Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,50

wield.”

She drew a deep breath to steady herself. “Brian, I do,” she said and walked towards the entrance that led down to the safety of the rooms below, knowing that she should probably not have used his name because in some ways it was even more intimate than a touch.

“I will serve you to the last drop of my blood.” His words curled after her on the wind, and felt like a portent of harder days to come.

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Fifteen

Forest of Loches, Anjou, September 1131

B reathing hard, Geoffrey reined in his sweating mount and patted its hot chestnut neck. He gazed round, trying to get his bearings, but they were deep in the forest and far off beaten tracks. The trees rose around him like stately cathedral columns and arched to form barrel-vault canopies above his head. The first leaves of autumn fell in a slow confetti of rust and green-gold. He had outridden the rest of the hunt while in hot pursuit of a ten-point stag and now had lost both. Only Bruin remained with him, and the hound had obviously lost the scent because he was snuffling in circles.

Geoffrey tilted his head and listened, but there was no sound beyond the rustle of leaves and, somewhere, the harsh call of a jay. He reached to blow on his hunting horn, but cursed to find it missing from the hangers on his baldric, for it meant he could not summon aid, and the item was carved from elephant ivory and valuable.

He turned the horse in the direction from which he had come and sought the path, all the time listening for the horns of the other hunters, but heard nothing. A promising path turned out to be a deer trail that only led him deeper into the forest.

Once, his straining ears caught the sound of a distant horn, but he was unsure of the direction, and it did not come again.

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Geoffrey was pragmatic. He knew eventually he would find his way out, but still felt a glimmer of anxiety at being lost in the forest, away from the safety of his companions. The night would be cold, and he had neither provisions with him, nor the wherewithal to make a fire. He turned the chestnut towards the setting sun, because at least it was a known direction.

After a while, he began to smell woodsmoke and his hope rose, mingled with caution. The scent strengthened and moments later, Geoffrey rode into a clearing where a charcoal burner was tending one of his clamps. The smoke was mostly the product of the louver over the cooking fire in his hut, but white tendrils also swirled gently from the covered charcoal mound itself.

The man bowed in deference to Geoffrey’s obvious rank, but did not kneel. His eyes were as bright as speedwells in his soot-smudged face, and he kept his fist clenched tightly around the rake in his hand.

“How do I find my way out of this place?” Geoffrey asked.

“Do you know which way leads to Loches?” The man leaned on his staff. “If I did not know, I couldn’t sell my charcoal there, could I?” he said, and began issuing a string of directions by way of various trees: the big oak, the twisted lime, the hazel coppice with the rabbit warren in its roots.

Geoffrey’s nostrils flared with impatience. “Take me yourself,” he snapped. “These are not directions for a man unused to these woods.”

“Messire, I dare not leave the clamp lest it flares up again.” The burner gestured to the smoking mound. “This is my livelihood.”

“Christ, I’ll pay you for it; I’ll pay you what you earn in a month; just show me the way. You can ride pillion.” The man pondered for a moment and then, with a curt nod, laid down his rake and brought a stool so that he could 126

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mount up behind Geoffrey. “It’s that way,” he said, pointing a grimy hand.

The path twisted and meandered like a hungry snake, but the charcoal burner navigated with confidence, using various obscure landmarks that were obvious only to himself. Geoffrey realised uncomfortably that he was a stranger in his own land.

Here, in these woods, this man had the authority of knowledge while he possessed none. “What do ordinary men say of the Count of Anjou?” he asked curiously as they rode along.

His companion shrugged. “It is not my place to speak, messire, but were I to do