“The counterweight swings on the short end of the catapult arm, which is raised up as the arm is wound down. The weight of the stones in the box is the muscle that drives that mighty arm and flings the stone. The descending weight drags the machine forward a little, too, adding power to the cast. Add weight and it fires further. Take some away and it fires shorter. Nothing could be more simple, it is a marvel of good design, just like my beautiful pigeons.”
“Excellent lady, a marvel of good design is being raised to smash down your tower. Surely that must make it as ugly as a demon's frown.”
“How so? Is a hawk ugly because it kills pigeons? Is a cat ugly because it kills mice?”
“Your words are full with embroidery, excellent lady, but need I remind you that the Tower of Wings is now in the position of a mouse or pigeon?”
“Life is short, dangerous and ugly, Alren, and then we die.”
“Yes, and generally in pain.”
“I could die with my throat slashed open by a peasant's knife, or I could die as a stone ball from Raimond's trebuchet smashes into the Tower of Wings.”
“More likely it will smash a hole in the curtain wall, his men will swarm in. You will be captured.”
“And burned as a witch.”
“Excellent lady, you fashion things of silk and wicker that fly like birds, yet are not alive. It is considered that a noblewoman of your standing ought to be at embroidery or the harp, not ruling a fortified tower, and certainly not mocking the flight of angels.”
Lady Angela shrugged, but did not look up from her model. “My impiety is well known. What opinion do you harbour, Alren? What should I do?”
“Excellent Lady, I am a Moor. It is not my place to venture such an opinion.”
“But it is my place to ask. This is my tower and you are my guest.”
“I... wish that you could meet a man who is... worthy of you. Your peer, perhaps even your better. A companion of the soul who understands you, some lord who would charm you rather than rule you.”
“Does such a man exist, wise and impartial Moorish scholar?”
“Each day I pray for Allah to make it so, excellent lady.”
She looked up at last, gesturing to a window. Alren walked across and looked out.
“Look down on the bailey wall's battlements. You should see an archer sitting at rest, eating bread and cheese. Beside him is a bowl of soup.”
Alren looked down, then glanced back in time to see Lady Angela pull on the model's release cord. The counterweight box of stones and sand dropped, hauling the throwing arm down. The sling arced around and slipped open, flinging the acorn past Alren's nose and through the window. A moment later it splashed into the archer's soup. The man cried out, then cursed. He glanced about, looking for whoever nearby was snickering. Seeing nothing suspicious, he removed his helmet and scratched his head.
“That was quite masterful accuracy,” said Alren, genuinely awestruck.
“It was mathematical accuracy,” replied Angela.
She stood, went to a large chest and opened it. She drew out a bundle of green silk cloth and cords.
“Alren, last year, on your second visit to this tower you told me a story. One hundred and forty one years ago, in Constantinople, a Turk fashioned white sail-wings with many pleats and foldings, and stiffened by willow wands. Wearing these sail-wings, he leaped from a very high tower.”
“Excellent lady, he also plunged straight to the base of the tower, broke many bones and died in agony. My great grandfather was there.”
“And his description of the sail-wings was passed down to you, who passed it to me. I have considered the matter, and have refined the design. A human body may now fall in safety from a great height using a device such as this model.”
She held up a triangle of grass-green silk about half a yard on a side with strings attached to each corner. A tiny harness of leather hung from the strings, but one string was shorter than the other two.
“It looks like a little cape,” said Alren. “What is it?”
“It has no name, but by its use one may leap from a great height yet plunge through the air in safety. Perhaps I shall call it a plunge cape.”
Now she lifted a mouse from its box and held it up to her face.
“Hullo Archimedes, do you realise that barbarians are about to break into our home?” she said to the tiny, whiskered face. “You know what happened to the first Archimedes, do you not?”
“A Roman soldier killed him as he sat contemplating geometry,” said Alren on behalf of the mouse.
“We cannot have you sharing his fate, Archimedes, but never fear. The plunge cape will carry you to safety.”
She went to the window and sat on the sill. Deftly she strapped the mouse into the little harness.
“Come now, and watch,” she said to Alren. “The harness is designed so that Archimedes is held only while his weight is unsupported. On the ground, he can struggle clear in a thrice.”
Lady Angela released the mouse and its plunge cape. It dropped sharply at first, then flew outwards in a long, shallow curve, about as fast as a pigeon soaring. The Moor cried out with surprise.
“A mouse, flying!”
“Given enough silk, pigs could fly as well,” Lady Angela laughed.
Archimedes floated over the bailey wall, then the curtain wall and moat. Several men shouted and pointed, but no archer shot at the aeronaut mouse. All archers in the Tower of Wings were forbidden to shoot at anything that could fly. In the fields just beyond the moat the silken triangle collapsed into the grass.
“Goodbye little friend,” said Angela sadly. “At least one of us shall survive the siege.”
“That was quite wonderous,” began Alren.
“But not witchcraft. I have nearly finished a much bigger plunge cape.”
Alren went to the chest and looked down into it, his hands on his hips. It was filled with green silk and fine cords.
“Do you mean to escape like the mouse?”
“On the day that the walls are breached, I intend to strap on my plunge cape and attempt to fly.”
“Excellent lady you may be killed!” Alren exclaimed. “A mouse flying is all very well, but your weight is more than a thousand times greater.”
“Men have flown before. Nearly three hundred years ago the Benedictine monk Elmer of Malmsbury leaped from a church tower wearing wings and flew six hundred feet.”
“But he broke both of his legs!”
“Yet he lived. Four hundred and fifty years ago the Moor Armen Firman of Cordoba flew too. His canvas wings took him in a great circle, so that he came down safely at the base of the tower from which he leaped. His countryman Ibn Firnas performed a similar feat two decades later.”
“And crashed. Excellent lady, we have no detailed description of their wings, or those of Elmer of Malmsbury.”
“But I may fly. God will be my judge, and I shall be innocent of both witchcraft and suicide.”
“But to what end? The mouse can hide in the grass, but you would have to fly many miles to escape Raimond's men. Can you do any better than the mouse?”
“No, I shall probably land in the moat. When I am seized by Raimond's men I shall be covered with green slime and smelly mud.”
“It will achieve nothing!”
“Oh no, I might become the first woman to fly.”
Alren waved his hand dismissively. “Not so. Witches fly, through forbidden arts.”
Lady Angela sneered. “Because you are a Moor and beyond the trust of Christian magistrates, I suppose I can confide in you. I have disguised myself and kept company with witches on occasion. They make a paste of aconite, belladonna and hemlock then rub it between their thighs, upon their most intimate parts. I followed them as they ran through fields with brush brooms between their legs, all in a delirium from the poisons and shrieking that they were in flight. I saw that they were merely deluded.”
“Your scepticism shines in the darkness as bright as the morning sta
r, excellent lady. Why do you then place so much faith in your plunge cape?”
“So that I might become the first woman to fly before I am burned as a witch, and that is surely an achievement. If my plunge cape fails when I jump from the tower, I shall die anyway. What would be your choice?”
“Were I a beautiful, clever and wily Christian woman, I... I would throw myself on the mercy of Baron Raimond, and the bishops of your Christian church.”
“Which is no less dangerous than throwing myself from the tower wearing my plunge cape. Learned Moor, when I die I shall die attempting flight or I shall die having flown. My name is Angela: who ever heard of an angel without wings and what are wings if not to fly with? In secret, in the depths of my heart, I am grateful to Baron Raimond. He has forced me to rest my life upon my postulations and theories.”
By the end of the first week of the siege the peasants of the surrounding countryside had realised that the invaders were disciplined and well behaved, and were intent only on taking the Tower of Wings. They returned to their work, some men shearing or rooing the sheep in the shade of the trees, while their wives and daughters rolled and stored the fleeces. Others cut hay in the fields, hastening to have it mown down before the sap had left it, while some beat and combed flax into long, silky strands. Raimond's men watched for any signs of rebellion, particularly among those wielding the scythes, but otherwise left them alone. The skies continued to be clear, and the weather remained warm.
On the seventh day of the siege the mighty trestles to support the throwing arm's axle were hauled erect onto the wheeled base of the rapidly forming siege engine and pinned in place. Using scaffolding, ropes and pulleys, the throwing arm and its axle were raised to the top of the trestles in the afternoon of the same day. The light of the following dawn saw carpenters securing the clamps and bands that would hold the axle firm. By then Baron Raimond had a very important guest, but a guest who was in disguise and meant to be elsewhere.
“The engine now has much of the shape of a weapon,” observed Edward Longshanks as he and Raimond circled it.
“All the other parts are complete, including yonder counterweight box,” replied the baron. “By the end of this day its assembly will be at an end.”
“Does this mean I may see a stone cast, should I stay a day longer?”
“Sire, should you stay a day longer you will see the tower surrender, undamaged.”
The king beamed with delight, then frowned. “Undamaged?” he asked suspiciously.
“Observe that long, inclined ramp behind the trebuchet. That is for my new and clever missile.”
“Ah yes, a huge and fearsome missile that your Moorish friend Alren has built for you.”
“You know of it, sire?”
“You have often sent Alren to spy within the Tower of Wings, and I have often sent my own spies to observe your own works and loyalty.”
“I trust they spoke well of me, sire.”
“In truth, they did not understand much of what they saw but they were satisfied that you are loyal. I shall wait for another day. Where is your Moor's wondrous missile?”
“Behind the ramp, beneath tentcloth, sire. Does our agreement still hold firm?”
“When the Tower of Wings is delivered into my hands, you may do as you will with the strange, haughty and irreverent Lady Angela. As for Alren, however... I am uneasy with trusting the work of a Moor.”
“We have great need of his skills, experience and mathematical learning, sire. Does the faith within his heart really matter if the castle is thrown open to you?”
“I suppose not.”
From a window in the tower Lady Angela saw newcomers arrive. There were at least two dozen riders and six pack horses. Presently the seneschal arrived, panting from his long dash up the steps of the tower.
“Sir Philip of Nottingham has arrived to fight in your name, my lady,” he announced.
“Fight? Two dozen against three thousand?”
“Fight, as in trial by combat. Sir Phillip challenges on your behalf, and Baron Raimond has accepted the challenge. A messenger from the baron asks if they may have a truce to fight before the tower.”
“Tell Raimond's messenger that my answer will arrive presently, then send him back.”
Baron Raimond had only just spoken to the messenger when Wat cried out and pointed to the tower. A large bird, with wings the span of an eagle's, had left the top of the tower and was flying in their direction. They all watched as it approached, slowly descending in the calm, warm air. It was bright green, and he soon realised that it was little more than a stick between wings.
“Bring it down!” barked Raimond to the archers nearby, and half a dozen arrows streaked skyward. Two struck the silk and wicker bird and it tumbled to the ground, landing only feet from Baron Raimond and Sir Philip. It was just a pole between two silk and wicker wings, with a fan of feathers tied to one end.
“That thing flew further than an archer can shoot,” whispered the disguised king to Sir Philip as they watched the baron stride over to the device.
“It has the look of a broomstick with wings,” observed the somewhat unsettled Philip.
“Do witches fly on broomsticks, then?” asked the king.
The baron examined the broken model, then stood up and held a scrap of parchment high for Philip and Edward to see.
“It seems we are welcome to fight within Lady Angela's view,” called Raimond.
“Do you truly believe her innocent after seeing that?” Edward asked Philip.
“Oh no, but I truly believe her to deserve mercy,” replied Sir Philip firmly. “My victory in trial by combat will show that God's will is that she should be spared and put into my custody.”
“To become your bride?”
“Each day, each hour, I pray as much.”
Work on the trebuchet went ahead without interruption while preparations for the trial by combat were made. Baron Raimond and Sir Philip confessed themselves to a priest, heard mass, and began to get into their armour. This consisted of a full suit of mail over a heavily padded aketon, an iron pot helm, and one of the new breastplates that were becoming increasingly common. All of this was covered by a brightly coloured surcoat. At either end of a measured stretch of level ground they mounted their warhorses, and were handed their shields and lances.
“Most worthy lordship, I must again advise against the use of this strange African wood,” said Wat quietly as he stood waiting with Raimond's lance. “It weighs too heavily, yet may shatter more readily than English timbers.”
“I shall be the judge of my own weapons,” replied Raimond from within the confines of his helm.
To Wat's trained eye the weight of the lance in Raimond's hand stood out like a bright pennant on a battlefield, and the eyes of those watching from Sir Philip's party were no less well trained. Wat watched them conferring, probably speculating about the nature of the weight of his master's lance and the way it might be deflected. At last both combatants were ready. Both glanced to the windows of the tower as the trumpets sounded a fanfare.
Lady Angela gazed down at the distant spectacle, carefully stitching red silk over a piece of wicker the length of a quarterstaff. Beside her, a maidservant was forcing a heavy needle through the leather straps of a harness, under instruction from Alren.
“To support my weight in the most ideal of modes, two additional straps should go between my legs,” said Angela without looking away from the distant combatants.
“My lady, that would be most gross and unseemly,” protested the woman, shocked at the mere suggestion.
“I could wear trousers, such as men do.”
“You would be condemned as a wanton.”
“Is that worse than being condemned as a witch?”
The woman frowned down at her work.
“Excellent lady, I feel as if we are preparing your funeral shroud,” said Alren.
“You have little faith in my former suitor, Sir Philip. He has a strong sword arm.”
“He would have made a fine and valiant husband. Why did you spurn his advances?”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No, but—” he began, but Angela held a finger to her lips.
“Hush! Raimond's trumpets announce my fate.”
Both riders leveled their lances, hunched behind their shields and urged their mounts into motion. Cheers and the drumming of hooves reached the Tower of Wings. Lady Angela stopped sewing and held her breath. The stallions closed, there was a sharp, splintering crash. Fragments and fittings flew through the air as Sir Philip was knocked from his saddle. He fell heavily to the ground, rolled and tumbled, but then got to his feet. A great cheer went up from the baron's men. As the baron came around in a circle Philip tried to draw his sword. The baron dropped his broken lance and dismounted. He stood ready, sword and shield raised. Philip tried to draw his sword again, but was unable to. Now Lady Angela realised that Philip's sword arm had been broken in the fall.
It was soon obvious that Sir Philip could fight no more that day. He was put on a litter and carried away to the tents of Baron Raimond's camp. Raimond walked across to speak with his marshal.
“Raimond is victorious,” said Angela as she returned to her sewing.
“Such a brave and valiant effort,” said the maidservant, tears streaming from her eyes.
“Were one tenth of the effort put into jousting to be put instead into the study of birds and wings, why within a hundred years we would be flying in preference to riding horses.”
“My lady, how can you say such a thing? Sir Philip risked his life to save yours.”
“Sir Philip risked his life? For me? Merciful God, does nobody ever stop to ask what I want? Whether I would like to risk my life?”
“You already risk your life, my lady, studying dark and disturbing arts as you do.”
“Enough!” barked Angela, standing and pointing to the door. “Get out!”
When the maidservant had gone Alren picked up the harness and began forcing the needle through the leather.
“She was right, excellent lady,” he said as he worked. “You risk being tied to a stake and set a-fire.”
Ghosts of Engines Past Page 20
