Robert Lyndon - Hawk Quest

Drogo rode towards her. ‘My lady, you shouldn’t be out in such foul weather. You’ll catch a flux.’

‘Answer my question.’

‘They’re thieves. Foreign fly-by-nights with stolen relics.’

‘Ransom terms for your son,’ Vallon said.

‘A forgery. As soon as I challenged him for proof, he made a bolt for it. He injured Fulk and robbed him of his sword. Look there if you don’t believe me.’

‘Show me the documents.’

‘My lady, false hopes will only aggravate old wounds. I have too much respect for your grief to allow scum to-’

‘I’ll nurse my sorrows. You will attend your father. Now give me the documents.’

Drogo slapped the packet into her hand.

‘If any harm comes to these strangers, you’ll answer to the Count.’ She drifted back into the snow. ‘Don’t keep him waiting. You know what he’s like when he’s taken drink.’

Drogo rammed his sword into its scabbard and rode back towards Vallon. He looked down on the Frank, breathing heavily, then swung a mailed arm into his face with a force that sent Vallon sprawling.

‘Don’t imagine it’s over between us.’

Vallon picked himself up. He spat blood, wiped his mouth and gave a wolfish grin. ‘I see where you get your temper from.’

Drogo regarded him with naked hatred. ‘Lady Margaret’s no blood relative of mine.’ He raked his spurs down his horse’s flanks. ‘And nor is Walter.’

Stumbling across the bailey at swordpoint, Hero glimpsed men dishevelled by sleep peering from the doorway of the great hall. Then his escort prodded him through another gate and up the castle mound to a stairway at the base of the keep. Beasts lowed behind its wooden walls. So this is where my journey of discovery ends, he thought. At a glorified cowshed.

A knee shunted him up the steps. He climbed blind through the snow. Hands shoved him into a chamber. The door slammed behind him. He gasped for breath and wiped snow from his eyes. At the far end of the room, vaguely lit by tapers stuck into wall sconces, a group of figures waited in front of a tapestry screen. At their centre a burly man with a round, cropped head leaned his weight on a stick and pushed up from his seat. Hero winced. A hideous scar running from temple to jaw bisected the man’s face into two misaligned halves — the mouth askew, one eye fixed in a bolting stare, the other narrowed in a drowsy squint.

Lady Margaret sat beside him fidgeting with Sir Walter’s seal ring, her mouth compressed into a determined little bud that belied her girlish figure. A priest with pouchy cheeks shuffled attendance, one hand clutching the documents, the other fiddling with a crucifix. Behind them stood another man, his face blotched by shadow.

Drogo strode past, pulling off his helmet to reveal a meaty face wealed by the imprint of cold metal. His eyes, glittering under pale lashes, projected fury but also bafflement, as if events had a habit of slipping out of his control. Even when he stopped before his father, he couldn’t stay still, tapping his feet, slapping his sword hilt. He was an engine lacking a brake.

‘My lord, I intended bringing you these men as soon as I’d finished questioning them.’

Olbec waved him down, his lop-sided stare fixed on Vallon. ‘You say Sir Walter lives.’ The two sides of his mouth moved slightly out of phase.

‘He’s alive, well-fed, warmly clothed, comfortably housed.’ Vallon stroked his cloak, which by now resembled rat more than sable. ‘Given the choice, I’d change places with him this moment.’

Margaret clapped her hands. ‘Bring food. Prepare their quarters.’

Hero collapsed onto a bench shoved behind his knees. Olbec lowered himself onto his seat with a pained grunt, one leg sticking straight out. Vallon and Drogo remained standing. Hero saw that the face of the man in the background wasn’t masked by a trick of light, but by a dark blemish. This must be Richard, the weakling son.

Servants brought tepid broth and coarse bread. Hero wolfed it down. When he’d scoured his bowl, Vallon was still sipping from his. Olbec fumed at the delay and shot forward as soon as Vallon laid the vessel aside.

‘Now then. A full account.’

Vallon rinsed his hands in a fingerbowl. ‘Not until your son returns our property and apologises for his churlishness.’

Drogo sprang at Vallon.

‘Stop!’

Olbec’s out-thrust head resembled a disfigured tortoise. ‘You crept into my domain by night. This border is infested with Scottish brigands and English rebels. You should thank God Drogo didn’t cut you down on the spot.’

‘And so should you. If he had, Sir Walter would be dead by autumn.’

‘You’ll have your possessions,’ Margaret cried, pulling her husband back. ‘Where’s my son held?’

‘When I left him, he was lodged at a civilised establishment a week’s ride east of Constantinople.’

‘Civilised?’ Olbec spluttered. ‘The Turks aren’t members of Adam’s race. They’ll roast their own babies rather than go without a meal. When they wreck a city, they rebuild its walls with the skulls of its defenders.’

‘Stories they spread to demoralise their enemies. It’s true that the common soldiers have no more use for civilisation than a wolf has for a sheep pen. But their masters have won an empire and know that to hold it they must rule rather than ravage. For that reason they employ Persian and Arab administrators.’ Vallon nodded towards the priest. ‘One of them set down the terms for your son’s release.’

Olbec swung round. ‘You dumb dog. How much longer do you need?’

The priest groaned. ‘If only the scribe had been a more learned man.’

‘It’s as I said,’ Drogo snapped. ‘The documents are forgeries.’

Vallon plucked the manuscript from the priest and gave it to Hero. ‘No frills.’

Hero rose. His hands trembled. He opened his mouth and emitted a pathetic squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again.

‘“Greetings noble lord, and the mercy of God be with you. Know that Suleyman ibn Kutalmish, Defender of Islam, Strong Hand of the Commander of the Faithful, Emir of Rum, Marquis of the Horizons, Victorious Captain in the Army of the Valiant Lion, Right Hand of-”’

Olbec hammered his stick on the floor. Spittle flew. ‘I don’t want to hear this heathen bullshit. Get to the meat.’

‘My lord, the Emir pledges to release Sir Walter in exchange for the following indemnities: “Item. One thousand gold nomismata or their equal by weight.”’

‘What in hell’s name are nomismata?’

‘Byzantine coins, my lord. Seventy-two nomismata make one Roman pound, which is the equivalent of twelve English troy ounces, making a total of sixty-nine pounds.’

Olbec gripped his knees.

‘“Item. Ten pounds of finest Baltic amber. Item. Six bolts of …”’ Hero’s voice trailed away. Olbec’s face had knotted in the fixity of a man straining to shift a turd the size and shape of a brick.

Drogo sniggered. ‘It seems that Walter hasn’t lost his talent for exaggeration.’

The scar down Olbec’s face thickened into a livid rope. ‘Sixty-nine pounds of gold! My estate isn’t worth a twentieth that much. God knows, King William himself would struggle to raise such a sum.’

‘And,’ Drogo pointed out, ‘His Majesty won’t drain the exchequer to ransom a knight who fought for heretics while the King’s loyal vassals were advancing William’s cause in England.’

Margaret darted a vicious glance at him. ‘You want Walter dead.’

‘He shames our name. By God, if I’d been at that battle, I’d have cut my throat rather than let myself be taken by barbarians who suck from their horses’ teats.’

‘My son’s as good as dead,’ Margaret wailed.