by June Francis
‘You’ve said that twice already,’ Constance muttered irritably before taking a gulp of ale. ‘I think you’re glad that they didn’t.’
‘Why should I be glad? What benefit is it to me?’ He half smiled. Constance made no answer, only staring at him moodily. He bent his head and continued with his meal, knowing that sooner or later she would have to ask for his help, or give up. He wanted her to be dependent on him, but he was prepared to wait, knowing that it would be difficult for her. They had had an unfortunate beginning, but he had never encountered a woman like her, and she roused in him emotions that he was not prepared to admit to anyone, least of all to her.
Not yet, anyway! It would not be easy to master her. Some women liked it, but she needed gentle persuasive handling. Hewould be master to her, one day, and not the hired servant that she might envisage! He heard her clear her throat, and lifted his head, cramming the last piece of bread into his mouth.
‘How wouldyou have attempted to gain entry?’ she blurted out, her fingers tightening about the bowl. He chewed with great deliberation, aware of her impatience. ‘Well?’ Her eyes darkened. Great brown eyes they were — liquidly expressive and thickly lashed. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘There’s only one way, and that’s to have a legitimate reason for entering the castle. If Brandon is inside, how will he have got there?’ He put his bowl and the platter on the floor.
‘He’s a messenger — or so he says. I’ve no doubt he will have a proper pass.’
He nodded. ‘Or papers from the Earl of March. Has he come here to discover exactly when Richard’s leaving? It’s no fun lying in the bracken in the rain — or beneath dripping trees, waiting in ambush.’
‘You should know,’ she said sweetly, adding hastily as he quirked a brow. ‘Thatisthe reason. I remember their saying so — and he’s to pass the message on to another man in Kilkenny. But how does this helpme! I’m no messenger.’
‘There are plenty of comings and goings. Pages and squires going about their business, some people delivering messages. I got into conversation with a man delivering wine. It seems there’s some kind of feast tonight.’ He paused to down the remains of his ale. ‘The livery worn by certain nobles and religious orders will pass through without question.’
Her face wore an interested expression as she leaned forward. ‘Are you suggesting that I dress up as a page?’
‘I’m suggesting nothing of the sort,’ he retorted, startled. ‘You’re a woman!’
Her eyes were cool. ‘I — could make a perfect page. You are too tall, and, besides, you have that barbarous moustache.’ His brow darkened and he caressed the hair on his upper lip. ‘In the old days,’ she continued, ‘women fought alongside their menfolk in battle. I don’t see the harm in my dressing up as a page.’ He still did not answer, and she was starting to become exasperated. ‘It wouldn’t be as dangerous as going into battle.’
‘No,’ he said shortly.
She stared hard at him. ‘How do we obtain livery?’
‘We?’ He groaned.
‘You aren’t going to help me, then? I tell you, Master O’More, I am quite capable of doing this myself — of dressing up in a boy’s clothes and entering the castle. It — it’s simply a matter of knowing where to find the clothes. I thought you might know.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Kathleen told me you were a spy.’
‘Hush!’ He held up a hand. ‘To be sure now, you’ve convinced me that it would downright foolish of me not to help you. But where Kathleen has the notion that I’m a spy ... Well!’ He shrugged.
‘It’s not true?’ A small smile played about her mouth.
‘Would I be helping you now if I were a spy?’ His hand reached for the jug of ale. ‘That would be a foolishness.’
She hummed a snatch of a tune, watching him fill his cup, her face expressionless, not believing him at all. If he was a spy as Kathleen said, then entering the castle on her behalf could present him with a perfect opportunity to do whatever spies do.
He put down the jug and looked at her. ‘You do accept that you can’t do this dressing up? It wouldn’t be right.’ He took a gulp of his drink.
‘I don’t accept it at all. As for its being right, who is to know that it’s me in disguise? Besides, nobody here knows me, so what does it matter?’ she said impatiently. ‘Where do we get the livery?’
He was silent a long time, keeping her in suspense as he downed all of the ale. Placing the cup on the floor, he laced his hands in his lap. ‘You’ll have to play the part of a boy convincingly.’
‘Of course.’ A muscle in her throat twitched. ‘What do I have to do? How shall we ...?’
‘This is the plan.’ His head drew close to hers as he unfolded their next step.
*
Constance, watching the rain drizzling down as she loitered near the entrance to the alley that Niall had pointed out, wondered if she had been slightly deranged when she agreed to the plan. Ever since she had come to Ireland, she had experienced a feeling of having strayed into a different world, one in which it was possible to believe in one-eyed monsters with great claws from the dawn of time dwelling in a bog, in heroes drawn from legend being reincarnated in a man, of an enemy becoming an ally — and of a fellow countryman being an enemy.
She suddenly realised that Niall was coming as he had said he would, strolling beside a dark-haired youth in livery, who had his head lowered to keep the rain from his face. When they were almost level with her, she sallied forth just as Niall elbowed the youth with some force, making him collide into her. She gave a cry, and clutched at the young man’s arm.
‘I beg your pardon,’ stammered the youth, staring into her face, ‘but someone pushed me.’ He glanced about him wildly, but Niall had already disappeared.
‘I’ve hurt my ankle,’ moaned Constance, pulling at his arm. ‘Could you assist me, sir?’
He presented her with a nonplussed expression as he turned. ‘I would, mistress, if I weren’t in such haste. A message I have for the Earl of Ormonde from the bishop of ...’
‘You would leave me in such difficulty?’ She groaned as she put her foot to the ground. ‘How am I to get home? If only you could lend me your arm. It isn’t far.’
He hesitated before doing as she asked, but within a matter of seconds they were walking up the alley. They had not gone far when she heard footsteps behind. The next moment, a hand covered the boy’s mouth, and an arm went about his waist. She pulled her hand from his arm as he was dragged backwards. He stared at her with astonished, furious eyes before beginning to struggle, but he was no match for Niall, who half carried him to the far end of the alley, that opened on to a small area where rubbish was piled high.
‘Off with your livery, my lad,’ ordered Niall.
‘My — my livery?’ He gazed fearfully, as Niall drew out his knife.
Constance spoke reassuringly. ‘You will not be harmed if you do as you’re told.’
The boy hesitated no longer and soon had stripped off his tunic, hose, cap and cloak. Niall handed them to Constance. ‘It’s a pity about the rain now,’ he said quite cheerfully, pulling a rope from about his waist.
She made no reply, only turning her back on him. She undressed hurriedly down to her shift. Now was not the time to be concerned about modesty. On with the boy’s clothes as speedily as possible. The only difficulty was that of hiding her hair within the cap, but she managed to wind her braids round and squash them beneath it. Then she bundled up her discarded clothing and gave it to Niall.
He scrutinised her carefully. ‘You’ll have to watch how you walk — and talk.’
‘I know.’ She picked up the boy’s damp scroll from where it had fallen when Niall had given her the clothes, and brushed specks of dirt from it. Her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast.
‘Will you walk now,’ Niall ordered curtly. ‘I wish to see that you do it well.’
‘And why should I not?’ Her eyes sparked. ‘It can’t be difficul
t.’
‘Just do it,’ he snapped impatiently.
‘I’m doing it!’ She glared at him over her shoulders as she began rather self-consciously to stride about the square, skirting the refuge that gave off a distasteful odour.
‘Not too bad,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But remember that you’re not wearing skirts, so you can stride out better than that.’
She nodded, coming to a halt a foot or so from him. ‘Shall I go now?’
‘You can go when you like.’ He shrugged, and turned towards the boy. ‘Where have you come from, lad?’ The boy told him, staring at Constance with an air of fascinated resignation. ‘Well, you can say you have a message for the earl. It should suffice to get you into the castle, but whether it will get you to Ormonde, I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s fortunate that your voice is deep for a woman.’ He faced the boy again. ‘Are you cold, lad?’ He nodded, and Niall took his mantle from his shoulders and wrapped it about him.
Constance watched, waiting for him to turn and wish her luck, but he did not. After a few minutes she walked away, forgetting about the part she played. There was an uncomfortable tightness in her chest.
‘For the sake of the Virgin, woman, remember you’re a lad!’ he roared.
She jumped, not turning round, but instead fled up the alley, not stopping until she reached the far end. Without her skirts flapping about her ankles, she experienced a sense of freedom. She strode along with all the semblance of not having a care in the world, despite the wind which had risen so that the rain was dashed into her face. At least she had an excuse to hold the cap firmly on her head. The weight of her hair was causing her some anxiety.
At last she reached the entrance to the castle, where different guards were on duty, and for that she was relieved. Taking a deep breath, she marched up to them, ready to state whence she had come and whom she wished to see. But neither of them asked, and only a hand was lifted to wave her through. Her spirits rose as she entered the courtyard.
Despite the weather, there was much bustle. She stood indecisively, the wind buffeting her, wondering which way to go, when she received a blow in the back. She clutched frantically at her cap as she whirled round.
‘Make way, lad! Don’t be standing like a stock in the rain getting in the way! About your business, or you’ll be for it!’ The hooded figure carrying a barrel on his shoulder brushed by her and headed towards the shelter of the castle. Slowly she followed, but he disappeared round a corner, and she presumed he was going to the buttery. A girl ran past her, and as she entered the building, Constance heard the sounds of activity within and hurried quickly in her wake.
The great hall hummed with noise and was alive with colour and movement. Jugglers were practising with balls. Scullions hurried hither and thither, almost colliding at times, so that there was a danger of the silver dishes crashing to the floor. A man filled the air with lilting dance music, and a bear on a chain lumbered about on its hind legs.
With a quick darting look at the high table, Constance saw that it was unoccupied, although the side tables were almost filled. Her eyes searched for a sign of Brandon, but she could not see him. Without further delay, she caught the arm of a passing maid servant. ‘Tell me, please, where I will find His Grace, the Earl of Ormonde?’
‘Here, let me go,’ cried the girl. ‘I have no time now.’
‘It’s a matter of life or death. Tell me swiftly!’ demanded Constance in a gruff voice.
The girl squinted at her. ‘I’ve heard that before, and it’smy life that’s going to be the matter if I don’t get on!’
‘Never mind that now, just tell me,’ urged Constance.
‘He could be anywhere. Crowded with folk this place is today, and it’s like the inside of a rabbit-warren at this time. And dark what with the rain and all.
‘Where am I likely to find him? Is he with the king?’
‘Most likely.’ The girl looked at her strangely, then about her. She pulled her arm away. ‘If you’re quick — that man in the blue and green, who is just about to leave the hall, is probably on his way to tell the earl that all is almost ready.’
‘My thanks!’ Constance darted away in the direction that the girl had indicated, dodging folk as she saw the man vanish, and breaking into a run. She was just in time to see the end of his cloak as he went up some steps, but was unable to catch him until he stopped in front of a door.
Her calves were aching, and she was panting as she came to a halt. One hand held on to the cap, while the other still clutched the scroll. ‘Please, sir, is the king within? Or His Grace?’
The man turned and stared at her. ‘Now what’s this, lad? His Grace has finished with business for the night. Have you not heard that there’s a feast, and it’s about to begin? Why don’t you go downstairs and join in?’
‘I can’t do that. I must speak to the earl or the king,’ she gasped, her heart thudding in her breast.
‘Nonsense, lad! If you wish to deliver that scroll, give it to me.’ He held out his hand.
‘You may take it and welcome, but I did not come for that. Indeed it isn’t even my task to deliver it. But I must speak to His Grace or to the king. It’s a matter of life or death!’
His fingers curled about the scroll, and as he took it, he peered closely at her. ‘What’s this, lad?’
She drew in a shaky breath. ‘I’ve told you: it’s a matter of life or death. The king’s life. It is in danger!’ As she spoke, the door was suddenly flung open and several men were visible in a group near the entrance. It was the man at the centre who drew Constance’s attention.
Gracefully built and clad in a fur-trimmed purple velvet houppelande, stood Richard of England. A gold circlet studded with rubies surmounted the fair hair curling about his ears. His nose was straight and narrow, and he favoured a neat moustache and a small curling beard. His heavy-lidded eyes showed a brightness — as if he had just shared a jest with his companions.
‘Your Majesty!’ Constance, forgetting her guise, sank to the floor in an awkward curtsy, her cloak billowing.
‘Why, who is this?’ asked Richard of the man clutching the scroll.
‘The lad claims that your life is in danger, sire,’ said the man, attempting to force a note of amusement in his voice.
A wariness replaced the brightness in Richard’s face. ‘What’s this, boy? I pray that it’s not some kind of jest.’ He prodded Constance with the tapering point of his purple velvet shoe. ‘Rise, boy, and explain yourself.’
She stood, straightening her cap as she did so. Suddenly recognition flashed in her face as she saw the man standing just a little to the left of the king. Stepping back a little, she kept both the king and Master Brandon in her eye, realising that so far he had not recognised her. She moistened her mouth. ‘It is no jest, sire. I overheard a plot. Two men who planned to have you killed before leaving Ireland.’
A murmur broke out behind the purple-clad figure standing rigidly in front of her. Only he and Brandon kept silence. Then a shudder seemed to pass through the king. ‘You have the names of these men?’ he yelled, his fists clenching tightly.
She hesitated. ‘One stands next to you,’ she got out after several long seconds. ‘His name is Brandon. He and an Irish ...’ Then suddenly Brandon shouldered Richard aside and sent the man with the scroll flying by elbowing him viciously in the stomach, as he himself took to his heels.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘AFTER HIM!’ screamed the king, recovering himself by clutching at the arm of the man on his other side.
Without pausing to consider, Constance fled in Brandon’s wake, with other men in pursuit. The cap, always precariously placed, began to slip. She made a grab, too late, and it fell to the ground. Only briefly did she slow down on the steps before she realised that there was little point in picking it up. She ran on down. It was as Brandon reached the foot of the steps that she saw a figure in the doorway. She cried out, and Brandon turned, recognition dawning on his face. He pulled a kn
ife from his girdle and flung it at her.
She reached up slowly as a painful stinging tore through her upper arm. Blood slowly welled up between her fingers. She leaned against the wall, watching as Brandon struggled with Niall. The next moment, both of them went tumbling through the doorway. Her head was spinning and she felt sick. Her knees gave way so that she sank to the ground. As she did so, the others in pursuit clattered down the steps past her. When at last she opened her eyes, it was on a semicircle of men.
‘Here’s a surprise!’ said one of them, kneeling on the step beside her. ‘What’s your name, mistress?’
‘Constance — de Wensley,’ she whispered, attempting to sit straighten She winced.
‘Easy now, young lady.’ His arm went about her shoulders, and his face was on a level with hers. It was a pleasant face, if slightly anxious. ‘It was you who warned the king?’
‘Ay, and what I said was true! They plan to ambush — or at least that’s what Master O’More told me.’ She forced her drooping eyelids up, wondering whether she had imagined that the man struggling with Brandon had been Niall.
‘O’More?’ Surprise flashed in the man’s eyes. ‘This man was with you?’
She shook her head. ‘He was not supposed to be here — but I am certain that he was the man fighting with Master Brandon. Then, I think I must have swooned.’
‘Do you know where this ambush is to take place?’
Again she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, not exactly. But I believe there are men clearing the forests in Leinster and Waterford. They will be attacked and replaced by Sil the Bard’s cut-throats.’
‘That is good enough for me,’ he said firmly. ‘You have warned us, so action can be taken. Unfortunately, as far as we can discover, Master Brandon has escaped from the castle. A search is being made of the town, but he could be away by now. Is there any more you can tell us?’
‘We followed Sil O’Toole to a cave not far from Athy — that is where these men gather who will ambush the king.’
