most generous hostess,” said Golde softly, but the compliment elicited no response. She waited a moment. “My lady?”

Again no response. “My lady.” Herleve raised her eyes. “May I ask a question?”

“Well?”

“Have I offended you in some way?”

“No.”

“I feel that there is a coldness between us.”

“Do you?”

“There was a moment … last night …”

Herleve addressed herself to the embroidery once more.

“I am a rather private person,” she said in a neutral voice. “My husband is very gregarious, as you have witnessed. Nothing pleases him more than to entertain guests in the most extravagant fashion. That is his nature. It is not mine.” She turned pale blue eyes on Golde. “I prefer seclusion. That is why I am sometimes uneasy in company and may appear indifferent to our visitors. The truth is that I have no liking for idle conversation. The mindless banter of the table tires me. What I value is solitude. I have come to be most content in my own company.”

Golde felt obscurely rebuked. For a few moments, she watched Herleve intently, unable to decide if the woman was deliberately snubbing her or if she was overcome by a disabling shyness. Either way, it left Golde wishing that she had not come into the solar at all. She rose to leave.

“Thank you again, my lady.”

“I was glad that my wardrobe could help you.”

“So was I. But I’ll trouble you no further.”

With the merest curtsey, Golde backed out of the room. The gentlewoman was waiting in the corridor and she slipped back into the solar immediately. Gathering up the apparel from the floor, she stood beside her mistress and waited until Herleve glanced up.

“Where shall I put this, my lady?”