Free Hawk Quest by Robert Lyndon

lord.’
    ‘Not as much as I’d like to be. Margaret hasn’t spoken to me since the night I refused her plea for an expedition to Norway. Women wield silence as soldiers use a lance.’
    ‘I sympathise, sir. My sisters made my—’
    ‘Younger than me, of course. No problem there until I picked up this wound at Senlac. We were blade to blade with Harold’s shield wall. One of his house carls – big as a bear – swung at me with his axe. An inch closer and he’d have split me from crown to chops.’ Olbec massaged his groin. ‘A miracle he didn’t relieve me of my manhood.’
    Spare me his intimate wounds, Hero prayed.
    Olbec drummed on the table. ‘I’ll be plain. My wife wants another child. She’s young enough and – well, she fears for the succession.’
    ‘But you have three sons.’
    ‘Walter’s a hostage, Richard’s a milksop, and Drogo has too much red choler for his own good.’ Olbec hesitated. ‘Last Christmas a Scottish witch came begging at the castle gate. In return for a sop she told my lady’s fortune. The ungrateful hag prophesied that only one of Lady Margaret’s menfolk would be alive to celebrate Christ’s next birthday. Superstitious rubbish, of course, but you know what women are like. Or you soon will,’ he added on a glum note. ‘Anyway, the problem is … the problem is …’
    ‘You fail to rise to the occasion,’ Hero prompted.
    A squall crossed Olbec’s face. Then he laughed. ‘You might look like a frightened frog, but you’re not stupid.’
    ‘I recommend rest and sweet wine. I’ve heard that mead’s a good aphrodisiac.’
    ‘Drink it by the bucketful. Tastes like sweetened horse piss and has about the same effect.’
    ‘Perhaps if you drank less.’
    ‘Arabs,’ Olbec said, taking a veer. ‘You have them in Sicily. I’ve heard they’re a virile race.’
    ‘As are you Normans.’
    ‘Except the Arabs use potions.’
    ‘Their pharmaceutical skills are more advanced than ours,’ Hero admitted. ‘They have many potions. There’s one efficacious compound that they apply to their feet.’
    ‘Feet? Who’s talking about feet? It’s not my feet that let me down.’
    ‘No, sir. You refer to your membranus lignae . Your staff of manhood.’
    ‘If you mean my prick, we’re speaking a common language.’
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘Right. Here’s the deal. Prepare a potion that will make me delight my lady and I’ll give you enough parchment to write the gospels.’
    ‘But I don’t have the necessary ingredients.’
    ‘I’ve told the quartermaster to give you everything you need.’
    Hero could imagine what manner of things lay mouldering in the castle’s apothecary. Newts, nail parings, withered sheep’s foetuses …
    ‘Well, what do you say?’
    Hero nodded dumbly.
    ‘Good,’ Olbec said, pushing himself up.
    When Hero examined the contents of his pharmacopoeia, he found plenty of medicines to soothe the senses, but nothing to inflame them. He clasped his head and groaned.
    The quartermaster was a surly tyrant, the remote but undisputed ruler of the kitchen annexe, his presence signalled by snarls and obscenities and the frequent yelps of his unfortunate scullions. He eyed Hero over the counter with outright hostility.
    ‘What’s this about? What’s the boss after?’
    Hero made his first demand modest. ‘Honey.’
    With ill grace, the quartermaster produced a pot and banged it down.
    ‘Also, some pepper and ginger.’
    The quartermaster recoiled like a mother accosted by a baby-snatcher. ‘You’re not having my pepper. Do you know how much it costs?’
    ‘Without pepper, I can’t formulate the physic to treat your lord’s condition.’
    The quartermaster crossed his arms. ‘What condition?’
    ‘That’s a private matter between patient and physician.’
    ‘Private be buggered. The whole world knows what’s wrong with the old man.’
    Hero glanced behind him before replying. ‘You mean the pain and stiffness in his thighs?’
    ‘Ha! It’s