And now another force of armed men issued from the castle, led by two men in full armour. These two lowered their visored heads and turned this way and that to see what went on around them. They made for the demoralised enemy and systematically began to slaughter those of the men who had fallen wounded. Hugo’s voice was raised once more, this time in despairing shout. …
Benedict had tarried only long enough to see the carpenters set to work on the carts, and then he had raced back across the garth, Ursula at his side, to where yet more women and more braziers were waiting for them. At a nod from him she set flame to braziers, and again the women screamed and beat on their pans.
‘Just in time!’ Dickon flapped his arms, dancing around like an old crow. ‘They were getting anxious, like!’
While Benedict thrust the Salwarpe men back from the wall, Dickon knelt to release the ropes holding down the long arm of the trebuchet.
There was a sweep of wind, and then a sharp thuck as the beam hit the cross-bar of the framework. And then missiles were falling far and wide, most of them over the wall, but not all … and from below came the screams of men who had no defence against the hail of rocks falling from above … and then there was a rumbling sound as the scree, hit full on, broke up and slipped down the cliff, carrying men and weapons with it.
And then there was silence from below.
Benedict held up his hand, listening.
The women ceased their caterwauling. Still there was silence. The sharp smell of burning rags hung in the air, the braziers still puffed out oily smoke, but the noise of battle had ceased. The women turned to one another to smile, to laugh and then to chatter.
‘Simon!’ Simon stepped forward. Dickon was kneeling at the spy-hole once more. He seemed to be praying.
‘Take ropes and go down after them, Simon,’ said Benedict. Grasping him by the arm, Benedict added, low down, ‘Don’t leave any of them alive. We can’t afford to have them carry tales back, and we can’t afford to feed them.’
Simon frowned, then nodded. He would obey. He led his men out through the postern. They carried ropes, pikes and knives. Not one of the men who had landed at the foot of the cliff that morning would see the sun set.
They were shouting in the distance and the shouts were joyous. Someone came panting up to gasp out that Sir Henry was back with the Spereshot people, and that all was well … not one of our men lost and many of Hugo’s men killed. …
Benedict leaned against the trebuchet. Then he slid down till he was squatting on the timber framework. He put his head in his hands.
This was the bad time, when it was over, and not over. He would dream for nights to come of men lying helpless under the cliff and on the road, waiting to receive a fatal knife thrust …
Someone knelt beside him. It was Ursula and behind her was Parkyn. Both looked anxious. Ursula took a flask of wine from Parkyn and set it to Benedict’s mouth.
He drank, his eyes on her. Her mouth was smeared with blood, where she had bitten her lip, a while back. He liked that about her, that she could feel, and yet control her fear. She was not one of those beauties who were afraid to frown or laugh, for fear of spoiling their looks. Their faces had the empty, unused look of stone heads carved for churches. This face of hers would wear well.
He would drink no more, or he would be the worse for it. He took the flask from her hand and set it to her own mouth. She drank. She closed her eyes and tipped back her head, breathing deeply. So she felt the anticlimax, too. Ah, but she was of fighting blood, and worthy in every way of …
Of Aylmer.
For a moment he had forgotten that she was to marry Aylmer. The shock of remembering threw him back against the timber, sitting upright.
She smiled at him. It was the slow, bemused smile of one awakening from a dream.
He smiled back, but his was a guarded smile, hiding pain. He tore off his mailed hood and rose, balancing himself against the trebuchet. He turned away from Ursula, signing to Parkyn to remove his hauberk.
The girl stood, still looking at him. He could see her looking at him, out of the corner of his eye, but he made no sign that he saw her.
They were shouting to her to come, to attend to the Lady of Spereshot and her childer.
She crossed the garth with slow steps, her head bent. Then, when she came abreast of the keep, she straightened up and called to someone to find her waiting-woman.
She would be all right now, thought Benedict.
He wasn’t so sure about himself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was much to be done. Benedict soon followed Simon Joce and Dickon out of the postern gate onto the edge of the cliff, and so down the rope ladder they had left there. He did not return till the sun was sinking. Parkyn was waiting for him, with an order for him to present himself to Sir Henry in the latter’s room on the third floor of the keep.
Benedict brushed some of the fresh dirt from his tunic and followed where Parkyn led him. The castle was full of bright faces. Here and there men and women danced round the braziers, which were still smouldering.
Well, it was good that they could rejoice.
Benedict found Sir Henry sitting in an old brown robe, with a towel about his head, reading. The room was crowded with books and manuscripts, hinting at Sir Henry’s wide interests. The barber was setting his razors away and Sir Henry’s valet was easing stockings onto his master’s legs. Sir Henry lowered his book, inspected Benedict’s ravaged appearance and signed that he should take some of the wine that had been set out on a table nearby. The barber unrolled the towel from Sir Henry’s head and began to coax the stiffened, dyed locks into a neat roll of curls.
‘You have been down the cliff?’ said Sir Henry. ‘I heard you ordered all the survivors killed.’
‘Yes.’ Benedict’s face tightened.
‘Were there many?’
‘A few.’
‘Did you kill any yourself?’
‘I … no. One leaped out at me, but Dickon saw to him. Dickon wants to go back to the ruin of his old cabin, tonight. His punt is unharmed. I told him, No. Not yet. He must help us repair the guard-boat first. A smashed prow and one oar gone … a hole through the bottom, some two planks wide. Bad, but mendable.’
‘Now that is very good news.’
‘Yes.’ Benedict didn’t sound as if he thought it good news.
Sir Henry tipped back his head to allow the barber to rub red stain on his cheeks and lips. Benedict stared at the floor.
A mirror was produced and Sir Henry pronounced himself pleased with his coiffure. His valet removed the worn brown robe, to reveal that the old man’s figure was held straight in a long-bodied corset. Benedict did not smile. He had long since guessed as much.
‘Your friend Sir Reynold is all smiles tonight,’ said Sir Henry. ‘He begs some armour of me, and I am happy to let him have whatever he chooses. Sir Reynold struts well, does he not? A fighting cock.’
‘Yes. He is a brave man.’
‘So thinks the Lady of Spereshot and her childer. My granddaughter grinds her teeth to hear Sir Reynold so highly praised. I must admit to feeling a trifle of … shall we say pique? … that he should steal our thunder so. What say you to that?’
‘Nothing, my lord. He is a good man for attack, and you should use him thus. I do not know if you have heard, but I suggested to Simon that a foray might be made tonight to burn off all the scrub on the roadside, and as far round the slopes as possible.’
‘I have heard. It is a good plan, and Sir Reynold will carry it out well, I have no doubt. As for you, my lad; I have a crow to pick with you. You went down that cliff today without armour on your back, or a squire at your side. Doubtless if Dickon had not been so sharp-eyed, we would be without our leader tonight. You will not do that again. I will place the largest and most able man in the castle at your disposal, and he will be your shadow from now on. You understand?’
Benedict licked his lips. He nodded. The old man was right, of course. Reynold
was showy but expendable. Benedict was without price—at the moment.
‘And when you come into the hall tonight for the feast—oh yes, of course there must be a feast, with dancing, and music—and not too much ale flowing, because of the night foray later on. … but first we must have our hour of triumph! As I say, when you come in, you will be greated with a spontaneous burst of applause. I have already given orders about that. The cheering should last till you are seated and my granddaughter has placed her wreath on your head.’
‘What? But I …’
‘Only, I can’t remember which flower it is that you favour. Was it the rose? No, I think not.’
‘I could never …’
‘Honeysuckle! Some tale about her choosing between a rose and some honeysuckle.’ He spoke direct to his valet. ‘Make sure the Lady Ursula has a wreath of honeysuckle, and tell the tirewoman to ensure that my granddaughter’s dress fits properly tonight. Everything must be magnificent.’
The valet held up the mirror once more and Sir Henry surveyed his person from head to foot. He was attired in a short and extremely stylish tunic, with dagged edges. It was liberally embroidered with gold. His stockings were parti-coloured, his shoes long-toed, and fastened with gold buttons.
‘Damnably uncomfortable,’ observed Sir Henry. ‘But I suppose I can put up with it for a few hours.’ He waved his servants away. ‘Now go and prepare a bath for Sir Benedict. Shave him, cut and curl his hair and attire him as richly as our resources permit. And do something about his hands!’
Benedict looked at his hands, which boasted broken nails, scratches and the odd cut. ‘I do not think …’ he began.
‘You do not think such things are important?’ said Sir Henry. ‘Now there I disagree with you.’ The valet and the barber bowed themselves out.
Sir Henry’s manner altered. He said, ‘My dear boy, what is the matter? Is it because you had to order those poor creatures killed? You feel their deaths on your conscience? You should have left such an order to me, who am so much nearer my end.’
‘No, it had to be done then, or not at all. We could not have taken them prisoner and killed them later on. I did not think there was enough food left in the castle to support a gaggle of prisoners, or I would not …’
‘You were right!’
‘… but then I found out that the guard-boat could be repaired, and that the punt was all right. This means Dickon can bring us fish and fowl from the marshes. Our food situation is therefore much eased. If I had known. … it was not necessary to kill them, after all.’
‘We have enough food to last our present garrison fourteen days, at the present rate of consumption,’ said Sir Henry.
Benedict thought that this was one of the times one’s leg decided it had had enough. He felt for the edge of the bed and lowered himself onto it.
Fourteen days. …!
Sir Henry fingered his waxed moustache. ‘Hence this masquerade of youth. I wished to die—if I had to die—in style. No-one knows this but you and me. Simon Joce guesses, I believe. Possibly my steward does, too. But he is a close-mouthed fellow, and obeys orders. Everyone else believes there is a further store of grain in the back chamber under the keep. It is not so. The place is empty, and has been so since the last disastrous harvest.’
‘But Aylmer cannot possibly arrive in under thirty days! Even with fish and fowl from the river, even if Hugo fails to mount another patrol boat in the channel … we cannot feed the garrison …’
‘We must see if we cannot get some of the women and children away by boat. The problem is where. … remembering the fate of Spereshot, none of our neighbours will be anxious to take them in. My mind turns to the abbey on the far side of the river. Now that we have transport, we must send to ask if they will take in our refugees.’
‘Even when the guard-boat is repaired, it will take only a few people. There are nearly one hundred and thirty people here. Only a few of them are fighting men.’
‘I know. We would not normally have so many people here in the castle, but when Hugo’s men first came on us the gates were open, and many of the townsfolk and the country people from hereabouts fled to us. Could I turn them away? No. I knew from the beginning that we could not feed ourselves, let alone them, but I hoped. I hoped for a miracle, I suppose.’
‘A miracle? And you got two men!’
‘I’m hoping you’re like the loaves and the fishes. Multiplying, you know. Now don’t tell me I’m an unrealistic, day-dreaming old man. I prefer to think of myself as having faith. At my age, when the sword-arm loses its strength, it’s tempting to think that faith can be a weapon, to take the place of the sword.’
Sir Henry picked up the book he’d been reading. ‘There’s something in this book … a distraction … I suppose I ought to have been studying my missal, but … this makes me laugh. It’s a book of ancient, heathenish tales. One of them’s about things shooting from the head of a god. Ideas, I suppose. That’s you. Open your head, and the ideas come out. You’ll save us, I have no doubt on it.’
Benedict groped for words. He floundered between crude expressions of wrath and an explosion of laughter. He shook his head, throwing out his hands. He began to laugh, and went on laughing till he was weak.
‘That’s better,’ said the old man. ‘Either laughter or tears will do, but a man who commands others must be able to obtain relief from one or the other. Or he’ll break apart. Now, off you go, and allow them to make you presentable for a change.’
‘You,’ said Benedict, with conviction, ‘are an unscrupulous old man.’
‘Am I not?’ said Sir Henry, with pride.
Ursula tugged at the neck of her gown. Her woman had sewn it up so tightly that it chafed. More, her ribs were aching from being so closely laced. The gown was one of her aunt’s, and the Lady Editha had grown so thin that it barely met around Ursula’s more sturdy form.
The Lady of Spereshot was grumbling. She had been grumbling ever since they had extracted her and her children from the cages and brought them up into the castle, to be washed, re-clothed and made much of.
‘… but Sir Reynold de Cressi is so gallant, is he not? I fail to see why we should have to wait for our meal until this uncouth Sir whatever-his-name-is condescends to join us. Sir Reynold tells us that we would have been out of the cages hours earlier, if it had been for that man’s interference.’
‘Or dead,’ said Ursula. ‘There was a trap set for us, remember.’
‘Yes. Well. But could you not have countered it earlier? My poor little boy was so frightened. …’
The “poor little boy” was a stolid child. It seemed unlikely that anything short of a threat to deprive him of food would frighten him. The girl, on the other hand, though she had been roughly handled and was inclined to dissolve into tears, was doing her best to behave. She bit her lip at her mother’s ungracious words and, catching Ursula’s eye, looked distressed. Ursula put her arm round the girl’s shoulders and held her close.
Everyone was gathered in the hall, waiting for Benedict. Everyone knew that they were supposed to cheer when he came down the stairs at the end of the hall, and crossed the floor to his seat at the high table. Ursula checked that her waiting-woman was standing nearby, with the wreath of honeysuckle for Benedict’s head.
“He’s going to hate it!” thought Ursula. “He’s going to wish he’d never come here. He’ll blush and look at the floor, when he should respond with smiling civilities. He can’t help it. Oh, it’s cruel to make him go through this!”
Sir Henry wouldn’t agree to altering the ceremony, in order to make things easier for Benedict. Sir Henry liked ceremonials. He believed, perhaps correctly, that they were of great value in raising the morale of the people, and instilled in them a reverence for authority. It had been difficult for Benedict to find someone to obey him that morning. No-one had thought it necessary to rouse him for the rescue party. But after tonight men would have no doubt that Benedict was chief in command under the Lord of Salwarp
e.
Yes, it was all very necessary, thought Ursula. But extremely difficult for Benedict. If only she could run forward as he came to the foot of the stairs, and give him her hand! Then he would have somebody to help him walk through those waiting ranks of people to the dais.
But she could not go. Her grandfather’s instructions were explicit. Even now, she had to begin to move the Lady of Spereshot and her children towards the dais. The children. Ursula stopped. She twitched a sprig of honeysuckle from the wreath and pressed it into the girl’s hand. Bending forward, she whispered in her ear. Ursula gave the child a push towards the stairs.
‘What …?’ said the Lady of Spereshot, on seeing her daughter leave them.
‘She is to escort Sir Benedict to us,’ said Ursula. ‘A pretty gesture to her saviour, don’t you think?’
Ursula felt her grandfather’s eye on her and turned her head aside. She would not look at him. She did not wish to hear his words of censure. She would not allow Benedict to suffer unnecessarily, if she could help it. Sir Henry was whispering with the Lady of Spereshot, and now the good dame was smiling.
‘Well, now …’ said the Lady of Spereshot. ‘I was not aware that Sir Benedict owned so many fine manors! And expectations, too, you say? Well, my little girl is not uncomely, and in a few years’ time … who knows?’
Ursula felt her mouth go dry. She had not thought … if she had considered for one moment, she would never have sent the girl … it was true that Benedict ought to marry again, and that in a few years’ time the girl from Spereshot would be of marriageable age, but surely …
The idea was repugnant.
The girl was hardly a good match for Benedict. She was a scrawny, under-sized little thing, and her mother the sort whom one would avoid at all costs … and the brother! Save the mark! Benedict would never put up with him!
But the girl would have a dowry of sorts. And Benedict was not in need of a penny here or there, having married an heiress before and being already in possession of his father’s estates.
The Siege of Salwarpe Page 10
