As she watched, Sir Cyril made a desultory swipe at the sodden haystack with his sword and then immediately lifted his head to stare, she realised with sudden horror, straight at her. The door was open the merest crack. But the light of the oil lantern was behind her. She fell back, released from her trance. Had he seen her? Seen her shadow? Should she look again, to see if he was coming?
She knew she should, but memory sent chills sloshing through her innards. His cruel grin as he drew his finger across his throat. ‘How many strokes to take off a leg? Why, as many as your Lordship pleases!’ And so, instead of looking, she scuttled back to Joan and Marie; barely croaking his name out before the door’s hinges creaked. Not far. Just enough to let him in.
As one, the terrified threesome squeezed into the back of the last stall, ducking under the neck of a placid and dozing old milk cow. A dozen stalls away, Cyril had come to a stop. They heard him mutter, a low, wolfish growl, and one of the saddled ponies Marie and Joan had prepared nickered in response. They heard his hand slap lightly at the animal’s neck and withers and then they heard his footsteps, hollow on the ancient boards, moving in their direction. Up the wall above them crawled a great menacing shadow and each wished fervently that the oil in the saddler’s lanterns had run out before he came.
Nearly all the stalls were empty, but he paused at each one, peering into their shadows like the careful hunter he was. One by one, closer and closer, until they saw straw scuffed up ahead of him in the walkway and, at last, his boots, clumping into view. He stopped. The old cow flicked her tail. And Cyril, grunting irritably, leaned his sword on the post, adjusted his clothes and began urinating into the straw. And the girls knew, when that was done, he would have them!
What saved them for the moment was the crashing open of the stable door – a clatter so sudden and unexpected that even the milk cow belched forth a note of flatulence. Footsteps sounded, brisk and urgent, and Cyril, spinning on his heel, whipped up his sword to meet them.
“Ah!” The voice was Samuel Rowe’s. “There you are! Any sign?”
Cyril grunted a negative and Rowe continued breathlessly. “Right! Change of plan, if you’re up to it!” Cyril waited, unquestioningly, seeming to suggest that Rowe’s imagination would run dry long before it came up with a plan that would baulk Sir Cyril Halftree.
“Excellent!” Rowe announced emphatically. “This is it then! They’re all to die! Every one of them! Lady Joan . . . the Frenchies . . . the village girls! The lot! And there’s just you and me to do it! And it’s got to be done quickly! By dagger, if possible. I need it to look like the Scots have done it. Them and Glyndwr in league, see? A plot! Understand?”
“Glyndwr? And the Scots?”
“Right! Glyndwr’s been in the castle! Somehow, I don’t know how! Snatched Lady Margaret! As good as condemned himself! The Scots could well be gone but, if we find ‘em, we’ll be fully justified in killing them – because of what they’ve done to Lady Joan, d’ye see? So Lady Joan and the Frenchies are imperative! The others, if it’s convenient! But it has to be fast! Can you do this? Can I count on you?”
“The king’s niece!” Cyril rumbled. “That’s a big risk!”
“Yes, yes, I know! But if we do this, I’ll be in a position to reward you very, very handsomely. But only if no one escapes! Understand? Everyone – everyone, must die! And they can’t be allowed to speak to anyone before it happens! It they do, the whole thing’ll be wasted!”
“Hmmm!” Sir Cyril hummed. His lips parted and his tongue flicked through the empty space so recently occupied by a healthy tooth. “You’ll owe me . . .”
“And I’ll pay you! Whatever it takes! Money. Power. Whatever your taste runs to!”
“How long have we got?”
“Very, very little! Roland’s waiting now for me to find his wife, and those village girls you so carelessly let escape! When he gets impatient, he’ll send others down to help with the search. So when they’re found, they have to be found dead!”
“What if we find her – Lady Margaret?”
Rowe shook his head. What had happened to her was a mystery to him. “The chambermaid says she was taken by Glyndwr. I just saw Glyndwr outside the walls, with the villagers, so I don’t know how he did that. But the man’s no magician, despite the stories! I’ll wager he’s left her tied up somewhere. Maybe he’s killed her! That’d be easiest. Wouldn’t matter to me if he had.”
Madeleine, Marie and Lady Joan heard Cyril hawk up a wad of phlegm and send it winging onto the floor.
“All right! An interesting hour’s work ahead!”
“Yes! Right! Excellent!” Rowe declared, eager now to set his plan in motion. He was far more comfortable issuing directions than negotiating. “You finished here? No? Finish up quickly then, and meet me at the keep. I’ll take one o’ the lanterns. Remember, swift and deadly! Daggers, if possible! And no one – no one escapes!”
Rowe’s footsteps receded rapidly and, suddenly, the girls became very conscious of the sound of their own breathing. There were two scissoring sounds, a long one as the great broadsword slid back into its sheath and a briefer one as the dagger was drawn. And then, as Cyril raised the second lantern high, the shadows began once again to flicker like panicked things across the walls. To Madeleine, they appeared to be doing what she wanted to do – to shrink into corners and crawl down into the deepest cracks, where no light could find them.
She knew that the trap they were in was inescapable. Cyril had seen the saddled ponies. And, though hiding in a stable was an unlikely option for a girl of Joan’s grand self-image, he would certainly look in the last few stalls before leaving. Ultimately, they would have to squeeze out of the stall, unarmed, past the cow, and he’d cut them down, one by one. Those actions were, it seemed, inevitable. Her own next action, however, was not. It simply took place.
As though she was sitting in a wagon that suddenly came to life, she skittered under the cow and launched herself. The cow, popping out of a meadowy dream, stamped its feet and gave an indignant moo while Joan and Marie both grabbed for her, but she was already gone. No pause, no hesitation; just the sudden thrust of arms, the pump of knees and the slap of feet. Cyril, all soldierly instinct, kicked out at the small blur of her and, at the same time, made a cross-the-body slash with his dagger. The dagger she managed to avoid, twisting and tumbling, but the solid stump of leg snagged one of her feet out of the air and she fell, flat and painfully, barely five yards into her flight.
Before even the grunt of pain could escape her lips, he was over her – the consummate soldier. His boot rose to stamp her in place and the dagger spun in his hand, flicking toward her throat. Easy! Easier than killing a piglet!
Still, he almost missed as Madeleine, her responses greased by terror, jerked and rolled, desperate to regain her feet. Instead of crushing her ribs as intended, his foot came down on an ankle. There was a mushy popping sound, like the sound of a stick of rhubarb snapping, and the breath went out of Madeleine’s chest.
She convulsed once, an instinctive effort to free herself, but the agony drew a cry from her and she fell into desperate stillness. And Cyril, seeing the fight go out of her, slowly edged his weight forward, increasing the pressure, until the great bulk of him towered over her. The little lantern drifted like a moon up to his face where it cast ghoulish shadows, and he hummed happily through his bloodied gums. Trapped and helpless beneath his boot, all Madeleine could do was to make herself very, very small and whimper for mercy.
“Shshsh,” he said very softly, touching the tip of the dagger to his lips. Then he tipped the point of it toward her throat. “No noise, little girl! No time for play neither. More’s the pity, eh? But don’t you worry. It won’t hurt for long.”
So intently focused was she on that dagger that the next words spoken in the stable failed to register with her at all, even though they came from the stable’s doorway, only a few yards behind her. It was a voice saying, “And neither will this!”
&n
bsp; Cyril heard it though. He raised his head only a second before the hammer blow to his chest drove him a step backwards. No amount of training or experience or instinct could have saved him. He saw the boy there, quite clearly, the bow still raised for use. And protruding from the light armour over his own heart, he saw six inches of fine English beechwood, tipped with split goose feathers. ‘Now,’ he thought, ‘I’ve seen that before!’ On other men! On other battlefields! Six inches in front means eighteen more, sticking out behind. He’d always wondered how it would feel. And strangely, the boy was right! It didn’t hurt at all! Not really!
For a moment, he imagined himself fighting on! Imagined himself walking over and slicing the self-satisfied look off that peasant mug! Show him what reward his effrontery deserved! The thought was pleasant enough to make him want to laugh, but something bubbling in his throat made that impossible. He would clear his throat, he thought. Have a good spit. And that’s where his thoughts ended. His eyes glazed, his mouth stopped chewing at the blood, his head tipped forward and his lantern fell to the floor. He, though, remained standing, because his knees, through a lifetime of hard and resolute training, refused to unlock. But he was dead, all the same. And though those few who witnessed it could not have said so, many a gleeful ghost offered up a cheer at the dying of Sir Cyril Halftree.
* * * *
Eustace approached the upright corpse very slowly, with a second arrow notched in his bow. This one, if the man moved at all, would go right through him. A gentle prod, though, was all it finally took to topple the great knight, freeing Eustace to leap to Madeleine’s side. Putting his arms about her limp shoulders, he lifted her gently.
“Maddie? Maddie, can you hear me? Are you alright?” But, for the second time that night, she had fainted dead away.
“Is he . . . is he dead?” asked a small quivering voice and Eustace looked up to see two shivering girls standing at the end of the stalls.
He’d never seen them like this – dressed roughly for travel and timid as milk-maids – but he recognised Lady Joan de Beaufort and Marie de Coucy immediately. And he knew he should make some obeisance, to Lady Joan especially. But he was rigid with anxiety. He couldn’t tell how badly Madeleine was hurt. And he had just murdered a knight of the household – the very knight, in fact, who had served as companion and protector to these women on their journey to Clun!
“He was . . .” Eustace began his stuttering defence. “I ‘eard ‘im talkin’ . . . earlier wi’ Mr Rowe! They were . . .!”
The girls rushed forward, Lady Joan to touch Madeleine’s face, Marie to try to snuff the small flames spreading through the straw from the broken lantern.
“You don’t need to explain,” Joan assured him weakly. “We heard.” She touched Madeleine’s cheek, looked at the twisted, already swollen ankle. “Maddie!” she said. “That’s her name? Maddie?”
“Madeleine . . . yer ladyship,” Eustace stammered. “We jus’ calls ‘er Maddie.”
“Maddie,” Joan said tremulously. “I hadn’t asked, you know? A village girl! It hadn’t seemed important! But . . . she was so brave! And you! You saved our lives!”
“I wouldn’ta, Milady! I wouldn’ta killed him! But ‘e was goin’ for Maddie an’ I couldn’ let ‘im!”
“No, no, of course you couldn’t! You don’t have to explain! What’s your name, Sir?”
“I’m Eustace, M’am. Just Eustace!”
“Well, Eustace. My uncle, the king, will hear of your bravery. And of Madeleine’s! He’ll hear . . . !”
The composure she was struggling to maintain suddenly cracked and tears erupted from her eyes. She dropped her head onto Madeleine’s breast, sobbing, whether for her own distress or for Madeleine’s, it would have been hard to guess. Nor could it be guessed how long they would have stayed that way, had not Marie laid a desperate hand on Joan’s shoulder.
The ancient wood of the stable – one of the few original buildings left in the bailey after Glyndwr’s siege a dozen years earlier – was dry. The straw was spread thickly and Marie had failed to subdue the flames.
“We have to get out!” Marie ordered crisply. Of Eustace, she demanded, “Can you carry her?” In answer, he rose, gently pulled Lady Joan back onto her knees, shouldered his bow and lifted Madeleine into his arms.
“Listen!” Marie said to him, the only one truly aware that the peril just past might well be only the beginning. “I don’t know who can be trusted! Aside from Sir Perceval, my husband! Do you know him?” Eustace nodded. “If you find him, he will help! Otherwise – she is yours to guard! Understand?” Again Eustace nodded and she pushed him out the door. “Go! Quickly!” Marie slapped the ponies out of their stalls, gripped Joan’s arm and made to follow. They’d have made it if it hadn’t been for the cow.
That cow, whose name was Beatrice, had made a life-long study of cantankerousness, which she had plenty of reason for displaying this night. First of all, Hubert the kitchen boy, whose job it was to milk her each evening, had been sent to Shrewsbury by Sir Roland. Beatrice missed the little songs he sang her as he milked. She missed the way he leaned his head on her flank while milking and she missed the knowing familiarity of his hands on her udders. She resented the interim milkers, who were pinchy and full of haste. And this evening, no one at all had come to milk her! Instead, she’d had people crowding about in her stall, dashing in and out. Now there was smoke! It was all too much!
It was her intemperate bawling that summoned Marie back into the recesses of the stable.
“I’ve got to get the cow!” she shouted to Joan. “You go out! Follow the boy!”
Something, though, in the efficiency of those around her while she crouched in panic-driven tears had touched Joan – embarrassed her. She needed, as a scion of royalty, to regain her composure and her sense of command.
“No!” she cried. “Not without you! Come on! Together! Someone else’ll get the cow!”
* * * *
Ordinarily, Beatrice had the stable pretty much to herself because the castle’s usual occupants were few. Indeed, had it not been for Rowe’s fondness for milk puddings, even she might have been superfluous. Nonetheless, in her own dim mind she was very important and so nearly impossible to guide. Not surprising, then, that when Marie untied her, slapped her on the shoulder, yelled in her ear, got in front and pushed then got behind and yanked, despite her dislike of the smoke, Beatrice refused to move.
So obstinate was she that Joan, increasingly aware of the need for haste, was forced to consider helping. And it was while she was in the midst of that consideration that Samuel Rowe darted through the big open door, a long, slim dagger clutched in his hand. He’d been near enough to hear Madeleine’s cry when her ankle was crushed and he’d guessed that Cyril was about his grisly work (though with less stealth than was needed). He’d chosen to stay away initially, so as not to have to witness the slaughter. But when the rest of his senses were assaulted, once again by smoke, he’d set off at a trot; just in time to see a figure being carried from the stable. And the carrier had not been Sir Cyril!
The reason for that could hardly escape him, once he entered the stable. The knight’s body lay half in the gutter with a length of arrow protruding from his chest. But that was only part of what needed to be taken in! There was also the fire, still small but busy as a leprechaun counting its gold. And there were Lady Joan and Madame de Coucy – two of the many who he wanted killed!
His mind raced. He could kill them himself, now, but. . . who were the ones he’d seen leaving? What had they witnessed? Who had killed Sir Cyril? Was his plan already in ruins? His eyes flicked back to the fire. Ruins and salvage. What could be salvaged? And with no more thought than that, his murderous impulse changed to one of solicitude.
“Miladies!” he cried with mock relief (though his momentary delay had already destroyed the credibility he was hoping for). “Thank God you’re safe! What . . .? How . . .? ” He indicated Cyril. “Has this knight . . .?”
Joa
n and Marie stood and stared, their mouths agape, all their hands wrapped around Beatrice’s tail. A knot of dry pitch popped and the fire hissed with a growing insistence that brought Rowe’s heart leaping into his throat. His smile, already as shallow as spit on a lip, faltered. He wanted explanations. (The girls offered none.) He wanted to know how to proceed. (The situation was murky.) But he absolutely needed to douse those flames! Without question! He jammed his dagger into its sheath, lunged for a pitchfork and began scattering the straw.
Stamping amongst the flames with his feet, he cried out a plea to Joan and Marie: “Help me! Water! From the troughs! Quickly!”
The girls looked at him, looked at one another and, at last, released poor Beatrice’s tail. But they moved so slowly! Why? Wasn’t the urgency obvious? “Quickly! Quickly!” Couldn’t they see that dousing it was still within their grasp? That it was still containable? Then, just a moment before they decided to bolt, he caught the looks in their eyes.
He reached the door in a bound, blocking the way, and there he crouched, moaning like a mad thing, his eyes flicking from face to face to the fire and back again. Why were they doing this? Couldn’t they see that the fire was the enemy; not him? That the castle – the great fortress – was in danger? That he could not give any more ground? That he could not break his promise to Thomas FitzAlan – to do all that he could!
Slowly, as the girls watched, the pleading in his eyes faded and winked out, only to be replaced by a ferociously manic glare. In that moment, he had given up swimming against the river’s current, opting instead to ride it, whatever the cost, as far out to sea as it wanted to carry him. He raised the pitchfork and pointed the tines at their breasts.
“Go back!” he snarled. “Go back and fetch water from the troughs! NOW! Or God help me, I’ll . . . !”
Children of Clun Page 32
