‘Really?’ the old man replied, turning towards her in surprise. ‘Milburga? Oh, yes – yes, I see what you mean … Well, there is no doubt that she is a very, er, fine woman, a very fine woman indeed. But it would take rather a brave man, don’t you think?’
‘None braver than my Gwil,’ she said proudly.
At the other end of the table another couple, also giving many cause to wonder about the nature of their relationship, sat deep in conversation, oblivious to all but one another. Penda could hardly take her eyes off them. It was the first time she had seen a couple in love and it made her curious.
From the way they behaved it looked a bittersweet experience and although she could overhear very little of what they said, she could tell by the way Maud intermittently lowered her eyelids – very un-Maud-like – and the inclination of her head that it was not inconsequential. She watched, spellbound, as the exchange went back and forth until suddenly Alan reached out, pressed his finger to Maud’s lips, clasped her hands in his and began to tell her something with such intensity and passion that Penda gasped and had to look away. When she looked back, some moments later, Maud’s expression was one of rapt attention. Whatever it was they were discussing, this was the crux, but although she tilted her stool this way and that and to quite a perilous angle at one point, craning her neck until it hurt, they spoke so softly that she could barely hear a word. And then, as if the sentence had been carried to her on a breeze, she heard Alan say:
‘I will come back, my lady. As soon as this damned war is over I’ll be back at Kenniford before you can say “God save the Queen”.’
The evening ended as the sun went down, the hall emptied and a host of hiccoughing fuzzy-headed revellers made their way obediently to the chapel for Compline and then to bed.
Chapter Thirty-six
THE ABBOT IS muttering once more from the Book of Revelation: ‘ “His name was Death. And Hades followed with him …” ’ He repeats it over and over again.
‘Whose name, my lord?’ The scribe leans forward to hear him more clearly. ‘Who is Death?’
But the abbot puts his finger to his lips. ‘Shhh,’ he says as his eyes cast wildly around the room. He is shivering.
Outside the light is dim for so early in the afternoon and thunder growls in the distance. A storm is brewing and through the window of the infirmary the scribe can see the trees on the rise beyond the abbey bend to a sudden gust as dark clouds chase across the sky like warlords on horseback.
There is a hush broken only by the abbot’s sudden gasp: ‘He was waiting, you see, in the rowan copse, as he said he would, standing in the shadows, waiting.’ The old man is struggling for breath. He makes no sense; the scribe is frightened.
‘But who, my lord?’ He must press him; time is running out. ‘Who? Tell me who?’
‘The monk,’ the abbot replies, his voice barely audible now. ‘That fiend in cleric’s robes. It was he who was waiting.’
‘But for whom, my lord? For whom did he wait?’ He is desperate to wring the ending of the tale from the old man before he goes entirely mad or dies, yet death is breathing hard upon his scrawny neck.
‘The serpent. The betrayer of Kenniford,’ the abbot hisses. ‘He alone who knew its underground labyrinths; he who could come and go through them unseen like a will-o’-the-wisp.
‘It is He who leads Death to the postern, guiding him like a shepherd along its narrow path to where another passage, unknown to all but he, converges.
‘They do not speak but the monk, crawling on his hands and knees through the low, dark tunnel, mutters unholy things beneath his breath.
‘And still he leads him on to the Wormhole and through the rusted grille into the castle itself …’
The scribe rocks back and forth upon his stool, hands writhing in his lap, his face tilted to the ceiling as he implores God to give him patience.
But the abbot has turned his face to the wall and is silent once more, while outside the thunder executes its threat, bouncing angrily over the hills as the rain lashes hard upon the abbey’s roof. It is cold suddenly and the scribe shrinks deeper into his robe.
‘My lord?’
The abbot turns towards him, his face wet with tears. ‘While God and His saints slept,’ he sobs.
Chapter Thirty-seven
AS THE REVELLERS stumbled to their beds and the servants settled into their various niches in the hall, Gwil made his way to the ramparts for his final patrol of the evening.
It was a cold, clear night and the watchmen stamped their feet, their arms flapping like a murder of crows to keep themselves from freezing.
‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’ Gwil nodded at each in turn as he made his way along the allure behind them.
‘’Night, Sir Gwilherm,’ they mumbled through frozen mouths, their warm breath etched in the chilly air.
Gwil shivered. It made him cold just to look at them and not a little grateful that before too long, duty done, he would be tucked up under his blankets in the comparative warmth of the keep.
‘Keep warm, mind,’ he called back over his shoulder as he headed for the stairwell.
A breeze arose as he picked his way down the icy steps to the bailey, mischievously gathering the hem of his mantle and sending it wafting about his shoulders. He grumbled to himself as he pulled it more tightly around him and set off at a brisk trot through the bailey.
Most of the buildings in the inner ward were in darkness, their occupants asleep; the only light a candle guttering in the chapel’s window.
Weary and by now extremely cold, he was in a hurry to complete his rounds, but since Father Nimbus had obviously not retired yet, he would make a detour of the chapel to check on him.
As he opened its door he was met with the familiar smell of incense, beeswax and damp stone which had emanated from all the churches he had ever set foot in and typified, for him at least, the very essence of God.
The hinges on the door creaked as it swung wide, making the old priest jump at the sound.
‘Oh, Gwil,’ Father Nimbus said, patting his heart theatrically. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors. I’m afraid you rather startled me.’
‘Sorry, Father,’ he said from the doorway. ‘Just looking in to say goodnight. Make sure all’s well.’
Father Nimbus smiled and nodded and, satisfied that indeed all was well, Gwil ducked back into the night and set off towards the keep.
One last duty to perform and then he could climb the stairs to the guardroom and curl up for the night as he longed to: but first he must go down into the undercroft to make sure old Ernulf, the postern guard, hadn’t fallen asleep on duty. Not that he would, mind, good man, Ernulf, but it was just as well to make sure.
The darkness in the tunnel was almost palpable and the brand he was carrying made shadows on the walls strange enough to tease even an imagination as unfanciful as Gwil’s. Water dripped noisily from the ceiling while thick cobwebs brushed against his face and from ground level came the scratching of rats’ claws.
An inhospitable bloody place this, he thought, stepping up his pace; wouldn’t do to spend more time than was strictly necessary down here. He was relieved when, a few moments later, he rounded a bend and emerged into the well-lit cavern at the entrance to the postern.
Ernulf the guard was leaning against the grille contemplating the toe of his boot, looking as weary and cold as Gwil felt. At the sound of footsteps he looked up sharply, automatically reaching for his sword, but when he saw Gwil emerge out of the darkness he smiled with relief.
‘All well, Ernulf?’ Gwil asked.
‘All well, Sir Gwilherm,’ he replied. ‘Quiet as a grave down here tonight.’
‘And twice as cold,’ Gwil said, blowing on his hands. ‘Keeping warm, I hope.’
The guard nodded.
‘Well, goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight.’
Ernulf watched, with no little envy, as Gwil turned round and walked back along the tunnel the way he had come.
/> ‘Quiet as a grave.’ He could have kicked himself for that! Didn’t do to mention graves and such in the middle of the night in a place like this; didn’t take much to pique the imagination down here; besides, it was Ernulf’s belief that loose talk was all it took to conjure up things best left unconjured. He’d heard too many stories about the dreaded Wormhole and the ghost of Walter Corbet – who could still be heard, or so they said, rattling his chains and moaning at midnight – not to be superstitious.
He shivered, stood up straight and stamped his numbing feet. He would go for a walk, keep his blood flowing; show willing though what for he didn’t really know. Since the siege ended there hadn’t seemed much point in a vigil down here, nobody but a handful of people even knew about it; on the other hand, duty was duty and keeping moving might take his mind off old Walter.
He took a brand from the wall and followed the tunnel to his right, which led to the wine stores. He might not be able to drink the stuff, not on watch anyway, but at least he could smell it; and anything was better than the stench of dead rats and cats’ piss which assaulted his nostrils otherwise.
Time passed, though how much he didn’t know, but it was almost certainly past midnight when he started to hear things.
He had stopped for a while and was leaning against a broad wooden pillar, just about to close his weary eyes for a moment or two, when a sound which seemed to come from somewhere in the direction of the postern jolted him awake.
He was used to strange noises down here, what with all the rats and cats and even the occasional snuffling of a badger, but this was different: footfall, human at that; the soft, furtive tread of someone trying not to be heard. As quietly as possible he took his sword out of its scabbard and began to make his way back to his post.
But when he got to the postern there was nobody there. The noises had stopped. Ernulf scratched his head; he must have been imagining things. He looked around again. Nothing.
And then he heard it again, the unmistakable sound of footsteps; only this time they were closer and coming from somewhere on the other side of the grille.
He lifted his brand again and approached the bars. It was too dark to see much but somewhere in the recess of the tunnel something or someone was moving; he could feel it. His heart began to race.
‘Who goes there?’
The footsteps stopped.
‘Who goes there?’
And then, from behind him, came a scream: high-pitched, hysterical, every note resonating with terror, and a man’s voice: ‘Quiet,’ it hissed.
Two people, then.
He was about to spin around when he felt the cold steel of a knife pressed hard against his neck.
The monk smiled as he ran his knife across the guard’s throat, spilling his blood in spurting rivulets on to the earth floor. There was no noise, no fuss, just an almost imperceptible hiss as Ernulf’s artery yielded to the blade and spewed out its contents. And when he crumpled to the floor the monk knelt beside him, peering curiously at him as he watched him die, aping the movement of his mouth with his own as it gaped fish-like, desperate to breathe.
On other side of the grille scores of men wove and paced like ravening wolves waiting to be let loose on the unsuspecting sleeping castle. He took the keys from the dead man’s belt and opened the gate, then stood back as they rushed past in a great wave and out into the undercroft.
Three Kenniford men died with arrows in their backs before anyone had a chance to raise the alarm, and by then it was too late.
Father Nimbus had stayed late in the chapel, long after Gwil’s visit, to pray because, he felt, it was the least he could do now that divine providence had delivered Kenniford from the siege and restored it to such robust good health and happiness.
But as he knelt before the altar to offer his heartfelt, unconditional thanks to God, it dawned on him quite suddenly that something was very badly wrong.
He had never been a superstitious man, but this dawning took the form of a sensation more than anything else, like an ill wind lifting the hair on the back of his neck, making him rise abruptly and rush to the door.
Outside everything was backlit in an orange glow. There were half-roused, half-dressed people running hither and thither without purpose and in a panic he couldn’t grasp.
Perhaps he was dreaming.
He stood blankly in the doorway, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and looked again.
And eventually, through the mist of disbelief, a vision of Hell emerged.
Bodies littered the ground, some smouldering still from the fire arrows which had melted their clothes and flesh; others lay twitching, limbless and bleeding; and as each piece of the diabolical tableau filtered through, so too did the accompanying sounds: the screaming, the roaring of flames and the clash of steel on steel.
And then, on the opposite side of the bailey, something else caught his eye.
He moved beyond the sanctuary of the chapel, peering into the clawing smoke until finally he was able to make out the shape of a man in dark robes standing on the other side of the ward. There was something familiar about him, but also something eerily incongruous about the way he was just standing there: calm yet watchful, as if the brutal pageant in front of him had been staged purely for his entertainment. And he wasn’t alone. Standing in front of him Father Nimbus could just make out the struggling, terrified figure of a child around whose neck the man’s hands were tightly clamped.
‘William!’
Father Nimbus ran as he had never run in his life, pushing his way through the surging, panicking crowds of people and animals, stumbling over the blood-smeared flagstones, never once taking his eyes off the boy and the monk.
‘Let him go!’ he pleaded as he reached them, sinking to his knees, his hands pressed together in supplication. ‘In God’s name, let him go! He is just a child.’
The monk smiled and cocked his head to one side; then he tightened his grip on William’s neck and with his free hand gestured to the old priest to rise and come closer.
Father Nimbus did so, inching towards them while all the time speaking softly to the terrified boy: ‘Don’t be frightened, dear one,’ he told him, although he was trembling himself. ‘No one will hurt you.’ But beneath the suffocating fingers William was screaming, begging him to turn back. ‘All will be well,’ Father Nimbus said, holding out his hand to him. For a moment William felt the monk’s grip loosen around his throat and was about to wriggle free and run to safety when the blade of a dagger flashed inches from his face and plunged into the old man’s chest.
Father Nimbus sank to his knees for the last time. ‘I’m so awfully sorry, William,’ he said.
As the old priest drew his last breath, Gwil and Alan were fighting back-to-back on the other side of the bailey with barely enough room to raise their swords in the cramped chaos of battle.
They had been woken along with the rest of the garrison by the sound of the great hall’s roof crashing to the floor through its burning rafters and had rushed to see what was happening.
From the window of the guardroom the situation looked bleak indeed.
The men now standing on the battlements, silhouetted against the skyline by the light from the flames below, were strangers – not a Kenniford guard in sight – and below the ramparts the enemy force outnumbered the defenders by at least two to one.
Without a word both men ran down the keep’s narrow staircase, swords raised, shields clattering against the stone pillar, expecting at any moment a rush of men towards them. Instead, halfway down, they came across Penda, who was cursing broadly and trying in vain to pull a hauberk over her dress.
‘No you don’t,’ Gwil said, grabbing her by the arm and forcing her back up the stairs towards the solar. ‘Ain’t no call for the likes of you down there, this is hand-to-hand stuff. Now do what you’re told for once and get back.’
She argued with him bitterly, angry tears spurting from her eyes, as he knew she would, but when he explained tha
t the solar was defenceless without her, and that Lady Maud and the others were in greater need of her help, she capitulated.
‘What about the other men?’ she asked.
‘Out there fighting,’ Gwil said, ‘what’s left of ’em. Now get.’
She turned reluctantly and made her way back towards the solar.
Gwil watched until she was safely out of sight.
She would not fight again while there was a breath left in his body. He had made that promise to himself the day she had lain so close to death and now he would guard this place with his life to prevent anyone reaching her. God willing, if he kept his wits about him, there was a chance he could do it too. After all, the keep was the most easily defended part of a castle. Even if everywhere else was over-run or burned, the keep, built of stone and for self-sufficiency, could be sealed off and protected for as long as supplies allowed; though only God and possibly Sir Bernard knew how long that might be.
But first he must fight.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and plunged through the door to the inner ward.
So far the fighting was confined to the outer bailey but even here the noise was deafening and the air so fume-filled, thick and acrid that he was forced to cover his mouth and nose to prevent himself from choking.
When he reached the gate he stopped to take in the disorientating, unfamiliar landscape which faced him on the other side of the curtain wall.
Almost nothing remained of the ramshackle buildings that had once lined the bailey; their occupants were either dead or dying or fighting for their lives before him.
Smoke was pouring through the windows and roof of the great hall and further along, where a burning yew had toppled against it, orange flames leaped high into the night as they devoured the chapel. The mews and stables had gone too, reduced to untidy piles of charred wood and rubble, and the horses, or the few to have survived, were careering up and down in panic, trampling bodies underfoot.
Winter Siege Page 28
