The Siege of Salwarpe

by Veronica Heley

  Not enough wood. The thought came into his mind and would not be driven out again. He had guessed there would be no store of wood, as soon as he had looked around. Stone-built walls and towers … the keep was built of stone, too. All that was to the good, in a way. In another way, not so good. There were some lathe and plaster buildings here and there, with thatched roofs … roomy barns, almost empty. Shacks here and there for carts, farm implements … a silent smithy … cook-houses, hen-coops, pig-styes …

  But wood was needed for cooking and for a fire in the hall, and so the garrison had been burning their woodpile without thought of …

  He rubbed his forehead. It would be best to think about something else for a while. But what?

  He raised his eyes to the darkening sky and saw there the first star of evening. It had a soothing effect on him. The scent of honeysuckle was heavy and sweet. Had the maiden really preferred the honeysuckle to the rose? No. Aylmer’s look of anxiety had betrayed her. So, she had said the honeysuckle was her favourite because she thought he, Benedict, ought to be set in authority over Reynold. Had Aylmer primed her to that trick? No, Aylmer did not think things through, always …

  He frowned, thinking of another time when Aylmer had not thought things through. Then he shook his head and squared his shoulders. One could never throw off the past. One was like a snail, he thought, carrying the past about with one, like a shell on one’s back.

  Aylmer, lying in pain. That was a bad thought. And he could do nothing to help him.

  Benedict sighed. He thought he must go and write a letter to Aylmer, using the cipher he had worked out with his old tutor before he left. If the pigeon were released when the ducks flew out to the marshes at dawn … that ought to confuse any archers of Hugo’s waiting for carrier pigeons …

  His eyes closed. A man coughed, nearby.

  ‘My lord, I was sent to tell you. There is a bath made ready against your coming, and fresh clothing.’

  A bath. Now who had had the brains to think of that? The maiden, of course. He felt a swell of gratitude to her. He opened his eyes and saw a youngish man in the plain dress of an under-servant, with a prominent Adam’s apple. The man had such fair eyebrows and lashes that in certain lights they disappeared from sight. Benedict forced a smile. Smiles were important, in a besieged castle. The old lord knew that. Appearances were sometimes more important than reality. A gold surcoat and chain-mail could hide creaky joints, just as a bath and fresh clothing could bring Benedict to table smelling sweet, if not looking particularly beautiful. Looking beautiful he would leave to Reynold.

  And come to think of it, what had Reynold been doing with himself all day?

  He got to his feet slowly, annoyed to find his body unwilling to obey him. A night spent among the mists on the marshes had played havoc with his leg … but remember to smile, Benedict, and to speak loudly and cheerfully!

  ‘What is your name, my good man?’

  Benedict eased into his place at the table on the dais. He was seated between Sir Henry and the maiden; the place of honour. He looked about him. The hall was a relatively recent building, set at right angles to the much older, square keep. The windows of the hall were large and obviously the building had not been conceived with the idea of keeping out an attacking force. Benedict automatically began to plan how the hall could be made safe, if Hugo broke into the castle grounds.

  The maiden was wearing a robe of pale green, embroidered at hem and neck with peach-coloured flowers … honeysuckle or rose? Did it matter? The robe was a trifle too big for her round the neck. Doubtless it was one of her aunt’s, which she had borrowed for the occasion.

  The base of the hall was crowded with trestle-tables, and the benches on either side of the trestles were filled with people. The whole community dined with their lord at nights and most of them would sleep on the trestles, and under them, afterwards. Food. Benedict noted that the food was well cooked and that there was plenty of it.

  Minstrels? And tumblers? The Lord above! Sir Henry certainly knew how to set a feast! And yet, now Benedict came to think of it, was Sir Henry not wise to do so? The buzz of talk, the occasional laugh … the ready flow of ale … the music, the splendid dresses of Sir Henry and his granddaughter; were these not all part and parcel of Sir Henry’s defence of Salwarpe? Morale in the castle was high. Benedict only had to close his eyes for a moment to hear that the buzz of voices spoke of men confident that they could defy Hugo with impunity. The old man had done well.

  But. Reynold was speaking and something in his tone roused Benedict to attention. There was a rasp to Reynold’s voice which usually heralded one of his most bitter sarcasms. Benedict had been the object of Reynold’s wit for so many years that he winced before the jibe was fairly out, even though it was not directed at him this time.

  Reynold was calling their attention to the fact that Dickon the Fowler was being shown to a seat at the table next the dais. The high table on the dais itself was reserved for the Lord of Salwarpe, his family and guests of noble degree; a visiting priest or wealthy merchant might perhaps be invited to sit there also, but everyone else sat in the body of the hall. However, immediately to the right of the dais was a table where the most important members of the household sat. The steward was there, the sergeant of the guard, the chief huntsman, the Lord’s body servants, and so on. Dickon was being seated there between Simon Joce and Peter Bowman. Reynold was expressing his surprise and amusement.

  ‘… for the old man is certainly not accustomed to such surroundings, as can be seen!’

  Benedict thought of Dickon’s reception of them, of how he had spoken to them as equals, despite his poverty. Ursula was bending her head to hide a flush, and her hand was clenched around her knife.

  Sir Henry put down his cup with deliberation, but before he could speak Benedict said, ‘I assume Master Dickon is the maiden’s foster-father?’

  ‘And saviour,’ said the old man, with emphasis. ‘I will tell you the story, since it reflects on present events. You may have heard that Hugo de Frett claims Salwarpe for his own, saying my granddaughter is illegitimate. That tale is a lie, but I will tell you how it came to be put about.

  ‘My son was a fool. It happens, sometimes …’ The old man stared ahead with angry blue eyes. ‘Yes, it happens, sometimes. He was my only son, and perhaps I was over-indulgent. He was brave. He was fond of the tourney. He was handsome, and welcome wherever he went, but he spent as freely as if he were a king’s son, and he married a girl whose dowry was far less than her beauty.

  ‘He was a friend of your father’s, Benedict, though my lad was the younger by some five years or so. You will have heard the tale often enough of how your father took the Cross and went to the Holy Land. … poor man, he was heart-broken when your mother died so young. … I think he looked for death, and God knows he found it …’

  ‘They say he died well,’ said Benedict, crossing himself. ‘I barely remember him.’

  ‘No, you were just a child. My son had no heir when he left me to go on the same Crusade. I tried to dissuade him from going, but he would have it. What was more, he insisted on going in fine style, with a train of men behind him, and his wife to bear him company as far as Constantinople. He beggared me, that he might make a fine show, and he took the best of our men with him. Dickon the Fowler was a young man then, and among those chosen to accompany my son. Dickon had lived all his life till then on the marshes, and the day he came up here to join my son’s company was the first time he had ever set foot inside the castle.

  ‘Well, they rode away, my son and his beautiful young wife, with their men marching along behind them. And that was the last I saw of son, daughter-in-law, and nearly all our men. They died of this and that. Of heat and fever. Of thirst and Saracen blades. They never reached the Holy Land, any of them. But in Constantinople my son’s wife bore him a child, a daughter who was christened Ursula. A fever—and my son was no more. Dickon the Fowler was almost the last of our men left by that time. He s
old my son’s few remaining jewels and his armour, and took passage in the next ship going west for his master’s young widow, the babe, and what was left of our men. The widow died on the voyage. Dickon hired a woman to go along with them, to feed the babe. He sold the babe’s costly wrappings, and wrapped her in homespun that she might pass as his child—for they were deathly afraid of robbers and pirates. And so he brought her home in the crook of his arm, with but three of my men plodding along at his heels.

  ‘And that was the second time that he stepped within the castle, when he brought me my son’s child, and only heir.’

  ‘All honour be to him,’ said Benedict.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I offered him a place in the castle. I offered to build him a fair stone house in the town below. But he would take nothing. He wanted nothing …’

  ‘Except to have me visit him,’ said Ursula. ‘I am his child, even if he is not my father. He taught me the ways of the marshes. Do you wonder at it that I love him, and that I went to him when I was in trouble?’

  ‘I do not,’ said Benedict.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Reynold. ‘To have preserved such a rose …! We should be forever grateful to him. And,’ Here he dropped his voice, ‘I see that you wear my roses on your gown tonight.’

  ‘Are they roses?’ said Ursula, in an indifferent tone. ‘It is hard to tell. I thought they were honeysuckle, myself.’

  Honeysuckle.

  Benedict repressed a grin. So neat a thrust! So well-timed! Ah, but you have chosen well, Aylmer …

  Then he was staring ahead of him, food forgotten. He took a deep breath, and tried to hold on to it, but it slipped away from him, leaving him gasping for air. He fumbled for his goblet, and his fingers refused to obey him. The wine spilt on to the table and he watched it seep away, thinking how foolish he must look sitting there, watching spilt wine spread around …

  ‘You are not well, Sir Benedict?’ The old man was alarmed.

  ‘I. … yes, quite well.’ He sat back in his chair and placed both hands on the arms, holding onto them to maintain his balance. Someone came forward to mop up the mess and refill his cup. ‘I was merely thinking …’

  Thinking about Ursula, who was betrothed to Aylmer.

  ‘We must confer after the feast,’ said the old man. ‘But you eat nothing, Sir Benedict.’

  ‘Thank you. I am not hungry.’ Yet he knew he must force himself to eat, for what would happen to all these people—what would happen to Ursula—if he fell ill? He took a wing of chicken, tore it apart and then let the pieces lie on his platter.

  Sir Henry was watching him. Benedict could feel the wise old eyes on him. Sir Henry had known Benedict’s father and seemed to have remembered nothing but good about him. Some warmth crept into the desolation that was Benedict. The old man was waiting for him to recover, waiting with all the tact and kindliness that seemed to be innate in the de Thrave family.

  Benedict took another deep breath. This time his lungs obeyed him. He reached for his cup, and his hand conveyed it to his mouth. He sipped the wine. It was a good wine, probably from Gascony.

  ‘May I commend you on your choice of wine, Sir Henry? A brave wine.’

  ‘For a brave man.’

  Benedict looked sharply at Sir Henry. The wrinkled eyelids blinked, the lipless mouth smiled, the seamed neck bent in a gesture of homage. Benedict said to himself, ‘Can he mean me?’

  ‘A worthy son of a worthy father,’ said Sir Henry, raising his goblet in a toast to Benedict.

  Benedict did not know what to say. It would have been polite, of course, to turn the compliment aside with a laugh, or a deprecatory remark. But the old man had sounded as if he were making a statement of fact, rather than paying a compliment. Benedict bit his lip to hide a grin of nervous pleasure. He was not accustomed to praise. It was sweet. Undoubtedly it was doubly sweet because it had come so quickly on the discovery that he loved a woman whom he could never have … a woman who would never have given him a passing thought, even if she had been free and not betrothed to Aylmer.

  And there grief had him by the throat again.

  He took another sip of wine, and set the cup aside as firmly as he thrust away his personal problems.

  ‘Now, about the siege, Sir Henry. How do you see matters developing?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Benedict was on his feet and groping for his tunic before his eyes were fairly open. It was the second morning after his arrival in Salwarpe. The thumping outside his door increased until his servant, Parkyn, managed to depress the latch and stagger in with an armful of armour.

  ‘We are under attack?’ said Benedict. ‘Where is Simon Joce? And Sir Reynold?’

  ‘Out there already, and the old lord is arming himself, too. They’ll have the poor creatures inside and give Hugo a trouncing he’ll not forget in a hurry!’

  ‘Poor creatures?’ Benedict pulled on his boots, dashed cold water over his head and reached for his belt.

  ‘The Lady of Spereshot, with her two little ones. Shut in a great cage, she is. And the childer in another beside her. Crying out to us to release them. Out in the open. Put there at dawn, they say, for surely they were not there last evening.’

  ‘What!’ Benedict thrust Parkyn aside and leaped for the door. ‘Simon! Peter Bowman! A moi!’

  He had slept through the dawn. He had been busy with the carpenters yesterday, and then had worked late over his maps and drawings.

  ‘Pray God I am not too late to stop them!’

  He seized a scurrying man-at-arms and demanded to know where Sir Henry might be.

  ‘Mounting his horse, surely!’ The man took in Benedict’s lack of armour and his eyes widened. ‘Best hurry, my lord, if you don’t want to miss the fun!’

  ‘Fools!’ Benedict spun the man away from him and looked around the garth. The place was ominously empty. Everybody must have gone to watch Sir Henry ride out with his men to rescue the captives. A page ran by and was halted by an outstretched hand.

  ‘Where is Simon Joce? Who is in charge at the postern gate?’

  ‘The postern?’ The page looked blank. ‘Everyone’s gone to watch …’

  ‘God in Heaven, but you deserve to be taken by Hugo!’ said Benedict.

  Parkyn appeared at his elbow, vainly trying to get his master to don a chain-mail tunic.

  ‘Parkyn, is there a bell which we can ring to sound the alarm? Or a horn to blow?’

  ‘A bell, surely. It is used when the priest comes up from the town. … it is at the side of the round tower, overlooking the marshes.’

  ‘Then go toll that bell, Parkyn. Toll it for all you are worth, and go on tolling till I send again!’

  Benedict turned and ran towards the gatehouse, thrusting his way through the men who were crowding there. Simon Joce’s burly figure was easy to pick out. Benedict caught at his shoulder.

  ‘Simon Joce, until this morning I had formed a high opinion of you. What are you about? Think, man! Think! Will you let your master ride out without reconnaissance, while the postern gate is left unguarded?’

  Simon’s smile faded, but he blustered. ‘Who comes by the postern …?’

  ‘I did, Simon. And where I came, may not others come also?’

  ‘How could they climb …?’

  ‘We did, Simon. And suppose they have brought ropes with them, and grappling-irons to throw over the parapet …?’

  Simon swallowed. ‘But my lord Reynold said …’

  ‘I can imagine exactly what he said. He is a knight well accustomed to the tourney, and has no knowledge of siege warfare. Think, man! Take your time, they will not start without you, if I know your master! Think! The postern unguarded, all attention on the road below the gatehouse. The bait cunningly set out, the piece of cheese to tempt the mice out of its hole … and then …’

  Voices were raised, calling Simon. Hands were laid to the windlass controlling the drawbridge, which was slowly creaking down. In a moment the way would be clear, t
he portcullis would be raised and Sir Henry and his men would sweep down the road into … what?

  ‘It’s a trap, isn’t it?’ said Benedict, his hands hard on Simon’s arms.

  Simon said, ‘I … I will send to the postern at once, to see if there is aught moving. I do not think it possible …’

  ‘And I will stop Sir Henry. …’

  Above their heads a sweet-sounding bell began to toll. Simon started and turned pale. Around them men ceased to look to the gatehouse and began to glance over their shoulders. The creaking of the windlass ceased and the drawbridge stayed where it was, half up and half down.

  ‘Who has sounded the alarm?’ said Simon.

  ‘I did,’ said Benedict. ‘It might just save us, if there is a force waiting to swarm up and attack the postern.’ Benedict thrust Simon away from him. ‘Go, take some of your men to the gate. Send for Dickon, and let him tell you if there is danger approaching from that quarter. I will stop Sir Henry committing suicide, if I may.’

  The men around him were sullen, unwilling to believe that he might be right. They were only too anxious to break out of the castle and strike a blow against Hugo. They parted to let Simon through, but closed ranks behind him. Benedict clenched his fists. Would he have to throw some of them about, in order to reach Sir Henry?

  A horseman in full armour pushed his way through the throng, and behind him came another.

  ‘The tocsin!’ said Sir Henry, hand over his eyes. ‘Who has sounded the alarm?’

  ‘I did,’ said Benedict, stepping close to Sir Henry’s horse. ‘My lord, will you not dismount and talk a while? I fear a trap.’

  ‘He fears!’ sneered Reynold. ‘Of course he fears! He sees death in every shadow! Why, he is not even armed! Let us to our work, my lord, and leave him to his pens and paper.’

  ‘A trap?’ said Sir Henry. He tugged at his yellow moustache.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Benedict. ‘The trap was well baited, and any knight worth his salt would wish to ride out – and be slaughtered, perhaps.’