Free The Winter Mantle by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

for drink. Oh yes, he knew his worth in the eyes of other men. But tonight, in the murky light of dark plans and sour wine, the laughter had deserted him and he felt dangerously close to tears.
    'I've brought you another gift,' Waltheof said, his breath steaming in the dank November air.
    Simon watched Waltheof produce a walking stick from beneath the bearskin cloak. It was made of ash wood - a cut-down spear haft by the look of the thickness and length, fantastically carved with a sinuous design of hunting dogs pursuing a stag towards the smoothed and polished top. He and Simon were seated on a bench in the courtyard of the palace at Fècamp where King William was making final preparations to sail for England.
    Waltheof was studying him from beneath his lids with an expectant expression.
    Simon hated the stick, but he managed to smile. 'It is very fine, my lord, thank you.' Very fine if you were an old woman, but not a boy of ten years old desiring to run across the sward with the fleetness of a wild deer.
    Waltheof nodded and looked pleased. 'I thought it would help you now you are able to bear weight on the leg.'
    Simon nodded. 'Indeed it will,' he said tonelessly. To prove it he took the stick, levered himself to his feet and walked several steps across the courtyard. Fog was rolling off the sea and smothering the town. Heavy, damp, clinging. Waltheof's coppery hair was hoar-grey and a cobwebby mist dewed his cloak.
    There was biting pain every time Simon set weight on the leg. The break had healed reasonably well, considering the seriousness of the original injury, but the limb was still twisted out of true. His walk was no longer an unthinking bounce but a slow, lopsided progression. The situation was not helped by his weakness. Lying abed for weeks on end had caused his muscles to waste and he had no strength to support the damaged limb.
    He had seen the beggars at the abbey gates with all manner of wounds and deformities, had watched men pity them and toss a coin, or walk past in the arrogance of their own power and manhood. He had observed them beg crusts and other leavings from the monks who came to dole out food at vespers. Now, but for the grace of his noble birth and his father's position at court, he would be one of their number.
    Waltheof studied his progress with folded arms and a slight frown. 'You should do this every day,' he said. 'And go further each time. Only then will you build up your strength.'
    'It hurts,' Simon answered, knowing that he sounded churlish but unable to prevent the all too familiar black misery from flooding over him.
    'I know.'
    'But you don't feel it,' Simon snapped. His fist tightened around the carved stick. Suppressing the urge to cast it across the bailey he continued to limp towards the open ground where the squires did their training. It was empty this morning, the straw archery sheaves standing like ghosts beyond the quintain post that reared out of the mist like a gibbet.
    'Perhaps not, but I see it,' Waltheof said and walked beside him, shortening his own long stride to blend with Simon's. 'If you do not fight, lad, it will destroy you.'
    Simon said nothing, but his lips compressed petulantly.
    'I have never thought you short of courage,' Waltheof murmured, 'But it will be to no avail if your self-pity is the stronger.'
    Simon had been about to stop but Waltheof's words goaded him across the practice ground until he stood at its centre. The pain stabbed through his damaged leg in excruciating waves and he clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw began to ache too.
    'Much better.' Waltheof clapped an approving hand on Simon's shoulder. Simon staggered, as the accolade almost felled him. The man did not move to steady him, but left him to find his own balance.
    'Come the spring you'll be walking three times as fast, riding a horse, and back in full weapons training - I mean what I say. I am not feeding sops to an invalid - or at least I hope I am not.'
    Simon jutted his jaw.