Winter Siege

by Ariana Franklin

  William leaped to his feet. ‘Stay calm, Father,’ he said, gently trying to press his patient back on to the pillows, but Sir John was by now incandescent with rage and was thrashing his one useful arm so wildly in Maud’s direction that he accidentally clouted the boy on the head. It was a heavy blow with an audible clunk, but although William’s eyes smarted with the pain, he refused to cry.

  ‘It’s all right, Father,’ he said quietly, taking hold of the flailing hand. ‘You didn’t mean to hurt me. I know you didn’t.’ He looked beseechingly at Maud and Milburga. ‘He didn’t mean to. Really he didn’t.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t,’ Maud said, moved almost to tears by the generosity of the child to one so undeserving of it. ‘Nevertheless it is rather late and your father’s obviously very tired and in need of rest. So I think it would be best if you came with us. Come back tomorrow though, if you like?’ she added brightly, holding out her hand to him.

  William got up reluctantly and walked towards her, glancing back anxiously every few steps at his father, who had finally calmed down and was once more staring blankly at the ceiling. In the corner of the room Kigva rocked back and forth on her heels, muttering to herself, and the moment Maud and Milburga reached the door, she scuttled over to the bed.

  They hurried William out of the room and took him to his chamber, where they rubbed comfrey oil on the bump on his forehead – by now the size of an egg – and put him to bed. When at last he was settled they returned to the solar where, once more, a bleary-eyed Tola was ousted from the mattress beside the Empress to make way for Maud.

  ‘Not that one neither!’ Milburga snapped when, still half asleep, the poor girl crawled on to its nearest neighbour. ‘That’s mine. You’re over there.’

  Outside in the bailey Alan and Sir Rollo were making a final tour of the battlements, checking to see that all the guards and men-at-arms were awake and the castle secure. Satisfied that all was well, they too returned to the keep, Sir Rollo to his own room on the upper floor, as befitting his status, and Alan to his pallet on the floor in the guardroom, as befitted his.

  Maud slept fitfully that night and Milburga, who had been woken by her mistress’s turnings and murmurings once too often, made a note to slip her some catnip oil at breakfast in the morning to ward off any further disturbance the following night.

  In her dreams Maud was happy, deliriously so, standing in the now defunct cherry orchard squinting out from beneath the delicate shadows cast by the blossom-laden branches into a beautiful spring day. All around her was peace and calm, the siege a distant memory, the air filled not with the cries of men and the clang of weaponry, but birdsong and the scent of flowers and she, herself, was swaying, in a gentle breeze to the strains of a distant choir in the arms of … of … oh dear God! … Alan of Ghent!

  She woke up sweating, gasping for breath, and in the grip of panic grabbed hold of Milburga’s wrist, waking her up again.

  ‘Catnip for you all right, my girl,’ Milburga grumbled, prising off the offending hand. ‘Hear me?’ But Maud had already gone back to sleep.

  Below them, in the guardroom, among scores of prostrate, snoring men, Penda was sleeping badly too. The pain in her belly had got even worse and she felt sick. The blood, which was apparently endless, had once again saturated the cloths she used to staunch it. Earlier that day Gwil had directed her to the basement where large bales of the stuff were stored so that, with some stealth, she was able to replenish them, but in the dead of night it wasn’t a journey she relished. Nope, all in all, she decided, being a woman, whatever that meant, was an uncomfortable business and she didn’t like it.

  She propped herself on her elbows and looked around the crowded room at the men surrounding her, envying them their pain-free bellies and their ability to sleep; even Gwil, whose behaviour had been so strange that evening, looked peaceful now.

  He had been an age returning from the chapel but she had waited for him nevertheless.

  She had lain on her back for what seemed like hours, staring blankly at the milky patch of moonlight shining through the oiled cloth which hung over the tiny window on the other side of the room. More hours passed, the room grew silent and still he didn’t come. Then, just as she was beginning to despair that he might never return, she heard footsteps across the room, the familiar, involuntary groan as he lowered his aching body on to the mattress beside her and the soft, contented sigh as he eased himself into the warmth of its blankets.

  She turned to face him, wanting more than anything to talk to him, to learn about his business with the priest, but, although he turned towards her briefly and smiled, acknowledging the fact that she had waited up for him, he turned back again almost immediately and went straight to sleep. It was the way things were between them nowadays and deep down she knew that all enquiry was pointless, unwelcome and unwise.

  All her life, or as much of it as she could remember, she had been content with knowing only those things which Gwil taught her. Nothing else mattered; nothing beyond them existed; as if he had simply conjured her into being one day out of the fenland peat. She had never questioned the tacit understanding between them that no good would ever come from knowing about her past and knew somehow that by maintaining her ignorance of it, he was also keeping her safe. And yet … and yet, something had changed in her; as if a coverfeu had been lifted from the embers of her memory sparking long-forgotten images to life. She subdued them when she could, as she had struggled to do this morning, but her defences were weakening and in her dreams they would stutter and spark and sear their way into her consciousness. Most of the time they seemed meaningless, fractured images of a peculiar land where the sea and sky merged into one and strange birds wheeled and screeched and rushes grew as tall as men. But just lately she had dreamed of a golden-haired woman who held her in her arms and sang softly to her and when she woke up, her heart was heavy with a longing she didn’t understand and a loneliness she could hardly bear.

  The next morning, as dawn broke over Kenniford, the business of the siege began again. Emissaries from both sides rode out into the no man’s land between the castle and enemy camp, shook hands on their mutual implacability and the fighting resumed.

  ‘Hope you slept well, Master Penda,’ Alan said as they took their posts once more on the ramparts. ‘We’re going to need you sharp again today.’

  Penda grinned. ‘Hear that, Gwil?’ she asked, poking her head around the merlon to peer at him. ‘Alan of Ghent thinks I’m sharp.’ But Gwil only mumbled something under his breath and carried on as if he hadn’t heard.

  She couldn’t understand why he wasn’t more pleased or, indeed, more proud, that under his tutelage she had garnered such skill and reputation. It made her wonder, and not for the first time, what she could possibly have done to displease him. She shrugged; there was nothing she could do about it, he was being very strange. Besides, she couldn’t think about it now, she was going to need all her wits about her for whatever the day held in store.

  Once they had settled themselves in, crossbows loaded and cocked, bolts and quarrels organized neatly beside them, Gwil appeared behind her.

  ‘Same as yesterday, Pen,’ he said. ‘But watch you don’t get too proud of yourself. Ruins your aim, getting too proud does.’

  ‘Oh, does it?’ she muttered as she raised her bow and aimed it through the loophole. Then she paused for a moment, glared at him over her shoulder, turned back to the loophole, drew the string tight to her chest, released it and made her first kill of the day. ‘Does it indeed?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  STEPHEN’S ARMY SPAWNED itself daily. Penda had heard about monsters who could do that. Row upon row of anonymous men in hauberks and helmets surrounded the castle. When one fell another took his place.

  So great was its number that, despite the best efforts of the Kenniford archers, within days the King’s men had filled the ditch and dragged their siege engines through the hailstorm of arrows to the very foot of the castle walls,
littering the scarp with their bodies but advancing nevertheless.

  Their picks, rams and bores, brutal structures hewn from vast pieces of wood, were rammed against the castle by teams of men, shaking it so violently that the battery reverberated through the bodies of every man, woman and child inside.

  With each blow a great cloud of choking dust rose up to the archers on the battlements as the ashlar slabs fell from the castle walls exposing the soft underbelly of the flint beneath.

  On the allure Penda felt each shock judder through her bones, rattling her heart in her chest. There was no doubt about it; unless something miraculous happened, and soon, the walls would be breached and the King’s men would invade.

  And it was this that terrified her more than anything; a swift arrow through the temple from a distant archer would, by comparison, be a merciful death and she was prepared for that, could face it with equanimity even, but the idea of invasion brought unimaginable horror and her nightmares were plagued by it.

  Gwil had heard her lately, crying in her sleep, calling out to him, begging him to protect her from some invisible assailant, and every time she did so he was dragged back to his lonely vigil in the ruined church and was once more powerless to help her.

  ‘It’s all right, Pen. It’s all right,’ he murmured softly through those nights until the crisis passed and she fell asleep again, but each one was a reminder that the sleeping monster of her memory was stirring and that danger crept ever closer.

  ‘And what then, Lord? Eh? How can I protect her from herself?’

  That’s a tricky one, Gwil, That’s the question. Even I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.

  And Gwil shook his fist at the heavens and wondered what on earth he had ever done to deserve such torment.

  She had been fine when the siege began. Oh, he had worried about her, watched her like a hawk from the moment she set foot on the ramparts, fretting about how she might react to it all; whether the violence of battle would stir her memory. But to his relief she took to it like a duck to water and, secretly, he had been proud – though he refused to show it of course – of the pluck she had shown and the confidence with which she fought.

  ‘Enjoying this, ain’t you, Pen?’ he asked one day.

  ‘Not half,’ she replied, grinning. ‘It’s like there’s this fire in my belly, gets lit the minute I got a bow in my hand, Gwil; makes me feel strong!’ The words tumbled out in a torrent; her eyes sparkled with excitement.

  ‘You just keep that ol’ feeling, Pen,’ he said. ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with that.’

  She had too. To his great relief, the enthusiasm with which she scampered along the allure to her post every day as the weeks passed remained undimmed.

  ‘Think I done this before, Gwil?’ she asked him once.

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘You know! Fighting and such … This!’ she said, waving her bow at him.

  ‘Don’t talk daft. You was too little for a start. Ain’t never touched a bow afore I learned you.’

  She stood there, staring thoughtfully at the weapon in her hand. Gwil watched her nervously, anticipating the inevitable scrutiny he knew must come … eventually. It was pure luck that it had been staved off this far but he knew that sooner or later something in that strange little head of hers would snap and she would demand to know exactly why it was that, alone of all her sex – or as far as he knew anyway – she needed to fight.

  She stared at him for a while, frowning, and then suddenly her face brightened. ‘Ah but!’ she said, wagging her finger at him triumphantly as another thought occurred to her. ‘You said as how I was in a really bad way when you found me. How d’you know I hadn’t been in some sort of fight or something then?’

  Gwil shook his head.

  He could tell her now; perhaps he should. Perhaps, after all, he owed her the truth; but what to tell? That as a child she had been so brutally raped and battered that something of the steel of the men who did it to her had entered her soul? That he might have prevented it? He looked at the bright little face gazing up at him and simply could not.

  ‘Like I said, Pen. You was too little.’ Then he lowered his voice and hissed: ‘And you was a girl, remember! Girls don’t fight. God only knows what happened or how you was hurt other than somehow you bumped your head so bad it made you forget even your own name.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She narrowed her eyes again, regarding him suspiciously. ‘Think I’ll ever remember?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ He shrugged as he turned his back on her and pretended to busy himself with the arrows at his feet.

  God’s eyes! It wasn’t all that long ago, but it felt like an age and so much had changed since then. Christmas had passed, January, and as the weeks went by the mood among the garrison had become increasingly gloomy. However much he tried to shield her from it, it was hard to avoid the inevitable conversation about the fate awaiting defeated armies once their walls had been breached. None of it was good; the rule of thumb, as he knew only too well, was that the more enraged the King became – the more often his entreaties to surrender refused – the more members of the defending force, especially among the lowly ranks such as the archers, were hanged once defeated.

  No one was in any doubt by now that Stephen had greater resources on his side and that his patience was running thin. His casualties had been heavy, his demands for surrender rebuffed and therefore revenge, rather than reconciliation and a safe passage out of the castle, was the most likely outcome for the majority of them.

  ‘I think we should leave here, Gwil,’ Penda said one day. ‘Ain’t our war, you said so, remember? We could just go.’ Her only loyalty was to him and she was increasingly worried for his safety. They could, she reasoned, return to the charcoal-burner’s hut where this whole sorry business began, take their chances with the snow and the wolves, only this time refuse sanctuary to any passing empress, no matter how nicely she asked. He listened patiently to her argument but shook his head.

  ‘And go where, Pen? Ain’t no such thing as a safe place these days.’ He was right and reluctantly she had to accept it. Beyond the siege the ravening forces of lawlessness and anarchy reigned far more efficiently than Stephen ever had. The whole country was devouring itself. God and His saints were asleep all right and nothing, it seemed, could induce them to wake up.

  Unlike God and His saints, however, Sir Bernard had slept very badly of late. His meticulous accounting, of which he was inordinately proud, was on the verge of ruin.

  ‘I’m not happy,’ he told Maud one morning as she paced up and down behind him in the great hall. ‘I’m not happy at all.’

  ‘Never knew you when you were,’ she said, stopping to peer over his shoulder at the ledger in front of him. ‘But what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘You know my position, madam,’ he said as patiently as he could. ‘And you don’t like it but the fact is that, sooner or later, we must dispense with some of these useless mouths. There’s nothing else to be done, I’m afraid. If this siege carries on much longer, we simply cannot afford to keep them.’

  ‘And you know my position,’ she said curtly. ‘I will not turn innocent men, women and children out of this castle to be slaughtered or die of starvation. We’ll have to think of something else.’

  Sir Bernard breathed a heavy sigh and put his head in his hands. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘How much did you say we were paying those mercenaries?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘Two pence per day per man, six pence per day for the officers and a shilling a day for their commander,’ he repeated wearily. They had had this conversation many times before. He could hear her making the calculations under her breath, totting up the number of men and officers until all of a sudden she stopped and threw up her arms jubilantly.

  ‘Well, there we are then!’ she said. ‘There must be a good deal fewer of them now, surely. We’ll just cut down on the others’ pay!’

  Sir Bernard groaned, his head drooping into the crook
of his elbow on the table – it had been so much easier dealing with her father.

  ‘How many times, madam,’ he said eventually, ‘must I remind you that a mercenary without pay is about as useful as a colt in battle? If we do not pay them they will not stay and they will not fight. We need them and you must accept this fact once and for all however much you may dislike it.’

  ‘Bugger!’ she said and sauntered off leaving Sir Bernard to his books.

  Outside in the bailey, pushing her way through a mêlée of men, women, children, dogs and cattle who now crowded the place like a load of ambulatory detritus, she nearly stumbled over a decapitated horse’s head that had recently been catapulted over the walls by an enemy trebuchet. Looking around furiously, she grabbed hold of the nearest bystander and, startling him out of his wits, pointed at the object and shouted: ‘In God’s name make yourself useful and get rid of this, damn you! Don’t just stand there or it’ll be your head over the wall next and I’ll fling it myself.’

  After that she felt better and went to look for Milburga.

  She found her, eventually, in the chapel with Father Nimbus and Cousin Lynessa, trying to organize a bunch of unruly children into sitting quietly.

  ‘Now if you’ll just listen, children!’ Cousin Lynessa was trying but failing miserably to raise her voice above the cacophony. ‘If you’ll just … just listen. I said listen! … we can all play a nice little game.’ But it was hopeless and after a few moments she crumpled on to a pew, looking plaintively out from under a rather skew-whiff wimple. Milburga stood beside her, looking equally despondent. Father Nimbus, it had not gone unnoticed, had retreated to the altar, where he was pretending to busy himself but was actually meditating quietly and gratefully on the merits of chastity.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Maud said as she cupped her hands around her ears in a futile attempt to cut out the din, ‘such noisy little useless mouths,’ and wondered whether it was too late to tell Sir Bernard she had changed her mind.