London - Edward Rutherfurd [139]
He had owned the sword for a long time, since he had lived in the forest with Hereward the Wake’s men. But that had been more than fifteen years ago. “And those people are all dead now,” he said.
The guard at Colchester had sent the fellow to London, giving Ralph the chance to question him. The fellow did not tell him much. Except for one thing. The arms, he admitted, had come from London, where there was a man whom the rebels trusted. About this man he swore he knew nothing, until, just before he died, he remembered one detail: “He had a red beard.”
It was not much. God knew, there were plenty of men with red beards in the old Anglo-Danish city. Plenty of Normans had red beards, come to that. But gradually, as Ralph considered all the facts he knew, a pattern began to form in his mind.
A hater of Normans; a member of the old Defence Guild; a friend of Alfred the armourer. Then there were other things he knew. The pieces fell into place until he cried with rage, “I’ve been duped,” and then, with a smile of cruel satisfaction: “But now I can catch them all.”
And so he had set his trap.
“Tomorrow morning he’s going to come at dawn. He’s going to raid this house, your store at Billingsgate, and Alfred’s armoury. If he finds arms, he’s got you. If not, his spies are going to watch you to see if you lead them to anything,” Hilda said anxiously.
As he listened, the old Dane had only nodded. “They’ll find nothing,” he assured her. “As for our being watched . . .” He shrugged. “There will just have to be a slight change of plan.”
And then he told her about Osric and the secret of the Tower.
As she listened, and realized the danger that the old man and his friends were in, she felt nervous, and then moved. “Why are you doing it?” she asked.
It was simple, he explained. If Robert became king, he would have huge territories to control. “And he’s not the man his father was.” Norman rule would weaken. “And then . . .” The heirs of the old English line were still alive. So were King Harold’s family. For some time he showed her all the things that might happen until at last, with a smile, she shook her head.
“You just don’t give up, do you?”
He grinned, almost boyishly. “I’m too old to give up. If an old man gives up, he dies.”
“Do you feel so old?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Sometimes.” He smiled. “Not with you.” And she blushed, knowing this was true.
There was a low fire in the brazier in the centre of the room. He stoked it a little and then sat down beside it in a big oak chair, motioning her to a bench, and for several minutes they sat there, quite contentedly, in silence. She noticed that in repose his face, though it did not look younger, had a vigour about it, like that of a splendid old lion that has not lost his force. Meditatively, he drank his wine.
What a strange evening it was, she thought. She had done all she could. She should probably go. Yet she felt no inclination to depart. Her father always fell asleep by sunset. God knew where her husband was. After a short while, without a word, she pulled the bench close, leaned across, and laid her head on his chest.
He did not move. Then, after a few moments, she felt his great, gnarled hand begin to stroke her hair. It was surprising how gentle and how comforting it felt. She started to play with his beard, and felt him chuckle.
“I expect many women have done that in your life,” she said softly.
“A few,” he replied.
“What a pity – ” she began, and then stopped.
“What?”
She had been about to say, “What a pity I never married your son.” Instead she replied, “Nothing,” and he did not press her.
As the minutes passed, she found herself considering her life. Henri’s cold image arose. Putting it out of her mind, she thought: I’d rather have married this older man, even as he is now, with his magnificent courage, and his big, warm heart. And suddenly, wanting to express her affection and to do something for him, she moved round and, smiling softly into his eyes,