The Villains of the Piece

by The Villains of the Piece (retail) (epub)

  The main group continued in the direction of the clearing. They saw a light ahead, half hidden by the undergrowth. A camp-fire. The men looked to their leaders, but Brien slowed the pace. The detachment had to be given time to get into position. The firelight beckoned, an oasis of warmth in the snowbound forest…

  Brien no longer counted his own steps, but estimated the progress of the detachment. Two hundred and sixty… sixty-one… sixty-two…

  Varan touched him on the arm. ‘There’s a dozen or more of them around the fire. They’re protecting something—’

  ‘I hope so. Materials for their rafts, or bridge, or whatever they’re going to use. We’re close enough now. Halt your end of the line. Tell them to make ready. I want the torches lit together, then straight through to the clearing. We have to be quick, or at least one of them will raise the alarm.’ He felt Varan turn away. He wanted to ask his friend if he was well enough. The cold water must have shocked him, and thickened the blood in his one good leg. But he could not insult the old man with such a question. Of course he was well enough. He’d once walked through Siberia on branded feet, hadn’t he?

  The men produced their torches and tucked the wooden shafts under their arm. They held the flints close to the pitch-soaked heads and watched for Fitz Count’s signal fire.

  He had passed five hundred…

  He struck the flints and the sparks jumped on to the torch and he pushed it away from his body. Fires sprang up all along the line, illuminating the cage of trees. ‘Now!’ he roared. ‘Now!’

  The raiders padded forward, swerving between the trunks. They drew their knives as they ran, and the line of flame swept through the forest and converged on the clearing. Fire- drugged guards lurched to their feet, their minds assailed with thoughts of phantoms and hellhounds. They glimpsed creatures with bouncing breasts and huge feet, wrapped in rags, and then the monsters were among them, stabbing them down.

  A few of the guards managed to loose ill-aimed arrows, or snatch up their spears in time to out-reach their attackers. A few panicked and dashed back along the road – and on to the waiting blades. A few offered to surrender, a suicidal gesture on that particular night. And one, the one Brien had feared would escape, ran into the shadows at the edge of the clearing and raised a curved bull’s horn to his lips. Three mournful blasts rose above the forest, to be immediately answered from the far end of the road. The raiders hesitated, and the man slipped away among the trees.

  Several of the raiders started after him, but were called back by Varan. Meanwhile, Brien had crossed the clearing in search of wood. He found it stacked in two great pyramids, one on either side of the road entrance. Alongside the nearer pyramid was a low wall of sacks, almost certainly containing tools, and tarred rope with which to bind the bridge. He looked round, saw that only two or three of the guards had yet to be accounted for, and shouted, ‘Over here! Unsling the skins!’

  His men came running, and he told them to jam their torches in the base of the pyramids. Then, setting the example, he hurled his pitch-filled bladders at the flames. The swollen skins split on impact, spraying the pitch over the logs. The flames spread, and the remaining torches were thrust among the sacks. They, too, caught alight, and the eight men who had been sent to block the road came running between the pyres.

  Brien made a check of his losses. One man had been killed by a chance arrow, two more impaled on spears. Four or five had been wounded, though these could still walk, or be led. He glanced at the pyramids again, satisfying himself that they could not be extinguished. Then he waved his men back towards the river.

  He waited until they were among the trees before following them, so there was no one to warn him of the guard who rose, like some bloody apparition, in his wake. He never saw his assailant, for the burled dagger sent him stumbling from the clearing, his back arched, his eyes squeezed tight with pain.

  Behind him, the guard flopped down again, dead beside the fire. He had been a good soldier; he had known the Lord of Wallingford would stay till last.

  Brien staggered blindly into a tree, reeled away from it and felt himself falling. God, not on my back! The blade will transfix me! He twisted violently and crashed down in the undergrowth.

  He lay there, his breath melting the snow. Now, he thought, all the doors of death are open… If I don’t bleed white, I’ll freeze, or be here for Stephen to turn over with his foot…

  How deep did it go in?

  Well, well, we are never too wise to learn… It must have been one of the dead men…

  Who said we should not wear hauberks? I did… It was my brilliant instruction…

  How deep is it? Dying is bad enough, but not stuck like a pig. If I can reach round far enough to – ‘Aagh, Jesu!’

  The cry was in response to whoever had pulled the blade from his back. He felt a hand slide under his chest, and then he was lifted to his feet and turned and swung forward, off the ground. The movement opened the wound, and the pain made the earlier pain seem gentle. Tears dripped from his eyes and he hung, head down, a sack of oatmeal, gnawed by rats…

  * * *

  He saw a face he recognised. It was not unlike his own, though the skin was more pink and shone with rubicund health. The figure stood ominously still, as though at a graveside. The image annoyed him, and he growled, ‘What? Are you in a hurry to see me off?’ Footsteps approached, but the mourner did not move. Pious brute. Doesn’t it astound you when the dead awake?

  When the dead awake and come from behind with knives…

  He moved to show he was alive, and discovered he was strapped down. A woman’s voice said, ‘Lie quiet. Give yourself time. You’re quite safe, you’re at home. Lie still.’

  He felt a hand on his forehead and blinked, clearing his. Then he treated the painted statue – of himself and Alyse and the baby Alan – to a wry smile. ‘That’s no way to come awake, and find oneself mourned by one’s effigy.’ Turning his head he saw the real Alyse and made to reach up to her.

  ‘Oh, these damned straps! Are we prisoners here? Has Stephen—’

  ‘Stephen is miles away. There’s no sign of him. The straps are to let your wound close. The physicians say your spine was nearly severed. You must lie still.’

  ‘At least free my arms. Am I not even allowed to embrace my wife?’

  She spoke to somebody he could not see, then released him. ‘We knew you wouldn’t be restrained. But please, my love, let the wound mend.’

  He asked, ‘Have I been here long?’ He could see her clearly now, and the hollows around her eyes were answer enough. All the while he had lain senseless she had stayed with him, rejecting sleep. ‘How long? A week? More?’

  ‘No, no, a few days, that’s all. You came to your senses from time to time, but it was thought better to drug you—’

  ‘While the enemy pressed their attack?’

  ‘No, they’ve done nothing since that night. Morc— we sent some men out to see what—’

  ‘Morcar? Is he in command? Why not Varan? Oh, God, don’t tell me the sortie froze his blood.’ He summoned another wry smile. ‘Well, you are hard-pressed, even though the enemy are quiet. If you think I am a surly patient—’

  ‘He’s dead, Brien.’

  ‘—you should try ministering to— What did you say? What did you say?’

  ‘I’m wept dry, so I can tell you. The constable is dead.’

  ‘No.’ It came flat and positive. ‘No.’

  ‘We searched for his body—’

  ‘You haven’t found his body? Then he’s not dead. God’s crown, you had me on the verge of believing you! A monster like Varan—’

  ‘It’s true. When I tell you what happened—’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘tell me. I need the gap filled.’

  * * *

  …He felt a hand slide under his chest, and then he was lifted to his feet and turned and swung forward, off the ground…

  One hand only, for that was the best Varan could do. All the strength had gone fr
om his left side, and he had watched the others pad ahead towards the boats. But he had not seen Fitz Count. Dragging himself away from the clearing, he realised that the suzerain should have come level with him by now. The men were no longer spread out, but were running forward, stamping a direct path to the boats.

  Had he missed his master? Had Brien gone past unseen, farther to the left or right? If so, he would be almost at the bank. But, if not—

  Varan put his weight on his good leg, then dragged the other in an arc, turning the trampled snow. He faced the clearing and started back, correcting himself every few yards, zig-zagging through the forest. He saw the burning pyramids and heard more alarums, and then he saw the body and the hilt of the knife, shining in the firelight.

  He braced himself against a tree, leaned down and withdrew the blade, straight and steady. Brien cried out, and Varan curled his right arm like a giant spoon and lifted Greylock to his feet. Then he turned him and draped him over his right shoulder and carried him away, lurching from tree to tree.

  His progress was agonisingly slow, for the trees had not been planted for his convenience. They grew close, or sparse, and it was necessary to grope in the darkness, to change direction, sometimes to take a step on trust. But he managed it, and all the while he heard the distant trumpet blasts, and then the shouts, drawing nearer.

  Stephen’s men reached those who had been ambushed on the road, and the shouts became howls of anger. Then they entered the clearing and saw their dead comrades, and the howls were replaced by a close-mouthed desire for revenge.

  A little way ahead, and as yet unseen, Varan staggered through the forest. He did not know if Brien was alive or dead and, in truth, he did not give it a thought. His only aim was to reach the boats. After that, Ironglove’s bastard would be taken away, and the rest left to the physicians, or the priests. Reach the boats, that was enough.

  As he veered from trunk to trunk, he indulged in a private dream. Hardly the romantic, he had, nevertheless, seen himself as Brien’s saviour in time of stress. It was no more exotic a dream than a husband enjoys. Thieves attack his wife, and he is there, defending her, his every movement instant and precise, whilst the felons blunder and run. It would be the same, friend for friend, the two of them ranged successfully against overwhelming odds.

  This had long been Varan’s dream, and now it had come true. He was saving the man that mattered most to him. But, unlike the dream, the reality was imperfect, for neither of them might survive.

  A few moments, a few crutches later, ally and enemy came together. Five members of the raiding-party had hurried back to find their leaders, and now saw, over Varan’s shoulder, his pursuers. It was a one-sided engagement, arrows against daggers. As the raiders dragged Brien from Varan’s grasp, the king’s archers let fly, using the constable’s broad back as their target.

  The effort of carrying his master had deadened so much of his body that he seemed impervious to the shafts. Released of his burden he lurched forward, grasping at the nearest tree. He covered thirty yards, moving parallel with the bank, before the wounds made themselves felt. Thirty yards, it was said, for they did not see him after that, but carried Brien to the boat and pushed it away from the bank. All the way across the river they shielded his body with their own. Then the boat touched, not far from the launching point, and they hurried him through the gate…

  ‘Morcar sent men in search of him,’ Alyse murmured. ‘He went himself, more than once, but they could find nothing. Varan is dead, my love.’

  ‘Then why… Why has his body not been found?’

  ‘God has taken it,’ she said. ‘He would not let him lie there, in the cold.’

  It seemed to Brien the most perfect thing she had ever said, and he accepted it. Alyse gazed down at him, then moved away, motioning the physician from the solar. There was no need for anyone to witness Brien’s grief. They had already shared in it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wallingford-On-The-Thames

  March 1150 – November 1153

  There were times when Alyse thought Brien would never recover. The wound suppurated, and his bed-ridden existence left him open to a variety of infections. Twice a day the physicians drained the poison from his back, and then, when they thought it safe, went to work with twine and long bone needles. The following night his entire body burned with fever.

  Stephen had abandoned his river-crossing in favour of a landward assault on the castle. With Fitz Count laid low, and Constable Varan proved mortal, the king anticipated an easy victory. He had no wish to endanger the courageous chatelaine, so he offered to accept her surrender and avoid further bloodshed.

  She asked for time. ‘The physicians tell me that this period is critical. My husband will either show signs of recovery or he will die. You have waited fifteen years to defeat us. As a mark of compassion, allow us a few more days. If, during that time, you see a black flag hoisted above the keep, you will know I am widowed. Two days after that I will surrender the castle.’

  It was all rather imprecise, as Alyse meant it to be, but Stephen was honour-bound to accept it. He had Wallingford at his mercy, and a few days would make no difference. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we will let nature take its course, though I hope you will both emerge to seek forgiveness. Brien Fitz Count and I were once inseparable, and I shall not look eagerly for the raven’s wing.’

  Pleased that the world would again adjudge him generous and chivalric, he sat back to wait. He was not to know he had made the last serious mistake of his reign.

  * * *

  Nor, in the darkened solar, did Alyse realise it. She blamed herself for having told Brien of Varan’s death, for the news had robbed him of all resistance, and each day the physicians grew longer in the face. Fitz Count was failing, both in body and spirit, and there seemed little point in postponing the inevitable. Indeed, they told her he should be removed from the dampness of the riverside and, though they were loth to admit it, placed in the care of more accomplished physicians.

  ‘We are doing all we can, my lady, but the patient needs special medicines. We’ve dealt with such injuries before, of course. We are not out to give the impression that—’

  ‘Just do your best. If he is to die, he will do so here, not at the roadside, or in some strange room. We have been granted a few days’ respite; make the most of them.’

  Yes, a few more days in which to sit beside the man she loved and feel his skin grow hot to the touch. Perhaps the physicians were right. Perhaps Brien should be carried out and laid at the king’s mercy. If he recovered, he would probably be banished from England, or imprisoned for life in the Tower of London. But even that was better than death, wasn’t it?

  No, she thought, not for Greylock. And I will not be the one to commit him. Stephen has agreed to a few more days. We’ll see what they bring before opening the gates.

  * * *

  The news had already spread through the country, and a strange question settled on the lips of the rebel barons. Each man phrased it in his own way, but it was provoked by the same, single thought.

  ‘Is the illness grave? Is Fitz Count unable to take command? Is Wallingford leaderless?’

  ‘Yes,’ the harbingers said, ‘and yes, and yes.’

  The answers satisfied their most demanding emotion – pride. They were a race of leaders, if only as masters of their own small household and a few hectares of land. Ambition had driven many of them to change sides in the past, and to forget their thrice-made vows. But they were all rebels now, and the gravity of the situation at Wallingford gave them the chance to act with honour. Most likely the final chance.

  Brien Fitz Count was hors de combat; worse, from all accounts he was on his death-bed. He had not asked for help but, as his compeers, they were free to offer it. In this way they could retain their individuality, for each would act according to his own dictates. Had Fitz Count commanded them, they might have obeyed. Had he requested help, they would have responded in their own good time. But he had sai
d nothing, so the decision was left to them. Ironglove’s bastard was at the king’s mercy. And at theirs.

  It was a wonder England did not tip off-balance with the numbers that poured from the West Country. They came from Devon and Cornwall, Dorset and Somerset, from the banks of the Severn and from the minor holdings in the south-west. Poachers-turned-archer, and freelance knights, and peasants with scythe and billhook, all of them swelling the hard core of mercenaries and garrison troops. It did not matter to the barons that they met others on the way. Each had answered the unspoken plea as though he alone had heard it, whispered by the wind.

  The army had a hundred leaders, yet no commander-in-chief. It should have collapsed in a welter of acrimony, for it was unthinkable that such an assembly of warriors could work together. They had never done so in the past. Where was the strict order of seniority, where the queue for precedence? How could this baron ride in the wake of that landless upstart? By what right did this unproven knight lead the day’s march?

  These questions came to mind, but were denied a voice. The army swept eastward, one contingent overtaking another, the groups meeting and separating as they followed their own routes across country. The roads were choked with troops, and the earth was stamped flat where men and horses had pounded a path across open fields.

  By tacit agreement, those who were first to arrive would await the others five miles west of Wallingford. Then, when the bulk of the army had assembled, they would announce themselves to the king. They would also make their presence known to Lady Alyse, and to Lord Fitz Count if he was well enough.

  One last question remained. Who would carry the message to the castle?

  The leaders hesitated, their tongues heavy with prerogatives. Each examined his claim, aware that the messenger would find a special place in Greylock’s heart. Then the awkward moment passed, and they detailed one of Brien’s neighbours. ‘They’ll know your face when you ride up. You tell them.’