by Wayne Grant
“This could work,” he said.
“Aye, it should, but the shaft will need to be heavier for balance and you can’t do a full draw—as I think ye’ve seen. Your archers will have to be close—no more than one hundred paces, I’d guess. How will you do that with a thousand mercenaries watching the north wall?”
Roland shrugged.
“I don’t know, Sir James, but come with me to the smith. I want you to draw this for him. We are going to need hundreds of these shafts. By the time we have them, I will know how to get close enough to use them.”
***
The second trial, with the new shafts constructed to Sir James’ specifications, drew another crowd, but the results were much different. The smith had produced four arrows with the new tips and Roland first tested them without fire. To compensate for the new weight at the tip, the fletchers had fashioned a thicker and longer shaft that would allow a man to take nearly a full draw.
His first shot flew true, with little of the previous wobble, and as Sir James predicted, it travelled just over one hundred paces, landing beyond a heavy oak post placed in the middle of the field. Now it was time for a true test. A resin-soaked wad of cloth was threaded between the openings in the oval cage. Roland nocked the arrow and held the tip of the shaft over the fire. The resin ignited and he drew the string back to his cheek.
He exhaled and loosed the flaming arrow. It flew true, trailing sparks but holding its flame until it struck the base of the post. The crowd rushed forward and watched as the flames licked at the oak. The heavy post did not catch, but this was only one arrow. A dozen arrows striking a wooden frame should have a more dramatic effect.
“By God, I think this will work,” said Svein. Men were slapping Roland on the back now and admiring the new arrow. Sir James caught Roland’s eye.
“It’s a start, but we’ll need hundreds of these to burn thirteen of those infernal machines.”
Roland grinned.
“There are four smiths in this city, Sir James. I’m sure Earl Ranulf will agree that they should all stop making horseshoes and door hinges and turn to making these new arrows. We could be ready in a fortnight.”
Sir James arched an eyebrow.
“And how will you get your archers within a hundred paces—without getting them all killed?” he asked.
Roland frowned.
“I’m still working on that, Sir James.”
The older man nodded.
“Be sure you get it right, lad.”
***
By the middle of September, the smiths had done their work. While the city waited, a furrow eight feet deep and thirty wide had been gouged out of the top of the north wall. It looked as if some giant out of a child’s tale had knelt down and taken a huge bite from the barrier. From the Northgate, the city’s defenders could see a steady stream of wagons bringing new stones forward to feed the trebuchets. The enemy engineers kept the machines busy from first light until darkness made it impossible to see where the stones were striking.
The height of the north wall, from the bottom of the ditch to the top of the rampart had been twenty feet. Now it was only twelve. Still a formidable barrier, but the ditch was beginning to fill up with rubble and another fortnight of bombardment would open a proper breach.
While the smiths and fletchers of Chester toiled day and night to produce the four hundred fire arrows Roland had requested, he spent his days and some of his nights atop the Northgate watching the enemy. He could see where his archers would have to stand to reach the machines with their heavy arrows and despaired over how to protect them long enough to finish their task.
In the time it took to cover the open ground and get within a hundred paces of the machines, the mercenary infantry could be put into motion, or worse, their cavalry. If even half of the enemy’s mounted knights closed on the archers before they could get safely back into the city, it would be a slaughter.
On the morning of Michaelmas, he arose at dawn and made his way toward the Northgate. There was a first hint of coolness in the air after a long summer of heat. Wisps of fog swirled in the street. The slight crispness in the air was like a tonic and he breathed it in as he walked up Northgate Street.
So distracted was he by the change in the weather that he hardly noted something else different about this dawn. He had almost reached Barn Lane when he noticed the quiet. For forty days, first light had brought the sound of stones striking the north wall of the city. This morning there was silence. Puzzled, he hurried to the top of the gatehouse and looked out on a sea of grey. He found Sergeant Billy on duty there.
“It rolled in around midnight,” the veteran said. “It reminds me of the fogs we get in Suffolk when the seasons change—so thick ye could cut it and serve it up on a plate! I expect it will burn off by noon.” Roland turned away from the grey curtain and felt like hugging the older man.
“Midnight, you say?”
“Aye, sir, about then,” Sergeant Billy said and knitted his brow, suddenly nervous. He joined Roland at the front of the barbican. He strained to make out anything moving to the north, but could barely see objects fifty feet from the wall.
“Do ye think the bloody mercs will use it to slip in close and attack?” he asked. Roland shook his head, hardly able to contain his excitement.
“No, Billy—just the reverse.”
Suspects
August in London had turned oppressively hot with hardly a hint of the usual breezes from the west. In this swelter, Millicent was grateful for the distraction the Archbishop’s task provided her. But after a month of watching, she had little to show for her efforts. For the men of Marshall’s guard, it had taken most of the month for the novelty of the new houseguest to wear off. In the first weeks, there were numerous awkward bows and offers of assistance from the young men who hovered about. For her part, Millicent simply tried to fall into the routine of the place.
Marshall’s prediction had proven true—every man in the bodyguard fussed over her, save Sir Nevil and young Andrew Parrot, the clerk. It was annoying, but did give her a perfect opening to learn more about each man.
There were twin brothers, sons of one of the Earl’s oldest oath men, a cousin of Marshall’s wife and three young knights that had, at various times, been squires to the Earl. Some were friendly and some a bit dour, but all showed more than a passing interest in the lovely young lady who had come to dwell in their midst.
Millicent was not unfamiliar with the behaviour of young men—even the shyest among them showed a bit of swagger and stood up straighter when she was near. And they talked, some shyly and some full of braggadocio, but all prattled on happily about themselves. Millicent listened carefully to their stories, but none of the young guards betrayed any hint of treason. She sensed no hidden grudges, no unhealthy rivalries and no animus, whatsoever, toward William Marshall or the King. Still, she was determined to not rush her judgment and continued to keep an eye on the young men as the weeks passed.
Then there was Sir Nevil Crenshaw. He was an interesting man. The knight had first encountered William Marshall as an opponent in a tournament at Caen. Both were young men then and Sir Nevil had already built a reputation as a skilled competitor. But like most who faced Marshall in the jousts, he lost the contest—though not before giving Marshall a broken collar bone and a concussion. The two men had been fast friends ever since. Crenshaw was Marshall’s closest confidant and therefore privy to more secrets than the others. As such, he was the man she most wanted to get a sense of.
But Sir Nevil paid no attention to Millicent at all. He was deferential when in her company, but seemed wholly uninterested in getting to know her or letting her get to know him. She had tried to engage with the man as much as possible and he had always been polite, but Sir Nevil always found the first opportunity to excuse himself. It was frustrating.
The Earl tried to be helpful, even if he did think her task was a fool’s errand. He told her that he did all his state business in the single small r
oom off the parlour on the first floor. He always locked the door behind him when he was absent. Only he and Parrot, the clerk, had keys to the office. While his guards were often present when he was working there, the servants were never allowed to enter unsupervised. She had asked Elizabeth about this. The older woman shook her head.
“We’ve no business nosin’ into what the Earl does in there, my lady. He’s a great man, he is, and will save the country yet, but he don’t need our help to do it. We just see that he’s fed and cared for. The Earl will do the rest.”
A month after arriving at Marshall’s house, she had Jamie Finch escort her to mass at Saint Paul’s and dropped a coin into the beggar’s hat. That night, the Archbishop met her at his house by the Guild Hall. She reported on her observations and noted, with frustration, that none of the men she’d come to know seemed a likely spy.
“My dear, these things take time,” the Archbishop said gently, “and that is something you have an abundance of now. You can scarcely go home with a thousand or more mercenaries encamped around your city.”
Millicent clinched her fists, but held her tongue. Something told her the Queen’s spymaster was not sorry that she had no way to return home—but his words were true nevertheless.
“Give it another month or two,” he said, “If our spy were clumsy, we would have found him by now! You must be patient.”
But patience was not one of Millicent de Laval’s best qualities. As September brought the first suggestions of autumn to the city, she began to pay more attention to Andrew Parrot, Marshall’s clerk. He was very young, but was often at Marshall’s side and, like Sir Nevil, was privy to a great deal that went on in the Justiciar’s small office.
He was the shyest of the men in the house and rarely looked her in the eyes. In fact, he seemed to avoid her almost as much as Sir Nevil did. But in this, she was not an exception. The skinny clerk did not socialize with the men of Marshall’s guard and took no part in their easy banter. Thus it was easy for Andrew Parrot to fade into the background, while the other young men jested with each other and preened about.
It was the clerk’s very blandness as well as some of his unusual habits that drew Millicent’s attention. Both she and Jamie Finch had noted that, when the Earl was absent overnight, Parrot sometimes left the house in the evening. He was never absent for long on these outings. On other nights when Marshall was away, the clerk could be found alone in the first floor office late into the night. He did neither of these things when Marshall was home—odd behaviour to be sure, but hardly proof of treason.
Millicent resolved to find out what the skinny clerk was up to. When next Marshall was away overnight, she peeked down from the second floor landing and saw candlelight coming from the parlour office. She lit a candle of her own and came quietly down the stairs.
Without knocking, she opened the office door to find Parrot hunched over a small desk, scribbling away with a quill. He looked up, startled .
“Oh, Master Parrot, forgive me for barging in like this!” she said, feigning surprise at seeing him. “I thought the Earl had returned.”
Parrot scrambled to his feet, his eyes shifting between Millicent and the papers in front of him. He began to stammer, all the while shuffling the sheets, then slipping them into a small drawer in the desk.
“My…my lady, you gave me a start!”
“Oh, I am sorry, Andrew—may I call you Andrew? But I’m glad it’s you. I’ve been here over a month and we’ve barely spoken. I see you working away, night and day, keeping the Earl’s affairs in order and I wanted to say how much I admire your dedication and your learning. I’ve always thought it would be grand to be able to read, as you do, but I guess that is of little use to someone like me.”
Parrot seemed to relax a bit as she prattled on. When he spoke again, his voice was calm.
“It is an honour to serve Earl William, my lady, and I only do my duty.” He reached over and picked up a bound volume, one of dozens in the office. “And it is grand to read!” he said, his eyes a bit dreamy. “It is like having another world at your fingertips.”
“Perhaps you could teach me, Andrew. I would be obliged if you would.”
“Why I would be happy to, my lady. It’s really not that difficult. I’m sure you could pick it up straight away!”
“That would be very kind of you, Andrew. Send for me tomorrow when you have a moment to spare.” She gave an entirely unnecessary curtsy and left the young man alone.
What had the clerk been scribbling and why had he hid it?
It was the first suspicious thing she’d seen since her arrival. It might be nothing, but…
***.
Through September, Andrew Parrot met with Millicent for an hour most afternoons to teach her the rudiments of writing and reading. She could do both at least as well as he, but easily disguised her ability. In those sessions she drew him out about his own history. The clerk had learned to read and write while studying for the priesthood, but for reasons he would not reveal, he had abandoned that career. He had been with Marshall for four years and appeared to esteem his master.
In their first sessions, Parrot brought only a copy of the Bible to use in his lessons and Millicent dutifully practiced reading the verses. But in the second week, he had a slimmer volume with him.
“My lady, I thought you might find this work appealing,” the clerk said, his eyes shining. “It is a book of poetry—mostly the words of troubadours taken from the ballads they sing. But such words! It sometimes takes my breath away to read them.”
He opened the small book and hovered a finger above the text, careful not to touch the fine paper of the page.
“Listen to these words, my lady,” he said, and began to read.
In good faith do I love
And without deceit
The fair lady in my dreams
Whom I shall never meet
But the day shall come
When from dreaming I awake
To find fair lady waiting
For my heart to take.”
Parrot raised his eyes from the text and looked at her.
“Did you like it, my lady?” he asked eagerly.
For a moment Millicent had the sinking feeling that this young clerk was trying to woo her, but when she met his gaze he dropped his eyes back to the page, scanning the words that had so affected him. It was the words that enchanted—not her.
Andrew Parrot is a romantic!
It was a startling thought. The shy clerk had seemed unlikely to be moved by love poems, but the heart can hide many secrets.
“It was lovely, Andrew. Read me another.”
For the remainder of the hour, Andrew Parrot read the words of troubadours to Millicent and truly seemed to be connected to another world entirely.
Twice more in September, she saw candlelight showing under the door to the parlour office late at night. She was tempted to go to Marshall with what she had seen, but what did it really amount to—a clerk working late? She resolved to not bother the Earl unless there was more evidence to present, but she felt her frustration growing.
She summoned Jaime Finch.
“Jamie, the next time our clerk goes for one of his evening walks, I need you to follow him. He’s much less likely to notice you than me. Tell me where he goes and try to see who he talks to—if anyone.”
“Aye, my lady, and thank you. Life as a servant is dreadful borin’. It will be good to visit some of my old haunts.”
Millicent furrowed her brow.
“Jamie, Sergeant Billy told me that you had struggled with drink. You will need a clear head for this.”
Finch scowled.
“Billy is like a nursemaid, but have no concern, my lady. I’m done with spirits. I’ll find out what yer clerk is about and that’s fer certain!”
***
Jamie Finch stood before her, his face red.
“It was a…a…bawdy house, my lady.”
“A what?”
Finch’s fa
ce grew redder.
“A bawdy house, miss. A place where men go…some men…to take pleasure with the girls.”
“A brothel?”
Finch let out a reflexive breath, relieved that Lady Millicent was not entirely unfamiliar with the kind of place he was describing.
“Aye, my lady, a brothel.”
“Andrew Parrot sneaked out to go to a brothel?”
“Aye, miss. I followed him close, though I’m certain he wasn’t aware. I saw him go in the place.”
“How do you know it was a brothel?”
Once more Finch’s face reddened.
“I know that establishment, my lady. It’s been there since I was a boy.”
Millicent recognized her questions were making Finch uncomfortable, but there was no help for it.
“Could you tell who he met with there?”
Finch shuffled his feet.
“No, my lady, I couldn’t very well follow him in.” He paused a moment and his shoulders slumped. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but I’m too well known at the White Mare…from the old days. They’d have made a fuss if I’d gone in.”
Now it was Millicent’s turn to flush a bit.
“I’m sorry, Jamie. I didn’t mean to pry. How long was he there?”
“Oh, I’d say the usual amount of time. Half an hour or so.”
Millicent nodded. Parrot may have been meeting a contact at the White Mare or simply doing what most men did in such establishments. Once more, the clerk’s behaviour had raised suspicions, but provided no proof of treachery.
“We need to find out what he’s doing for certain in that place, Jamie. Can you talk to the owner?”
Finch shook his head sadly.
“I could try, but I doubt she’d talk to me. There is bad blood between us. I’m sorry, miss—maybe ye shoulda kept Sergeant Billy with ye. I know London, it’s true, but I’m afraid, London knows me as well.”
“You needn’t apologize to me, Jamie Finch. None of us is perfect.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Finch said, clearly relieved. He paused for a moment, then spoke again.
