In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,27
and ally, but he had been deeded adjoining lands. Tall and lean, deceptively mild-mannered and scholarly in appearance, Alaric was never far from the Wolf’s side in any battle, and was, to Eduard’s knowledge, the only man he had ever seen best his father with a sword. He had, admittedly, been jealous of their closeness in the beginning, but it was exceeding hard not to like Alaric FitzAthelstan; harder still not to like a man whose logic and levelheadedness could defuse many explosive situations before the skill of his sword arm was put to the test.
“Actually, the more urgent plea came from the Lady Servanne. She knows your father’s temper when it comes to any dealings with King John, and I gather she does not trust him to keep from speaking his mind. Not that the Earl of Pembroke is any great believer in John’s ability to keep the English banners flying over Normandy, but the earl has the advantage of his age and wisdom, and the respect owed him as advisor to three kings. As for this mission to see Philip …” Alaric shook his head in disgust. “It was a useless venture, designed to humiliate the earl and nothing more. Philip wants all of Normandy and both sides know John does not have the resources or the strength to fight for it.”
“Do you think he will fight?”
Alaric opened his mouth to respond, but a raucous volley of shouts and jeers drew his frowning attention to a window high on the tower wall. “What in God’s name …?”
A flurry of waving arms accompanied the noise, all directed at a red-faced Robert d’Amboise, who was trying without much success to ignore them and to keep as solemn an expression as was warranted for a man newly promoted from page to squire.
Eduard turned and regarded him with an arched brow.
“I … I am sorry, my lord,” Robert said, fidgeting. “They are still children and think I have nothing more important to do with my time than play at winks and binks with them.”
Eduard nodded solemnly. “Have you seen to my armour?”
“Aye, my lord. I had the links repaired and the lot rolled in hot oiled sand until the iron gleamed like silver. I groomed Lucifer and fed him a double rasher of oats, then had your sword sharpened and the hilt of your lance repaired.”
“You have been busy.”
“Busier than most, I warrant,” Sparrow muttered under his breath.
Eduard ignored the comment and dismissed Robert with a tilt of his head. “Go along then. Pull your brothers’ noses for me and give each of your sisters a pinch.”
“I will, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
The young squire scampered off at a run, shouting a warning that effectively ended the hooting and waving on squeals of mock alarm.
“Well,” Sparrow harrumphed, clearly distempered, “I suppose you arrange for a teat for him to suck before he accompanies you onto a battlefield?”
“Robin is a fine squire, and Eduard a tyrant of a taskmaster,” Alaric allowed. “No thanks to your own tutelage in their early years, Puck. In fact, one can only hope you do as well with Randwulf’s other sons.”
Sparrow frowned, torn between a boast to acknowledge the flattery and a desire to expound on the detriments of a weak master. He knew full well how strict Eduard was when it came to training or discipline on the field, but there was still a natural tendency to spare a younger brother the bite of a whip if he showed a lack of proper respect between master and squire—respect that was necessary to learn the ways of a noble young man rising through the ranks of service. While Sparrow loved all the Wolf’s children with equal fervor, Robert—little Robin—had been just a tad more special than the others. Charmed somehow. Destined for some great future his diminutive mentor did not intend to see squandered for want of common sense.
“’Tis better to be harder on the boy than softer.” Sparrow scowled at Alaric, not wanting the comments to pass completely unnoted. “Your own young William shows a sad lacking in discipline, mooning about the castle like a lovesick calf, weeping so hard in his pallet at night, we have taken to calling him Will-of-the-Scarlet-Eyes.”
“William is only six years old and fostered into Lady Servanne’s care less than two months,” Eduard said defensively. “I vow you wept and mooned and calved aplenty when you were that age. You still do, for that matter, as well as carp and wheedle