Knight for a Husband

by Ling, Maria

  Mary fought for breath. The room was large enough, it could hold a bed and a bench, but all of a sudden it felt cramped and close. But she must bear this, as she bore everything else, she owed it to her son. "Yes," she said.

  The man flicked her a contemptuous glance. "This way."

  Her husband lay in a pile of corpses by the door, the man had soldiers pull other bodies aside so she could see. His lips tinged blue by now, his skin waxen and his limbs beginning to be rigid. "You'll make him fit before burial?" she asked.

  "No," the man said. "Waste of my time. He goes with the rest."

  "Please." She grabbed his arm on impulse, sought for some reaction in that impassive face. "If you can't spare the men, let me do it."

  He shook her off. "You've seen him, you're satisfied that he's dead. That'll do. The rest you can take up with the saints when you pray. Which you can do, if it pleases you, but you'll not get anywhere by it. I never did." He turned and led the way back to the chamber, waited for her to follow.

  "I wish to speak to the king," Mary said.

  The man gave a curt laugh. "You and the rest of the kingdom. Go to your room and keep silent like a woman should. Keep that brat close about you, too. If I see him sneaking about I'll throw him in with his father."

  "I'm under the charge of Hugh de Vion," Mary said. "Please call him and let me speak with him."

  "He's under mine," the man replied. "John de Bois is his lord, and yours. You'll speak softly in my presence. Now go." He pointed to the door, and she went, she had no other choice. Pulled Will along with her, the sight of his father had shaken him, he walked quiet and biddable where she tugged him. That wouldn't last, she knew, he'd be fractious before evening. But she couldn't help that either, not now, and she dared not anger this man. Maybe Hugh would come to them, maybe he'd find some way to turn the worst aside. If he cared enough to trouble himself. She wished she'd thought to make herself pleasant, it hadn't occurred to her then. Now she had no friends here, none at all. For all that they were not hostile towards her, they were still her enemies. Flushed with victory now, triumphant, successful, with little reason to concern themselves with her -- so far. She couldn't venture to hope that the worst danger had passed, they might sport with her still, or with her own darling boy, that thought she could not bear. A knife hung at her belt, they'd let her keep that, she'd draw it if she had to. Kill any man who came near her son. Or kill him, maybe, before they reached him. She shivered at that thought.

  They huddled together for warmth. It must be late now, the afternoon sun had faded, cool air drifted through the narrow slit by her feet. She could glimpse woodland through it, just past the blackened earth she'd fled across. That might be the very spot where Hugh had caught them, she reflected. He must have seen them climb down over the wall, him and his men, they'd been out there watching for any attempt at escape. She didn't want to believe her husband had deliberately sent her out to be killed, but he must have known or guessed those woods would be watched, surely. Or he'd meant for them to provide a distraction, even if it meant their capture, while he -- she didn't know what he might have done. Didn't have knowledge or experience enough of warfare. Just knew enough to sit in silence, smile a little, be decorative. Remain courteous and pleasant no matter how she felt, how much pain she was in -- she'd been at dinner when labour started, five years ago, when she bore Will, and she'd remained there smiling and listening until her husband rose. After which she'd walked unaided into their chamber, her hand light on his arm, and only once the door was safely shut whispered for her women.

  Here in this room she'd given birth, four times over, each an agony of terror and pain. She shuddered at that thought, too, death could not offer worse. Hell frightened her, because she'd been there, she'd spent hours and days in that deep basin of horror and pain, she could scream at the thought of it. And no way out, no salvation but the ripping of one small body from hers, and the blood afterwards, buckets full of it.

  No trace of that now. Nothing on the swept floor or bare walls, they'd cleared the room completely for the armoury, no straw to cover the boards. Just the pile in the corner, fresh it smelled, someone had carried this in for her. Hugh's orders, maybe, she liked to think so. But more likely it was one of the Flemings, or that man who terrified her so, John de Bois.

  She knew nothing against him. Ought not to detest him at sight. It was in her interest, now, to be pleasant to him. But she couldn't bring herself to do it, his mere presence made her sick. A reek of the soul surrounded him, some foul spiritual stench that she recoiled from, that made it hard to breathe. She hated the thought of him near her. Yet she'd imagined, for a moment, as he studied her body, that he wanted to --

  Except he didn't. Couldn't. The widow of a vanquished enemy, he'd give her to his men she didn't doubt, and that was terror enough. But he wouldn't take her himself, had no reason to. None in the world.

  She hugged Will to her, he was drowsy and heavy now, almost on his way to sleep. And she prayed, as well as she could with neither candle nor book, those were upstairs somewhere, with the king perhaps. She hoped he would use them, it would do him good to pray. It might help his soldiers, too, might heal some of those deep festering gashes in their souls.

  She had enough to pray about. She began with her husband's soul's salvation, forgiveness for all his men who'd died, mercy for her women who were now in the Flemings' power and whom she'd not been allowed to see, blessings for families riven by war, healing for all who'd suffered wounds, safety for Will, repentance for evil men, absolution for all those who'd committed the grave sin of murder this day. And for Hugh, too, she mentioned him, though she didn't know what she'd best ask for. So she just held him in his thoughts for a moment, until it began to feel like a presumption, an intrusion where she was not wanted. Will she could pray for, he was fast asleep in her arms now and neither knew nor guessed at danger. She did that, and prayed for the souls of her lost children, imagined them all reunited with her in Paradise, running through sunlit woodlands, fearless, laughing. And for herself she prayed, though that felt like presumption too.

  ***

  "Pretty quick, in the end." John de Bois leaned against an upturned cart, cast an idle glance at the burgeoning grave, nodded to Hugh. "Nice work in the hall. I heard you took out an entire gallery full of archers single-handed."

  "Five of them," Hugh said. "And I was lucky with the last one."

  "Luck doesn't account for much, in my experience." John turned to study the remains of the curtain wall. "Should have this defensible by tomorrow. Full repairs, well. That'll take a week or two. How far out is the force?"

  "I didn't hear."

  "Find out. After that we'll make our plans."

  "What does the king have to say?"

  "Don't know and don't care. He can prattle all he likes, it's his Flemings who do the work. And then only if they think it worth doing. No, I'll have charge of this one. See if we can't hole up here and wear them out. Or put them to it in the field. But you never know how that might turn out. Better to wait."

  Hugh nodded agreement.

  "Go talk to the scouts," John said. "Then come back here and let me know how matters stand. If we need to move fast, we can and we will."

  "What about the women?" Hugh asked. "And the child?"

  "Who? Oh, those. Boy and widow in the family chamber back of the great hall. See what the king wants to do with them. Or if he forgets about them entirely, in which case I'll pack them off to one of my own manors. The rest of the women are dead by now, or should be. We've enough of them with us, don't need more baggage."

  Hugh held back a sharp reply.

  "I don't want to hear your objections either," John de Bois said. "If you can't be a man, get out of my sight. Go."

  Hugh drew breath. "I hadn't thought of it, my lord."

  "Good to hear. Maybe we'll make something of you yet." John watched dirt be shovelled into the mass grave. "So we have Rowes, and a line from here to Worcester. That will do f
or a start. I rather think we'll head northwards after this. There's stirrings near London."

  "What kind of stirrings?"

  "Troop movements, what else? I didn't catch the details. The Flemings will let us know. All scouts go to them first. Can't say I like it much but there you are. We'll hear in time. Until them, hold yourself and your men ready. And talk to the scouts."

  Hugh bowed and withdrew. He ought to go straight to the king's quarters, to pay his respects, and then catch the Flemings and find out what they knew. But he found himself unaccountably slowing his steps through the great hall, veer towards the door behind the dais, nod greeting to the soldiers on guard. Flemings, that was a stroke of luck. He paused before them.

  "What news of the force?" he asked. One of them shrugged.

  He made to walk on, as he ought to. Inspiration struck. "I'm to have words with the widow," he said. "Find out what she knows, if anything. John de Bois' orders." Which was a flat lie, if caught in it he'd pay with his life -- unless he were unlucky, and lost eyes and hands and testicles instead. But he wanted to know she was whole and well, and the child also.

  They let him pass. He hesitated just within the door, she was lying down on the straw with the child in her arms, and for a moment he didn't know if they were dead or asleep. But she stirred as she heard him, slid her arm carefully out from underneath the boy, turned to face Hugh. Her face brightened when she saw him, that warmed his heart.

  "I came to see if you needed anything," he said. "And to ask if you know aught of any force coming to relieve this place." He might as well turn lie into truth, it might spare him a maiming. "We know your husband sent messengers out, we don't yet know what word they brought back. Tell me and you'll spare the others from torture." He was deep in lies now, but at least this one wouldn't harm him.

  "Others?" She stared at him, shocked eyes above dark smudges, dry lips that struggled to form words. He'd have to get her water. But no -- a bucketful stood in one corner. Well, if she chose to thirst that was her affair.

  "Your women," Hugh said. "My lord is apt to take a heavy hand with those. But I'll intercede for them as best I can, if you tell me what relief your husband was promised."

  "I don't know," she said. "He didn't tell me. We never spoke of such things."

  He couldn't say he was surprised to hear it. "Reconsider," he said. "Or I withdraw my protection." Such as it was, he was bluffing now and he knew it, she probably did too. But fear and doubt and guilt might come together and produce results. He'd known it happen.

  Her eyes hurt him. She looked as if he'd betrayed her utterly. Which he had, he supposed, he'd promised her safety and now he threatened to take it away. Well, he was a man, and this was war, and no one with sense could truly expect him to keep his word. Though she was a woman, and they never did have any sense. Still. Those accusing eyes irked him, they'd earn her a slap or worse unless she behaved.

  "He didn't say," she insisted. "Only that he had no fear, that this was a stout fortress and he wouldn't let it fall. And that we could hold out for the month or so it might take to rid the neighbourhood of such pests." She didn't recognise the insult, she was staring into the middle distance, shaping the words from memory. Then she stiffened, and turned a fearful face towards him. "Those were his exact words, my lord. Not my own. I would never -- "

  "Easy." She had reason to fear him, he was glad to see that she did. It might keep her and the boy alive for a little longer. "A month or two, and he was confident we'd be gone after that?"

  "Yes. I don't know why."

  She didn't, no, but he could guess. "No matter. If you remember anything else, the least detail at all, send for me. Ask the guards at the door." He took a risk there, John de Bois was not a man to be set aside. But then John de Bois was not a man to trouble himself over much about pretty widows. "I'll have words with them myself, to make sure they know." He hesitated, wished to remain but could think of no excuse. And then noticed a smear on her arm. "You're bleeding?"

  "No." She glanced at it, puzzled for a moment, then flushed. "No, it's...a woman's matter."

  "Ah." Here he was out of his depth, and sinking fast. "Is there anything you need?" He cajoled his memory for any hints at all. "Herbs or moss or such things?"

  "Just straw." She wouldn't meet his eye. "Plenty of it."

  "I'll have another bale sent in." It ought to be enough, surely, he'd seen men bleed to death and this was once each week or month or some such, he realised he wasn't sure. But the women survived, anyway. "Two bales if I can. And another bucket of water." Because she'd be getting through that too, he understood suddenly, and she wouldn't want to drink what was left. "I'll see to it right away." He backed off, unaccountably embarrassed, and thudded into the wall. Groped for the handle, cursed himself for a fool. She'd laugh at him now, she'd think him ridiculous. But she didn't seem to notice. A disconnected memory surfaced. "Are you in pain?"

  "It's not so bad." She looked up at last, as embarrassed as he was to judge by the expression on that dainty face. "Thank you for your kind asking."

  He was out, he was free, and the reek of death in the great hall felt like fresh air to him after the atmosphere in that room. He hurried up the stairs to the king, hastened through such commissions as he had, so that he could take off for his other errands secretly, and hope no one ever discovered his sudden and unseemly interest in the welfare of lady Rowes.

  ***

  "They'll be here by sunset." John de Bois leaned against the newly repaired stonework. Shored up from the inside by a bank of earth, it wouldn't hold by itself against a determined attack, but it looked solid enough to fool the stoutest. Hugh had watched it be laboriously worked into place. He was impressed.

  "Battle in the morning, then." Hugh didn't believe it, not really, the plan to hole up in the castle and wait was by far the best one. But he didn't like to urge it, he'd long since discovered the benefit of seeming hot for a fight. "We can take them, no trouble."

  "We could," John agreed. "But we won't. Comfortable place here, we might as well make use of it. See if they're as keen in a week or two -- or longer, come to that. And if they are, well. None of us will grow weaker in that time."

  He rubbed the bristle on his chin. "Might find a few hours of entertainment," he reflected. "I'll have the widow brought to me if the king has no other use for her."

  Hugh flinched as from a blow. "She'll not give much sport," he said. "With her husband newly dead."

  "She'll do as she's told," John said. "Or else I'll make sure she gets to watch the consequences."

  Hugh scrambled for arguments against. None that would weigh with this man, he felt certain. Unless he shared the Church's strictures against the bodies of women, which seemed unlikely. It was worth a try, though. "She's bleeding."

  "Didn't even know she'd been hurt."

  "No, I mean -- her usual bleed."

  John grimaced. "Really?" The hand dropped from his chin, he studied Hugh with sudden focused interest. "You'd know that how?"

  The truth wouldn't do, not now, not with this man. Though a lie might work, if carefully judged. "I got carried away," Hugh said. "I ask your pardon. Didn't think she might be valuable -- didn't occur to me until after. But, as I said."

  John chuckled. "I knew I liked you for a reason. Never mind. She's no virgin in any case, no one will notice or care. I'll leave off her until she's clean, though. Don't cut in before me again."

  Hugh bowed. "I won't. And in truth, if I'd thought she'd caught your eye -- "

  "Eh, no more than the rest. But she has some land, I believe. Could be worth having a base over by the Marches, especially just now. If the Angevins haven't made sure of it already. They'd do that by force of arms, no need for the woman. Though if they want her, we can arrange something."

  "And the boy," Hugh suggested. It was worth urging the child's safety now, with John in a good mood and bending an indulgent ear. "His father's heir, whether the king chooses to ratify it or not. Should be worth a coin o
r two, for a man in the mood to take him."

  "Might be," John agreed thoughtfully. "Whole or lame, doesn't matter which. Lame would be better, make sure he doesn't grow up to be a threat."

  "Or whole, if well trained," Hugh argued. "Could be turned against his father's cause easy enough. He's young and pliant still."

  John laughed. "If you want the pair of them, say so. I might be in the mood to grant it. Though it will cost you."

  Hugh seized the opportunity with both hands. "I do. If you're inclined to indulge me."

  "She was that good, eh?" John studied him with a grin. "Even riddled with filth? I'll have to try her out."

  Hugh shrugged. "If you wish it." He was gambling high now, and he knew it. But he might yet win, if he held steady and showed neither doubt nor fear.

  "You can lend her to me after," John said. "Just make sure she knows what she's supposed to do. And I'll take all revenues from the land -- hear that? You collect them on my behalf and account for every coin. I'll set you an allowance, you take what bribes you please and I won't search you for them, but taxes and fines are my property. Understand?"

  "Of course," Hugh said. "I am your man. I'd consider them so in any case."

  ***

  "Marriage?" The king frowned at Hugh, startled. "I didn't know you were so inclined."

  "My lord de Bois has given his gracious permission," Hugh said. "It would mean a great deal to me if Your Grace would do so, too."

  "Huh." Stephen leaned back against the cushion that sheltered him from the bare plaster wall. "It's quite a step up for you, isn't it?"

  "I'm well aware of it," Hugh said. "My lord spoke kindly of my own part in the taking of the keep." It wouldn't hurt to remind the king of his value. "And in surrounding the castle, and catching and killing those who would flee."

  "Ah, yes. You captured her and the boy, didn't you? And emerged so smitten by her beauty that you must possess her at once." Stephen grinned. "Doubtless that's the story the troubadours would tell."