“It does not please me any better than it pleases you,” one captain pointed out with a marked note of contempt in his voice for Mauger’s stupidity. “Do you think we do not desire what is within? I tell you the men did their best. The defense was desperate and well designed. This Sir William knows much of war.” The captain’s eyes said, Much more than you, but all his mouth gave out was, “I hope he does not have any more surprises for us.”
“He cannot have,” Sir Mauger said sourly, aware that he was being blamed for underrating William’s ability to the captains. He took a grip on his temper. “You saw how few men he had. He can do no more.”
The reasoning calmed Mauger if it did not convince the captain. Really all Mauger cared about was killing William and getting Alys, and there should be time enough, in spite of Marlowe’s strength, to break it open. William’s own mangonels and trenchbuts could be turned against him and those from Hurley added. Mauger thought about ordering the men to begin taking the devices apart so that they could be moved to new positions, but he curbed that impulse also.
Tomorrow would be soon enough for that and to begin to build the platform, which could be rolled against the door to bring a ram to bear on it. He had promised the men they could loot the keep completely. Let them have a taste of his willingness to permit them to enjoy the fruits of their victory. Let them slaughter William’s cattle and have a feast. Let them get drunk on the beer in the vats in the brewhouse. It would whet their appetites for the dainties within—the women whom, all except Alys, they could use as they pleased; he was reserving Alys for himself—the wine in the cool lowest level of the keep, the fine embroidered cloth—and whatever else they desired.
Having made this announcement without consulting the captains, with whom he was annoyed and to whom he wanted to display his power of command, Mauger made a brief tour of the bailey. He nodded indulgently at the men who were already slaughtering cattle and pigs and chickens and dragging what vegetables they best liked from the sheds. He ordered his own servants to set up his tent, choosing the angle made by the stone shed and the wall as its site because that was safest from any arrows that might be shot from the keep.
There had been a cursory search for hidden enemies, but it was soon clear that no large force was concealed. The invaders did not care if one or two servants or wounded men-at-arms were crouched in corners. They could do no harm and would eventually die of themselves or creep out for food and water and be discovered. Thus no one did more than stick a lighted torch inside the door of Martin’s hideaway and peer around.
Not very long after that, the feasting began. Martin heard the shouts and laughter, which completely drowned the groans of the wounded and dying. Still he waited. When the light coming in at the open door began to dim, he dared creep forward, clinging to the deep shadows along the walls. Crouched in the comer nearest the door, he listened.
He heard nothing of interest for a very long time. The snatches of talk he did hear horrified him—Martin had no cause to mingle with William’s men-at-arms, and he had been raised in an abbey. Often enough, the talk became argument and a captain would shout for peace. Dark came. The drawbridge was lifted and the portcullis let down. A few men were called from their revelry and ordered to the walls as guards. Torches and fires blazed in the bailey.
As the beer in the vats diminished and the marked bones rolled in torchlight or firelight, there were more and more acrimonious differences of opinion as to what the marks showing were. One quarrel, quite near where Martin hid, became violent, and the cripple drew back a little. A captain shouted, but the argument had gone too far. A blow was struck, and then another.
“Damn you all to hell!” Mauger roared, stepping out of his tent. “Have you not had enough fighting this day? Peace, I say.”
He strode into the firelight, past the door of the stone shed, to apply the flat of his sword to the combatants until their slightly more sober comrades could get hold of them and quiet them.
“That is enough,” he said to the captain, who had also come over. “I do not want them killing each other over the treasures they have not yet won. Put an end to this freedom.”
Since the captains had long since thought it was enough, they did their best, cursing Mauger’s desire to indulge the men. It took some time before the torches were doused, the fires allowed to burn away to embers. All the time it took to restore order, Martin knelt in prayer, thanking God for placing Mauger so close and letting him reveal himself and begging for the strength to do what he must do.
Inside Marlowe keep, surprisingly enough, there was little despair. When the door had closed on the blazing stairs and forebuilding, Elizabeth and Alys had run to William. They found him on his feet, not far behind them, breathing hard still but smiling grimly.
“That was well done,” he remarked. “Perhaps I should have had you two on the walls to give orders to the men.”
“You are covered with blood, William,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, but most of it is other men’s. I have opened my shoulder and may have some nicks and scratches I do not yet feel, but I am not hurt.” He turned and looked at the mass of men and women behind him, huddled together, too silent, and he smiled. “The first thing is to put some heart into these ninnies. Come.”
Because people want to believe in safety, William had no difficulty convincing everyone. Marlowe had never been broken, he pointed out, and help was on its way. He then gave orders about the care of the wounded and the disposal of those who died, and ended, “As soon as the wounded be tended and the dead laid away in decency, we will eat. There will be wine for all, for all of you have served me well this day.”
That brought a short burst of cheers, and William stepped down heavily from the bench he had been standing upon, remarking quietly to Elizabeth, “Yes, and because I have ordered it, they will forget for a while that they drink wine because there is no beer.” He paused and sighed. “I am tired. My love, once I said I could protect you, but…”
“I am content,” she replied, “and more than content. Must I remind you, William, that if I had not run to you in my fear and my need, this would never have happened?”
“Do not flatter yourself,” William said, smiling at her tenderly. “If what you have said about Mauger is true, you have doubtless saved my life rather than brought trouble upon me. I own, I never liked him—but you can guess the cause of that—and I blamed myself for it, and would not think ill of him. Thus, as soon as I denied him Alys, he would have taken me unaware and slain me. Or if I escaped him, he would have found some reason to attack Marlowe even if you were meek, mild, and loving as a lamb.”
Elizabeth did not answer that directly, but she was greatly relieved. Aside from the first moment when she cried out against what she saw coming, she had felt no guilt, because she knew what William had just said was true. All that had troubled her was that, perhaps, it was out of love that he did not blame her for his loss and his trouble. That would not have pleased Elizabeth. Love, even as great a love as William’s, could be strained by such a burden. Now she was sure reason as well as love judged her innocent, and she was truly content.
“Come,” she said softly, “let me unarm you and tend your hurts, beloved. Then you can rest while I help Alys with the other wounded.”
Lying still, drifting into sleep, William found his despair was gone. Now that he was recovered from the shock of losing his hold on the walls, William began to think their chances were not so very bad. Even if Raymond could not get a writ from the king or Mauger would not obey it, Raymond was not the type to sit wringing his hands and weeping. He would seek Richard, and Richard would come. On that pleasant thought he slept to be awakened about an hour later by Alys.
“Papa,” she said when his eyes opened. “I cannot find Martin.”
“What do you mean, you cannot find Martin?” William asked irritably, too aware of his aching body. “Look in the darkest corner of the chapel. He is always there if he is not in his chamber or the
hall.”
“Papa, I have searched that chapel well enough to find every mouse hole—and I have even looked in those. He is not in the keep.”
“Drat the man,” William groaned, not wanting to believe her, “he must be below seeing to the stores. Doubtless he thinks every man must now do double duty. He will do himself a hurt. I will—”
“He is not there!” Alys exclaimed, her voice rising. “I have searched myself, everywhere. I tell you he is not in the keep at all, unless—”
“Not in the keep? Surely he was not on the wall!”
“No. He was here during the battle, praying. I remember because I thought that if anything could bring us God’s help it must surely be Martin’s prayers. God must listen to so pure a soul, so cleansed by suffering. After that, I did not think of him at all until I went to ask him for the keys to the wine store. Papa, they were in his chamber, on the little table under his crucifix with a candle lit beside them so that I could not fail to see them—all his keys were there.” Her voice caught on a sob.
All William could think was that Martin might have left the keep so that there would be one less “useless” mouth to feed during the siege. He did not say that to Alys. He did not need to say it. The fear of it was already in her eyes. Instead he said some meaningless words of comfort.
More practical, Alys asked, “Are there no secret places? No passages you would not show to me for fear I might be trapped?”
William shook his head. “Only the one you know of. The tunnel to the river.”
“I have looked there. The outer and inner doors are locked and barred.”
“He must have gone out during the fighting,” William guessed, “near the end, when he knew we could not hold the walls. Fool that he is to add to our grief more than his small stomach could ever keep from our mouths, but love makes fools of men. Do not despair, Alys. He is very small. He could hide where a man could not. Perhaps when we come out of here, we will find him safe.”
And safety was, indeed, in Martin’s mind as he watched the fires die and heard the voices of the invaders drift away into silence. There were sounds, however, the wounded and dying moaned and wept. The drunk and exhausted snored. Occasionally a clink of metal on stone came from the walls where the guards passed. There was enough sound to cover any small noise he would make, Martin knew, and he was not concerned that any guard would notice his movement. They watched only outward.
Softly, slowly, Martin eased himself to the doorway and out. He leaned against the stone for a little time to steady his legs, which were weak and shaking with having knelt so long in prayer. When he was ready, he slipped between the tent and the shed so he could come around the back out of sight. No one noticed the dark figure—a distorted shadow among other shadows. Buoyed up by success, Martin lifted the tent flap and crept inside. He could see before he entered that a light was burning, but most men slept with a night light. However, the hope of coming upon Mauger unaware was not fulfilled. As Martin entered, Mauger turned on his cot and called sharply, “Who is there?”
“Do not cry out, lord,” Martin whispered, “I have a secret to sell.”
Mauger sat up abruptly, reaching for his sword, but his hand dropped. He could see the twisted shape and knew at once that it was William’s crippled steward. He did not ask how Martin came to be there, assuming that the foul little beast had deserted his master as soon as danger threatened. Now the creature would want to buy new protection.
“Sell,” Mauger sneered. “I do not need to buy. You are in my hands and I can wring from you whatever I want. Say what you have to say quickly. If it is worth something, perhaps I will let you live.”
“Yes, yes,” Martin agreed eagerly. “I have good news for you. You will let me live and reward me also, but allow me to approach closer, my lord. One thing I have to say,” he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, “should not be heard by too many.”
“What do you mean?” Mauger asked, but he gestured Martin closer, hoping for what he was about to hear.
“In the years when my lord’s father guarded Wallingford, he got much good,” Martin began suggestively.
“There is a hoard in Marlowe?” Mauger whispered. “Where?”
“Is it worth my life to know of it, and of a secret way into Marlowe keep? But it is not so easy to find,” Martin tittered horrid laughter. “Let me bring the table and the light nearer so I can show you something that will bring you the reward you deserve for your mercy and your generosity.”
The creature must have a map, Mauger thought. No wonder William never complained about need of money. He was so excited he never stopped to wonder why Martin should be so stupid as to show him a map that would make Martin himself unnecessary as a guide. Mauger knew he could have wrested the map from the old man, but it suited his sense of humor to allow the cripple to struggle painfully to drag the table across the room.
Solicitously Martin arranged the table so that it fit over Mauger’s knees and blocked his path to grip his sword. Then he carried the candle over and set it by the table where it made a little pool of light. When he stepped to Mauger’s side, close enough that Mauger would need to twist his neck uncomfortably to look at him, Mauger instinctively looked down at the little pool of light. It would be there that Martin would lay whatever he had to show.
That instant Martin’s hand slipped into his breast, drew the knife, and struck. Blood spurted wide. Mauger howled and reached out, twisting to grip his attacker, but the table held him down momentarily and Martin clung to the knife, pushing against it and weeping with horror and terror.
In the end it was Martin’s fear and Mauger’s rage at the insolence of the inept attack that killed them both. Martin had never in his life used violence against any living thing, man or beast. He was so terrified by the actual fact of what he had done that he was frozen. Mauger, on the other hand was so convulsed with rage that he lunged forward, which drove the knife deeper. Then he tore at Martin’s hands, lacerating his throat more and more while he struggled for the knife. And when he had it, he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed at the unresisting cripple while his lifeblood poured away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Raymond waked as the sun rose, about half an hour after Philip d’Arcy rode away from Westminster. He lay for a few moments trying to reorient himself. The huge, soft bed with its elaborate curtains had cast him back to Aix. He had not slept in such a bed since he left home. However, in seconds he knew he was not in Tour Dur, and memory came rushing back. Then began one long battle against himself. All he wanted to do was ride back to Marlowe, but the king had forbidden it, and Raymond did not wish to annoy the king who had done all he could already.
He managed to eat, but he could not endure the talk of the courtiers around him. All he could think of was Marlowe. His need brought him out to the stable where, after some trouble, he found the horse that he had bought. When a groom hurried forward and asked if he should saddle the beast, Raymond agreed eagerly.
Then he felt a fool. Where could he go? The only place he wanted to be was Marlowe. It came to him then that there was one other person nearby who was as interested in Marlowe as he—Richard of Cornwall. The groom was able to give him directions, and Raymond rode off feeling less as if he were stifling. He found the earl awake, at breakfast, and was welcomed kindly despite the fact that there were several clerks waiting for Richard’s attention.
“I am intruding on your time of business,” Raymond said.
“All times are times of business for me,” Richard responded sourly. “I am again without a marshal. The lands are so great that they are a temptation to avarice and power. It is a hard post to fill. This is all nonsense.” He gestured with his head at the clerks. “Stupidities of receipts and disbursements that should be seen to in a round of visits to the estates, but I am sent hither and thither by Henry and I do not complain of that for it is needful and right. However, I cannot be in two places at once.” He sighed. “You have met Lady Elizabeth. Do you think�
��?” He looked at Raymond, who had jumped as if he had been stung. “What is it?”
“I do not know,” Raymond sighed. “I am so uneasy. Lord Richard, what if Mauger will not obey the king’s writ? Sir William said that if Marlowe was near to falling, Mauger would take it first and apologize later to the king. But it is not a question of the keep or goods, which can be restored. Mauger will have Sir William and Lady Elizabeth killed if he can lay hands on them. I know it.”
“Marlowe will not fall so quickly,” Richard soothed, and began to explain that it took time to build engines of war.
“He does not need to build them,” Raymond pointed out, reminding Richard how close Hurley was and continuing to describe the situation. By the time he had enumerated the weaknesses in William’s situation, Richard was beginning to look as worried as Raymond felt.
“I have not men enough with me,” the earl muttered.
“Are there no free mercenary bands in so large a city as London?” Raymond asked. “If you will lend me the money to hire men, my lord, I will repay you. I am heir to Aix, and I have some small estates of my own.”
Richard pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Do not be silly,” he replied. “Why should you pay for that? William has been my friend for thirty years. No, no more than my own troop should be needed. Mauger might ignore a king’s messenger and a king’s writ, but he will not ignore me. Idiot that I am, but I did not know…”
Richard got to his feet and the clerks surged forward. He cast them a glance of exasperation and waved them away, shouting for a servant to tell his troop to arm. Raymond jumped up also begging to go along. Richard cast him one slightly quizzical glance, remembering how the young man had jumped when Lady Elizabeth had been mentioned. Was that the reason for Raymond’s surely excessive devotion? Had he too fallen under the spell of the siren who had held William in thrall for twenty years? What a beauty this must be! However, he said nothing of that, merely nodding and telling Raymond to ride back for his arms while he told Sancia that he would be away for a few days.
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