by Wayne Grant
“Obliged,” Declan gasped between deep breaths.
“Don’t mention it,” Roland said as he stood up.
Leaving the rope in place, they moved carefully along the pitched roof toward the end of the hall. Their view of the bailey and the east gate was blocked by the roof, but as they reached the southern end of the building, they gained the wall walk and could see torches lit by the east gate and the keep. Beyond the east curtain wall another glow could be seen—torchlight from the force the Sheriff and Sir Roger had marched up the hill to distract the garrison. Against that glow Roland could see men manning the east wall duck as the Danes sent occasional volleys of arrows over the wall.
They did not pause to admire the show being put on outside the east gate of the castle, but hurried along the wall walk to stone steps that led down into the inner bailey. Nothing moved in the dark courtyard and, keeping to the shadows, they crept to the entrance of the great hall. There was no guard at the door of the hall and the two slipped quietly inside. The place was empty save for a lone guard on the far side sitting on a bench, his head in his hands. Roland motioned for Declan to wait as he drew his short sword and crept across the vast room. The guard did not look up until Roland was ten paces away. Startled, he leapt to his feet, stumbling backwards over the bench and landing on his backside. He looked around desperately for his spear, but it was lying on the floor, well out of reach.
“Easy, lad,” Roland whispered. “I’ll not harm you. Now stand up.”
The boy stood up and looked about to cry.
“What’s your name?”
“Harold, lord,” the boy whispered.
“Like the Saxon king,” Roland said.
The boy’s eyes grew wide.
“That’s what she said!”
“She?” Roland asked eagerly. “You know of Lady Millicent?”
“Aye, lord. He just came and got her an hour ago. He’s not a foreigner like the others. He’s English, but he’s a bad man. He took her to the keep. I didn’t want him to take her away, but he said he’d kill me…”
Roland put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen by the look of him.
“It’s not your fault, Harold, but tell me, where did he take her?”
“They’ve gone to the keep, sir. I watched him lead her up the stairs. I’m sorry, sir. She was kind to me. Are you her husband?”
“Aye, lad. I am.”
The boy nodded.
“She said you would come.”
***
“What now?” asked Declan as they stood outside the empty cell.
“I’ll not leave without her,” said Roland. “We need to get into the keep.”
“And how might we do that?”
Roland turned and looked at the morose young guard who had sat back on the bench, his head hung low.
“Harold, will you help us?”
The boy had been pondering his own cowardice and hadn’t followed the discussion going on around him.
“Help you, lord?” he asked, confused.
“Aye, lad. Tell us how we could get into the keep.”
Harold seemed to pale at that notion, but put on a brave face.
“I’ve had duty there from time to time, lord. There’s a man who guards the door at the bottom and it’s always barred.”
“How can we make them open it?” Roland pressed him.
The boy looked nervous, but stood up and straightened his shoulders.
“They’d open the door for me, lord.”
Roland threw an arm over the boy’s shoulders.
“That’s all the help we’ll need, lad. Get them to crack the door and we’ll do the rest.”
Harold swallowed hard, but nodded his head.
“Aye, sir.”
***
Harold trooped directly across the bailey toward the wooden steps that led up to the entrance of the keep. Keeping to the shadows, two men followed the west wall until they reached the base of the keep. As Harold started up the steps, Roland stepped out of the darkness and fell in behind him. Declan slid beneath the stairs and waited.
When Harold reached the landing outside the door, Roland ducked down and pressed himself up against the door frame. From here he could not be seen through the small window in the door and he had a good view across the bailey to the eastern wall. Men were thick along the wall walk there, waiting for an assault from that quarter.
For a long moment, Harold stood there fidgeting on the landing, but then he gathered himself and rapped firmly on the door. A panel slid back.
“Sergeant sent me to relieve you,” the boy said briskly. “You’re to join the others on the east wall.”
There was a pause, then a voice inside came back.
“I’ve just come on duty!”
Harold shrugged.
“Take it up with the Sergeant,” he said absently. “I’m just followin’ orders.”
An audible sigh could be heard through the narrow slot.
“Alright, then,” the voice said, as the sound of a bolt being drawn back and a bar being lifted came from inside, “but I’ll have ‘t have a wor…”
The man didn’t finish his complaint as the door exploded inwards. The guard stumbled backwards, blood spurting from his broken nose. Roland tumbled into the small alcove that lay behind the door and, leaping to his feet, brought the hilt of his sword down on the guard’s head, dropping him in a heap.
Looking back through the open doorway he saw Harold still standing, frozen to the spot at the top of the stairs. Behind the boy, Declan came bounding up the steps two at a time. Roland stepped back through door and looked to the left. Nothing moved in the bailey. He turned to Harold and grasped him by the shoulders.
“Get back to yer post in the hall, lad. Lay on the floor till they find you. Tell them we waylaid you. Do you understand me, Harold?”
The boy nodded, but did not speak. As Declan reached the landing, Harold turned and walked back down the steps as though in a dream and headed toward the hall. When Declan cleared the opening, Roland eased the door shut and dropped the bar to secure it.
Directly across the alcove from the door was a set of stone steps that ran straight down and out of sight into darkness. No doubt a storage space at ground level. On the left side of the alcove a spiral staircase twisted up toward the floor above. Roland brought his finger to his lips and the two young knights stood still, listening for any sign that the brief skirmish at the door had alerted any guards on the main floor of the keep. Roland counted up to a hundred and no sound came from above. He switched his short sword to his left hand and started up the narrow staircase.
By the tenth step, he could see the faint glow of light from above, but still there was silence. On the fifteenth step a man stepped around the blind corner and hacked at him with a broadsword. Roland lurched back against the inside wall of the spiral stairs as the blade whistled by him. It struck the opposite wall in a shower of sparks and glanced off harmlessly.
Before the man could draw back his arm, Roland snatched him by the wrist and yanked, pitching him headfirst into the outer wall of the stairs. Knocked senseless, the man slid down the wall and lay unmoving with his head pointed down the steps. Declan grabbed the back of his collar and tumbled the limp body down to the alcove below.
Roland did not wait to see if another attacker was coming down the stairs at him. He swung around the blind curve of the stairs and flew up the last few steps toward the main floor of the keep, surprising a worried-looking guard at the stop of the stairs. The man had, no doubt, been expecting his comrade to return from checking on the odd noise downstairs. He was not prepared for a stranger to burst out of the shadows and had not even drawn his sword.
Roland laid the point of his own blade at the guard’s throat.
“The lady,” he snarled. “Where is she?”
The guard tried to speak but terror had stilled his tongue. He managed to point to the next set of steps that led up to the second l
evel of the keep. Roland lowered his sword and made for the next flight of stairs as Declan reached the main floor. The guard stood there looking dazed. Declan relieved the man of his sword, then punched him in the temple. The guard’s eyes rolled back in his head as Declan caught him and lowered him gently to the floor.
“Sorry, lad,” he said as he turned and followed Roland.
At the top of the next flight of steps, Roland found a short hall with small rooms on either side. Ahead, the hall opened into a large receiving room where the Earl held audiences. Millicent Inness was there. So was Henry Catchpole who had his arm around her waist and his curved dagger held up to her throat. The pale Englishman had known instantly what the sounds down the stairs had meant and showed no surprise as Roland and Declan entered the chamber.
“That’s all ye brought?” he asked looking at the two men with a sneer. “For a sweet young bird like this un, I’d a thought more would come!”
“Let her go,” Roland said quietly.
“You’re not givin’ the orders here,” Catchpole shot back. “I am. Now unless ye want me t’ slit the lady’s throat, ye’ll lay those swords down and slide them over to me.”
Roland looked at Declan, who shook his head. Ignoring him, Roland bent down and laid his short sword on the floor.
“You too, Red,” Catchpole said, jerking his head toward Declan. The Irish knight scowled but laid his broadsword beside Roland’s blade.
“Anything else?” Catchpole demanded. Roland locked eyes with Millicent and slowly reached down, drawing Ivo Brun’s dagger from his boot.
“Good boy!” Catchpole said with a ghastly grin. “Now slide ‘em over here.” The two knights squatted and slid their weapons across the floor.
“That’s better,” said Catchpole, as he shoved Millicent aside and bent to retrieve the weapons at his feet. “Now we can get better acquainted. I believe you must be the famous Sir Roland Inness that the Earl is so afraid of. Can’t see why.”
He lifted Declan’s broadsword and gave it a tentative slash. Satisfied, he picked up Roland’s short sword and seemed less impressed. He tossed it behind him. As he reached out for the dagger with the ruby in the handle, a slender white hand darted out and seized it first.
Millicent did not hesitate. As the man whirled toward her, she drove the blade of the dagger upwards with all her strength. It went in under Catchpole’s ribs, grazed his lung and lodged in his heart. He looked down at the handle still stuck in his chest and ripped it out. Roland leapt across the floor, but there was no need. Catchpole toppled over backwards and lay still. Roland wrenched the dagger from his hand.
Henry Catchpole’s eyes were open. They looked dead.
Roland turned to Millicent and she leapt into his arms.
“You came for me,” she whispered in his ear.
“I always do,” he whispered back.
Declan cleared his throat loudly as he watched the two.
“Good to see you, too, Millie,” he said with a grin, “but we’d best be moving along,” he suggested.
Millicent laughed at that and Roland freed her from his embrace. They stooped and collected their blades from the floor. Roland wiped the bloody dagger clean on Catchpole’s vest and slid it in his boot. Declan led the way down the two flights of spiral stairs to the alcove at the door of the keep. As they reached the main floor, he saw that the young guard he’d laid out was gone. When they reached the alcove it was empty as well. The guard who’d opened the door to them was gone, as was the man Roland had knocked senseless on the stairs above. The door of the keep stood wide open.
Roland stuck his head out and saw a half dozen men gathering at the bottom of the stairs. More could be seen running across the bailey toward the keep. And there, in the flickering torchlight, he saw a face he’d recognize anywhere. William de Ferrers stood at the bottom of the stairs, pointing at the open door and screaming at his men. Roland slammed the door and dropped the bar in place.
Their escape was cut off.
***
The low boom of a ram slamming against the door of the keep echoed across the bailey, penetrating even the thick walls of the great hall. Harold sat up from where he’d laid down beside the open cell door. The sound came again and he stood, then hurried across the empty hall to the door. He peered outside and saw men running across the bailey toward the keep. Earl William was there, standing at the foot of the stairs and shouting something that Harold couldn’t make out.
The door to the keep was out of sight around the corner of the building, but as another boom reached him, it was plain that men were trying to break it down. Harold knew he should heed Sir Roland’s words and go back to his post, but he hesitated. If the knight and his lady had got clean away, there’d be no need to knock down the door of the keep. They must still be inside and once that door was breached…
He didn’t like to think on that.
Harold took a deep breath. A year ago he’d been the fourth son of a farmer who could barely feed three. He’d only taken up service at the castle for two good meals a day and clean straw to sleep on. He knew he was no soldier. But there were real soldiers outside the gates of Peveril this night—men who’d bested these frightening foreign fighters the Earl had brought from France.
He might be useless, but those men might help.
He took another deep breath and headed across the bailey toward the north wall of the castle. Behind him the booming continued as he reached the stone steps that led up to the wall walk. He could see that men still manned the east wall, keeping watch on the attackers down the hill. No one manned the north wall, for good reason. Here a steep slope dropped from the base of the wall all the way down to the edge of the village. It wasn’t a cliff, but it was an impossible approach for an enemy attacking the castle.
Harold looked over the parapet and could barely make out the ground fifteen feet below. He dropped his spear over the side, point first, and it lodged near the base of the wall. He dropped his helmet next. It bounced once, then rolled out of sight down the hill. With his heart hammering in his chest, he crawled between two merlons and grasping the freezing stone with both hands, lowered himself over the side
For a moment he clung there afraid to let go. Then, gritting his teeth, Harold released his grip and dropped into the darkness. He landed on the steep slope at an awkward angle and heard a bone snap in his leg as he crumpled to the ground. He felt no pain, but the fall sent him tumbling down the hill. As he gained speed, he reached out frantically with both hands clawing at the frost-coated grass until he managed to grasp a clump of young gorse and stop himself with a jerk. He lay there for a long time, holding on to the prickly bush and breathing hard. He felt his leg begin to throb.
Can’t stop now, he thought.
He sat up and began to slide down the hill toward the town on his backside.
***
“Sir James!”
The Sheriff turned to see Will Yardley, the butcher’s son, coming up the hill from Castleton. Behind him were two more villagers supporting a third man who hopped on one foot to keep up.
“We have a lad from the fort,” Will announced proudly. “Says he went over the wall and has to talk to you!”
Sir James squinted at the man in the dim light.
“Why it’s Harold, is it not?” the Sheriff said.
The boy gave an awkward grin, pleased that the Sheriff of Derbyshire should remember his name.
“Aye, lord. It’s Harold. I broke my leg, I think.”
“We’ll get that tended to, son, but tell me, what did you need to tell me?”
“It’s the lady, my lord, the one they brought in. Her husband, Sir Roland, and another knight come to get her in the hall. Put a real fright into me, they did! I told them they’d already took her to the keep, but they gave that no mind. They was bound and determined to get her, so I helped ‘em get in the door of the keep. I never saw ‘em come back out and now the Earl is trying to break back into the keep. I think he’ll kill ‘em a
ll if he does. The lady, she was kind to me…,” he said, his voice trailing off.
Sir Roger stepped forward.
“You saw Lady Millicent? Was she harmed?”
“No, lord. They wasn’t gentle with her when they brought her in,” he said gravely, “but she seemed well enough, mostly hungry and thirsty. I brought her water and food,” he added, brightly.
Sir James laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You did well, Harold. Very well! Sit down now. Someone splint this boy’s leg!”
The two villagers helped Harold over to a stump and sat him down as the Sheriff turned to Sir Roger.
“I don’t know how they did it, but they’ve gotten in, and hold the keep,” he said.
“How long can they hold out?” asked the big Norman knight.
The Sheriff shook his head.
“Not long, I reckon. It’s only two men. Right good ones, I know, but de Ferrers will break down the door and can send his mercenaries in. I’d give them a few hours, at most.”
“We have to help them!” the big Norman declared, desperation in his voice..
“With what, my lord?” the Sheriff asked. “With what?”
***
Sir Roger de Laval slid his hand through the leather loop attached to the handle of his battle axe and looked at the men who’d gathered in the torchlight, two hundred paces from the east gate of Peveril Castle. Sir Robin of Loxley was there along with his veteran fighters from Sherwood. His old friend Tuck was next to the young knight, absently fiddling with the hilt of the sword that hung at his hip. Behind him stood nearly a score of men who had left their homes and families weeks ago to join the uprising against the Earl. And the Danes were there as well—three dozen of the best archers in England. The big Norman knight cleared his throat and began to speak. He did not lie to them.
