A week beyond Richmond, they came to the walled city of York, two hundred strong, forty knights and the rest sergeants and bowmen. The squat motte the Conqueror had constructed to aid in quelling the rebellious north made a dark obtrusion against the leaden sky. The city itself was swathed in smutty smoke, and the half-frozen Swale was choked with refuse.
Eleanor studied the walls, trying to see if she could distinguish the Roman from the Norman parts, and wondered just what the Marshall had in mind. It seemed unlikely that two hundred men, however valorous, could take this fortress town. She remembered that the Roundheads under Cromwell had breached the wall with cannon, but it would take siege weapons at least. She might, she realized, be able to magic the stones out of the wall, but the moon and sun were hidden behind the wind-driven clouds, and she needed the lunar orb. Besides, she was fairly certain the walls contained the kind of living dead she had seen at Glastonbury, and she had no desire to give them an exit other than the gates. Eleanor cursed herself for a managing female and reminded herself that her job was to advise Arthur, not to do it for him. She made a wry face, remembering how Doyle had had to force her into independence and thought she had learned his lessons too well.
There were half a dozen wagons in the train now, full of corn for the horses, linen for bandages, blankets for sleeping, and kegs of ale for drinking, as well as mutton and venison in no danger of spoiling quickly in the frigid temperatures. They had also acquired a handful of camp followers, hard-faced women who cooked and swore with astonishing fluency.
Eleanor was watching the camp sort itself out from the wagon seat when she saw the gates of the city swing partly open. A handful of riders trotted out and came purposefully toward the encampment. The wind had died to a breeze that barely stirred the bannerets, though it felt as if it might burst out again at any moment. The air was almost tense, and she found herself listening for a boom of thunder.
Arthur appeared beside the wagon, his chain mail jingling a little over his leather jerkin. He put his dark hand over hers. "We are about to have company, milady.”
"They don’t look like they are coming to sue for peace, but there’s too few to fight. I wonder what—”
"Bring your staff and come meet them with me and the Marshall.”
"Yes, my lord,” she said with a quick grin to take the sting out of the words. Arthur had become a bit abrupt and autocratic over the past week, but she knew it could hardly be otherwise. His Plantagenet nature had combined with the demands of a tenuous position— for the men were loyal to the Marshall and not without reservations about the young king—to bring out both the best and worst in his character. The rest of the time he commanded, which was the best way to gain the respect of the doubtful and indecisive.
He grinned back and waited to help her down from the wagon, a task that grew more awkward with each passing day. Eleanor shivered a little outside the wagon and hugged around her the heavy brown cloak Lady Elfrida had given her, though her hand on the staff left a vent through which the breeze entered. Arthur put a sheltering arm around her and led her toward the magnificent bulk of the Marshall silhouetted against the sky.
The delegation from York was six men-at-arms and a seventh in the garb of a priest. The priest slid off his horse with ill grace, landed his foot in a half-frozen puddle, and promptly fell on his butt. The dozen or so knights who had gathered behind William forced back smiles, but no one made any move to assist the fallen man to his feet, and the six mounted men sat as still as statues. Their hands rested slackly on the reins of their horses, and their eyes stared at nothing.
The priest rose with what dignity he could muster, his garments wet with mud. He shook out the skirts of his robe with a dirty hand, straightened his shoulders, and drew himself up to his full five-foot-nothing, arranging his face in a caricature of a smile. His eyes were like dabs of blackberry jam in his wizened face. "I have come to accept your surrender,” he began without preamble.
William’s laughter rumbled like distant thunder. "Now, Pere Gerard, why should anyone surrender to a little raisin of a man like you?” he bellowed.
The priest jumped, and a look of confusion crossed his face. Eleanor almost felt sorry for him, for it was obvious that whatever power had sent him out had not prepared him for anything but capitulation. "I speak for the Mouth of York, and I will accept your swords as—”
"The rector of York speaks for the rectum,” a knight behind William interrupted crudely. He got a quelling look from the Marshall, though his fellows grinned among themselves.
"...As a token of your surrender to the lawful authority of my master,” the priest continued as if he had not heard. "I will take that man and the woman as hostages and—”
"You will take nothing but a swift boot on your shrunken backside,” the Marshall interrupted. "You were a poor excuse for a priest thirty years ago, but you are an even worse one for a servant of the Shadow.”
"I serve the Power, the Great Power of the Almighty.” The words were spoken tonelessly, by rote.
"Do you remember me?” Arthur asked, peering at the face of the priest.
"Certainly. You are dead.” He smiled. "I helped kill you, so I am quite sure. Good John is a true servant of the Great Power, and we could not let a wicked..He faded off, confused by Arthur’s presence. "Evil! Abomination! The Lion’s whelps are all dead, dead, de—” Spittle drooled out of the nearly toothless mouth, and he ground to a halt like a windup toy running out of turns.
"Go back to your master and tell him we do not surrender but await his personal presence on the battlefield tomorrow.” Arthur’s voice was kind but firm.
Gerard blinked. "You mean you will not give me your swords?”
"Only between your ears, old man,” William snarled.
"But you must. I have my orders. Collect the swords and bring the woman and the dead man. It is so simple, you see.” With surprising quickness, he made a dart toward Eleanor.
Eleanor had no more devout wish than to avoid any contact with the Shadow at all costs, so she grasped her staff' in both hands and extended it toward his bony hands. He curled his fingers around it, as if to pull it from her, and then screamed when lines of blue fire began to crawl up his forearms. He snatched his hands back and did a hoppity-dance, flailing his scrawny arms like a drab scarecrow. The knights behind William laughed at his antics, although it had an uneasy edge to it.
The fire faded, and Gerard stood quivering with indignation, his cheeks puffed out into sallow balloons. "Witch! Kill her!” The still-mounted men stirred in their stupor, and she heartily wished she had stayed in the wagon, for while Arthur would defend her, she was not sure anyone else would.
The mounted men were terribly slow in their movements, like sleepers barely aroused, and Eleanor found she was angry. Her feet were cold, her back hurt, and she could hear real thunder rumbling in the distance. She wanted to be warm and out of the weather, and she was totally uninterested in the nicer points of chivalry. Her resolution to keep a low profile and not be a managing female vanished in a surge of adrenaline.
With a sweeping gesture, she thrust her cloak back, lifted her arms, and let the divine fire of the goddess course through her veins. Her body was a vessel of anger, righteous anger, her face a flame. She flew at the mounted men like an outraged phoenix.
The horses were more alert than their riders, and they found this apparition not at all to their liking. Two reared, and one turned tail and galloped toward the chilly waters of the Swale, screaming with equine hysteria. Gerard’s horse bolted in the other direction.
One rider of greater purpose than his fellows got his sword out, mastered his capering steed, and rushed at her. Eleanor brought the staff across his helm with a bright flare of light. The horse took matters to himself, dumped the rider, and sped away toward the city. A sword cut through the air beside her, and the fallen man was half-beheaded.
Eleanor glanced up, expecting to see Arthur or the Marshall, but it was a grim-faced knight, helmle
ss and unshielded. The two remaining riders were dragged off their white-eyed mounts and slain in the next instant, and she was surrounded by four of William’s men.
Her fire faded, and she saw the priest had tripped and fallen into the mud. A knight hauled him upright and dripping by the cowl of his cloak, so Gerard made gabbling noises, and shook him like a pompon. Then he released the priest and wiped his hand distastefully on his leg.
Gerard staggered, coughing and sputtering, as Eleanor turned to find the Marshall firmly holding Arthur from the brief affray. She grinned and drew her cloak back around her as a flash of lightning made the falling dusk bright. Thunder boomed, and a throaty gust of wind swirled cloaks like dervishes. The heavens opened up with enthusiasm.
"Go back and tell your master we will see him in hell,” a knight bellowed at Gerard, the storm almost drowning his words. The priest scurried off toward the city.
Arthur came to her, smiling slightly as rain drenched his ruddy hair. "You are too quick, my lady.”
"I haven’t been getting enough exercise,” she screamed back at him. And Doyle taught me to take care of myself, she added silently. As Arthur drew her back toward the wagons, Eleanor realized that it was impossible for her to maintain a passive posture, that she" had changed so much that neither pregnancy nor the lack of the fire sword could prevent her from combat.
That was wrong. She was a woman; women made life, not took it. She laughed a little hysterically at this sexist notion. Why should men do all the dirty work, just because they were bigger and stronger? If there must be wars, then every able-bodied person should fight. And having solved this philosophical point to her own satisfaction, she climbed into the wagon and removed her soaking clothes and dried herself before putting on dry ones. She patted her belly and promised the unborn child—a son, she was sure—that she would always fight beside him.
The rain drummed on the wooden roof of the wain, almost drowning out the thunder, but the lightning flashed. She stretched out on the bed and wondered if
Arthur felt unmanned by her precipitous actions. It had been so much simpler when she’d been just her father’s little girl.
Morning brought warm, wet snow that melted almost as soon as it hit the ground. It also brought Arthur and William into the wagon for a war council, so the cramped space was filled with the dank smell of wet leather and mutton-greased mail. The Marshall sat on the wagon seat, his huge legs inside and his torso and head filling the opening. Eleanor and Arthur sat together on the bed.
"How great a force do you think is in York?” she asked, for she had not been privy to that information.
"Two thousand or a few more,” William replied.
"And we are two hundred. Why don’t we just go on, then?”
"Because I do not want a force that big at my back.” He studied her with intent gray eyes. "Tell me, milady, what are you?”
Eleanor considered the question carefully. She discarded several easy, flip answers, trying to find a bridge between her service to the goddess and his reverence of the Virgin that would not seem heretical. Arthur’s discretion had been admirable, but it gave her no clue how to proceed. Despite the liberal proclamation of the multiverse by the pope, she was fairly certain that magic was still frowned upon in polite circles, and Gerard’s naming her "witch” was now known to all in the camp. And, remembering what had happened to Jeanne d’Arc—or would happen, she reminded herself—she was not going to claim divine guidance. The French heroine had always struck her as well intentioned but incredibly naive.
"I am Arthur’s friend.”
The hamlike hands of the Marshall slapped onto his thighs. "That is all very well, but it does not explain how you turned to fire before my eyes.”
Eleanor felt herself stiffen. "I am working toward the same end you are.”
"Aye, but for whom? People do not burn but demons do.”
"Of all the stupid... you don’t have enough problems with a city full of those gibbering apes of Darkness, but you must suspect me of being in league with the Devil. You certainly will be doing his work if you get rid of me. Or if you try to. I am not sure you can. I might have to kill you, which would grieve me, sorrow Arthur, and be fatal to our cause.”
"Kill me?” He seemed amused.
Arthur looked at him. "Do not doubt it. I have seen her bum a man to death without touching him. And do not threaten her. I have told you of my thoughts in these matters, and I will not be gainsayed.”
"We want no Melusines in Albion.”
"I am not in the habit of turning into a dragon on Saturday, or any other time, Marshall. In any case, the matter will not arise, for I have no intention of marrying Arthur or anyone else. No, my lord, I will not be queen, nor have the child within me superseded by his brothers or sisters. So, if that is all that troubles you, Lord William, you may set your mind at rest. Arthur must marry a lady of noble birth. It is only right. And he won’t marry anyone if we cannot stop squabbling and find a way to take York.”
Arthur was glaring at her, so she raised a hand to his cheek. "It is not that I do not care for you, my lord, but that I would find being queen a dead bore.” She did not say that Bridget might haul her back to a world she had almost forgotten on a whim, baby and all. That would be quite a shock to her mother. "You really must not get into the habit of announcing your intentions before you have inquired whether they will be met with approval.” She turned a bland face to William’s frown.
"There was never any question that such a thing would happen,” he rumbled. "Kings may not marry as they please. But you have not answered my question. What are you?”
"Right now I am a very cold, tired, pregnant woman who wants nothing more than a warm, soft bed in a room with no drafts.”
"How did you make the fire appear in your face?” "Did I? I could not see it.” That was true enough. "I pray... to Saint Bridget, and she strengthens me.” That was true, too, as far as it went. It was also a simple answer with no visions or voices.
The Marshall was not completely convinced, but her reply assured him slightly. "Tell me, can you make a fire onto the city of York?”
"Are all who dwell in York in Shadow?”
"No, no. Many there are who live under the Shadow but are not of it. This is true all across the land.” "Then, no, I cannot do anything. I will not use my gifts in any way that might hurt innocent people.” William nodded. '”Tis true. Yesterday you but defended yourself—and right well, I might add, though your quarter-stave work would not aid you against aught but a priest.”
"Then, after I have the baby, you must show me how to do it right.”
He looked shocked and pleased. "My lady!”
"Why not, William? You were wont to spar with my sister years ago.”
"True, but she was yet a child, not a woman.”
"How is she?”
"I cannot say, for no man can say where she dwells, or if she is still alive. She vanished from her bed nineteen years ago.”
"My uncle John’s hand again?”
William looked thoughtful. "No, I do not think this can be laid at his door, though many, including your mother, have. But that is something to ponder another time. I am satisfied, for now, that your intentions are pure, milady. For if you were in league with the Devil, you would not hesitate to kill the innocent. Now, let us see if we can find some other way to bring York to its knees.”
Eleanor wriggled her toes in her slightly damp hose and did not disabuse him of his simplistic attitude toward Satan. Her own opinion was that the Prince of Darkness was a lot sneakier and more subtle than most people gave him credit for. Instead, she was content to have eased his mind as to her own motivations, though she had several doubts and sincerely wished she knew herself a little better.
Three nasty days passed, and the gates of York remained closed. Whatever intelligence guided the master Gerard served seemed to have been stymied by their refusal to capitulate. Either that or it had decided to let the cruel weather do his work for hi
m. Chilblain, frostbite, and pneumonia made their presence felt in the camp, and Eleanor spent some time ministering willow tea and comfort to the sufferers.
The fourth morning dawned dark and cold, and there seemed to be a black cloud rising from the city and stretching out to the horizon. Eleanor studied it and noted that the driving wind did not stir its edges. She pointed out the phenomenon to Arthur, and he agreed it probably meant that something was about to occur.
"By the way, milord, I have lost all track of time. Do you have any idea what the date is?”
"All Hallow’s Eve, my lady.”
She made a face. "That figures, I suppose.”
"Why?”
"I don’t know—except from Glastonbury on May Eve to here on Halloween makes... good poetic sense. What is that?”
There was a disturbance on one side of the camp, a guard shouting and someone bellowing back. Moments later, a cluster of mounted men came into view, followed by a number on foot. At their head was a slender man who swept his helm off as he dismounted, revealing black hair and a crooked nose. His eyes were dark, and he moved like a cat. He moved toward Arthur purposefully and bent an elegant knee into the snow.
"My lord king,” he began in a light tenor voice, "I have come to offer my sword.”
Arthur stared at him blankly for a second. "Giles de Repton! I see you have not grown much since last we met. Get up, man.” He clapped the short fellow heartily as Eleanor studied him. From their chatter, she gathered that Giles had been an esquire at the birthday banquet where Arthur had drunk a glass of wine that gave him a twenty-year nap. There was some raillery about a sister, now married and fat according to Giles.
A shout from the pickets ended the reunion. It was followed by the hollow moan of a war horn. The gates of the city began to open, and men scurried to arm themselves and saddle their mounts.
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01] Page 34
