Chapter 23

There had been a sharp frost overnight and when Oliver stepped out of the alehouse door, he was confronted by a glittering silver dawn. The first breath he drew almost cut his lungs. On the horizon, the rising sun was a hazy orange disc.

Blowing on his hands, he ducked back within the dwelling where Godard was stacking the two straw pallets they had used as beds against the wall of the room. The ale-wife put a jug of hot rosehip tisane on the trestle and two bowls of steaming gruel, each sweetened with a dollop of honey.

'Cold morning, she said. 'You'll not want to ride far without stoking your braziers. Although she addressed both men, her glance was reserved for Godard, to whom she had taken a fancy. Godard, in his turn, seemed quite smitten by the ale-wife — ale-widow to be precise. She was perhaps in her thirtieth summer, with a sheaf of tawny hair bound in a green kerchief, and large bones well-fleshed and buxom. Her name was Edith, in honour of the old King's wife.

'Any more of this fare, mistress, and we'll not want to ride at all, he said gallantly, as he sat down and dipped his spoon.

Oliver watched the exchanges between them and smiled bleakly to himself. Hope sprang eternal. Godard was popular with the keep women in Bristol. Despite his brusque manner, he had a knack of being at ease with his feet beneath a trestle, and he was always willing to hew wood and draw water.

'Do you ride far? she ventured.

Oliver sat down in front of his bowl. 'Ashbury.

She took a besom from the corner and started to sweep the beaten earth floor. 'You're going to hire out as soldiers then?

Oliver shook his head and spooned the thick oat porridge into his mouth. It was by far the best he had tasted, better even than Ethel's. 'No, I was born there. It's a sort of pilgrimage. If he could not possess then at least he could look, and there were graves to be visited.

Edith gave two vigorous sweeps of the birch broom, then rested on the handle to look at him. 'I've lived here all my life, she said. 'This alehouse belonged to my mother before it came to me, so I know everything that goes on hereabouts. If you were born at Ashbury then you must be an Osmundsson.

Godard blinked and gazed at his lord.

Oliver continued to eat his porridge and said nothing.

'You even look like Lord Simon, except your hair is paler and you don't wear a beard. He often stopped here on the road home from Malmesbury, she added.

Sighing, Oliver pushed his bowl aside. 'I am known as Oliver Pascal in Norman company, he said, 'but you are right. Simon was my brother, God rest his soul.

She nodded and narrowed her eyes. 'You're the younger son, the one whose wife died in child-bed.

Oliver inclined his head stiffly. He was wounded enough already without having her curiosity probe at his emotional flesh.

'The rumour is that you were killed on pilgrimage.

'A good reason never to listen to rumour or indulge in gossip, Oliver said curtly and stood up. 'I am whole and alive as you can see.

Edith clutched the broom and put her other hand on her hip. 'If the two of you ride into Ashbury, you won't remain whole and alive for long, she warned. 'Odinel the Fleming will nail your hides to the keep wall.

'Only one of us will be risking his hide, Oliver said. 'I am going alone.

'But my lord, I… Godard began, but was silenced by Oliver's raised hand. 'I need no company for what I have to do. Besides, your very size will mark you out for comment. I am taller than most men but you stand a full handspan above me. Word will fly quickly enough to the keep as it is. You will stay here and wait for me. I'll be back by dusk. 'And if you are not?

Oliver shrugged. 'Ride on. Take the spare horse with my blessing and find another master.

Godard clamped his jaw and looked affronted but he said nothing, or at least not until Oliver had gone to saddle Hero.

'If there is one thing I regret in my life, he said to Edith, 'it is not wringing Louis de Grosmont's good-for-nothing neck when I had the opportunity at Rochester. He has nigh on ruined a man of ten times his own piddling value, and the lives of countless others into the bargain.

Leaving her justifiably bewildered, he stumped off to the privy beside the midden pit.


The sun melted the frost from the open places, but in the hollows it lingered like white, leprous fingers. Oliver rode along the track that had once been familiar territory. Now, although it looked the same, it had changed, for its welfare lay in a stranger's hand; every twig and thorn on every wayside bush, every clod of soil in the ploughed fields. As he rode, Oliver began to wonder if it had been a mistake to make this pilgrimage. The feeling of love and possession for the land was so strong that it filled his eyes. The Welsh had a word for it; hiraeth. There was no parallel term in English or Norman… or Flemish.

Twice he almost turned the grey and headed back to the alehouse, but sheer doggedness kept his hand steady on the bridle. He had come this far; he would honour the graves of his family. At the back of his mind, pretending not to exist, was the treacherous thought that if he made a good enough reconnaissance of the site, Earl Robert might yet be persuaded to give him the troops to regain Ashbury.

The sun climbed a shallow arc in the sky, shedding light but little warmth. It was mid-December, the time when folk remained at their hearths, making, mending, telling stories. Hero's shadow lengthened on the track as man and horse approached Ashbury village. There were other settlements attached to the keep but mainly in the form of hamlets and outlying farms, spread over a distance of fifteen miles. Ashbury itself boasted a population of four hundred inhabitants. A market was held outside the church every other Wednesday, and there were two water mills on the river, one for fulling cloth and the other for grinding corn. There were fisheries too, and the river was wide enough to permit trade by barge. The honour of Ashbury might be small, but it was prosperous — a treasure worth stealing.

The village road was deserted, but dogs soon ran out from the tofts to yap at Hero's heels. A woman came to her door, a cooking ladle in her hand, and watched Oliver ride past. A little girl of about three years peeped out at him from the safety of her mother's skirts. At the village well, more women stood gossiping over their water jars. He recognised a couple of them and pulled the hood of his cloak further forward. While he would have liked nothing better than to draw rein and speak with them, it was too dangerous. He felt their eyes upon his progress and knew that what had been idle chatter as they drew their water would now become serious speculation.

Another hundred yards and a frozen duck pond brought him to the boundary of the old Saxon church, with its solid timber walls and low, square tower. Smoke twirled from the hole in the thatched roof of the priest's house, but no one emerged as Oliver tethered Hero to one of the stockade posts and entered the churchyard.

The grass was grazed short and scattered with sheep drop-pings. At the far boundary, the green turf was wounded by the scars of three recent graves. Winter was the dying time. The old, the weak, the sick succumbed.

Stamping his cold feet, Oliver entered the church. The nave was flagged with heavy squares of stone, some marking burial places. It was deemed a privilege to be laid to rest in the presence of God. To the people who came to pray, walking upon the tombs of the dead was a reminder to prepare their own souls for the afterlife.

Oliver knelt and genuflected to the altar. Two mutton-fat bandies sputtered and gave off the aroma of roasting, rancid lamb, by which sign Oliver knew that Father Alberic still had the living here. He made his own altar candles, only allowing the grand beeswax ones for Holy days. It was more economical, he said, and it gave the people a greater sense of occasion when they were used.

Oliver remained on his knees. The stone beneath him was cold and the bones beneath it probably colder still. His wife, his tiny daughter, and beside them his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents; the passage of time marked by the increasing smoothness of the heavy tomb slabs. All of his line was buried here, saving himself and his brother. Simon had fallen in battle, the last ruling Osmundsson at Ashbury, and Oliver did not know what had become of his mortal remains.

'I swear you are not forgotten, Oliver said, his breath clouding the chapel's wintry greyness. 'While I live, your memory lives too. The forlorn statement echoed off the walls at him. When he was gone there would be no one to remember either him or them. Perhaps he ought to accept Prince Henry's offer of a wealthy heiress, settle down, raise sons and daughters to carry his line and burden another generation with expectations handed down from the past.

He grimaced at the thought and, rubbing his stone-bruised knees, eased to his feet. It was a pilgrimage that he had needed to make, but he felt weary and relieved at a duty performed rather than uplifted and refreshed.

'Lord William? A voice spoke behind him, filled with fear and question.

Oliver spun round and found himself facing the diminutive form of Father Alberic. The elderly village priest boasted almost as many years as Ethel had done. Peering and squinting in his dark brown habit, he resembled a mole. He was quivering like a small animal too.

'No, it is Oliver. Don't you recognise me, Father? Have I changed so much?

The old priest stared for a moment longer, then the tension sighed out of him and his wizened features wrinkled into a smile. 'Master Oliver, by all that is Holy! I thought you were your father returned to life!