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Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
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too, to give her father peace, her mother said, although Mahelt suspected it was also to protect them from any evil vapours he might be exuding.
'What's wrong with him?' she asked Jean D'Earley once she had finished speaking with the chamberlain. He was her father's foremost knight, and a trusted family friend. Where her father was, Jean was invariably at his side.
Jean's attempted smile of reassurance did not reach his eyes, which told a different story. 'He is tired and chilled after a hard journey, and has a touch of fever,' he said. 'I'm sure it is only a cold and he'll be better by the morning.'
Mahelt fixed him with a challenging stare. 'He's never ill.'
'That is not true, but usually he shakes things off so quickly or with so little effort that no one sees. He's in the best place to be looked after - at home with his family; he'll be all right, you'll see.' Jean chucked her under the chin.
Mahelt wanted to believe him but was not sure she did. Jean might be one of the most dependable members of their household, but that didn't mean he would give her the straight truth if he was trying to protect her.
The steward arrived to ask her a question about which wine to use and she had to divert her attention, by which time Jean was busy among the men, settling them down, organising and making everything seem routine and normal, but Mahelt knew it couldn't be while her father was sick and her oldest brother might never come home at all.
Breathing hard, Hugh cleaned his sword on the tunic of a dead French soldier. Four knights had been taken for ransom and the serjeants and footsoldiers had either fled or died. They had abandoned their baggage, including two cartloads of armour and eight pack ponies laden with sacks of flour and other supplies. The French army that had been besieging the town of Niort was melting away before the English advance, but those who had left it too late, or chosen the wrong roads to make their escape, were coming to grief at the hands of King John's troops.
Hugh's arm ached fiercely from the clash of the fight but he was unharmed; none of his men had been wounded and the outcome was successful. The armour they had seized would be very useful and the cooks would be glad of the flour.
Hugh organised his men, saw the prisoners tied on horses and rode to rejoin the main Bigod force from which he had originally detached in order to reconnoitre. The troop, led by his father, had also caught some stragglers, but had let them go with their lives, although minus their mounts, weapons and money.
'They're well on the run,' his father said with satisfaction. 'The scouts report that the road into Niort is open. The French have drawn back.'
Hugh gave his father the tally of profit from his skirmish. 'No wounded,' he said 'Four good destriers and eight sumpters as well as the armour carts and ten bushels of flour.'
'Good grist to the mill.' His father chuckled at his own weak pun. 'I did not think King Philip would linger to face us. He can't afford to chew too hard on Poitou while he still has Normandy to digest.' His smile faded because although he had acknowledged some time ago that the Bayeux lands were lost to their family, it had still caused a pang to let them go.
'Perhaps we can make other gains - Montauban, for a certainty.'
His father nodded. 'Once Niort is secure, that will be our next target.'
As they approached Niort, other foraging parties converged with theirs.
Banners and pennants rippled and the heat of the late-morning sun intensified the pungent aromas of an army on the move: sweat, faeces, dust, grease and blood. Hugh sweltered inside his mail shirt. He feared he would have to be poured out of his armour when the time came to remove it. His father was scarlet in the face with exertion and sunburn. He was approaching his sixtieth year, and although hale and well, he was carrying too much weight.
A shout from behind made both men turn to watch a bay palfrey cantering
'What's wrong with him?' she asked Jean D'Earley once she had finished speaking with the chamberlain. He was her father's foremost knight, and a trusted family friend. Where her father was, Jean was invariably at his side.
Jean's attempted smile of reassurance did not reach his eyes, which told a different story. 'He is tired and chilled after a hard journey, and has a touch of fever,' he said. 'I'm sure it is only a cold and he'll be better by the morning.'
Mahelt fixed him with a challenging stare. 'He's never ill.'
'That is not true, but usually he shakes things off so quickly or with so little effort that no one sees. He's in the best place to be looked after - at home with his family; he'll be all right, you'll see.' Jean chucked her under the chin.
Mahelt wanted to believe him but was not sure she did. Jean might be one of the most dependable members of their household, but that didn't mean he would give her the straight truth if he was trying to protect her.
The steward arrived to ask her a question about which wine to use and she had to divert her attention, by which time Jean was busy among the men, settling them down, organising and making everything seem routine and normal, but Mahelt knew it couldn't be while her father was sick and her oldest brother might never come home at all.
Breathing hard, Hugh cleaned his sword on the tunic of a dead French soldier. Four knights had been taken for ransom and the serjeants and footsoldiers had either fled or died. They had abandoned their baggage, including two cartloads of armour and eight pack ponies laden with sacks of flour and other supplies. The French army that had been besieging the town of Niort was melting away before the English advance, but those who had left it too late, or chosen the wrong roads to make their escape, were coming to grief at the hands of King John's troops.
Hugh's arm ached fiercely from the clash of the fight but he was unharmed; none of his men had been wounded and the outcome was successful. The armour they had seized would be very useful and the cooks would be glad of the flour.
Hugh organised his men, saw the prisoners tied on horses and rode to rejoin the main Bigod force from which he had originally detached in order to reconnoitre. The troop, led by his father, had also caught some stragglers, but had let them go with their lives, although minus their mounts, weapons and money.
'They're well on the run,' his father said with satisfaction. 'The scouts report that the road into Niort is open. The French have drawn back.'
Hugh gave his father the tally of profit from his skirmish. 'No wounded,' he said 'Four good destriers and eight sumpters as well as the armour carts and ten bushels of flour.'
'Good grist to the mill.' His father chuckled at his own weak pun. 'I did not think King Philip would linger to face us. He can't afford to chew too hard on Poitou while he still has Normandy to digest.' His smile faded because although he had acknowledged some time ago that the Bayeux lands were lost to their family, it had still caused a pang to let them go.
'Perhaps we can make other gains - Montauban, for a certainty.'
His father nodded. 'Once Niort is secure, that will be our next target.'
As they approached Niort, other foraging parties converged with theirs.
Banners and pennants rippled and the heat of the late-morning sun intensified the pungent aromas of an army on the move: sweat, faeces, dust, grease and blood. Hugh sweltered inside his mail shirt. He feared he would have to be poured out of his armour when the time came to remove it. His father was scarlet in the face with exertion and sunburn. He was approaching his sixtieth year, and although hale and well, he was carrying too much weight.
A shout from behind made both men turn to watch a bay palfrey cantering
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