Geoffrey pushed his horse on, across the crowded courtyard, among the many men who worked there, blacksmiths, farriers, fletchers—even the cooks, chopping away busily at the carcase of an ox in readiness for the evening meal. Most things were done in the courtyard; here the men-at-arms practised sword strokes with each other, using heavy staves instead of weapons; here fresh young horses were put through their paces; and here, after a week’s hunting, sleeping out under hedges and in ditches, Geoffrey and his father, and any other gentlemen who might be staying at Beauregard, bathed.
On such occasions, the courtyard was cleared, and a great barrel was rolled out into the yard, in the lee of the wall so as to be clear of draughts. Then the serving men and women would run out with skillets and buckets of hot water, until the cask was filled chest-high. So, amid much laughter and splashing and general horse-play, the begrimed huntsmen would scrub themselves and each other, using coarse sand or pumice to remove most of the dirt.
It was while they were so engaged that the young priest, Gerard, who lived at Beauregard, had drawn them all, to put them, suitably tinted in browns and pinks and blues, in a Book of Hours which he was making, in the off moments when he was not struggling to teach Alys and Geoffrey how to write and to read Latin, or when he was not assisting the parish priest at the little church of St. Paul, which lay just outside the castle bounds, beyond the moat.
But these things were not on Geoffrey’s mind as he handed over his horse to a stableboy, who ran to take his reins. He was now wondering who the black-haired stranger was and what he could tell his father about the lost hawk.
The second of his problems was soon solved. The head-falconer, old Gil, who boasted of having served the King of England himself as an austringer in his early days, shuffled up to him, half-relieved, half-angry, tugging at his rusty forelock almost in defiance.
‘Fine how-do-ye-do this is, my lordling, I must say!’ he said. ‘Here’s you just arrived—and the tiercel here, screaming to be hooded, a quarter of an hour before you! What sort of falconry is that, may I ask, master?’
Geoffrey gazed at him in astonishment. ‘What!’ he said. ‘Has my hawk come back to the mews alone?’
The falconer nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘and screeched like a demon at the lad who tried to lure her. She’s safe enough now, my lord, but there’s something strange going on. Someone has upset her, I’ll be bound!’
Geoffrey nodded, glad not to have lost his hawk, glad not to have his father to settle with. He patted the old man’s shoulder and smiled. ‘I’ll give a silver piece to the lad who lured her down,’ he said, and hurried away towards the steps that led up to the Solar, where his father would be.
Robert de Villacours, his grey hair cropped short to avoid tangles during the hunting season, dressed in his long black velvet gown that was threadbare at the elbows and ragged at the hem, where he trod on it going up the many stairs of Beauregard, was standing with his arms round the black-haired stranger. Geoffrey almost ran up the stone steps, bewildered and still furious with the man who had so damaged his pride before his sister.
Robert de Villacours turned and smiled at his son. ‘Kneel, boy,’ he said gently, ‘before Bertrand de Gisors, a Knight of the Temple, who is back from the Holy War after half a lifetime of fighting against the Infidel.’
Geoffrey gazed in awe at that smiling, straight face, at the white teeth and the twinkling gold ear-rings. He had heard, times without number, of Bertrand de Gisors—his father’s oldest friend, and one of the greatest swordsmen France had ever borne.
He knelt before the squat, black-haired man, his own head bowed in obedience to his father’s command. After all, he thought, it was no dishonour to be bested by such a warrior . . . but who would have thought that a man like this would ride the countryside like some outworn kempery-man, on a horse fit only for the knacker’s yard!
Then he heard Bertrand de Gisors speak, and his voice was low but strong. ‘You have a fine son here, Robert,’ he said. ‘A rare young gamecock. If God had given me such a boy, I’d count myself the luckiest man in France.’
Then Bertrand touched him on the shoulder, meaning him to rise. Geoffrey did so, half-frowning, half-smiling. Bertrand de Gisors took his two hands in his own, and in a voice hardly more than a whisper said, ‘There is an ancient Arabic proverb which says, “Only the fool weeps over yesterday.” Let us be friends, Geoffrey. I am your servant.’
Geoffrey half bowed before this man, then turned to see Alys smiling at him, her eyes lit with mischief. ‘I am your servant, Sir,’ he mumbled.
Then his father clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well said, lad,’ he laughed. ‘Now off with you to the priest. It’s Latin that makes a good warrior, eh, Bertrand?’
But Bertrand did not answer. Geoffrey’s last picture of him was as a squat man, as broad as a giant, almost as short as a boy, whose grin meant neither one thing nor another, but was simply a sign of his great good nature.