Song Hereafter

by Jean Gill

  He asked them to show him their archery techniques and though they laughed at his awkwardness, they warmed to him for letting them show their skills. They asked him to demonstrate his swordsmanship. Nobody laughed at the ease with which he disarmed the three chosen to fight him. He taught them what he could but they would not be swordmasters, as he would never be an archer.

  If they were anything like as good with bows as the men of Deheubarth, they could kill through a mail shirt at close range and pin a man to his horse from a distance.

  By the time the party reached the inn, Estela sometimes felt she was just one member of Dragonetz’ little army, the weakest of them. He gave her attention as even-handedly as he did the men. She was both reassured by his professional calm, and angry that he didn’t fall to the ground screaming that his son was in danger.

  Yet, in her own way, she did the same. There were two Estelas. Her insides fell to the floor, screamed, wanted to know why they were being punished like this. The other Estela fetched water, made food, tended the horses. She, too, learned the men’s names and tried to get to know them.

  She asked about their families but it was hard for her to ask about children. Maybe it was hard for them too, being asked. Perhaps those children were back in the Isles of Albion. Perhaps they were dead. Many children were dead, she told herself, seeing all those dead children, little ghosts. Maybe the little Prince of Zaragoza was one. She had to fight such trains of thought for they all led back to Musca.

  Estela was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling when Dragonetz returned. ‘Did you find out anything?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Why does that please you?’

  ‘We asked about Miquel and travellers, whether a party with a child had passed through on their way to Montbrun, whether the Lord of Montbrun had escorted a party back to his estate. Whichever way the questions were posed, with whatever encouragement, we found only blank faces.’

  Estela let the implications kindle hope. ‘He’s bluffing,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t have Musca.’

  ‘No. And we shall have him!’

  ‘He’ll know you’re coming. Somebody you asked will hope for a reward by warning him of strangers asking his business.’

  ‘Yes. But it was worth it.’

  ‘Then it’s me he wants. Why?’

  That was a question neither of them could answer.

  THEY LEFT CARCASSONNE at sun-up, the moment the guards opened the great gates, and they were at the bottom of the hill, hidden in a copse, looking up at Montbrun’s walls, within two hours.

  The last time Estela had seen her childhood home, she had been running away, running for her life, afraid. Montbrun seemed smaller now and she was not afraid, even though the gates to the castle were closed. Miquel knew they were coming.

  Not once had Dragonetz asked her to stay behind, to stay safe, and in return she put her trust in his leadership. She would do what he thought best. She asked him simply, ‘What now?’

  He answered her loudly enough for all the men to hear. There were to be no secrets. ‘I want two men to approach the gate, close enough to be heard but not to be reached by arrows. Ask entry. If the gates are opened, we’ll all join you. If entry is refused, report back here on what you find. If they open fire, run back here.’

  These were men who could judge to a flight’s length how far an arrow would reach in the hands of an expert archer so they would risk nothing. Their leader, who had become Dragonetz’ lieutenant at the start of their journey, chose two men and Estela watched them walk up the hill to the gatehouse.

  ‘It’s bigger than Tenby,’ observed Dragonetz, at her side. She knew he was matching the reality to the picture in his head, created from all the details she’d given him. She had tried to turn a girl’s memories into military facts, but curtain walls and sentry posts turned into the place you could see the full moon on a dark night, and the steps she skipped up and down before her world fell apart.

  The archers looked like beetles as they slogged uphill. Then they stopped, presumably exchanging words with invisible guards. The wait was long, longer than was needed to say, ‘We’ll open the gate,’ or, ‘No, you can’t come in.’ Then the two men turned, broke into a jog and looked human-size again as they rejoined their comrades.

  Catching his breath, one told Dragonetz, ‘They had orders not to allow entry.’

  ‘The Lord of Montbrun came to speak in person. He said he wants to speak to his sister, not to anybody else. He knows she’s here. She should go up alone.’

  ‘No,’ said Dragonetz.

  ‘He won’t kill me.’ Estela sounded more confident than she felt and yet, even though she did not trust him, she did not fear him. Something in her had changed during her stay in Gwalia. She had lived Dragonetz’ death and no longer feared her own. She would face whatever came. But Dragonetz would never allow such a risk.

  ‘My Lord,’ said the man, hesitating. ‘In case you should wish my Lady to do so, I placed my waterskin on the ground, where we stood to talk, at a distance that is safe.’

  ‘Dragonetz?’ Estela did not plead. He must make the decision.

  ‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But talk and return. Even if they open the gates, I don’t want you going through without us. I don’t trust him.’

  ‘If I talk him into letting you join me, I could signal you?’

  Dragonetz nodded. ‘Wave this.’ He fetched a blue horse blanket.

  ‘Your colour,’ she smiled at him.

  ‘Our colour,’ he reminded her.

  Then she picked up her skirts and trekked up the hill, five years older and aeons wiser than when she’d left the castle gates.

  There was a path worn by many feet, directly to the gate and Estela spotted the waterskin easily enough. Her safety line. She stopped and looked up at the window in the gatehouse, saw the outline of a man.

  ‘Miquel,’ she yelled up. ‘I’m here. What do you want.’

  ‘You have to come in, so we can talk, so you can see your son.’ His voice made her flinch instinctively. So many memories. Underneath the recent ones, of insults, blows, murder threatened and committed. Underneath all that they were still two children, huddling together while talk of ‘the Lady... dead’ told them they had lost their mother.

  ‘I know you’re lying,’ she shouted. ‘My son is home, safe. Say what you want to say and be done with it. Either you surrender and we talk terms or Dragonetz will lay waste to Montbrun.’ Had she really said that? The little girl she’d once been stood a little taller, shook off the last constraints forged within these walls. She could be the woman she chose to be.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Miquel’s voice held a whine, a plea. ‘I had to make you come.’

  They were right. Musca wasn’t there. Relief flooded Estela.

  ‘I found out what your scarf means, the initials, everything. There’s a metal box. It was hidden in the cellars. I found it when... never mind that now. You’ll understand when you see it. The box explains everything, everything that’s wrong. Estela, we have no choice. We have to do the right thing and kill them both so it ends here. You always did the right thing and I want you with me, so we can do it together because it will hurt. You’ll understand...’ his voice tailed off.

  His words made no sense to her. If he had found out something, then it had only pushed him over the edge. He was possessed, beyond her reach.

  There was movement at the window then an object was dangled out of the small aperture. An object that wailed, objecting to the rude treatment.

  ‘No!’ shouted Estela as Miquel dangled the baby out the window, over the lethal drop.

  ‘We need to kill them, Estela,’ repeated Miquel. ‘Your nephew and your son, both of them. End it here. Make it right. But you need to bring your issue here. It has to be both of them or my work is wasted.’

  Realisation hit Estela like an arrow in the chest. The baby was pulled back from the void, out of sight. Her heart raced. How did you reason with i
nsanity? He’d admitted the baby was his, or that he thought it was. Who knew what was true. And he thought he had to kill it. But he was waiting for her to fetch Musca, to join him in infanticide.

  She wanted to be sick. Musca is safe, she told herself. Put him out of mind. What would Dragonetz do? What would he want me to do?

  ‘I want to see the box, to understand,’ she told her brother, ‘but Dragonetz is very protective. I can only come in if he is with me.’ She had the blue blanket ready to wave, hoping.

  The answer was uncompromising. ‘No. Dragonetz will have to take Montbrun to enter and that he’ll never do. Just you. Come in, alone, and you’ll understand everything. You need to know what we’ve done. Brought monsters into the world! We have to put it right! Not let it carry on.’

  Estela hesitated, stroking her pathfinder brooch as had become her habit when she had to make a difficult decision. He was her brother, however troubled. Couldn’t she take what was offered? Go into Montbrun?

  If they opened the gates, maybe Dragonetz and his men could storm the hill and come in with her? She dismissed the thought instantly. Montbrun had been built on such a hill to ensure nobody had time to approach unseen. There was always time to close the gate and then she would be alone with Miquel, having lost any trust he might feel.

  What would Dragonetz think if she went into Montbrun, defied his orders? Trust, she thought. Trust matters.

  ‘I promised my husband I would not go in alone.’ The truth could be so simple. ‘Won’t you let us come in together?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then Dragonetz will lay siege.’

  ‘Let him! Let him batter himself against Montbrun. You will come in eventually.’

  His words rang in her head as she walked back down the hill, listening all the time for a baby crying. What if he held the baby out the window again but dropped him this time? Then he’d have no hostage she told herself, assuming mad logic when all she was sure of was the madness.

  She fell into Dragonetz’ arms, told him Miquel was insane, wanted her alone to talk with about some family matter that made no sense, that the only way in was by fighting. She told him Miquel was mad enough to kill his own baby and that they had to think of the child in any attack they planned. But she didn’t tell him what Miquel had said about Musca. She couldn’t. What if she saw what was inside the metal box and the horror stuck her too?

  THEY HAD MADE AS MUCH speed as could be expected, given the possessions that Prima and the cook considered to be essential. When Dragonetz’ wrote all the household he had not meant every single cooking pot and vase. It’s a pity that bit of the note hadn’t been smudged and illegible like the other parts. The women explained how fine the Zaragoza pottery was – irreplaceable – and he lost the argument. He just hoped the damned collection wasn’t shattered after the weeks bumping along in the wagons.

  Gilles saw to the human accommodation while Raoulf paid a groom to look after the horses. Malik wanted to personally stay with Sadeek and the wagons, and would sleep there, as would the domestic staff and guards they’d hired for the journey.

  Many times on the road, Gilles and Raoulf had been glad of Malik’s strength and experience but his presence was a strain. He had aged since his wife’s death, retreated even further into the reserve that had always formed a barrier between him and most men. He spent more time with Sadeek than with his human companions and only with the destrier did the sadness sometimes leave his eyes.

  Gilles had sent a messenger to Barcelone, to let Malik know they were leaving his Zaragoza home and the reply had been Malik himself, asking questions about Dragonetz. When he talked about Dragonetz and Estela some of the light came back into his eyes. Gilles thought Malik would stay in Zaragoza where there must be so many memories but, instead, he volunteered his services for the journey, said he would see them safely to Montbrun.

  Gilles accepted without question, knowing that Dragonetz would approve, would be happy to see Malik again. But it was a relief when the Moor was elsewhere, so Gilles could talk comfortably with Raoulf, watch the children playing ‘bump down the step on bottoms’, without feeling guilty for Malik’s loss. He carried his wife’s death like a black cloud that blocked the sun from anyone near to him. Gilles did not want to imagine what he felt. Was his own affection for Prima as deep as that? What would either of them feel if the other died. There. He shook himself. That was exactly the kind of thought he didn’t want and that Malik elicited by his silent presence.

  It was strange for Gilles to be back home, where he’d done his best by two motherless children. He skirted the darker memories and thought of bringing Estela’s child to her in Montbrun. How her mother would have welcomed this sunny grandchild, who played with his foster-brother as if they were true kin.

  He remembered Estela’s brother as a little boy, wondered what she and Dragonetz were doing in Montbrun, but their orders had been clear. He would find out soon enough and Dragonetz would be pleased that they were early. They had worked hard to make out the words on the note but they had agreed on May-day or before. And they had made it! They were in Carcassonne with three days to May-day and would be in Montbrun the very next day.

  A wet nose rubbed against Gilles’ hand and he caressed Nici absent-mindedly. ‘Soon, boy, soon. You can run around tomorrow. We’re going home.’

  DRAGONETZ’ SUMMARY had been succinct and blunt. He had even included Estela’s wish that the inhabitants of Montbrun should be spared if possible, even her mad brother. Their aim was to get into the castle; disarm, disable or kill (if necessary) any defenders; find Miquel and take him prisoner – a glance at Estela; and rescue the baby. Whether there were any other children, or any women, still in Montbrun, they had no idea.

  ‘How do you think we should proceed?’ he asked his men. He’d already told Estela that four months and a mangonel would make things easier.

  ‘Two destroy the gate with hand-axes while the others fire arrows for cover,’ was one suggestion.

  Dragonetz waited, let the objection come from within their ranks. ‘We don’t have the numbers to take losses and they could pour scalding water or oil from the gatehouse onto the men with axes. They’d risk nothing and we’d lose men.’

  There was a silence while they thought.

  ‘We used night as cover, in Gwalia, and took the gate down, caught them unawares,’ Dragonetz told them.

  ‘They know we’re here. The guards won’t let twenty men climbing a hill go unnoticed, even at night.’ The lieutenant considered the matter. ‘What about fire? We can shoot flaming arrows over the walls, shoot enough that wood or produce will catch fire, cause chaos.’

  ‘We could shoot fire arrows into the gate too, finish it with axes if the guard’s distracted. I doubt there are that many defenders. They’ll all need to work to put fires out.’

  ‘Can you make fire arrows?’ Dragonetz asked.

  ‘Aye. We have oil and tows.’

  ‘Tows?’

  ‘Cloths to dip in oil and tie below the arrow-head. We’ll need to make fires, up near the castle so we can light the arrows quickly, fire volleys together.’

  ‘Then they’ll know our numbers and there will be no surprise.’

  Estela’s voice sounded loud to her own ears as she spoke into the silence. ‘I think Miquel is afraid of fire.’

  The men looked at her and she swallowed, licked her dry lips, betrayed her brother. ‘He was badly burned. That’s why he wears a mask over half his face.’

  Dragonetz nodded grimly. ‘I’d forgotten. Then fire it is.’ He turned to Estela. ‘Fire hits where it will so there might be casualties but fewer than if we aimed to kill. And the baby is more likely to be safe. If Miquel is panicking over fire, somebody else will keep the baby safe.’

  More likely. Estela nodded. ‘I’ll carry a torch, help light the arrows.’

  They did all the preparation they could, then climbed the hill. Quiverfuls of arrows fluttered their tows gaily in the breeze, like dancers round a maypo
le. Each tow was dipped in oil, waiting only for the spark. Dragonetz and the men carried wood, and Estela carried a tinder-box.

  They stopped when the leading archer said, ‘Here.’

  ‘I thought you had to be close to the walls to shoot over?’ Dragonetz queried.

  ‘The difference between good archers and mediocre is enough to get these arrows into that castle without us being killed,’ the archer replied.

  Then they set to their fire-lighting, watched by the figures in the gate-house. Twelve archers were to shoot, eight plus Dragonetz and Estela to light the tows.

  The fire was soon crackling. A few feeble attempts were made to fire water bombs from the gate-house at the fire but the English archers mocked their enemy as the weighted arrows dropped well short.

  ‘What will they be doing?’ asked Estela as she held her brand in the fire, her hand wrapped in water-soaked cloth to protect it.

  ‘If they have any sense, they’re throwing water and vinegar over any cloth they find and putting it against the gate.’

  Then the brand caught and Estela rushed to her designated archer, as did the other fire-lighters, each with his brand, and the sky filled with fire and screaming. Again and again and again.

  When the brand was burning too much Estela rushed back to the fire, threw it in, grabbed another thick stick from the pile, waited till it caught and rushed back to her archer. Her face streamed with sweat and grime. She was coughing with the fumes from unseasoned wood. She barely saw the gate catch fire, the men rush it with axes, hack away the blazing fragments.

  The gate burned like the entry to hell as the men ran through into the mayhem inside. Estela dropped her burning stick, then worried that the hillside would catch fire. Why did nobody tell you all the practical decisions required in storming a castle? She took off her pathfinder brooch, pinned it to her gown and threw her cloak over the stick to smother the flames.

  Then she raced after them through a blaze of wood that would need more than a lady’s cloak to put it out. She didn’t stop. She had only two thoughts: Miquel; baby. Her instinct told her she would find them both as far from the flames as possible; in the cellars.