A Chuckle In My Ear

A Note: as with my previous stories set in the tumultuous years before and after the Norman Conquest, bear in mind that these characters would not sound like this. Most of the people in this story would be speaking Norman French or in some cases Middle English. But since you and I are not fluent in those, I've opted for a conversational modern English that, I figure, probably reflects the relative informality of the time.

Almost everyone, by 1100, would have been at least somewhat bilingual. The Anglo-Saxons had been delightfully plain-spoken, if not ribald, and linguistic evidence suggests that the invading Normans adopted this custom at least until the 13th century (when things grew more formalized as the English language evolved).

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

* * *

I daydreamed as I did my stretches: a woman, big-breasted, soft in my arms and wet as she sank down onto me. Nights of bliss, tangled in her hair, covered with her laughter. A baby, born squalling after nine months, blinking in confusion as he came from the womb. Blinking with my eyes.

The limb still hurt, the ache duller by the day, muscles easing into their new requirements along the troubled bone slowly and obstinately. But I gritted my teeth against the pain and pushed harder, leaning against the rough stone of the gatehouse, trying to make the arm do what it used to be able to do.

I sighed. Almost three years since the wound, and still I couldn't trust that fucking arm.

The day was otherwise flawless, the kind of English summer day when the tree-shadows are deep beneath a bright, lazy sun. The kind of day when I, as a boy helping my mother make cheese, had fought hard against the lulling hum of her bees, struggling to stay awake after a morning spent being taught my letters by the monks up the hill. A proper education for me had been part of my father Bernard's price for completing a new rose window for the abbey church.

I wondered sometimes whether the monks had ever figured out that Bernard had broken the old window in the first place, so as to get the commission.

That was over now, though, that life: I'd not been back to Eyensbury in five years, since my father had finally died. I'd been overdue to leave to fight Mowbray's Rebellion at that time, but Lord Geoffrey had graciously given me leave to go home and bury Father. "Just a week," the old knight had grunted, but I'd seen sorrow in Geoffrey's eyes too: when he'd come across to seize this land with Duke William, Bernard of Brittany had been Lord Geoffrey's squire.

I sighed and swung my left arm around from the shoulder, every swing reminding me how stiff the muscles still were, and I was just about to start stretching again when I heard a shout from the parapet. I scowled. "Yeah? What the fuck?"

"Riders coming. Fast."

I sighed. "Yeah." I pushed off the wall and glanced down at where I'd left my sword propped against the banister, quickly deciding I didn't need it. The parapet was ten feet away, and I very much doubted the city was about to come under attack. "Any idea who it is?" I asked, mounting the steps. Perrin was there, with one of his little girlfriends, and she drew a sour glare from me. "I told you not to bring women up here." God giggled in my ear as my eyes roved over her chest, but I ignored Him.

Perrin shrugged, insolent as usual. "Just because you're not getting any, doesn't mean the rest of us should follow you." The kid shut his mouth, though as I shifted my glare his way. "Sorry. It's just a dust cloud so far. They're staying to the road."

"They?" I leaned out over the gate and squinted. "How many?"

"At this distance? More than two, less than ten." Both of us shaded our eyes against the high sun, peering silently out over the hills of Wessex. "They ride well enough," he went on.

I grunted. The leader was on a large horse, with a distinctive gait, and I thought I spotted blue clothes through the dust. "Big horse for a big man," I observed. I'd seen that gait before, but they needed to get closer before I could be sure.

"The King?" Perrin frowned. "I didn't think he was coming back until after Sunday?"

"Yes. Lord Geoffrey told me the plan was to return Tuesday." There had been a steady flood of dead animals coming back from the New Forest for a week now, the hunting party obviously successful. "Well. Whatever. Run down and open the gate. Obviously, whoever is in that cloud wants to come in, and a man traveling openly with such haste is probably important." The shapes on the road resolved themselves through the dust. "Once the gate is open, run and fetch Giffard. He's probably in the castle." I judged the speed of the riders and frowned. "And hurry."

Perrin scuttled off, leaving his wench to lounge in quiet sullenness in the shadow of the gate tower. "You can leave too, woman."

"Not until I'm paid," she snapped.

I rolled my eyes, making no attempt to conceal my irritation. "Did he fuck you?" I demanded, nodding to where Perrin was scampering through the gateyard.

She smiled, one of those disquieting and mysterious feminine smiles that made my unused cock stir. "Want me to tell you all about it, soldier?"

"Leave," I rasped, hoping she'd get the message: she could not be here when the visitor arrived. "Do you know William Giffard, the King's chancellor?"

"Heard of him," she sniffed, "but no, I don't 'know' him." Her leer left me in no doubt what she meant by know. "Why? Should I care?"

"He's the law here," I shrugged, "and he likes women no more than the King does. Especially fallen women," I added somewhat stiffly. "You don't want him to find you here."

She scowled. "Tell Perrin he owes me," she spat, drawing herself to her feet: she was handsome, I could see, a sturdy girl of maybe twenty years, sure of herself. She was just the kind of woman I'd have spent money on myself, before.

"Sure," I shrugged, my attention drifting back out over the hills. Yes, I could see now, I knew that horse. "That rider is the King's brother," I told her, "and you'd not want him to find you here either."

"But you don't care?" She preened, arms high, yawning. "Hoping for a piece once Perrin finishes with me, soldier?" She quailed a bit at the look I gave her, mixed from equal parts bitterness, contempt, and regret. "Guess not. I'll find him later, I suppose."

"Yes." I turned toward the castle, its gate already down. Giffard should arrive around the same time the distant horsemen did, and in the event that's exactly what happened; I turned, the wooden stairs shaking at Perrin's approach, just as the riders came within hail. "Who's there?" I shouted, the usual meaningless ceremony.

"Henry Beauclerc," came a hoarse voice from within the cloud, accompanied by several raspy coughs, "come to see Walter Giffard."

"Pass, with God's blessing," I called back, Perrin and I both ducking the rolling cloud of road-dust that drifted up over the parapet. We stood there blinking at each other as Henry passed through the gate below us, then we shrugged and turned to look down on Giffard. Because it never hurts to eavesdrop.

"Henry," Giffard called, his head cocked, "what brings you here?" The chancellor reached up to take hold of Henry's bridle, one bushy eyebrow raised. Beauclerc had brought five riders, all of them easing into the city now, leaning sore-hipped over panting horses. "Is the King coming back early?"

Henry leapt off his horse and spat the dust from his mouth. "The King," he replied sourly, "is dead."

"Well," Giffard said after a long pause, "that's fucked-up. I mean, condolences, but... what happened?"

Henry shrugged, beating the dust from his tunic. He was still filthy from the hunt, his dark hair mussed. "He was shot. Arrow. Probably an accident." He shrugged, seeming not at all upset. "These things happen."

"You people are idiots, riding into that forest." Giffard was talking about Henry's brother Richard, who'd also died hunting in the New Forest around the time I was born. "You're sure he's dead?"

Henry laughed grimly. "It took him in the lung. I know a mortal wound when I see one." He turned and gazed out the gate, for the first time looking a bit troubled. "He's still lying there. We left right away. Might want to send someone back to get him, actually..."

"What?" Giffard was an older man, very judgey, and right now he looked like he was thinking of smacking Henry across the face. "You left your brother, our King, bleeding out on the floor of the forest?"

"Would it have been more respectful to sling him over a horse's back like a slain deer?" Henry drew himself up then, nodding as men started to come out of the Cathedral, others hastening from the Castle. The word would soon spread: that was obvious. "In this, our hour of great grief," he declared, his voice steady, "I reluctantly take onto my unworthy shoulders the royal burden that God has ordained our Lord William Rufus lay down with his earthly life!" He smiled at William Giffard.

It was not a pleasant smile.

"The keys to the royal treasury in the Castle. You have those, right?" He glanced pointedly down at where Giffard's great keys chinked on a big iron ring.

Giffard scowled, wary. "Of course, but... I mean, when you mention your unworthy shoulders, I'm thinking your brother Robert might have something to say about that... he's older."

"He's fighting for God in Jerusalem," Henry shrugged, "or he's dead. The point being, he's not here." He glanced back at his followers, now looking quite a bit less exhausted and quite a bit more armed. "I am."

"You are," Giffard nodded heavily.

He took Giffard by the elbow. "I think, after you give me the key, we should discuss the need for a new Bishop here in Winchester." I saw him smile craftily, but then Henry Beauclerc did everything craftily. "I think you'd be a fine choice for that office, don't you?"

Giffard, his face blank now, nodded. "I'm sure that'll be for the new King to decide, no?"

Henry nodded happily. "That's exactly my point." His grip tightened on Giffard's arm until the older man, scowling, drew his key-ring slowly out of his belt, handing them over. "I'm glad you agree," Henry winked, and then with an abrupt gesture to his followers, he stepped off toward the Castle with indecent haste.

I stirred. "Best go down and help with the horses, Perrin," I sighed.

"What the fuck just happened?" he squeaked, but I was already trading a long, measured glance with William Giffard.

"So," I called down as I kicked Perrin toward the stairs, "I guess Henry's the King now?"

Giffard shrugged. "Looks like it."

* * *

It didn't surprise me much when Giffard called me to the Castle later that evening, with the sun still high in the sky and the whole city oddly quiet. I'd told the boys there was probably going to be shit to eat that night, with the cooks still scrambling to feed six more guests. And one of them, perhaps, a King.

But I'm the captain of Winchester's south gate, so I'd expected to be called. I'd just started as a soldier when old King William had died, his son Rufus taking over. So royal changes weren't really something I was used to. But I'm not stupid, and I know that when a King dies and another man tries to take over, then soldiers and gates will become important.

Especially in this family. The sons of William the Conqueror had never been shy about making war on each other, and now it seemed Henry had come out the winner. So I passed into the Great Hall of Winchester Castle with a certain edginess, verging on outright caution.

Because I'd been close to William Rufus. And even closer to Henry's other brother, Duke Robert, the man I'd taken the cross to follow.

Henry sat at a small table, heaped with papers and tally-sticks, listening to some sort of monk before Giffard, with his usual raised eyebrow, announced me. "Robert of Eyensbury, my liege." I stiffened at the address; a few hours ago, Henry Beauclerc had just been a guy on a horse. Now he was William Giffard's liege-lord, all of a sudden.

I remembered Henry's words to Giffard under my gate and wondered whether Giffard was already a bishop.

Henry glanced up, a big man with a suspicious eye. "I found a letter from you. In my brother's things. You wrote it yourself?"

I stood easy, legs parted, hands behind my back. Ready for... whatever. "I can write," I nodded.

"It asks my brother the King to make you a landed knight." The question came out flat, dismissive, like a boy spitting a melon seed. "A baron, perhaps."

I cocked my head, wondering why he'd be dealing with my letter right now, his brother not yet cold on the forest floor. "It does," I agreed, "and he said he would."

"Well. He's dead." He began peeling papers off the stack, burrowing, looking for something.

I stopped myself from glancing over at Giffard. If I had any allies here, it was him, and he'd clearly picked sides. "Indeed. My condolences, um, Lord Henry." I knew Henry had been a Count once down in Normandy, but I wasn't sure what he was now. "William Rufus was a noble man."

"He was a sodomite," Henry shrugged, "with an excellent sense of humor." He found what he'd been looking for, and my heart gave a curious lurch as I spotted my own letter to the King, from just last week, with Duke Robert's letter attached. I'd paid good money for that copy of the Duke's letter; getting it sealed had taken a week's wages.

If I'd not had to do that, Rufus would have knighted me already.

"Why do you want to be a knight?" Henry seemed genuinely curious, glancing at me.

"It's not so much what I want, sir, as what Duke Robert wants for me." I swallowed, not sure what Henry knew of me. "I took a wound, on crusade. It's why I'm back already. And I earned some land there. Your brother Duke Robert felt my service to God merited a knighthood with baronial rights over that land, so... well, that's what his letter says." Henry just stared. "I have the original, sir, of the Duke's letter."

"Land, you say." He sniffed. "If you have land, then I suppose you should be knighted." He smiled, not all that pleasantly. "Good land, is it?"

I hesitated. "It's fine land, Lord Henry."

His smile grew. "In France? Or perhaps Alsace? The Empire, maybe?"

I went quite still, a sense of unease blooming deep in my stomach. "In Bursa, sir. At the junction of the Kestros and the Odrysses." I had the bounds in my memory: Kestros to the Sea, then east to the olive tree behind the saddler's shop at the base of the great hill, then south on the Ulubat road to the Odrysses, then west to the Kestros. "Vineyards, Lord Henry. Mostly vineyards."

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Have you actually been there?" He read my expression and chuckled. "I own lands in a dozen places that I've never even heard of, so don't take offense."

"I have been there, sir." I had bled there, too, but I didn't bother mentioning it. Henry was a soldier too; it would not impress him. I took a deep breath."I want to go back, too, once I am a knight. And once I've healed; it's a land worth defending, sir."

"Yeah," he said again, "I'm sure." He sat back on his stool. "So listen, Robert, you know the King is dead. And you say he intended to knight you, but I'm in charge here now and it's something I have to think about. It helps that I wouldn't have to enfief you with some of my land, but there are duties you'd need to pay. People you'll need to hire. A retinue to serve you adequately. Squires. A household." He started at me expectantly. "New clothes."

I hesitated, feeling my face grow hot. "I can find money, Lord Henry."

"And your service?" He glanced at my arm. "Can you fight for me? You know how to fight, obviously, but a knight must come at the call of his King, whenever, for forty days. Can you do that?"

I drew myself up. Can you fight for me. "Are you the King, sir?" I asked him bluntly. I was pretty sure he would not kill me for mere insolence, still less for an honest question: none of the sons of William the Bastard was an unjust man.

His mouth assumed a prim line, the others in the room stirring. "I intend to leave for London in the morning. I'll speak to the lords there, but yes. I intend to take on my departed brother's kingdom."

I had to know where I stood. "And Duke Robert, sir?"

He smiled at that. "Yes. I know you served him well. A noble man, my brother Robert; brave, though a bit stupid. He is far away. And he is already a Duke, as our father was when he was born." He nodded. "So God has made him a Duke. Well and good. But I was born to a King, so obviously God will make me a King. Yes?"

I shrugged. "That seems reasonable, Lord Henry."

He studied me closely. "You fought bravely for God," he allowed, "and evidently you're a valuable man. I think that if my brother William intended to knight you, I could follow his wishes." He tapped my letter. "But I wonder whether you can do something for me first? A favor."

My heart sank. Favors for noblemen were usually not pleasant. "I am curious, sir, what I could possibly do for you."

Henry nodded at the chancellor. "Giffard tells me you own horses."

"Three of them, sir." My eyebrows rose hopefully. "Did you want to buy any? I can let two of them go, and for you, I'd offer a great price..."

"No. I have lost count of the number of horses I already own, Robert of Eyensbury," he sniffed bluntly. "You'll be needing them, anyway." He glanced at some of his friends, still dusty from the headlong ride I'd seen them take into the city. "Some of my men tell me you know Sir Walter Tirel, the Red Knight of Normandy."

I froze, all but my darting eyes. Henry's companions looked at me now, keeping back smiles that their eyes could not hide. "I don't really know him, sir." I'd fought on fields with all these men. They were not my friends, but we knew a lot of the same people. "In passing, you know."

Henry nodded at a tall man on his left, one of the smilers. "This is Gilbert de Clare. He thinks you know the Red Knight a bit better."

"His wife, anyway." De Clare had a voice softer than his face, pocked and patched with scars beneath a beard scraggled from days in the Forest. "My sister. You know her quite a bit better, Robert, don't you?"

"You know I do, Gilbert." I must have been scarlet-faced by this time, my dignity under attack and, I felt, my life obscurely in danger. "I'm a sinner," I snapped, "and God forgave me for... for that."

"For what?" Gilbert shook his head sadly. "For cucking Walter Tirel when you fucked my sister Adeliza?"

My mind went back to the wet pussy, the soft hair, the squalling infant... "That was five years ago. I paid an indulgence, gentlemen," I protested, "and I received absolution when I took the cross. God forgave me my sins with the Lady Adeliza." My gaze shifted to Gilbert. "I understand she's your sister, and God knows my conduct with her was undignified. But I've paid my price."

Gilbert laughed, and so did the rest of the men. "I've got no quarrel with you, Robert of Eyensbury. Tirel's an asshole. If you could give her better than he did, then you did her a favor." He glanced at Henry. "Shall I tell him, my lord?"

"Why not?" Henry yawned.

Gilbert folded his arms across his chest. "You were on the gate when we came in. You heard the King was shot by an arrow."

"Yes?"

He shrugged. "Walter Tirel shot the arrow."

I rocked back on my heels, the implications crashing into place like castle gates. "Holy fuck," I blurted.

"Yes," Henry nodded after a pause. "You can begin to understand now why you're the one who can do me a favor."

My mind raced. "Where is Sir Walter now?"

"Gone." Henry shrugged. "In the wind. Somewhere. We'll find him if he needs to be found, but that's where you come in." He leaned forward, elbows propped over my letter to the dead King. "His wife knows you well. Her brothers all support me, but I'd like it to be clear that there was not any kind of huge conspiracy to kill Rufus."