Jerked to the present by the sudden eruption of noise, she almost fell from her stool. Then, seeing Basil enter, she sprang to her feet, stepping behind the stool, reaching for the dagger. But before she could grip it, Basil had slammed the door shut, and now he advanced to her, a smile fitted to his face as he set his head to one side, surveying her as a knight might study a newly won town. ‘Oh, but you’re a pretty one. Will you give me a kiss?’
‘I will do nothing.’
‘Oho, you will, lady. You’ll bed me tonight, I think. Hold! You think that your husband will come to rescue you?’
Her expression was so bleak at that sally that he laughed again. ‘You know about him, then, do you? Ah, it is a shame that he’s so busy just now. Answering questions, no doubt. They say the new sheriff has some inventive ways of getting the answers he needs, you know. Probably aided by men of Sir Hugh le Despenser, I’d imagine. He was always creative, so they say. Still, you’ll probably be able to recognise your old man when you see him again. So long as they don’t treat him like a traitor, anyway. You wouldn’t want to see him hanged, eh?’
She could hardly keep the vomit at bay. There had not been any capital trials for traitors since she had moved to Exeter, but she knew what they entailed as well as any. She had been told that the sound of the headsman’s axe striking the body into quarters was the same as that of the butcher’s cleaver as it divided a hog’s carcass.
‘Of course, if you were to be nice to me, I could get you released. I might even help you to get to the sheriff and persuade him to release your husband.’
‘You would—’ She realised her error and closed her mouth sharply.
‘If you were to be nice to me, yes. I might just do that. Would you like a pact? You swear to comfort me, and I’ll swear to see you released and ride with you to Exeter. How would that be?’
Edith stared at him. ‘I cannot. I am married. How can you ask me to betray him with you?’
‘Oh, it’s easy, lady. You see, if you do, then you will go to see him – but if you don’t, I may have to take you anyway. Because there’s not much you can do to stop me, is there? If I want to, I can take you. I just prefer to have you willing. And I think a little strumpet like you will enjoy it anyway. So that’s an end to it. Will you submit?’
‘I won’t.’
‘You’ll have to give yourself unwillingly, then,’ he declared lazily. He began to step into the room towards her, but as he did, there was a clamour from the yard area, with loud shouting from the gates. He stopped, hesitated a moment, and then muttered a curse and hurried out, bolting the door after him.
Edith slowly and shakily made her way to the stool. Feeling around for it, she felt as sickly and ancient as an old crone. Soon she had her rump on it, but she could only sit and stare at the door as though he might spring in through it again at any moment.
The torture of not knowing what to do for the best made her mind feel as though it must shred into tiny fragments of hope and despair.
It took them little time to mount their horses and make their way to the castle. Simon rode in front, with Baldwin and Sir Richard a short way behind him. Edgar had for once forgone his accustomed post a little behind Baldwin and rode to one side to protect his flank, and Mark trailed behind them, demanding to know what made them think that the girl was in the castle anyway.
‘Tell that man to be silent,’ Sir Richard muttered to Edgar as they rode, but before long Mark had realised that his comments were not going to win him any friends and was content to mutter to himself.
The road was well used, Simon saw, and as he came around the bend and could see the castle again from this direction, he was struck by the careful positioning of the place.
With trees cut down in all directions, it would be very hard to assault. That was certain. It was not a true fortress, in that there were no towers at each corner of the wall, but the place was strong nonetheless, and the battlements would mean that any attacking force would have its work cut out. Simon had not been in a siege, but he had heard Baldwin talk about such affairs, and the idea that he could bring a force here to hold the castle and make it surrender filled him with horror. For Edith would be inside, and at the least she would suffer with the garrison. It was even possible – if not likely – that they would make a show of her. Perhaps raping her to shame her and Simon, threatening to kill her, or torture her … The possibilities were appalling.
He found his speed slowing as the thoughts whirled through his mind. ‘Sweet Jesus, Baldwin, what can we do to get her out if she is in there? It is a fortress. And they must have plenty of men inside, too. What could we few do?’
‘Let us first find out whether she is truly inside,’ Baldwin said reassuringly. ‘Then we can decide what to do.’
‘Yes.’
They rode up to the gates, and waited for a challenge. ‘I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. Open the gates in the name of the king!’ Baldwin bellowed when a face appeared over the parapet.
There was some while before another man arrived to peer down at them. This was a swarthy-looking man with the face of a surly felon, Simon reckoned. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, churl, and I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. I demand that you open the gates immediately.’
‘Well, I am son to the knight who owns this manor. You have no right to demand anything of us, sir. We have business to which we attend. If you wish, you may return tomorrow and we shall consider your request.’
‘We believe you are holding a woman hostage here. We would speak with the castle’s owner.’
At this there was a loud step on a wooden walkway, and soon another man was staring down at them. ‘I am Sir Robert de Traci. You say you are Sir Baldwin de Furnshill?’
‘Aye. And this is the King’s Coroner, Sir Richard de Welles. We are here—’
‘I heard,’ Sir Robert said drily. ‘You think to come here to my home and accuse me of such behaviour? I am surprised.’
‘If the woman is not here, could you not let us inside so that we can verify the fact? We can then continue in our search for her. She was brought this way. She was seen along this very road, in the company of a wandering felon by the name of William atte Wattere,’ Baldwin lied. ‘Do you know of him?’
‘Wattere? You say he is a convicted felon? How would I know him?’
‘Where else would this road lead?’ Baldwin asked, pointedly staring at the track that continued after the road had petered out just behind the castle.
‘It leads nowhere. But since the woman is not here, surely your witness was mistaken,’ Sir Robert said. ‘In any case, I do not have time to investigate the matter further.’
‘Wait! Sir Robert!’ Baldwin cried, but the other knight had already left the walkway beneath the battlements.
Only his son remained, and now he laughed at the men before his gates. ‘What, would you storm our walls, masters? Eh? We have a force in here that is plentiful enough to defend them, I assure you. But feel free to try, if you must!’
‘Your name, fellow?’ Baldwin said. It was hard to keep his horse under control. The beast was spirited, and he could tell that his rider was trying to control a rising anger.
‘I am Basil of Traci, fellow,’ Basil sneered.
‘Then know this: we shall leave here now, but if I learn you have lied to me, I will return with the king’s posse. And when I do, I shall raze this castle to the ground, with you inside it if necessary. If one hair of that maid’s head is harmed, I will visit every indignity and pain upon you personally. I will see you crawling to plead for mercy, boy! If she is here, beware!’
‘Old man, you need your meal. I’ve heard that aged fools can be driven mad if their food is late. You are raving,’ Basil said. ‘Go home and eat, and ease your poor old head.’
Baldwin’s jaw set, and he whirled his mount about before he could listen to any more taunts. In a fury, he set the horse’s head to Bow, and rode off along the road.
Simon could see his inner rage, but he could hardly restrain his own fury. Baldwin had failed him, and had failed Edith. All Simon knew now was inner turmoil and a clammy fear that his little Edith, his daughter, was in dreadful danger.
And he could do nothing about it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nymet Traci
The stables were well afire already when Wattere pushed through the press of men and entered the hall.
He felt a fool. Over to the straw he had gone, collecting a little pile in his hand, and then taking some charcloth and striking his flint until it had begun to glow gently, a mottled series of little red blooms on the black surface. Then he began to blow on it, encompassing the cloth with some straws, and adding a little fine tinder on the glowing dots, until the tinder caught, and then the straws as well.
He was just finished and had risen when he heard the voices at the gate. Walking out slowly, his hands in his belt, the picture of ease and innocence, he had realised that Basil and his father were both up on the wall above the gates. It was galling to think that all his efforts had been pointless, but then he heard the sudden moaning of the fire as more straw caught light, and he began to sidle away.
It was shortly after he had reached the door that he saw other men begin to look about them. Before, most of them were up on the walls, staring out at the strangers. Others were down in the yard, and as the blaze began, they were all occupied. It was one man up on the wall who first noticed. Wattere saw him sniff the air, puzzled. The odour was not the same as clean woodsmoke. No, the sharp, greasy tang on the wind was that of hay and straw, rich and grassy, and for a moment he was confused. Turning, he stared hard at the house and the little kitchen beside it, but the smoke was not emanating from either chimney. Next his eyes were drawn to the thatch on either building, but a short while later the wind gave a low soughing, and then it was that the first sparks began to soar and he caught sight of the flames erupting from the stable blocks.
That first guard gave the warning shout, and soon others had joined in, men rushing to the fire from all directions, grabbing buckets, barrels and even helmets, anything with which to carry water and try to help put out the fire. In a short space of time, only a few men were left up on the walls. Even Sir Robert himself was in the thick of it with the men on the ground, bellowing himself hoarse as his servants and fighters all exerted themselves before the fire could reach the main hall. The noise of crackling mingled with the creak of tormented wood and the shrill, horrified shrieks of the horses remaining inside. Two men took axes, wrapped wet cloth about their heads, and darted inside, hacking at all the tethers holding the beasts, and in a short while the maddened creatures had bolted from the stalls and escaped, all bar one piebald rounsey, who was so deranged that she galloped at full speed into the farther wall, instead of towards the door. They found her later, burned badly, her neck broken.
Wattere eyed the men rushing witlessly in the yard and nodded grimly to himself. He would have liked to have pushed Basil into the fire if he could, but the arrogant prickle was there at the back of the press. Instead Wattere pushed on through the door and ran over the floor to the solar where Edith was being held.
Her chamber was up a short flight of wooden stairs, and he was soon at the door. There was a latch, and a bolt to lock it. Basil and his father had not thought anything stronger would be necessary to hold a dull-witted wench, and in any case, with the gates shut and barred, what was the need? She was as caged whether she was in the room or wandering the yard. She could attempt to leap the walls, but that would likely break her legs, and not many would be prepared to run that risk.
He pulled the bolt open and shoved the door wide. ‘Maid, come quickly. I think I can save you.’
She had risen, and he saw her hopeful expression, but as he beckoned urgently, her face changed, and he saw the blank terror return. He tried to duck and move out of the way, but Osbert’s blade sank into his shoulder before he could, and Wattere clenched his teeth against the horror of that slick, sharp steel wedged deep in his shoulder and collar bone.
It was the shouting that attracted Edgar’s attention at first. As they rode away, his sharp ears caught the sound of barked commands, of shrieks, and then the whinnying of animals in dread. The flames were clearly visible when he glanced over his shoulder, and he halted his mount to stare for a moment before calling to the others. ‘Sirs! Master Puttock! Something most odd is happening.’
‘What in Christ’s name!’ Sir Richard muttered. Then a gust of wind blew, and the angry orange flames were fanned. There was a loud crunching and rending sound, and the flames rose still higher. ‘Sweet Mary’s tits! The place is on fire!’
He was already the last. The others were all riding pell-mell for the castle, Simon and Baldwin racing almost neck and neck, while Edgar galloped behind. Even Mark was reluctantly clinging to his own seat, his mount having decided that this was a good day for a race.
‘Oh,’ Sir Richard said to himself, and then yelled, ‘Ya hoi!’ and clapped spurs to his weary beast’s flanks.
The gates were still shut and barred as they rode, but then Simon saw a chink between them. He scarcely dared hope that they were actually opening, and for a moment tried to convince himself that all he had seen was the gleam of light through a natural gap in the wood, but then the little flash of light broadened, and he saw the gates open wide. A trio of horses appeared, led by a stable boy, then four more, two rearing wildly, while an older lad tried to calm them. After them came more, all driven mad by the nearness of the fire, all desperate to get as far from there as possible.
Baldwin looked about him, over either shoulder, and then smiled with a gleam of his teeth as he whipped his mount on at the gallop, in through the smoke and sparks, under the gates and into the yard.
Sir Robert coughed, a hand held up to protect his eyes as smoke gushed through the doors of the stables and blew at him, a foul, reeking gust of the devil’s own wind. It felt as though his face’s flesh was being seared away, and he could hear his own hair brittlely smouldering. He must close his eyes against the bright glare. All about him the men were carrying buckets filled with water, hurling their contents at the fires and retreating.
At least it would be safer with the horses out of here. Already three men had been injured trying to release the terrified beasts. Old Hamo wouldn’t get up again. A flailing hoof from a terrified palfrey had sheared away the whole of the side of his head, exposing the brain. Two others nursed dangerous injuries, one a badly broken arm, the other a crushed hand. All in all, this was a hideously expensive disaster. ‘What the shite is happening here?’ he muttered, staring about him. There was a clattering of hooves, and he saw that the last of the horses was being taken out at the run by a little tow-haired youth. The lad was one of the guards’ sons, he remembered. That was good – at least all the mounts would be safe then. The boys were taking them away from the castle to calm them down.
He had turned back to the fire, but as he did so he heard a rough bellow from the house. Shooting a look at the hall, he saw Osbert in the doorway, grinning with pleasure. In his fist he held Wattere by his jacket, which was thickly clotted with blood.
‘Thought you’d like this piece of turd, Sir Robert. He was up there trying to get his fists on the wench.’
Wattere could not answer. He was close to collapse, and the agony that was his shoulder was enough to make him want to vomit. He could only stagger as Osbert hauled him out, and then he was suddenly thrust forward, and his legs could not carry him. His right folded under him, and he fell stiffly, his torso twisting to keep his ruined shoulder from the ground, but the jolt of falling was enough to make him scream shrilly with anguish. It was like a dozen swords slashing at him simultaneously. The sort of hideous torment that a soul in hell would expect. He could feel the hot, bubbling vomit hit the back of his throat, and then he puked a fine, thin acid.
‘Trying it on, were you, Wattere? Despenser will be disappointed,’ Sir Robert said. He
rested his booted foot on Wattere’s shoulder. ‘Let me see. We have a fire, and in the middle of it,’ he pressed down hard, ‘you rush to the maid.’ He listened as the scream faded, bubbling. ‘If I was less than intelligent, I might think that there was no coincidence. Do you think I should?’
‘It was not to rape her …’
‘Hmm? You wanted to say something?’
‘I didn’t bring her here to see her raped by your son. That little prickle was going to force himself on her and—’
‘And it’s none of your business. But what is my business is that you committed arson on my stables. And even now, all I can hear in the yard is the block burning.’
‘Don’t let your son—’
‘You still talking, then?’ Sir Robert said. He kicked once, hard, and then again. ‘I don’t like arsonists, Wattere. You know what? I think they ought to be shown why what they do is so dangerous. So I’m going to let you find out. Osbert, show him to the fire.’
Osbert looked at Wattere, then over at the fire. He snapped an order at one of the other men, and picked up Wattere by his bad shoulder. The two men hefted him between them as Wattere shrieked with the pain, and then began to walk him to the burning building.
Chapter Thirty
Nymet Traci
His feet dragged, and the pain in his shoulder was a continuing stream of fire that scorched his soul as Osbert pulled him on. Wattere had to open his mouth to scream in a constant, hoarse howl of anger, horror and mind-destroying terror. He set his feet to stop the onward progress, but that meant that the hand at his bad shoulder started to tear his muscles, and he could feel the grating of the sheared bones scraping against each other. This time the pain was so exquisite and intense, he could not make a sound. His mouth drooped wide, but nothing came. He was aware only of the sensation of floating a little over the ground. A loud drumming came to him, a drumming as of the blood pounding in his head, and he felt sure with relief that soon he would feel no more. He would have the sensation of fainting, but then his suffering would be ended. ‘Swyve your mother,’ he gasped.
No Law in the Land: (Knights Templar 27) Page 32
