Winter Siege

by Ariana Franklin

  Goose tonight. When Gwil’d said it was time she did some wildfowling she’d spat at him. That awful sea was out there beyond the trees; she weren’t going to risk it sweeping her off. ‘Bloody won’t. I’m a-staying here.’ Here, where he’d made her safe.

  ‘Stay on your own, then,’ he’d said.

  Hadn’t been so bad, really; something near familiar and reassuring about it. Cold, though, bor. The air that Gwil had expected to warm up by now was icier than ever once they left the shelter of the trees.

  Crouching with their backs to the great expanse of reeds that troubled her, they’d waited for dawn and the honking, whistling, fluting air-borne invasion that came in with it out of the North Sea, displacing the air with a hundred thousand beating wings. Arrows speeding up from her bow hadn’t been loosed in hatred this time, more with wonder at the magic of flight and the need to bring some of it down to the cumbersome, featherless humans below.

  Dead bodies had plopped about them, one with an arrow of hers in it. ‘Mine,’ she’d swanked as they picked them up, although she’d been bound to hit something, the sky being so thick with birds. ‘We’ll have this un for supper.’

  ‘Long as you pluck it,’ Gwil had said.

  Which she had, unsurprised by the ease with which she did it, and the instinctive knowledge that, when she’d set it to simmer, a leaf or two of sage and a couple of wild garlic bulbs ought to go in with it. She could remember enough.

  ‘Could do with some bread,’ she grumbled as she poured it out on the wooden platters he’d made.

  ‘Come spring,’ he said, ‘when we go to Cambridge.’

  She began whimpering. ‘Don’t want to go to Cambridge, Gwil. I want to stay here.’

  He knew she was terrified of going outside this deserted village; she’d only come wildfowling – they’d needed something other than squirrels to eat – because she was equally frightened of being by herself.

  But they couldn’t stay here; when the weather improved the village’s former residents might come to rebuild or carry off the church’s stone. It was lucky this long-drawn-out winter still hampered people’s movements and had given her the solitude in which to recover – as much as she could recover.

  It was strange, Gwil thought; she knew which call came from which bird and could tell one herb from another, but she didn’t know her own name. She had no memory of what was personal to her, yet with common tasks, like cooking, like laundering, she retained the lessons somebody had taught her.

  She was sitting on the other side of the fire – she always kept it between them – gracelessly stuffing food into her mouth as if it was a chore, her small freckled face displaying no pleasure in what was a good stew.

  She doesn’t show pleasure in anything, Gwil thought, except …

  He waited until she’d licked the platter, then he said: ‘We’ll get me another crossbow in Cambridge,’ and watched her come alive, as she always did when the subject was shooting.

  From the moment she’d seen him practising with the ordinary bow he’d made for himself, she’d nagged and nagged until he carved and strung one for her.

  The way she’d handled it told him she came from a wildfowling family, though few wildfowlers possessed the potential she did; oh, he’d spotted that sure enough, the fury that launched itself with the arrow as if from the same bowstring had shocked him, at first making him wonder whether, in that strange little head of hers, she remembered more of her ordeal than she realized. She stood differently, too, with a bow in her hand: confident, more upright and, from the very first time she held one, he had seen that she had the makings of an exceptional archer.

  Not that he told her so; when she was shooting her fear gave way to an arrogance that could lead to self-satisfaction – the ruin of many an archer who had stopped practising because of it.

  ‘And me,’ she said now, ‘I want a crossbow.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can’t afford two.’

  He began telling her how much expense and preparation went into the making of a first-class crossbow; how the best prods (the bow itself) were laminated, and how the glue for that came from the shredded tendons of an ox’s heel soaked for days to soften it. He explained how its heavier draw weight necessitated using a leather stirrup to pull back the string (usually hemp); how its arrows (bolts or quarrels) had tips (bodkins or broadheads) that could go through any thickness of armour.

  ‘And it’s slow. A good archer can loose off five times quicker than an arbalist.’

  ‘Why did you use one then?’

  ‘Longer range,’ he said shortly, which was true, but the real reason was that it was the surer killer – near always fatal, whatever part of the body it hit. The strongest close-linked mail couldn’t withstand a crossbow bolt, however much backing it had.

  ‘How’d you lose yours?’ She doted on the tales he recounted about mercenary life, the armies he’d served with, the battles, the crusade he’d gone on as a young man. What he hadn’t told her, and, out of shame, never would, was that he’d lost his crossbow through being in the company of the men who’d raped her.

  ‘In the flight from Lincoln,’ he said, which, once more, was true – in its way.

  ‘Make me one. I want one.’

  ‘Maybe. When you’re skilled with the short bow. Being an arbalist’s easy; anybody can use a crossbow.’

  I’d have talked like this with my son, he thought. Then he thought: No, Emouale was loveable and he was damn sure she wasn’t.

  Again he was tormented by his last sight of a little boy waving goodbye from the doorway at Vannes.

  She’s not a substitute, Gwil, the Lord put in. She’s a penance for your sins. I never said salvation would be easy.

  She’d tired herself with too much archery practice, and, unusually, slept late the next morning, so he took the opportunity to go back to the spot where Ramon and the others had assaulted her. The little quill case she’d had clutched in her hand when he found her intrigued him; he’d studied the document it held time and again, hoping the writing on it would turn itself into words he could understand, but its curious letters obdurately remained letters.

  Nevertheless, he thought, let’s see if the monk and the others left anything else that’ll help track the bastards down.

  The moment he stepped out of the trees, the vast, fenland sky came at him with its endless underlay of reeds, a landscape in which nothing moved.

  He had no trouble finding the site again. Ice had frozen it exactly as it had been a month ago; the crushed reeds still retained traces of her blood on them, as if the Lord had halted Time itself in order that the evidence of what had happened here should be preserved for all to see. And weep.

  Wait, though, somebody other than himself had been here since. And that somebody had brought along a broom of birch twigs, for here it was, discarded, where it hadn’t been when Gwil had first investigated.

  And that somebody had used the broom to sweep the area beyond the site, for here were reeds lying down in neat tracks where they’d been brushed flat. As if somebody had been searching for a lost object among the roots.

  ‘He was nearby,’ Gwil yelled at his Lord. ‘He was nearby and alone, the bastard, and You didn’t tell me.’

  No hunter, though, was he?

  He supposed he had to thank God for that at least, because if the monk had possessed the craft of tracking, he would have noticed the trail the girl had left as she’d dragged herself towards the trees.

  He could’ve brought others, Gwil. Come down on you and her like wolves on a lambing pen.

  True, very true.

  Are we sure it was the monk?

  Gwil strode over to the birch besom and picked it up. Strips of black wool tied its twigs together. He ripped one off, sniffed, but could smell only the cold that stiffened it. Then, as his mittened hands warmed the material, there arose from it the faintest but unmistakable whiff of asafoetida.

  ‘It was him, Lord. And
he wants that quill case real bad.’

  It was time to start tracking the bastard down.

  Chapter Five

  LAST NIGHT, IN the scriptorium of Perton Abbey, when he had copied the scratches from his wax tablet on to parchment in the cursive script of which he is justly proud, the scribe had been overcome with indecision.

  Had the abbot gone mad? Should he tell somebody? What he was copying was not decent, an affront to God Himself. History could not be written from the point of view of a mercenary, a debased girl and … the scribe shudders … a woman, however rich, who had flouted Heaven’s law with an unnatural act against the rights of a husband.

  He felt he was being dragged into a conspiracy imperilling his soul; indeed, at the description of the wedding night at Kenniford Castle, with the husband ascending the stairs to the woman’s chamber, he’d had to creep away from his desk to the lavatorium in order to plunge his heated head and … well, other parts into the cold water of its trough that his body might not commit a shameful act of its own accord.

  And yet, and yet, with it all, he is fascinated, like a bird fluttering to its doom towards the antics of a gyrating stoat.

  Perhaps, when the tale was finished, he could dare to go over the abbot’s head and take the manuscript to his bishop. When it was finished …

  In the meantime he has to know: ‘My lord, what is the document in the quill case? And does the mercenary succeed in finding the villains?’

  ‘When the thaw came with the spring, Gwilherm de Vannes began tracking them, like a hound with its nose to the spoor of a wolf. He did not tell the girl he’d named Penda what he was about; he feared what it would do to her to come face to face with her abusers. Nevertheless, track them he did, and the pursuit led them both west and, at first, was easy, for the mercenary devil Ramon left a path of destruction behind him. But as we shall find, that particular trail went cold …’

  ‘Does Gwilherm pick it up again?’

  ‘We shall see, we shall see.’ The abbot was discovering, somewhat to his surprise, that he was a born storyteller. ‘But for a moment, let us return to the political situation. Now where were we?’

  The scribe looks at the scratches in the wax. ‘We have King Stephen imprisoned by the Empress,’ he says. ‘Is that how the war ended?’

  ‘My son, we are only yet accounting for the year 1141; there is longer and worse to come. Yes, the King has been taken to Empress Matilda’s fortress at Bristol and is fettered with iron rings – an unforgiving woman, the Empress. She is filled with joy, for now she feels she has England in her grasp. Once she is received into the city of Winchester, which contains the crown and royal regalia, she can plan her coronation at Westminster. But, first, to enter Winchester she must gain the permission of its bishop, who is Stephen’s brother, Henry.’

  ‘And he refused her?’

  The young man gains a smile for his innocence. ‘How much you have to learn, my son. No, our good Bishop Henry is on the toasting fork of indecision. Which side should he present to the fire? His brother has disappointed him sorely in not granting enough rights to the Church – that is, to himself. Will the Empress be kinder? His price is high but Matilda pays it, as she must if she is to be crowned. In return he pledges fealty to her as Lady of England, soon to be queen.’

  The abbot finds a scrap of parchment among the litter on his bed. ‘Here is the declaration made by himself and other bishops who were present at that extraordinary council. Read it: my eyes begin to fail me.’

  ‘ “We choose as Lady of England and Normandy the daughter of a king who was a peacemaker, a glorious king, a wealthy king, a good king, without peer in our time, and we promise her our faith and support.” ’

  ‘And this,’ the abbot says, ‘issued by men who once swore fealty and allegiance to Stephen.’

  The scribe shakes his head at human perfidy. ‘Treason.’

  ‘Treason, indeed, unless you account as the original traitors the bishops and barons who swore to a dying King Henry the First that they would acknowledge his daughter, and then did not.’ The abbot begins to cough and clutch his chest. ‘My medicine, boy. Quickly.’ But, after a sip, he throws the phial on to the rushes of the floor. ‘What in hell is this?’

  ‘My lord, I mentioned the trouble with your sight to Brother Infirmarian, and he felt that ground bats’ eyes should be added to your usual marshmallow and honey.’

  ‘Did he, indeed. Well, you can tell Brother Infirmarian that if he does it again, I shall add my boot to his arse, weak as I am. Now, where are we?’

  ‘The King is in prison, my lord, and the Empress triumphs.’

  ‘Indeed she does. Her armies go forth, and one of them, under the command of her mercenary, Alan of Ghent, marches on Kenniford Castle, that strategic jewel on the Thames, which, as we know, is in the hands of King Stephen’s man, Sir John of Tewing. As they near it that morning, they come across some small boys fishing in a stream known as Kingcup Brook …’

  The abbot’s eyes become inexplicably misty. The scribe pauses for a moment.

  ‘Kingcup Brook. There were fine trout in that stream; on a calm summer’s day you could tempt them into your net merely by tickling.’ The abbot sighs and shakes his head at his digression. ‘Some of Ghent’s men capture the boys – so that their parents may be persuaded into paying a ransom for them – and take them to their commander. One boy, especially, is richly dressed, though muddy. He refuses to tell them his name, but his poorer companions, being frightened, say that he is called William and that he is no less than the son of Sir John of Tewing himself.’

  ‘God be praised, so the unnatural machinations by Maud of Kenniford did not prevent her bearing her husband a son.’

  ‘They did, actually,’ the abbot tells him. ‘No, this William is a son by Sir John’s previous wife, who died giving birth to him.

  ‘He was seven years old. And trying not to show how frightened he was – almost as much of his father’s wrath when Sir John realized he’d crept out of the castle that morning as he was of his predicament. Which, I have to say, was somewhat parlous. The commander and men of the Empress’s army marched him to Kenniford and, helpless, he had to watch as they took up positions surrounding the castle. Then the commander – this Alan of Ghent – dragged the boy to the riverbank opposite the castle walls so that Kenniford’s sentries could see him. A gallows was erected, a halter put round his neck. Alan of Ghent shouted for Sir John of Tewing to come to his ramparts and, when he did, threatened to hang the boy if the castle did not surrender …’

  Chapter Six

  Kenniford Castle, September 1141

  The First Siege

  IN THE EARLY morning, patrols reported an enemy force heading for them; too large, they said, to risk the garrison going out to do battle.

  Immediately, and with considerable efficiency, the castle made ready to be besieged. As the alarm bell began clanging, men poured out of the guardhouses like bees swarming from a hive. The half of the bridge that spanned the Thames from the Kenniford gatehouse to the Crowmarsh bank was drawn up with nerve-scraping grinds and the even shriller ‘Pull, you bastards, pull’ of the gatemaster until it fitted over the portcullis like a shutter over a window, leaving the far span stretching uselessly into mid-air. Archers raced to line the allure running along the top of the outer walls, carrying bundles of extra arrows. Two trebuchets with pivoting arms fifty feet long were trundled into position in the outer bailey and great baskets of stones put beside them ready to be slung. Water-filled buckets were stood in rows against thatched buildings in case the enemy used fire.

  Maud hadn’t given much thought to the realities of war; never having faced them, she hadn’t believed she ever would: fighting was a man’s game, something they played elsewhere. She hadn’t been able to conceive of a Kenniford – solid, safe, peaceful and homely for generations – subjected to burning and violent death.

  Now, here she was, ordered to stay in the keep with the castle’s women and children and pr
epare to receive the wounded.

  It wasn’t so much that she was frightened as amazed; instead of carrying domestic sounds, the air coming through her windows was assaulting her ears with shouts and clangs and heavy movement. Amazed, too, that even among her own household, she was not in control; she didn’t know what to do.

  The one who did was the eldest of them. Lady Morgana, here on a visit from her Welsh castle, had put the serving women to stuffing sacks with straw in order to make palliasses and organized Cousin Lynessa and Maud into tearing up clean rags and rolling them for bandages. ‘Where’s the kitchen maid?’ she demanded.

  ‘Here, my lady.’

  ‘The sharpest knives, if you please – clean, mind. Where’s Milburga? I want her to organize games for the children. Maud, don’t just stand there. What have you got in the pain-killing line? Brandy will do, lots of it.’

  Maud looked at the old woman, the arthritic hands. ‘I’m sorry, Morgana,’ she said. ‘So sorry you’ve been caught up in this.’

  She earned a smile. ‘My dear, when you’re facing the Welsh, as we are in the Marches, this is quite a normal day.’

  A normal day, Maud thought as she went outside to go down to the cellars, it’s not normal for Kenniford. It’s not right.

  Unfairly perhaps, she blamed her husband; he’d brought this … this horrifying vulgarity upon her home – and not only her home.

  Oh dear God.

  Somebody caught her arm. ‘Best get back inside, my lady,’ Sir Rollo told her.

  She clutched at him. ‘The village. Have the villagers been let in?’

  He shook his head. ‘He’s ordered the gates shut.’

  She knew who ‘he’ was. ‘They’ve got to be let in.’ There were over one hundred men, women and children out there in vulnerable homes nestling against the walls, with every right to expect her protection.

  ‘They’ll eat up our food, see,’ Sir Rollo said. ‘That’s what he says.’