by Anita Mills
Later, as Walter lay upon his cot, he stared contemptuously at the crucifix where it hung on the whitewashed wall. “Too long I have begged for aid in the wrong place,” he said aloud. “But no more.”
His hands behind his head, he considered the almost instant stroke of fortune that had come his way. And he knew it was the Devil’s omen. He was going to Blackleith to kill the Butcher.
Chapter Six
The soot-blackened stone walls of Wycklow rose above the brackish ditch, bearing testimony to the burning the keep had suffered at the hands of its own lord but a few months before. That burning, coupled with the other more brutal one at Dunashie eleven years earlier, had done much to gain Giles of Moray and his bastard brother their reputation for savage ruthlessness. On this day they both scanned the half-mended defenses, the scaffolding that clung to the old square tower below the new roof. The black-and-green pennon that hung limply in the mist. The body of Saft Launcie suspended above the scorched gate. It was obvious that the siege had not lasted long, and for the second time in five months Wycklow had fallen to Giles’ enemies.
Will wiped the condensed moisture that dripped from his conical helmet. “They dinna leave it lang in peace,” he muttered. “Poor Launcie,” he added sadly, correcting his language as he signed the Cross over his soaked surcoat. “May God punish the miscreants.”
“Aye,” Giles agreed grimly. “I’d see them in Hell for it.”
“ ’Tis too wet to burn again,” Lang Gib observed behind them. “Without the Greek fire …” His voice trailed off. In their hasty march to relieve the keep, they’d brought no siege engines and no pitch.
“We could send to Harlowe. Count Guy would—”
“Nay, Will,” Giles cut him short. “I’d not have it said that Giles of Moray must needs hide beneath Guy of Rivaux’s mantle.” His eyes traveled to the body of Saft Launcie again, and his lips formed a silent prayer for the man he’d left in charge of rebuilding the weakened walls. But there were no words sufficient for the anger he felt. “Jesu! I cannot turn my back ere there is a sword at it. Nay, we take it again, and this time I’d remind the English why I am called Butcher.”
“Och, and you fail to do it, they’ll move into your bed every time you leave it,” Will agreed. He flexed his arm to test his wounded shoulder. “It sorrowed me I could not aid you the last time, but afore God, I can give good account of myself now.” As he spoke he swung wide, as though he wielded his heavy battle- axe, then leaned back, satisfied. “ ’Tis well healed enough to cleave any Englishman.”
“My lord, we are too few,” the man Ewan protested, only to be silenced by the looks the others gave him.
“I’d take one Scot o’er five English on any day—aye, and for a Scots borderer, I’d double that,” Will retorted.
“For now, we withdraw into the woods,” Giles muttered.
“Withdraw!” his brother fairly howled. “Nay, I’d nae do it!” he protested, forgetting the speech he practiced so carefully now.
“Until we are reinforced.” Giles turned in his saddle to address Ewan. “ ’Tis not overfar to Waleran of Edgemont’s keep, I think, and he is sworn to the Empress also. I’d have you ride to ask if he’d make sport of one of Stephen’s dogs. Unless I mistake me, ’tis
Ralph de Payes’ standard up there, and I am told they are enemies.”
“There’s nae any English as has any love for ye,” Will warned. “Ye canna know that he will not come against ye also.”
“Then let us hope he hates Ralph more than me.”
For two days they camped in the woods beyond Wycklow, enduring intermittent mist and rain while they waited for Waleran’s answer. It came not in the form of a message but rather in men, some thirty of them riding behind the baron himself. And within a matter of hours after the huge-girthed Waleran had exchanged his kiss with Giles, Ralph de Payes sued for peace. It was not a popular offer to the Scots or to the men of Edgemont.
“You cannot forget Saft Launcie,” Will reminded his brother. “And you let the thieving Ralph leave unscathed, you’ll but invite any English as covets it to take Wycklow again.”
But there was no need to protest. Giles nodded, his face grim. “Tell your lord that he does not leave my keep alive,” he ordered Ralph’s stunned messenger. “I hold his life forfeit for the man he has hanged. Tell him if he would spare those who serve him, he will surrender himself unto me for mine justice. Otherwise, I cannot promise mercy to any.”
“My lord will ransom—”
“Nay,” Giles interrupted curtly.
“God’s bones, my lord, but your bargain is hard,” Waleran observed gleefully when Ralph’s man had been shown out. “You force them to fight or starve. But a ransom—”
“I do not mean to wait for either, now that you are come. As there is no moon tonight, I will move under darkness to retake what is mine.” For a long moment his black eyes met the English lord’s. “I cannot afford mercy and I would rule here. There are too many who count it weakness.”
There was that in Giles of Moray that sent a chill down Waleran’s spine. “ ’Tis not a wonder you are called Butcher,” he said finally, looking away.
“Only by his enemies,” Will growled. “Those who seek his friendship do not call him thus.”
The baron looked from the dark Scot to his giant brother, and seeing no humor in either countenance he resolved silently not to use the word again. “There is no love between Ralph de Payes and myself, my lord,” he declared. “No love at all. If you were to put the whole of his mesnie to the sword, I’d not mind it. I did but think of the profit to be had, ’twas all.”
“Aye.” Giles turned to William. “What say you, Will?”
“I’d spare only those as do not fight you.”
“So be it.” Once again, the black eyes sought Waleran’s. “While we waited for your answer, I ordered the cutting of a timber to be laid across the ditch where ’tis the widest, for they’ll not expect any to come in there. But once it is down, there is little time to delay. We have not the diversion of fire this time, so ’twill have to be the weather. They’ll think we wait until it ceases raining—or at least until there is light.”
The fat man digested this, then shook his head. “But you cannot see… .1 see not how …”
“Will?”
“I’d take Hob with me, and they’ll not raise the alarm against you—I swear it. You have but to be in readiness at the gate.” He glanced lovingly toward his broadaxe, sighing. “But I’d have you bring the Barber with you, that I may strike a blow for you.”
Waleran’s brow furrowed momentarily, but Giles smiled. “ ’Tis Will’s jest, my lord—the Barber gives the last haircut.”
“The Infidels made it,” William admitted proudly. “And ’tis wielded rightly, ’twill behead an ox.”
“Jesu! An ox?” Involuntarily, the fat baron’s hand crept to his own neck. “Nay, ‘twill not,” he managed weakly.
“Aye, it will.” Giles’ smile broadened. “You’ve not seen Will swing it.”
“As long as ’tis not swung against me,” Waleran muttered.
It was agreed then between them that William and the one called Hob would go over the side of the wall, silence the sentries, and lower the drawbridge. The only dispute was whether Waleran would lead his men inside or wait to cut down any who sought to escape. In the end ‘twas decided that Waleran’s men would be divided, with half following Giles, the other half lying in wait outside. That left only the matter of Ralph de Payes. It cost one hundred silver pennies to gain the promise that he was Giles’ to kill, for the English baron had come in the expectation of ransoming for his enemy for more than that.
After the baron had left to carry the plan to his own mesnie, William dug into the pouch that hung from his belt to draw out a winking jewel. “And any ill befalls me, I’d have ye send this to Arabella of Byrum,” he said gruffly. “I promised her I’d give her something to hang at her neck.”
Gil
es turned over the polished green stone in his palm, recognizing it for one of Elizabeth’s. Will flushed, then looked away. “Aye, I bought it of your lady, as there was no time to seek aught else. There be no merchants between here and Byrum, you know.”
“One day in the fair Arabella’s company, and you are besotted,” Giles teased his brother. “You even speak differently.”
“ ’Twas you as told me ’twas time I practiced what King Henry’s clerks taught me,” Will retorted, reddening more. “I do but try to deserve the station you have given me. ’Tis not an easy thing to do, ye know,” he muttered, “for full half the time I forget and do not note it.”
“Ah, and Arabella has naught to do with the change?”
“Jesu! Aye, I’d not have her think me a poor lout—’tis enough she thinks me a coarse one. ’Tis little enough she gets when she weds a bastard.”
“Byrum was eager for the match.”
“ ’Tis Byrum—not his daughter.” William looked again at the stone in Giles’ hand. “But I’d please her, and women are given to wanting such things.”
“Aye, but I’d have given you whatever you wished to give her.”
“Nay, ye give me the land. And it means more to me that ’twas bought with mine own silver. Like you, I’d have my wife look to me rather than to a kinsman for what she would have.”
“I am glad you are pleased with the match.”
“Aye, I am pleased. Who wouldna be? Me a whore’s son, a great lout of a man, and she a lord’s daughter,” William answered. “A man hasna the right to expect a comely lass like that for his bed, and ye’ve given her to me.” He closed his eyes, remembering her as she’d sat up from her pallet, and even the memory sent a flood of longing through him. “I would that I could please her half so well.”
“You will.”
“She isna like Rivaux’s daughter, ye know. Naught’s to say that she will not weep when she sees this great, huge body,” Will ventured, giving voice to a lurking fear.
“Is that why you did not wait for her to bathe us?”
“Aye.”
“She’s borne a babe—’tis not likely she will be too small after that.” Giles moved to lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Nay, Will. When she comes to know you, she will love you e’en as I do.”
“I’d hoped for more than that.” William forced a grudging smile. “I’d rather ye said she’d come to care for me as Elizabeth for ye.” Brushing Giles’ hand away, he turned to pick up a wineskin. “If I am unharmed, I’d give the jewel myself. ’Tis all I mean to say on the matter.”
“Would you that I sent Lang Gib with Hob?”
“Nay. Ye gave me the right to lead for ye when ye raised me above the others. Och, but I forgot again, did I not? Nine years in Henry’s household, and still I canna speak like a courtier and I do not think on it.”
The stones were wet and slick beneath his hands and feet as he struggled for a foothold. The night was so dark that it enveloped him, so dark that William could see neither above nor below. Behind him, he could hear Hob’s whispered curse. Several times he slipped, only to catch his fingers in the uneven crevices between the stones and again pull his heavy weight up by the strength of his arms. In the silent blackness he thought he heard Hob pass him. He paused long enough to whisper a furtive prayer that he would live to take Arabella of Byrum for wife, then he renewed his climb.
The rain dripped from his helmet and soaked his back, but for once he was grateful for it. The cold, steady beat of it kept the sentries huddled over their sheltered fire at the other end of the wall. As his fingers sought and found the final dip of stone that told him he’d reached the top, he heaved his body upward, swinging a leg over the small rise that usually protected archers. The metal of his mail scraped the stone as he rolled over the side. For a moment he lay still, to catch his breath and listen for Hob.
The small Scot grunted in the darkness. They’d both made it up the treacherous wall. Will’s cold hands fumbled for his dagger, closing over the hilt and drawing the nine-inch blade from its sheath.
Hob stood. “There isna but two by the fire,” he observed.
Will peered through the rain to where Ralph’s men warmed themselves, and for a moment he felt almost sorry for them. But they’d come with their lord to take another’s land, he reminded himself, hardening his heart for his task. Reaching upward he dislodged his heavy helm, then leaned to toss it toward where the sentries sat. It rolled and bounced loudly, the metallic sound cutting through the steady beat of the rain. Then he rocked back on his haunches and waited, his dagger ready.
“Who goes there?” One of the men rose, staring into the blackness directly at Will and Hob.
“ ’Tis the wind, Gerbod,” the other sentry told him.
“Nay.”
“One of the stones dislodged. The place is little better than rubble, and I know not why Ralph would have it.” Huddling closer to the fire, he grumbled, “Were it I, I’d not challenge the Butcher for it. Sit you down—you are like an old woman.”
“I like it not,” the first man muttered, moving closer to investigate. Reluctantly, the other man discarded a blanket from his shoulders and heaved himself up also. “The weather makes us uneasy,” he complained. Nonetheless, he followed his companion toward the spot where Will and Rob crouched. “What… ?”
The first one stumbled over Will’s helmet, sending it clattering, and the other jumped back, muttering an oath. “God’s bones, Gerbod, but you’ll rouse all.” Both dropped down to grope in the blackness for the metal helm, and neither knew what hit him.
Will’s knife found its mark so swiftly that there was a gurgle rather than an outcry. And as the body of one slid heavily to lie in a pool of water at his feet, he heard rather than saw Hob strike also. Then there was silence, save for the rain.
As both he and Hob had served Giles at Wycklow, there was no need for words. Stopping only for Will to reclaim and reposition-his helmet on his head and to take one of the fallen men’s swords, they moved the length of the wall toward the fire. When they reached it, Hob paused to pick up the discarded blanket and wrap it about his shoulders lest any should see him.
It was an unnecessary precaution, for those who held the keep slept soundly, lulled by the foul weather. There were none to stop the Scots ere they’d reached the gate, and it was not until the bridge began to creak downward that a cry was raised. By then it was too late. Despite frantic shouts of, “We are attacked! To Payes! To Payes!” the keep was open, and mounted men were pouring over the bridge.
Will raised the Scots’ war cry of his savage ancestors, his voice resounding through the keep with a bloodcurdling intensity that sent shudders through Giles’ English allies. Almost immediately the walls rang with a cacophony of intermingled shouts of “For St. Andrew and Dunashie! For Moray of Dunashie! For Edgemont! For God and St. Olaf! For St. Olaf and St. George!”
Men roused thus rudely from pallets and beds scrambled into the open—some still struggling into mail shirts, some less than half-armed against the onslaught—and the melee was joined. Slashing with his borrowed sword, Will managed to cut his way toward Giles, who leaned to pass the great axe to him.
From then it was little more than a bloody rout, with those who sought to escape cut down by those of Waleran’s men who waited without. Will swung the axe again and again, scarce hearing the death screams of those around him. The shouting, the clash of steel against steel, the frantic neighing of wounded horses filled the air for a few brief moments, then there were only the cries for mercy as Ralph’s men threw their weapons down. It was over as quickly as it had begun.
Lesser members of Waleran’s mesnie fell upon the dead, stripping them of arms and mail like crows over carrion. Will walked to a part of the yard where the grass was not slick with blood, pulled up a handful, and wiped the broad head of his axe with it.
“Ralph is not among them!” Giles called to him. “The coward hides!”
Giles had already dismounted and was heading up the single tower stairs. Without hesitation, William followed him. A cornered man was a dangerous foe, and the man at the top always had the advantage of the one who climbed.
From the first landing both men inched their way upward, keeping close to the other wall lest anyone hurl anything down the stairwell. The silence that permeated the tower was broken now only by the dulled beat of the rain on the thatched roof and the sound of Giles’ spurs clinking against the stone steps. Will was strangely conscious of the damp, sooty smell that still lingered from the last time Wycklow had been burned.
As they rounded the last turn, they saw Ralph de Payes. Any bravado he’d possessed was gone, replaced by the bloodless white cast of fear. Before Giles could raise his sword, the other man threw his down. It skidded through the doorway, struck the stairwell wall, and bounced noisily down the hole.
“ ’Tis my right to be ransomed!” he cried.
“No man who would take what is mine lives,” Giles answered coldly, moving into the room. “Defend yourself or hang.”
“Nay!”
“You killed my man. You hanged one who defended his lord’s land.”
“I will pay—fine me for it!”
“Jesu! Is that all a man’s life is worth to you?” Giles demanded. “A few pennies?”
“He did not yield!”
“A life for a life, Ralph.” Giles swung around to face William. “Hang him.”
Giles’ body blocked Will’s view of the lord of Payes, and it was not until the older man had lunged, dagger drawn, toward Giles’ back that Will saw the movement at all. Bringing up one arm he knocked his brother out of the way, and almost by reflex he swung wide with the other, catching Ralph solidly in the side. The axe bit through bone and flesh on its way inward.
There was a sound like air released from a bladder, then Ralph de Payes’ face was frozen into a look of stunned disbelief. He sank almost noiselessly to the floor. Pink foam bubbled from his mouth as his sightless eyes stared upward.
