IX

I woke early and went downstairs before all but the bakers and scullions were stirring. A stomach-rumbling smell of fresh bread hung over the hall, and I begged a crust from a charitable cook. I carried it outside and savoured it as I made my first proper exploration of my new surroundings. Once down the steps outside hall, I crossed the drawbridge. Of weathered grey wood, solid as the tree it came from, it registered my passing with the faintest of shivers. The great contrivance that lowered and raised it was housed just behind me in a stone extension to the castle wall. Underneath, the moat was deep and dark, weedy in too many places, though a family of ducks busied about, pecking at the weed, and diving for fish. Beyond the bridge lay a vast green bailey. Nearer to the castle walls were a number of big timber extensions, where the knights slept and stores were held, along with all the other services that a small town might require for its daily needs and survival under threat (for what is a castle but a small town encased in stone). I passed beyond these and on towards the marshalsea where the horses were kept. I thought I might perhaps see my Blackberry and say hello to her.

I found an early groom and he led me to her. She had a little stable to herself and was contentedly munching at some hay. She whickered when she saw me and came up and pushed me with her nose. It was good to have her company in this strange place, and I think she felt the same. I gave her a little bread, which I probably should not have done, and wished I had an apple. We spoke together for a while, and then I let her go back to her munching, thanked the groom, and continued on my tour. The sun was now fully risen above the horizon; the air was fresh but not cold, with a light breeze from the south; the sky was blue, with a few small ineffectual clouds. It was going to be a fine spring day.

There were gardens to the south and west of the castle – a walled garden for produce, a flower garden that was hardly in bloom yet, though some primroses and cowslips were evident, a little orchard of apple trees in blossom and cherry trees full of frothy white snow, and a herb garden which already proclaimed itself with the sweet pungency of thyme, rosemary and lavender. This part of the garden was a little higher than the rest, so I could see out over the wall to the countryside beyond. To the left was the town which looked its best, almost snug, in the clean morning light, and to which the road led having crossed a wide meadow traversed by the river. In front of me was a wide lake, sparkling in the sun, which on its further bank seemed to show a boat-house, with a forest beyond it stretching as far as the eye could see. Behind me, there were low wooded hills, and to my right was the castle.

I was well pleased with what I had seen of my new home. There were many worse places to live in, I concluded – and of course there was the presence of Juliana to look forward to. Oh yes, that would convert a shambles into a paradise!

At that point, my stomach began to suggest that one small loaf was not enough to sustain a man on his first full day in a strange place, so I turned my steps back to hall. My mood of exhilaration and optimism was not exactly confirmed when I found stale bread (where was the fresh?), small beer and fatty bacon on the table, and ill-nature surrounding it. Indeed, it helped me to form a more complete opinion of the castle of Breteuil.

Though blessed by nature and by its builders, there was an air of discord and neglect about the place. Neglect in the look of the hall, in the unchanged rushes on the floor, the dogs pissing where they liked, and discord in the surly or lazy servants, the bad manners among the pages and the squires, the indifference and lack of proper pride among the knights. My fellow trenchermen were raucous oafs who seemed to find a Latiner in their midst amusing. They kept challenging me to jousting duels and wrestling matches. Finally, it irritated me so much that I agreed to go outside and wrestle after breakfast.

Quite a crowd gathered. My opponent was a large, red-faced fellow called Fulk with spots and a low forehead and evil in his mind. He seemed to me one of those inevitable bullies who by their size and conspicuous nastiness seem to emerge and thrive in closed institutions, like foot-rot in a barracks. He had kept addressing me as darling Bertoldia in a high falsetto voice until I told him that if he did that any more I would cut his testicles off and stuff them in his mouth, and then he really would have something to squeak about.

We formed up outside in the bailey, a generous extent of three or four acres enclosed by the curtain wall of the castle, that also served as a parade ground. Fulk’s cap was thrown into the ring and I picked it up, signifying my taking up of the challenge. Two sticklers were appointed to see fair play, not that they would since they were obviously Fulk’s cronies.

‘Best of three throws,’ said the sticklers. ‘No holds barred.’

We stripped to our drawers, and warily circled each other. The monks in my monastery had been much given to wrestling. The Abbot, known for his strong views, thought it honest, brotherly exercise such as Christ’s disciples might have engaged in but also considered it highly practical in those days of violence and pillage – when the Church’s own properties were no longer sacrosanct – that the monks should have at least some grounding in self-defence. I had learned much from Brother Sebastian, the almoner, but it was Saul again who taught me some of the arabesque or guile tricks that the Arabs had learned from the Indians. I never used them against the other monks on the advice of Saul; I believe he thought it might engender hard feelings or jealousy. He had learned the hard way, as a Jew, when to keep his head down; but he had also learned, like the Jews, when to fight and to fight well.

Norman wrestling, Saul said, was different from that taught elsewhere in northern France, and different for instance from the German style. It was more in keeping with the kind of wrestling common in northern countries. It was said the style stemmed from the Norse invaders of old. We allowed stamping (on the feet) but not kicking, whereas in the West of England, in Devonshire, according to Saul, kicking is encouraged, though not in Cornouaille.

All this was speculative. I did not expect Fulk to employ anything more than strength along with whatever meanness and trickery came into his head. I was wrong. He was quite a good wrestler. A little slow on his feet but with a firm grip and a fighter’s instinct for what the opposition will do next. He actually caught me with a grip under the arms and managed to throw me, holding on firmly while both hips and a shoulder were seen to touch the ground.

‘First throw to Sir Fulk,’ they cried, even though he was a mere squire and not a knight.

Fulk extended a hand to me and I pulled myself up, only for him to release his hand, letting me fall to the floor again. There was a general laughter, though some of it was sympathetic. It is part of the knightly code to be hospitable to newcomers and at least some of the spectators were aware of it.

I rose and continued the bout much more warily. The man I was wrestling was at least as good as Brother Martin, and he had been champion of the abbey. Brother Martin had beaten me in the end – though, as I say, I had never used guile on him.

I circled the loathsome Fulk, containing my rage at the mannerless lout, tempting him to come for me, and in the end he did. He was overweening and arrogant – a bad thing to be in the wrestling ring.

‘Come here,’ he called in falsetto. ‘Come hither, Bertoldia my princess. Don’t be shy.’

There were gales of laughter from his supporters. I pretended to be nervous, dodging and weaving, and then he came for me. He half caught me by the arm, but not enough, so that I was able to twist round and stamp hard on his foot. He doubled up with pain, and I caught him by the shoulder and rammed him with a thump down to the ground so that both shoulders and a hip were solidly on the earth for all to see.

‘A throw!’ the fairer portion of the crowd called out, but the sticklers shook their heads.

‘A throw!’ the shout was louder and angrier.

The sticklers looked nervous.

‘A THROW!’

‘All right. A throw,’ they said. ‘Just.’

I extended my hand to Fulk where he lay winded, but he shook his head, fearing a trick.

‘You should not impute to others your own lack of good manners,’ I told him, amid much laughter. Now the laughter was on my side. ‘You’ll never make a knight at this rate. I’ll give you some lessons later if you like.’

He was now in a rage, dangerous if he caught me because he would want to do me real mischief, and I circled him warily again. He too was trying to be cautious and we moved round each other, but he was too cross and mortified, and he could not restrain himself for long. He made his move – a good one – catching me by the knee and doing his best to tip me over, but I chopped him on the funny bone and he gave a grunt of pain, though he succeeded in ramming a foot down agonisingly on my toes, which brought tears to my eyes. We circled again, and I feigned inattention, half turning away – indeed I became aware of something happening at the gate-house – and he lunged forward, catching me under the arms with his hands locked behind my neck. This is a position you never want to find yourself in when you wrestle. Time for a little guile, I thought. He expected me to struggle, but I did not. Instead I fell backward, suddenly and violently, twisting slightly to the right so that my shoulder and hip, the hard parts of me, fell onto him, knocking the breath out and making him easy prey to my hands, freed now to pin him down and achieve my winning throw of two hips and a shoulder.

The crowd, for some reason, seemed strangely silent. It was nothing to do with the match: more some exterior event of which I was ignorant. And then a voice I recognised addressed me, speaking from a height as I crouched there looking upwards, dazzled by the sun.

‘Ah, Master Bertold, I am glad to see you taking exercise. I hope you have made yourself comfortable while I have been away. I was sorry not to have been here to receive you.’

It was the Comtesse Juliana who had arrived in my moment of triumph. I dusted myself down and bowed in my semi-naked state. It seemed to be the courtly thing to do. She told me to wait upon her in the hall when I had made myself presentable.