Winter Siege

by Ariana Franklin

  ‘Two to one?’

  ‘Reckon that at least, and they ain’t going to be short of reinforcements when they’re gone neither.’

  Alan leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘My plan is to get the Empress to Bristol at the first opportunity. And as soon as I receive word from the Earl of Gloucester that he’s ready to receive her we’ll leave. Then, God willing, the King will call off the siege and follow us west and you lot can all go home.’

  Gwil smiled. ‘Be a shame that, though,’ he said. ‘Now that we’re so comfortable here an’ all and so looking forward to the hangman’s rope.’

  Alan laughed as he patted his companion’s shoulder. ‘Whatever happens we’re in your debt, Gwilherm de Vannes, you and your boy there. And although she might not show it, the Empress is truly grateful.’

  The bond between them was palpable, and might have been touching, Penda thought, if it hadn’t also been quite so boring. Most of the time, or so it seemed to her, they made no sense at all, speaking in an unfathomable shorthand as impenetrable as a foreign language. To make matters worse, towards the end of what already seemed like an exceedingly long evening, as their tongues loosened and their speech became slurred by the malmsey, they began exchanging anecdotes about their various campaigns and crusades, battles and sieges, at which point Penda thought she was going to die. Quite apart from the tedium, her belly was hurting again and she was so desperately tired that she could have cried and yet there was no respite. Every time she closed her eyes they were joined by yet more men, each one more drunk and garrulous than the last.

  And so it went on until one of them, the fat one with the explosively red face who’d pulled up a stool so close to hers that he had almost knocked her off it, began gesticulating with such abandon that he accidentally clouted her on the side of her head.

  ‘Shorry, young fella,’ he said, barely able to focus as he patted the air around her with a large, apologetic hand.

  She mumbled a resentful acceptance and turned to gaze wistfully at the other end of the table where the women, Maud, Milburga and the kindly-looking nun whose name she didn’t know, appeared to be having a more civilized evening. On the other hand, anything would be more civilized than this! Even Payn, the young herald, who had sung with such angelic sweetness after supper, had joined the ribaldry and was making bawdy jokes about his grandmother’s farts.

  ‘Fell a man at twenty paces, they could,’ he said, giggling like a baby. ‘Tried to cover ’em up with that asafoetida stuff too, she did. Hopeless! If you ask me, that smells worse than farts. And the funny thing is, I was reminded of my dear old gran when I got a whiff of it off that monk who was here—’

  Quite suddenly the entire mood changed and Gwil, whom Penda assumed was too drunk to notice much at all, suddenly jerked upright on his stool, eyes wide with fury, to lunge across the table and grab the astonished herald by the throat.

  ‘What did you say?’ he shouted, pressing his nose into the young man’s startled face and hissing at him with such venom that the boy began to tremble.

  ‘I … w-w-was … j-j-j-just …’ Payn stammered, ‘t-t-t-talking about my g-g-grandmother’s wind …’

  ‘Not your grandmother’s farts, you fool!’ Gwil said, shaking him violently. ‘The monk! What did you say about the monk?’

  Penda had never seen him so angry and, fearful of what he might do, leaped off her stool to try and prise his hand from the herald’s throat, but Gwil was too quick for her.

  ‘Let him speak, Pen,’ he growled, thrusting out his other arm to fend her off. ‘I need to hear this.’

  ‘Th-th-that’s it,’ Payn said, struggling feebly against him. ‘Th-th-that’s all th-th-there is! There was a m-m-monk here day before yesterday, w-w-went to see Sir John. Smelled just like my grandmother. That’s all. I s-s-s-swear!’

  Suddenly Gwil let go and the boy stumbled backwards, gurgling and clutching at his bruised neck.

  ‘Enough, gentlemen!’ Alan rose from his stool, put his hands on Gwil’s shoulders and spoke quietly to him. What he said, Penda couldn’t hear, but after a few minutes Gwil had calmed down and apologized. They shook hands and, when Gwil had poured the still-trembling boy a drink and given him an avuncular pat on the back, the evening resumed as if nothing had happened.

  Fortunately, though still longing for her bed, Penda was distracted by the sudden appearance of a rangy-looking lurcher who approached the table in search of scraps. He was nervous of her at first, and shied away when she extended her hand to him, but after a while, as she sat quietly and patiently making soothing noises, he crept closer until he was near enough to take the morsel she held out to him and rewarded her by resting his elegant head in her lap.

  She sat for some time, delighted by her new-found companionship, smoothing and patting the dog’s rough coat, and as her fingers worked gently and methodically along its back, she recognized something familiar in the sensation, and wondered, as she did about so many things these days, whether she had ever done it before.

  A voice beside her jolted her back to the company of the men and frightened the dog away. She scowled, irritated by the interruption, until she saw Sir Christopher standing beside her and smiled.

  ‘What I’d like to know, young man,’ he said, ‘is where you learned to shoot like that?’

  She felt herself turn pink; unused to compliments, she had developed Gwil’s mistrust of them. ‘Gwil learned me,’ she said, trying not to stammer.

  ‘Well, he learned you well,’ Sir Christopher said, grinning. ‘Learned you very well indeed, in fact. Your fame is spreading, Master Penda.’

  ‘What?’ Gwil’s head whipped towards them, that furious look on his face again. Her heart sank. It’s like the Devil’s got in him, she thought.

  Sir Christopher stepped back, holding up his hands in apology. ‘I was merely telling Master Penda here that his fame had spread. A talent like that doesn’t go unnoticed.’

  ‘That’s all right, ain’t it, Gwil?’ Penda said, desperate that it should be. Gwil stared at her fiercely for a moment or two and then his expression softened and she let out the breath she’d been holding.

  ‘S’pose so,’ he muttered sheepishly. ‘But why you feel the need to draw attention to yourself I don’t know.’

  The injustice of the remark, combined with everything else that evening, was suddenly too much and she wiped furiously at a large tear which had begun its sticky journey down her cheek. She saw Sir Christopher excuse himself and leave.

  When he had gone, Gwil turned to her and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Sorry, Pen,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to snap. It’s just we don’t need no attention. Don’t need un prying into our business. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘But I don’t understand, Gwil,’ she whimpered. ‘Why don’t we? What difference would it make? Is it because we don’t want ’em to know I’m a girl?’

  ‘That’s right, Pen,’ he said, seizing on the proffered explanation with alarming enthusiasm. ‘That’s exactly what we don’t want ’em to know.’

  But it wasn’t, of course, or not just that. It was something else entirely and he was kicking himself for having forgotten it. Beyond the siege, beyond the lines of Stephen’s men, a greater danger awaited her and he had allowed it to come too close. The monk now had access to the castle and would return. He turned away from her, his hand reaching instinctively inside his cloak, and closed his fingers tightly around the now familiar shape of the quill case.

  ‘Time to act, Lord?’

  No time like the present, Gwil.

  Chapter Fifteen

  BEYOND THE CASTLE wall in the darkness footsteps – light, silent footsteps – edge out of the siege camp towards the forest.

  He glides effortlessly over the snow like Christ across the Sea of Galilee while the full moon lights his path, bathing him in the glory of God.

  Nobody sees him. Nobody hears him. Nobody knows him.

  Hush now, not a sound. A few more steps and he will van
ish among the trees and then he can abandon himself to the chase and run. Oh, how he will run and when he runs he will throw back his head and howl at the moon and his cries will ring through the forest but only she will hear him and know that he has come back for her, just as he promised he would.

  He reaches the forest edge but the thrill of what he is about to do makes him gasp and catch his breath. His heart is thumping like the devil and he’s dizzy, but deliriously so. He stops for a moment to steady himself against a tree and then leans into the darkness, mouth gaping as if to drink it in. He must savour this moment because in no time at all, it will all be over.

  He hadn’t ridden with the King’s men into the village that morning but had pulled up unnoticed on the summit of the rise behind it. The iron-clad horsemen on either side had raced on, oblivious to his absence, descending on the innocents below like the wrath of God. It had amused him for a while to watch the villagers, flushed from their warm beds by the iron men, scampering like rats from their burning nests to flee across the fields away from the baying knights on horseback.

  In the half-light of the morning and from this distance, the villagers were indistinguishable one from another, but then he spotted the girl; not, perhaps, the one he sought, but the one who would do for now …

  The sun had risen, the clouds had parted and a divine light had shone down on the mane of red hair fanning out behind her like a glorious flame as she ran for her life.

  She was halfway to the castle by the time he reached her but too exhausted to run any more and had barely struggled as he leaned down, took her in his arms and galloped away with her to the forest.

  He pulled up in a clearing, set her down and hoped she would run again, but when he lowered her to the ground her legs crumpled like a newborn fawn’s and she fell to the floor and lay there, her pale eyes staring blankly beyond him at the canopy of branches high above her face.

  And then from somewhere in the distance a trumpet blew. The King was summoning his men. He had to leave her.

  He wrapped her in a blanket and tied her to a tree, all the while combing and teasing her hair with his fingers as he murmured his promise that he would return for her.

  And now he is keeping that promise and running faster and faster through the forest, crunching the undergrowth like bones beneath his feet as he races towards her. Nothing will stop him, neither man, nor beast, nor God.

  He reaches the clearing. She is still there. He knew she would be. He stops short of her to catch his breath, panting with excitement, but when he looks up again he sees that there is something wrong. She is still, terribly still; her tiny body is inert, still swaddled in the blanket, still slumped against the tree, just as she had been when he left her. He fears that she is dead and kneels beside her, lifting her chin tenderly with his fingers, and when, revived by his touch, she opens her eyes and whimpers feebly, he thanks God then buries his face in her neck, grateful for its warmth, to breathe in the scent of her skin and hair.

  Then he cuts the ropes with which he bound her and pulls her to her feet. ‘Run,’ he tells her, ‘run,’ but she only sinks to her knees again and looks at him beseechingly, clasping her tiny hands in prayer. And then he realizes that her hair no longer shines and that, in the darkness, it is not even red any more.

  He kills her anyway but there was no pleasure in it this time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A BELL RANG ending Penda’s torment and summoning the diners to Compline. Outside in the bailey the wind had whipped up clouds of powdery snow from the rooftops and sent them whirling and eddying into the faces of the worshippers. Penda lifted the hem of her cloak above the slush on the cobbles and tucked her face into her collar to protect it from the bitter cold which pinched and pricked at her cheeks like a bully.

  The castle was quiet now; only the distant voices of the guards high up on the ramparts could be heard, that and the howling of a lone wolf in the forest.

  ‘Come on, Gwil!’ she called irritably over her shoulder at him. She was still cross with him for his earlier behaviour and, besides, she was so cold and shivering so violently now that she thought her bones were going to break; without waiting for him to catch up, she put her head down and hurried towards the chapel.

  Within a few feet of the door a shape darted across her path. Startled by the sudden movement, she looked up to see the ragged figure of a woman pushing against the flow of traffic, her lank dark hair flapping down her back like a filthy veil as she scuttled in the direction of the keep.

  ‘Looks like that Kigva woman,’ a voice at her shoulder said. Gwil had caught up with her. She turned, squinting into the darkness at the disappearing figure. ‘What’s the betting that’s holy water she’s carrying?’ he asked.

  Penda shivered again. She had overheard Father Nimbus complaining to Maud that somebody had been stealing water from the font for the purposes of witchcraft, or so he had presumed, and had been unusually vociferous in his demand that a lock be placed on it. There had been no aspersions cast, it wasn’t Father Nimbus’s way, but suspicion had fallen automatically on Kigva, whose maleficium was renowned in Kenniford.

  She shook the thought away with a shudder, then grabbed hold of Gwil’s arm and hurried him through the door into the sanctuary of the chapel.

  Once inside, she succumbed to the warmth of the atmosphere provided by the tightly packed bodies in the nave and was soon fast asleep with her head on Gwil’s shoulder.

  When she awoke, Father Nimbus was administering the final blessing as a seething mass of exhausted worshippers scrambled towards the doors and to bed.

  Only Gwil stood firm, facing the altar, bracing himself against the crowds as they jostled past them.

  ‘Ain’t you coming, Gwil?’ Penda asked, tugging his sleeve in an effort to pull him towards the door. ‘Ain’t you tired yet?’

  But he shook his head. ‘You go, Pen, get some rest,’ he said. ‘I need a word with the Father.’

  The moment she was out of sight, he took the quill case from his cloak and made his way towards the altar, where the elderly priest, his back to him, was attending to the candles.

  ‘Father!’ he called as he approached, but the old man seemed not to hear.

  ‘Father!’ he repeated, more loudly. This time, Father Nimbus turned suddenly, startled to see the man standing before him.

  ‘Can I help you, my son?’ he asked when he had recovered himself. He was regarding Gwil keenly. Something in the mercenary’s expression disturbed and moved him equally; he saw kindness and penitence in that face, but grave anxiety too, as if this man carried the weight of the world on his shoulders: a dog of war with a conscience, perhaps? There were stranger creatures, after all. In the ensuing silence, Gwil began to shift his weight awkwardly under the old man’s gaze.

  ‘Do you need me to hear your confession, perhaps?’ Father Nimbus asked gently, sensing his discomfort.

  Gwil shook his head and swallowed hard. ‘No,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But thank you, Father. It – it ain’t that … ain’t time enough for that, though Lord knows I got plenty to confess. It’s … it’s this.’ He uncurled his fingers and held out the quill case, tipping it so that the tube of parchment, now looking tired from too much handling, fell out on to the altar in front of them. ‘Just read me this, if you can, will you?’

  Still staring intently at him, Father Nimbus unrolled the parchment with his clean, small fingers, then moved towards a wall cresset for better light. ‘How unusual,’ he said, turning back towards Gwil. ‘It’s Greek.’ He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the words in front of him, and then cleared his throat.

  ‘ “Fulbert,” ’ he read, ‘ “by the grace of God Archdeacon of the great Abbey of St Albans …” ’ He looked up at Gwil. ‘You knew Archdeacon Fulbert?’ Gwil shook his head. Father Nimbus looked relieved. ‘Then you are fortunate, my son. This was a man who brought disgrace on the name of Christendom. Dead now, though … Poisoned, or so they say.’

  ‘Go on, Father
.’

  Father Nimbus cleared his throat again and continued with the translation: ‘ “I, Fulbert of Caen, Archdeacon of St Albans, send greetings to Brother Thancmar, monk of Ely Abbey, and instruct that by full right and any means necessary you procure from Ely the bones of St Alban that were most wickedly and with sacrilege withheld from St Albans, their rightful home …” ’

  Thancmar, Gwil thought, so that’s his name.

  ‘But the bones have been returned to St Albans, have they not?’ Father Nimbus asked. ‘There was a massacre at Ely to get them.’

  Gwil nodded. ‘After the battle of Lincoln. Mercenaries led by this Thancmar. Nine monks killed.’ He clamped his teeth together and then, because he was going to tell this priest the whole truth, he said: ‘I was there.’

  Not a quiver of shock from Father Nimbus; more a look of compassion. ‘With blood on your sword, my son?’

  ‘No. But I was there.’ And so Gwil embarked on the tale he had to tell, omitting only the part which included Penda. The priest was kindly and good, he could see that, but the girl must be protected at all costs and her tragedy was not his to confide.

  As the words tumbled out of his mouth so the memories came back and he encountered waves of distress which threatened to drown him. I’ve gone soft, he thought to himself. He was tossed by the guilt of Ely where, even if there had been no blood on his sword, he had ridden with men from whose weapons it dripped.

  Again, as in his every nightmare, the unbidden image of the little girl with the red hair lying bloodied in the ruined church tormented him. He stopped, gasping for breath, and raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. When he had collected himself he wiped them roughly with the back of his sleeve and looked at the priest.

  He saw the effect of his emotion reflected in the ravaged expression on Father Nimbus’s face and wondered if this effeminate little man could withstand the onslaught of what he was hearing. However, though the priest’s eyes shed tears, they remained steadily on his. Only when Gwil reached Waterlily’s death was there an outburst of pain, a de profundis of the soul at man’s capacity for atrocity.