Adam grinned wolfishly. “So that I can get as many men as possible down from the walls again and massed just out of sight of the drawbridge before he can see what we are about. I will also fill the two towers with men. If we can keep him in the bailey, we will have a chance to rush him.”
“Good.” Sir Richard’s eyes glittered. “If he yields he will go out scatheless. Let me but come hand to hand with him…”
“Do you think you can drive him into such a frenzy that he will agree to single combat?” Adam asked hopefully.
Sir Richard laughed bitterly. “I do not need to drive him into a frenzy for that. He will suggest it himself, but—”
“Accept for me,” Adam interrupted with enthusiasm.
“No!” Sir Richard exclaimed.
Adam looked disappointed. “Do you claim prior right?”
“I have prior right, I suppose, but no man in his right mind would accept a challenge from Sir Matthew under these circumstances. His treachery—”
Adam laughed, cutting off Sir Richard’s explanation. “Once known as treacherous, a viper’s teeth are drawn. Man, this is the best chance of all. Accept for me, and you, who know his ways and what he is, can take measures that he cannot work his will.”
“My lord, do not be a fool,” Sir Richard pleaded. “This man is not stupid. He knows I am here. Anything I suggest he will quickly devise some evil to counter.”
Adam’s eyes were straining down toward the forces below in the bailey where shadowy movement was now visible. “There is no time to argue,” he rumbled. “Quick, challenge him before he becomes more suspicious. And do not worry about me. I am well able to take care of myself. No, I will have no more words with you. If you will not do as I ask, I will challenge him myself—yes, that will be even better. I will challenge him myself.”
Without waiting for an answer, Adam turned away and hurried around the wall, pausing to speak to Cuthbert. Sir Richard looked after him very briefly, then came forward to the inner edge of the rampart. It was still not light enough to see clearly, but in a very short time it would be impossible to hide the fact that the force on the walls was being thinned drastically. Adam was right. If their device was to be successful, he must divert Sir Matthew at once. He shouted down, demanding that someone go and drag out Sir Matthew, who was doubtless shivering in the safest place in the keep, so that he could dictate terms to him.
This was a deliberate slander. Sir Matthew was no coward and was well to the fore among his men, directing the plans for defending the keep and, if possible, expelling the invaders. Although the walls had been taken, Sir Matthew’s position was far from hopeless. He had had time to estimate the number of men Adam had with him. He knew that the majority of those men should now be on the walls. If most of Adam’s men were on the walls, the only way down was through the towers with their narrow stairs and entrances. Adam’s men could come out only a few at a time and would need to face Sir Matthew’s entire force in the bailey. What was more, if Adam’s attack seemed to be succeeding, they could still retreat into the keep and try to hold out until help came.
It was not surprising, therefore, that Sir Matthew answered Sir Richard’s insulting demand that he come forth with even cruder insults. Both the language and the imprecations the men addressed to each other became fouler and fouler. Adam twice paused on his round of the walls to listen, treasuring up the filthy and downright impossible things each man was saying about the ancestry, upbringing, family, habits, skill, and character of the other. Adam had thought he was well educated in invective, but now he realized he had been consorting too much with mealy-mouthed gentlemen like his stepfather. The only comparably original things he knew how to say were in English—a very coarse tongue.
Nonetheless, Adam had not forgotten the purpose of all this obscenity. He was pleased with the way Sir Richard had drawn out the shouting match to give him time to instruct the other leaders and the masters-at-arms. It was clear, however, that the insults were reaching a peak. Adam gave a last, low-voiced command, and began to run to the tower opposite where Sir Richard stood. He heard Sir Matthew, seemingly completely out of control with rage, shrieking a challenge at Sir Richard and asking what guarantees he wanted for his safety. He heard Sir Richard roar with laughter filled with contempt, and bellow back that Sir Matthew’s shit had more value than his promises, since the shit might grow vegetables—if it did not poison them—whereas the promises had no use at all.
At this point Adam reached his goal. “I am Adam Lemagne,” he called, “overlord to your liege lady, Gilliane of Tarring. Sir Richard says you are a treacherous cur, and I have good reason to believe him a wise man. Nonetheless, to spare further bloodshed, I will take up your challenge. If you win, I will withdraw; if you yield to me, we will take your keep. What guarantee will you offer me that you will meet me honestly, body to body?”
Sir Richard stared open-mouthed, too surprised to protest. Adam was speaking in what, for him, was falsetto—a boy’s shrill tenor. The sound was near-sexless and gave no conception of the deep chest and huge body that Adam’s normal bass rumble evoked. In fact, the voice brought an instant image of an eager, light-boned boy. Sir Richard gritted his teeth over laughter. Adam was skirting a dishonorable pretense. To conceal his physical capacity in such a way—since he could not be seen—was almost the same as concealing a weapon. Still, there was really nothing to laugh about. Pretense or no pretense, Adam was as a lamb to the slaughter. His fighting ability would avail him little against Sir Matthew’s treachery.
In a last effort, Sir Richard cried out, cutting across Sir Matthew’s promise that his men would withdraw around the side of the keep where they could not rush out suddenly. He warned Adam not to trust Sir Matthew’s word.
“I do not need to trust it,” Adam’s falsetto snapped back pettishly. “When I come down into the bailey, I will be able to see whether the men are there or not.”
“My lord,” Sir Richard protested, “there are—”
“Oh, very well,” Adam interrupted hastily, preventing Sir Richard from saying aloud that there were many places men could hide in the bailey, “let me bring ten men to guard against surprise and do you do the same, Sir Matthew. And do you, Sir Richard, hold your tongue.”
Adam knew perfectly well that men would be concealing themselves in sheds and other hiding places around the bailey. He suspected that Sir Matthew had been using his argument with Sir Richard in a similar way to his use of it. Most likely Sir Matthew had been sending groups of men into places from which they could ambush any enemy who entered the bailey. Adam did not care about that. The bulk of the men would have to retreat as Sir Matthew promised. Those in concealment would be watching their master for his signal to attack. Meanwhile, Adam’s own men could quietly get into position. Presumably, with man-to-man combat going on right before them, Sir Matthew’s troops would not notice immediately, even as the light grew stronger, that the walls were nearly empty.
Just as Sir Richard opened his mouth to protest again—in spite of Adam’s admonition—Sir Edmund seized his arm and began to talk. Sir Richard listened, glancing distractedly over at the other tower. He could not see well enough to be sure that Adam had already gone down, but he suspected it. He kept shaking his head at what Sir Edmund was telling him, remembering with a sinking heart that Adam was only eighteen years old.
“My God, my God,” he whispered at last with tears in his eyes, “we will never be in time.”
It was too late for vain regrets. Sir Richard pushed his way down the steps of the tower past the close-packed men who waited for the next order to attack. They were in good spirits. The excellent way the surprise had worked and the ease of taking the walls had lifted their morale. As softly as he could, Sir Richard unlatched the heavy door and opened it a bare crack. Shadows moved in the shadows, but he did not think Adam had stepped out of the other tower yet. This was confirmed a moment later by Sir Matthew calling mockingly to know whether Adam had lost his courage and changed his
mind. Sir Richard set his jaw. This time Sir Matthew would not win. If Adam fell, Sir Richard intended to take the keep despite Adam’s promise to withdraw.
The high voice was suddenly speaking from the doorway of the other tower, complaining that there were too many shadows moving in the bailey, and then saying arrogantly that if Sir Matthew did intend treachery the agreement would be abrogated. Sir Richard swallowed, wondering whether Sir Edmund and Sir Andrew had got down the ladders and organized the men near the drawbridge. And what of Sir Philip, who was to lead the men out of the other tower? Would he suddenly take a pet and refuse to do his part?
“Where are you?” Adam cried suddenly. “Light a torch so that I may see you and how many men you have.”
Now he sounded uncertain, as if fear were conquering the boy’s bravado that had driven him to answer Sir Matthew’s challenge.
“So that your archers can shoot from the walls?” Sir Matthew rejoined.
“Do not be silly,” Adam answered. “If a single arrow is loosed, you need only throw down the torches and move away. It will soon be light enough for my archers to shoot, anyway. If you will not light torches, I will consider that you intend treachery. I will consider the arrangement broken.”
So well was Adam playing the part of a vainglorious boy who was regretting a situation he had unwisely created that Sir Richard began to feel uneasy. He knew Adam well by now, but would Sir Philip understand the pretense? At least Adam had managed to convince Sir Matthew and win his point. A torch sprang to life. No arrow flew. Another torch was lighted. Sir Richard ground his teeth. Adam had made a bad mistake. The torches showed five men to each side of a single man, Sir Matthew, but their light, contrasting with the darkness around, effectively increased Sir Matthew’s advantage by making the men he had hidden more invisible.
Before Sir Richard could cry a warning, ten men had come out of the door of the other tower. They came forward slowly, shields on their arms and swords drawn but lowered.
“Well,” Sir Matthew drawled, “where is this great hero who was so quick to offer to meet me?”
“Tell your men to draw aside as mine do,” Adam cried. “I need room to fight.”
Sir Matthew began to laugh. “You need to come out first!” Perhaps he would not need to signal the men in hiding. It seemed as if this little crowing cockrel had trapped himself. Contemptuously, he told his men to withdraw a suitable distance. Adam’s men-at-arms kept pace with them.
“Make ready,” Adam threatened, his voice shaking uncontrollably with laughter. “I come.”
Sir Matthew barely raised his sword, and Adam did come—a bull’s mad rush out of the shadows by the tower door, across the bailey, between the two groups of men. His sword was swinging as he came, bellowing now in his true voice, “Lemagne! Lemagne!”
It almost worked. The force of Adam’s first blow slammed Sir Matthew’s shield, hastily raised at a bad angle, into his head. The next stroke knocked Sir Matthew’s sword out of his hand, taking some fingers with it. Had Adam had time for one more swing, he might have beheaded his opponent then and there and ended the battle. Unfortunately for Adam, Sir Matthew’s men were loyal. They did not waste time waiting for a signal that would never come. In fact, only surprise had kept them from attacking earlier.
The ten in the open leapt toward their staggering master and the giant pursuing him. Out of the shadows at least fifty more charged. Adam’s guards had converged on him as soon as Sir Matthew’s men moved, but, as Sir Richard burst from the tower with his contingent, he could not help crying out in horror. Adam and his ten men had disappeared as suddenly as if they had all been struck down with a single blow.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Adam’s letters had arrived with remarkable regularity from the time, he left until the day after Gilliane sent him Ian’s suggestion that he hurry along the taking of Wick. There should have been a letter the following day. When it did not arrive, Alinor soothed Gilliane’s growing nervousness by laughing at her. What did she want, Alinor asked, perfection on earth? It was near a miracle that nothing had happened to delay the regular arrival of letters up to this time. Horses did go lame. Messengers’ minds did wander so that accidents occurred. Perhaps the letter would come a day late. Perhaps the accident the messenger had encountered was serious or fatal. In that case, the letter would not arrive at all.
This was so reasonable that Gilliane had to accept it, although her rebellious heart fluttered periodically with fear. Had she been idle, Gilliane would soon have been hysterical, no matter what reasoning Alinor used, but Alinor was too wise to permit that. She would have invented work for the girl had that been necessary but, fortuitously, it was not. Ian and Geoffrey were already on their way to Roselynde and the Earl of Pembroke had written to say he was on his way, too, bringing a number of unnamed but important guests. Gilliane thought she had been well occupied before, but now she scarcely had time to breathe as a great keep geared up for high-level visitors and entertainment.
Nonetheless, as the days passed and no letter arrived from Adam, Gilliane’s eyes grew huge and haunted. Joanna pointed out gently that if Adam were in the final stages of preparations for taking the keep, or even if he were engaged in negotiations over its yielding, he might not have time to write. He was not like Ian or Geoffrey, who could dash off a few lines without effort or thought. For Adam, writing was a real task that required time and quiet.
The words might have produced a more calming effect if Gilliane had not seen the anxiety in Joanna’s own eyes. That was another lesson. Joanna was almost as fearful as she, but it did not stop her from performing every duty. Gilliane forced herself to follow that example. Although she started and looked anxiously at every manservant who moved toward her with hurried steps, she did everything necessary quickly and efficiently. It was both harder and easier because the fear she felt was very different from that with which she had been familiar all her life. For the first time, it was purely fear for someone else. Previously, even Gilliane’s fear for Adam had been mixed with fear for herself because, with his death, her security would be lost and she would again have been prey for any man. Now Gilliane knew she herself was safe, safe forever. Lady Alinor had accepted her, and the people of Roselynde cared for their own.
It was strange, under the circumstances, Gilliane thought as she sewed doggedly at a rich green gown that would bring out the bright lights in Adam’s eyes, that this fear should hurt so much more. It was a constant leaden weight she dragged around wherever she went, a constant ache in her throat and chest, a constant sick hollowness in her belly. Equally strange was her ability to endure, to smile at the servants who had done their work well, to discuss with apparent interest the subtlety to be prepared for each course of the dinner, to examine the cattle and pigs in the pens and decide which should be first slaughtered and which fattened for a few days longer. Strangest of all was the genuine joy Gilliane felt for Joanna and Alinor, whose men were safe and on their way home. Gilliane would have thought that this knowledge would only increase her own bitterness, but it was not so. She wondered whether she would feel the same when Ian and Geoffrey actually arrived.
That question was answered the following night, long after dark. The guards on the walls had just about called a warning that many men were approaching the keep when Ian himself reached the moat and demanded admittance. The castle sprang to life. The hall blazed with torches; servants threw on their outer clothing—if they had not been sleeping in it for warmth; Alinor and Joanna ran in bed robes with free-flowing hair to greet the sum and substance of their lives. Gilliane found to her relief that she was touched by longing, not racked by envy. Her single doubt was about what to do. She did not wish to intrude on the fierce embraces and passionate questions of greeting, but she did not wish to appear sullen or uncaring, either.
The second question was resolved as pleasantly as the first. A few minutes were spent in clutching their men, in assuring themselves that they were well and unhurt. Then both Alino
r and Joanna asked for Gilliane. A maid was sent running to fetch her if she was awake. The maid had not far to go, for Gilliane was in the stairway, waiting uncertainly. She came forward eagerly when summoned, to be embraced tenderly by Ian and warmly by Geoffrey who, of course, knew everything their wives knew about Gilliane—except that Alinor had not written that she, as well as Geoffrey, suspected Gilliane of murder. That, Alinor thought, was one of those things men would not want or need to know. It might give them the wrong impression of Gilliane’s character.
Minutes later even the dreadful fear about Adam was eased. While Geoffrey was asking some questions about Tarring, Alinor was pouring out the story about Adam to Ian. Geoffrey soon was listening more closely to that than to Gilliane’s reply to his question because he made no comment on that but remarked, “Surely you cannot think it odd that Adam did not write. When did he ever do so?”
“Every two or three days to Gilliane since he left here,” Alinor answered significantly.
“On regular days?” Ian asked quickly.
“No, my lord,” Gilliane replied, “the days might vary.”
“When did you send him Ian’s news?” Geoffrey wanted to know.
“Five—no, it is morning now—six days past,” Gilliane said, watching Ian’s face desperately for a sign.
Ian did not notice. His eyes sought Geoffrey’s, and Geoffrey’s lips moved slightly as if he were counting. Still watching him, Ian said, “There is a day, perhaps two, I cannot account for.”
“It is Adam we want accounted for,” Alinor snapped, “not the days.”
Geoffrey smiled at her and at Gilliane. “It is Adam we are accounting for.” Then he turned back to Ian. “You are thinking of your own ways, Ian, of saying to a vassal you have known for twenty years, Sieve me out this keep. Adam would not do that. He will examine the place and people for himself. He does not know Gilliane’s men too well and also…well, it is hard even for me to trust the judgment of my men, compared with my own.”
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 37
