‘Indeed, sir,’ said Asmidir smoothly, ‘your deeds will echo through the pages of history. Now I am sure you have more important matters to attend to, so how may I be of service to you?’
The Baron turned and beckoned Asmidir to follow him into a small study. The black man stared longingly at the cold and empty fireplace. Does the man not feel the cold, he wondered? The Baron seated himself at a desk of oak. ‘I want the red hawk,’ he said. ‘There is a tourney in two months and the red hawk could win it for me. Name a price.’
‘Would that I could sir. But I sold the hawk last autumn.’
The Baron swore. ‘Who to? I’ll buy it back.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to find the man, sir,’ Asmidir lied smoothly. ‘He came to my castle last year. He was a traveller, I believe, perhaps a pilgrim. But if I see him again I shall direct him to you.’
The Baron swore again, then lashed his fist against the desk-top.
‘All right, that will be all,’ he said at last.
Asmidir bowed and left the study. Descending the spiral staircase he moved down into the belly of the fortress, emerging into the long hall where the feast was in progress. Red-liveried servants were carrying platters of food and drink and more than two score of knights and their ladies were seated at the three main tables. Fires were blazing merrily at both ends of the hall and minstrels sat in the high gallery, their soft music drowned by the chatter of the guests.
Asmidir was not hungry. Swiftly he walked from the hall, and down the long stairs to the lower chambers and the double-doored exit. His thoughts were sombre as he recalled the Baron’s words. Asmidir remembered the conquest of Ligia, the battles and the massacres, the rapes and the mutilations, the torture and the destruction. A rich, independent nation brought to its knees, humiliated and beggared, its
libraries burned, its holy places desecrated. Oh yes, Ranulph, history will long remember your bloody name! Asmidir shivered.
Revenge, so the proverb claimed, is a dish best served cold. Is that true, he wondered? Will there be any satisfaction in bringing the man down?
Wrapping his cloak more tightly about his broad shoulders, Asmidir left the fortress building and moved across the courtyard. A young man hailed him and he turned and smiled at the newcomer – a tall young man, slender and brown-eyed, his long blond hair drawn back from his brow and tied in a tight pony-tail. He was carrying an armful of rolled maps. ‘Good afternoon, Leofric. You are missing the feast.’
‘Yes, I know,” said the other dolefully. ‘But the Baron wants to study these maps. It doesn’t pay to keep him waiting.’
‘They look old.’
‘They are. They were commissioned some two hundred years ago by the Highland King, Gandarin the First. Fine work, most of them. Beautifully crafted. The map-makers also had some method of judging the height of mountains. Did you know that High Druin is nine thousand seven hundred and eighty-two feet high? Do you think it could be true, or did someone just invent the figure?’
Asmidir shrugged. ‘It sounds too precise to be an invention. Still, I am glad you are enjoying your work.”
‘I enjoy the detail,’ said Leofric, chuckling. ‘Not many do. It pleases me to know how many lances we have, and the state of our horses. I like working on projects like this. Did you know there are four hundred and twelve wagons employed around the Five Towns?’ The young man laughed. ‘Yes, I know, it is a little boring for most people. But you try to go on a campaign without wagons and the war is over before it begins.’
Asmidir chatted with the young man for several minutes, then bade him farewell and walked swiftly to the stable. The hostler bowed as he entered, then saddled the chestnut gelding. Asmidir gave the man a small silver coin.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, pocketing the coin with a swiftness that dazzled the eye.
Asmidir rode from the stable, through the portcullis gate and out into the wide streets of the town. He felt the eyes of the people upon him as he passed through the marketplace, and heard some children calling out names. A troop of soldiers marched past him and he pulled up his horse. The men were mercenaries; they looked weary, as if they had marched many miles. Leofric planning the logistics of war, more mercenaries arriving every day .. . The beast is not far off, thought Asmidir.