like the others, Chrétien also brought back only weariness.
They leaned against grey blocks of limestone and surveyed what was before them, all blushed red by the brilliant sunset. Beyond the curtain wall and dry moat spread the village that had grown up around Fyren's castle, hugging the slope of the craggy hill, and stretching out to touch the green dale below.
"I see why Rufus wanted this fortress," said Chrétien.
"Aye. It commands the passage to England, a fine buffer against the Scots and Strathclydes."
"And access to Northumbria. The folk say many of their fathers fled here from the Conqueror's raids."
"That land is still so bleak and scarred."
" Perhaps it will never recover, Chrétien."
"The Normans may never be forgiven for that."
"Perhaps not. But I will hold my demesne anyway."
Below, an eerily silent procession wound down the hill from the castle, following an ancient wooden cart drawn by oxen and bearing a coffin. No wails. No death knell. Even Alain’s own priest, Father Hardouin, had refused to give last rites. Alain could not recall any other burial not blessed by the Church.
Alain remembered how the coffin had rested all day in the center of the hall, nailed shut with more iron nails than he had ever seen put to a casket. Those few who entered the hall had eyed it warily, but none had approached it, nor shed a tear.
Yet, if none had a care for the lord, why did they now follow his coffin to the grave?
With a quick gesture for Chrétien to follow, he rushed down through the bailey and out beyond the gate.
"Why?" asked Chrétien, hurrying along at his side.
"Would not a daughter come to see her father buried?"
"But they say she hated him."
"Perhaps all the more reason to see it done."
Soon they caught up with the procession, remaining at the rear of the small group. A knight without his armor, the Norseman Thorkel, watched them with narrowed eyes.
The procession traveled along the narrow dirt lane beyond the church and its small yard, past the village green, the smithy, the tannery, and a collection of stone cottages, to the crossroads.
"They fear he will haunt them," Chrétien commented.
"Aye. They bury him at the crossroads to confuse his spirit, but it will take far more than that to confuse that old demon. More likely he has already been welcomed into Satan's Hell."
Beyond lay pasture land of the lord's demesne, where the grave was dug. No priest stood beside the grave, nor did any other intone either eulogy or dirge. Alain searched the faces.
In unison with the five other knights, Thomas lowered the casket into the earth. His mouth was drawn tight, jaw set hard and rigid. Several women stood near the grave, Edyt among them, all studying the coffin with grim concentration as it was lowered into the grave. When the ropes were pulled loose, the girl bent forward and scooped up a handful of the loose earth. She held her hand over the grave, then opened it quickly to drop the dirt. She turned and walked away.
Others did the same. Each tossed one handful of earth to the grave, then departed. Man or woman. Vassal or villein. Mayhap it was a custom with these people.
"Well?" asked Chrétien.
"Well, he is buried. I do not know what else can be said."
"But the lady?"
"She could have been here, I suppose, but I saw only common folk among the women."
"She could be dressed as one of them. Yet I think she would not risk coming at all if she fears being caught."
"Mayhap." Alain still stood beside the grave, watching as villeins spaded in the loose dirt. "Mayhap," he repeated. "Do not forget the faces you have seen here tonight. I counted twenty-seven women, most of them of the hall, and some about the right age. But I saw none who looked excessively fearful or secretive. Certainly none shed tears. And none gave the appearance of a lady."
"Then she must be already gone."
"Aye. But if she is still here, we will see her again. Watch the women of the hall and village who were among the crowd