Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four)

by Roberta Gellis

  As that thought and what she had said came together in his mind, Adam choked. “My love,” he said softly, but in a voice shaking with laughter as he gathered Gilliane into his arms, “it is most unkind of you to wish the pox on a sweet child no more than twelve years old and on an old man who loved my father and who loves me and, even though he summons me to war, will do his uttermost to protect me. You may have the others—for all of me, both Louis and Sir Godfrey may take the pox and die of it, and have a bloody flux and suppurating sores, too.”

  “Very well,” she said, smiling amidst her tears, “I will withdraw my wish that a pox take those you love, but I cannot love them—not now when it is to serve them that you leave me. I swear I will love them well every moment we are together.”

  Adam hugged her tight and then loosened his grip, but he had felt her trembling and he understood. “Then to engage your love for those who love me, I will keep you longer with me by a few days. I must go north, and I know Louis is at Dover, so the way past London is not dangerous. What would you say to bide with me as far as Hemel? Geoffrey is doubtless summoned to Mountsorel also. It would be good for Joanna, breeding as she is and heavy now, to have you with her. My mother desired that she stay in Roselynde, but she would not. She insisted that Geoffrey’s child be born in Geoffrey’s keep.”

  Half Gilliane’s trouble flew away when she knew she would not be alone. Nothing could completely remove her anxiety, but to know she could share it, and that she might be able to lighten Joanna’s spirit or be of use to her, made it possible to conceal the occasional stabs of terror that continued to torture her. She was very busy in the few days she remained in Tarring. The keep was to be thoroughly cleaned while she was away and was to be shut tight, only the bound serfs and a few men-at-arms remaining. No one was to be permitted to enter for any reason—no supplies to be bought or merchandise to be accepted.

  When this news trickled down to Osbert, he nearly had a fit. His patience had been sufficiently tried when Adam idled at Tarring for so long. He had believed that the attack on Bexhill would begin soon after Adam and Gilliane arrived. Had it not been that Louis was besieging Dover and might take it into his head to order an assault at any time, Osbert might have returned to the prince to report to him. Had he sufficient money or any rich friends there, he would certainly have returned to London. As things were, he had to stay where he was. He was at least safe from battle and had sufficient food and drink. Although he knew this would be an excellent time to assault Tarring, he did not send a messenger to say it was bare of defense. There would be no excuse for him to avoid fighting in this situation—and Adam would be free to take Tarring back again. He had no choice but to wait until Gilliane returned.

  The most industrious pressure on the whores who spied for him produced no answer to the question of when this would happen. The men-at-arms who had been left in the keep knew nothing, except that in case of any threat they were to ride for help to Sir Richard at Glynde. No one would dream of telling servants or men-at-arms the plans of their master unless they had some duty directly connected with those plans. Thus, no one bothered to inform them that Gilliane would return to Tarring on the twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth of May to prepare for the arrival of her men on or about the thirtieth.

  Adam left Gilliane with Joanna—who greeted her with tears of joy and relief—on April twenty-eighth. He hurried north the same day, because Joanna told him that Pembroke was camped at Northampton, only thirty miles away. The quicker they had enough men to storm Mountsorel, Adam thought, the quicker he could get leave to go about his own business.

  Nothing, however, works as planned. Within each party there were traitors, and Pembroke’s intentions were no secret to Louis. Naturally, Pembroke was not ignorant of this fact, but he was relatively sure Louis was set on cracking Dover and that the prince could not be diverted from this purpose by an attack on an outlying castle that was not even held by a Frenchman. Mountsorel was one of Saer de Quincy’s keeps—a dower property of his wife.

  What Pembroke had not counted on was the bitterness of the English rebels. When the news of the siege came to de Quincy, he asked for leave to bring help to his castle. Louis denied this, saying he could not believe it necessary. Lincoln, a keep of the same type, had been besieged for months and still showed no signs of falling. Saer said nothing just then, although it was plain that he was not pleased, but when the news came that an army was assembling to aid the besiegers, de Quincy exploded.

  First Louis tried to calm him by promising him the next equivalent keep they took. That brought FitzWalter to his feet, red with fury, to scorn the promise. Louis, he pointed out, had never given an English baron anything. Even Hertford, to which FitzWalter had a clear and valid claim and for which he had fought, had been handed over to a French land-seeker.

  “We shed our blood on which the vermin who follow you from France fatten and gorge themselves,” de Quincy roared. “What you lose is our loss—who has paid me for what was reft from Winchester?—but what we gain is gain for you and your French maggots alone. Not this time, my lord. If I stand by you longer, my children will be worse starvelings than the creatures you have brought to fatten on our lands. Better for me to yield myself prisoner to the king. He might take my head, yes, but I would at least be able to bargain for my children’s welfare—and be able to trust the bargain would be kept.”

  “When I gave fealty to you,” FitzWalter added, “you swore to be my good overlord and save me from injury. I wonder now whether your love or John’s hate has done me greater hurt.”

  Apparently, this time matters had gone too far to be mended with sweet words. Inwardly, Louis swore to be avenged for this stupidity, which might cost him Dover, but he knew he would have to satisfy de Quincy or lose the English party en masse. He agreed that an army might be mustered to relieve Mountsorel. Having a finger, FitzWalter and de Quincy promptly tried to bite off the hand. They demanded that Louis come himself, that the siege of Dover be lifted and the whole force march north. They argued that Dover could not be taken with half the men anyway, while the whole army could accomplish much in the Midlands.

  This suggestion threw Louis into a rage. He had not forgotten the campaign of the previous autumn. They had taken some keeps, true, but they had lost almost as many in the south, which was far more important to Louis, being richer, more populous, and of easier access to France. He had nearly been trapped in England, in fact. Perhaps that was what the English lords wanted, believing he would be more in their power that way. They could go and take their own men, he allowed, but he would not leave Dover until it was his. His anger did not produce the result he expected. FitzWalter answered roundly that they had helped him win fifty castles (which was an exaggeration, but no one worried about that). If he would not help them protect one—which was his duty as their overlord—let him give them twenty-five of what he had gained and let him see if he could take even one more without their help.

  Neither could really afford to lose the other, in spite of harsh words. Eventually a compromise was reached. Louis convinced them he could not go; he had sworn an oath not to leave Dover. However, he would send his deputy, the Count of Perche, with enough of his troops to make up six hundred knights and twenty thousand footmen.

  By April thirtieth, this army was approaching St. Albans. Terrified villagers, fleeing the undisciplined force, which was permitted to loot and raid as it liked on the road north, warned Joanna. Gilliane watched her color fade and her hands go protectively to her swollen belly. Then she drew herself up and snapped orders to the master-at-arms.

  “Let fifty men, in two bands of twenty-five, all horsed, go to patrol the south and east borders of the lands. They are not to kill all the looters. Drive some, especially the badly wounded and those you will maim by chopping off their hands, back toward the main force. Let it seem as if there are as many men here as when my lord held the lands with Lord Ian. If there are too many, or if it is seen that the main force is coming here to Heme
l, return at once.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  “On your way out, send me the chief huntsman and two messengers.”

  While Joanna explained the situation to the huntsman, Gilliane wrote two notes reporting the movement of a large army northward. The messengers were dispatched with the notes to be delivered either to Adam or to Geoffrey. This was all they knew at the moment, Gilliane wrote. They would send more news as soon as they had more information. Meanwhile, Joanna bid her huntsman hide his men in various places where they could see the keep.

  “If we are attacked,” she said, “you must go seek Lord Geoffrey and Sir Adam, who will be with the Earl of Pembroke’s army. Try first at Northampton, and if you do not find them there, follow their trail until you come to them. Give them the news that we are besieged and that I, and Lady Gilliane with me, will hold the keep at all costs until they can come to us.”

  Offense, warning to Pembroke, and an appeal for help arranged, Joanna turned to defense. Those men who were left in the keep were told their stations. The menservants were gathered and stations appointed for them also. They could throw stones, help push ladders from the walls, wind crossbows, heat and pour pitch, sand, and oil. Barrels of these were raised to the battlements, layers of stones laid ready for fires to be lighted upon. Arms were gathered and distributed, even to the unskilled, and such armor as was available dealt out.

  Amid all the signs of a defense against hopeless odds, even when twice bands of looters escaped Joanna’s patrols and approached the keep so that troops had to be sent out to fight them, Gilliane was not aware of any fear, except her anxiety over Joanna’s condition. With regard to her own safety, she felt no qualms at all. When she had time to think about it two days later, after all danger of being attacked had passed and Hemel was back to normal, Gilliane laughed heartily.

  “I have been afraid all my life,” she explained to Joanna, who wanted to know at what she was laughing, “and now I am never afraid—or, at least, never afraid for myself. I am afraid for Adam, of course. No, do not tell me it is silly, that he is a better fighter than any man you have ever seen. It does not matter.”

  “I was not going to say that,” Joanna replied, smiling. “I know it does not help. Adam tells me I need not fear for Geoffrey, but I do. And I fear for my little one also. But me? I can take care of myself. Why should I fear for myself? Even if Hemel should fall, Geoffrey would come, or Ian or Adam or Mama.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is why I have changed,” Gilliane said slowly. “There was no one who would come, before I knew Adam. But it is more than that. It is something in me. I never thought before that I could take care of myself. Now I think I can.”

  Pembroke had heard of the army advancing on Mountsorel before Gilliane’s notes reached Adam and Geoffrey. To avoid being caught between two fires—the garrison in the keep and the advancing force—he ordered the Earls of Chester and Ferrars to raise the siege and retreat to Nottingham. They would then be north of Mountsorel, whereas Pembroke at Northampton was south of it. If they could catch the rebel force in an untenable position, they would attack. For the moment, however, that army was so spread out that little would be gained by chasing one small group after another. Meanwhile, more summons were sent out and some men delayed on the way were still drifting in to swell Pembroke’s army. It was still a waiting game, but Pembroke was not discouraged. Louis’s men were ripe for mischief. They would not sit still at Mountsorel.

  That decision was being echoed inside Mountsorel. The Count of Perche, never tactful, sighed that after this wild goose chase he supposed there was nothing to do but return to Dover. Then he made some acid and unwise remarks about de Quincy’s anxieties. “In the future,” he suggested, sneering, “it might be just as well to send a horde of servants with painted jerkins to drive the English away. Since they never stay to fight, they would never know the difference. A fine waste of men and money it has been to bring six hundred good knights and twenty thousand seasoned footmen to chase a bunch of timid hares.”

  Although de Quincy and FitzWalter had little love for Pembroke, they smarted under the insults directed at the English. Coupled with Perche’s comments about de Quincy’s anxiety for his property, the remarks seemed as much directed at them as at the men who had retreated from their approach.

  “The victorious French,” de Quincy remarked dryly, “have not made much headway with Dover.”

  Perche frowned, then shrugged. “There are exceptions to every rule, but de Burgh at Dover seems to be the only exception to this one.”

  “That is all you know of it,” FitzWalter taunted. “A simple woman has kept your constable of Arras turning and biting his nails at her gate for months. I heard she even spit in his eye.”

  “That was not the constable of Arras,” Perche snapped, and then, realizing he had betrayed his knowledge of Nicolaa de la Hay’s spirited resistance, he raised his brows. “It is no surprise she can hold out,” he sneered. “All Gilbert de Gant has is a few hundred men. How long do you think she would resist us? Or do you hesitate to assault Lincoln’s walls?”

  “We?” de Quincy threw back in Perche’s own tone. “We have been begging your master to finish off these centers of infection, but he is so desirous of securing a route of escape from the ‘frightened hares’ of Englishmen that he will not move ten miles from the river in London or the seaports of the coast.”

  That remark was not accepted with good grace, but, when the wrangling over insults died down, it was clear that both parties were essentially agreed. Since they had been deprived of a chance to do the king’s party an injury at Mountsorel, they would do them a worse injury by taking Lincoln. At least their long march would not have been wasted.

  Pembroke had the news that Louis’s men were on the march through the vale of Belvoir toward Lincoln on May twelfth, and the old man wept with joy, sinking down on his knees to raise his hands in thankful prayer. “I would thank God, fasting,” he said to those around him, smiling grimly, “but I will need my strength to fight.”

  In attacking Lincoln, the French and rebel force would be placing themselves in exactly the same position the English had retreated from at Mountsorel. In fact, they would be in a worse position because Lincoln was in an area largely controlled by the king’s adherents. Nottingham, Newark, and Sleaford were all loyal keeps and could serve as havens in case of defeat or provide reinforcements if a few hundred more men could turn the tide toward victory.

  Everyone was cheered by the news. Many wished to pursue the force up the valley of the Belvoir, but wiser heads prevailed. The French foot soldiers were the refuse and scum of the country, swept out of the prisons and alleys and forced into Louis’s army as much to rid France of them as to help in the taking of England. To discipline them was near impossible, even if their leaders had desired to do so. Also, because the region was king’s country, they were actively encouraged to loot. It was, in fact, necessary to the lives of these men, who, poor wretches, were often sent to England without enough clothing to cover their bodies—although some kind of arms was given to them. The situation was much the same as when the army had advanced on Mountsorel. Once they had arrived at Lincoln, however, they would be gathered together. Furthermore, when the baggage animals were unloaded, it was less likely that the French could retreat with their goods so that the possibility of loot for Pembroke’s men would be greatly increased.

  Pembroke, therefore, took his men wide after gathering in Newark and continued north so that they could come at Lincoln from the northwest. On the night of May nineteenth, Pembroke, attended by his son William and Faulk de Breauté, rode to the Earl of Salisbury’s quarters to thank him for coming in such haste halfway across England. There he found Ian, Geoffrey, Adam, and Peter des Roches regaling themselves on roast venison—William of Salisbury, being an old campaigner, had thoughtfully carried with him a stag’s carcass and several small barrels of wine. Pembroke nodded in satisfaction as he accepted one of several pieces of meat held out to h
im on eating knives. He had rather hoped to find this group together. If they agreed to his plans, he would have a formidable bloc of opinion behind him, which would cut down any chance of wrangling over who should do what.

  Adam and Geoffrey rose hastily and proffered their stools to Pembroke and de Breauté. Salisbury shouted for his squires to bring blankets and skins to sit on and three more cups of wine. Geoffrey made some jest about the young sitting at the feet of the wise, and Peter des Roches convulsed everyone by hastily hiding his feet under his stool and complaining that he refused to lend his feet for such a purpose. If that big ox Adam sat at them, he explained, he would be crippled for life. Somehow, amid the laughter, the slight feeling of constraint that lingered between those who had been steadily faithful to the king and those who had wavered disappeared.

  For the few who were not familiar with Lincoln, Ian described the town and keep. These were separated, as were Roselynde keep and Roselynde town, the keep on a high plateau above the town, which was surrounded by the old Roman walls to the east, west and north. To the southwest lay the keep itself, and southeast, opposite it, the cathedral. The town had long been in the hands of Louis’s partisans, yielded against Lady Nicolaa’s will by the bishop, and Gualo had given permission to treat the renegade churchmen who preached to and supported the French as common enemies. De Breauté, who was even more familiar with the area, added some details, including the fact that there was a small postern door in the west wall through which, with Lady Nicolaa’s permission, they could enter the keep. Peter des Roches offered himself as ambassador to Lady Nicolaa, to gain permission for entry, but Pembroke objected.