Parkyn handed Benedict a fine linen shirt, new-washed and smelling of herbs. Barnabas fastened Benedict’s hose and drawers to his inner belt and saw to the brushing down of his black wool tunic. Then Parkyn combed through his master’s hair and handed him a silver-backed mirror.
‘You have done well indeed,’ said Benedict, surprised to see how much they had managed to achieve with what was, basically, poor material. Both Parkyn and Barnabas beamed.
‘If Idonia could only see you preening yourself!’ said Reynold.
Benedict’s brows twitched, but he said nothing. It was quite true that Idonia would have laughed if she could have seen her husband trying to make himself look presentable. Yet over the memory of Idonia’s scornful face came another, of a girl with honey-coloured hair saying, “Honeysuckle is my favourite”.
Once again Benedict was driven to protest. He said, ‘Reynold, you have said much of my conduct in that old affair. Perhaps you are right to point the finger at me. Perhaps not. But let me ask you this—was your own conduct all that it should have been?’
Reynold’s face took on an ugly look. He started to say something, then swung on his heel and departed.
Benedict took a pair of thick leather gloves from Parkyn and thrust them through the straps of the wallet that hung from his leather belt.
Parkyn said, ‘My lord, if I do please you … it is true that I was once an ostler, but I have been learning the trade of barber and surgeon from Sir Henry’s man, although I never thought to practise it, for he is not an old man. But he was kind enough to say I had some aptitude for it. Would you purchase me from Sir Henry, that I may continue to serve you in future?’
‘And me!’ said Barnabas, in a squeaky voice. He stood on one leg and twisted the other around it. Then, under Benedict’s eye, Barnabas removed certain articles from about his person and placed them on the bed.
Parkyn gasped. ‘My purse! And my Canterbury pilgrim’s medal!’
‘That’s enough, Parkyn!’ said Benedict. ‘Barnabas has returned them to you, hasn’t he? And by the by, I wouldn’t play at games of chance with him, unless he assures you he hasn’t loaded the dice.’
Barnabas looked shaken. He said, ‘My lord, I would never …’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ said Benedict. He laughed. ‘Barnabas, it would serve you right if I allowed Parkyn to give you the beating which you so richly deserve. Unfortunately—or perhaps I should say fortunately for you—I need you. However, you shall strip, here and now. And Parkyn shall cleanse you as thoroughly as he has recently cleansed me. And then you will report to me again.’
‘I don’t hold with too much washing,’ said Barnabas, sidling to the door. ‘You can hit me, if you like! And I swear I will never steal again, once I am your servant.’
‘Blackmail? Will you put it all on me? Nay, lad. Take your punishment like a man, prove yourself on your own ground, and I will consider your case when the siege is ended. And not before. Parkyn—special attention to his feet, please. And then take some rest yourself.’
Simon Joce met Benedict on the steps of the keep. Simon was looking grim.
‘My lord, we have made up some large mattresses with rushes and the like, as you ordered. We have also found some rope, so that the mattresses may be lowered over the gatehouse wall to break the force of any stones thrown at it. But, my lord, they are covered with sacking only, and we have no more hides to spare. Sir Reynold took all our store of hides for his outposts.’
A sacking mattress could be set aflame with an arrow dipped in burning pitch, and Simon had had the sense to see it.
‘I spoke with Sir Reynold,’ said Simon, ‘about removing some, if not all, of the hides from the outposts, but he would not hear of it.’
If they removed the hides from the outposts, then a flaming arrow lodged in the framework of the carts would set all ablaze. Reynold was right to refuse.
Benedict remembered Ursula saying that they should have her pony. She had tried not to show how much the animal had meant to her. And the old knight’s war-horse. Were there no other animals fit to be slaughtered? Probably not. The pony and the war-horse were expendable.
‘Slaughter the Lady Ursula’s pony and Sir Henry’s war-horse,’ said Benedict. ‘We have their permission. I trust these two horses will be sufficient.’
‘Yes, my lord. I thought it might come to that, but the little lady will grieve.’
‘Yes, Simon. I know. But she is not Sir Henry’s granddaughter for nothing.’
Simon’s face cleared and he went off—if not happily—at least content that he was doing the right thing.
Now what was it that had been troubling him? Benedict set off for the stairs that led to the ramparts, but was waylaid by a servant with a request to attend on Sir Henry in his chamber at once.
The old man was looking better. There was some natural colour in his cheeks, and his eyes were bright as he handed Benedict a slip of thin paper.
‘My granddaughter sent this by pigeon. Luckily Hugo’s men cannot intercept birds sent from the other side of the river, because they fly straight across the marshes. You see that the abbot has agreed to sell. There only remains the question of boats. He has few and is unwilling to let us hire them, but there is a fishing village nearby, and Ursula will charter enough, I dare say.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Benedict ruffled his hair. ‘Flour, already ground in the abbot’s mill. That’s not as good in some ways as sending us grain, although as we have no mill, we would have had to grind the grain by hand. … but flour! If a sack falls into the water, it is spoiled. We must build a landing-stage, I think. And devise some kind of basket sling, or hoist, to bring the sacks up from the foot of the cliff. Men cannot bring them up on their backs. Oh, I suppose it might be possible, though tedious. No, I think we should have a hoist. I will speak to the carpenters straight away, and talk to the young smith. … Simon says he is a handy lad, but …’
‘We are saved, I think,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Perhaps prayers do bear fruit, now and then.’
Benedict thought of a certain time in his life when prayers had not availed him, and a sarcastic rejoinder was on the tip of his tongue. Then he shook his head at himself. What was he about, trying to shatter an old man’s faith?
‘Surely your granddaughter has saved the day.’
‘With God. And a little more praying to do. It must be several days before the flour can be loaded from the abbot’s store, and then—do they cross in the day-time, do you think? I doubt if chartered boats will agree to make the crossing at night. The tides are treacherous and the marshes all about us.’
‘We will keep the channel clear.’
Then Benedict went down to speak to the carpenters, and the smith … and from them he went to the cliff … and when he came back up from the cliff, a sentry was waiting to speak with him. This man had been watching the quayside from that part of the ramparts which overlooked the town.
Hugo’s men had set the fisherfolk to work on repairing two of the best boats, presumably so that they could once more command the channel from the river to the castle. The sentry reported that the men were working with reluctance, their chins on their shoulders … and that the mercenaries had whips out, to encourage the workmen.
Benedict thought about this latest problem. At all costs the channel had to be kept clear, or food supplies would not be able to come in. The trebuchet might well sink a stationary vessel, but if there were two of them, or if they were moving … he shook his head. Very doubtful. So, what else was there?
‘A fire-ship,’ he said. ‘No, a raft. We put a couple of barrels of pitch aboard, well lashed down, and anchor it where the guard-boat used to be. Dead in the middle of the channel, where it widens to sweep into the river. Then if Hugo’s men bring up their boats, we can send a flaming arrow to ignite the pitch, and … that might keep them off for a while.’
The carpenters looked at one another. ‘My lord, you asked for a better set of ladders for the cliff, and a hoist. Now you wan
t a raft. We have some timber from the buildings we pulled down, but there are only a few of us, and …’
‘You shall have every man, woman and child who is capable of helping and not hindering you,’ said Benedict. And went back up into the keep to arrange this with Sir Henry.
And thence he went to the cellar to inspect the new grille that was being fitted into position … or rather the old ironwork was being replaced in a new, stronger timber frame, since the young smith had not yet had time to make a new grille.
While he was there he sent men down the sewer once more to check that the outlet into the dell was still concealed and no traces remained of their journey the previous night.
And then up to the ramparts to frown down on that same dell, which was a vivid spot of green among the burned-out brown of the slopes around it; and to wonder if it would be a good idea to set flames in the dell, too … and then to decide against it, for if fire were set there from within the sewer, then Hugo would begin to wonder how that had been achieved and perhaps to suspect the presence of an outlet from the castle and investigate it. And if it were set in flames by a party issuing from the gatehouse, then that same party would come under fire before they could get right round the hill to where the dell was situated, for surely Hugo would be on his guard now …
Peter Bowman was loitering nearby, looking anxious.
‘No more trees cut down, Peter?’
‘No. But he’s too quiet for my liking, my lord. Not a sniff out of him since he set that trap with the carts and the family from Spereshot.’
‘He has his own troubles. His smith’s ill. You may have heard.’
‘I have that.’ Peter laughed, but was grave again at once. ‘That was an idea worthy of you, my lord. But I ask myself; shall we lose Merle, in order to get ourselves a smith? And for every man capable of bearing arms whom we steal from under Hugo’s nose, do we not bring up three or maybe four extra mouths to feed?’
‘Tell me how we can get the men without taking their families as well, and I will put your plan into action straight away. Yet. … I think men fight best with their loved ones at their shoulders. But I must confess to being on tenterhooks till we learn if our plan will work for a second night … and a third. I, too, ask myself how many of the townsfolk are worth as much as Merle’s little finger. But, we need the smith. This boy that I collected last night is well enough in his way, but he makes a lot of noise in order to produce—practically nothing!’
‘Like someone else we could mention,’ said Peter.
Benedict understood well enough that Peter was referring to Reynold, but it would not be politic to smile. Instead Benedict said that he must be on his rounds; he had a feeling he had missed something, somewhere. But what?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Benedict was late for supper. As he took his place at the high table Reynold raised his voice, that Benedict might hear. Reynold was holding forth about the tourney he had attended recently. He looked somewhat more than half drunk. Benedict said nothing, but thought: If he’s going to go to pieces now …
Reynold nudged Sir Henry. ‘Here’s the very man! Ask him how many times I’ve tumbled him off his horse in the lists!’
Sir Henry’s eyebrows were a little raised, his tone a blend of amusement and disinterest. He said to Benedict, ‘Sir Reynold is indeed a gifted raconteur.’
‘Most amusing,’ agreed Benedict. It was irritating that Reynold should seek to belittle him in front of everyone, but if Sir Henry were not going to take the matter seriously, then neither need he.
‘Ask him!’ insisted Reynold. ‘Rolling in the dust, time and time again!’
‘We were squires together in Aylmer’s household,’ explained Benedict, speaking direct to Sir Henry, and ignoring Reynold. ‘We often used to break lances in the tiltyard. He is indeed my master in that art.’
‘Ah?’ said Sir Henry. ‘Splendid!’ His attention was obviously elsewhere.
Benedict grinned as he attacked his food. If Sir Henry were able to deflect Reynold’s attempts to make mischief, then there was no need for Benedict to worry.
‘Of course,’ said Reynold, frowning into his cup, ‘I haven’t had a chance to see what he can do, recently. He might have improved. Doubt it. But he might.’
‘True,’ said Benedict, taking three lamb chops and signing to Parkyn that he wanted some more wine. ‘But then, I haven’t had as much practice as you, Reynold.’
‘Skulking on your estates, instead of coming to tourneys.’
‘Keeping busy,’ said Benedict.
‘The Burgundy campaign?’ said Sir Henry, keeping the peace. ‘I heard there was some fierce fighting at …’
‘Tell you what we’ll do,’ said Reynold. ‘We’ll fit you up with some armour and a decent horse, and run a lance or two tomorrow. There’s enough space before the keep.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ said Benedict. ‘I have more important things to do.’
‘Afraid? I’ll let you have the best horse …’
‘Not afraid,’ said Benedict, speaking more sharply than usual. ‘But this is neither the time nor the place for …’
‘I challenge you!’ Reynold had raised his voice. Almost everyone in the hall stopped talking and looked towards the high table.
Benedict put down his cup with care. He could feel the eyes of the garrison upon him. He grew cold with anger and also with something very like fear. He was not afraid of the failure itself. He knew that Reynold would unseat him, if they jousted. That went without saying. That wouldn’t matter ordinarily, but it did matter now. Because if Reynold unseated Benedict before the eyes of the garrison, then Reynold was not just unseating his old rival, but the commander of the garrison. And Benedict’s authority would once more be brought into question.
Only, how to avoid the challenge?
‘Come, now!’ said Sir Henry. ‘There’s a fine challenge for you!’ There was a note of derision in his voice. Sir Henry had taken sides, and it was not on Reynold’s side that he had chosen to fight. ‘A challenge between two such doughty knights would indeed be something worth seeing—if we were not in the midst of other, more serious business. Eh, Sir Benedict?’
Benedict tried to think. ‘Indeed, Sir Henry. I fear that whether I won, or Sir Reynold, we might give each other such a buffeting as would lay one or the other of us out for a week.’
Sir Henry laughed and slapped the table. One or two of those around them also began to titter, following the old knight’s lead.
‘However,’ said Benedict, beginning to breathe again, ‘Sir Reynold has the germ of a good idea there. In the days to come there may be some couple of hours which we might devote to target practice, and to sports in general. To keep the garrison in fighting trim. We could run races, and jump, and wrestle and so on. What say you, Sir Henry; shall we get Reynold to organise such a training programme for us?’
It was the right touch. Smiles, quite natural expressions of amusement and interest, began to spread around the hall. Benedict took some more bread.
‘You refuse my challenge?’ Reynold was incredulous.
‘Another time,’ said Benedict, managing to smile as if he meant it.
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Another time.’ And it was clear that he meant “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Reynold!”
Benedict slept late and woke with a start. Propped on one elbow, he listened to the noises of the castle. No trebuchet. No thudding at the wall. Bread being baked, men yawning, someone winding water up from the well nearby; the windlass creaked. Nothing new.
And yet … What was it he had missed?
Idonia’s face came into his mind as he had last seen it. Face of stone, repudiating him. “I swear you will be sorry. …”
Sometimes when he thought of that moment bile rose in his throat and he choked. Now the memory was sore, but no longer as hurtful as it had been once. Sir Henry’s championship of him last night … ah, but Sir Henry was a clever man. Benedict did not know whethe
r the old knight had taken his side because it was politic to do so, or out of kindness. It had been a bad moment. Many of the bad moments in Benedict’s life had been associated with Reynold.
As pages in Aylmer’s household, they had disliked one another at first sight. Reynold was older, and quicker in every way. Reynold had a biting tongue and considered himself king of the pages. Benedict was slow and thoughtful, his co-ordination was not good and he was homesick. Such a combination made him a natural butt to Reynold. At length Benedict fell on his tormentor, and Reynold learned to his surprise that his victim could fight with teeth and nails and knees, even if not with knightly weapons. Thereafter Reynold treated Benedict with more circumspection, but when they were promoted to squires together it was one of the delights of Reynold’s life to prove Benedict’s inferiority with sword and lance, as often as he could.
But by this time Benedict had come to terms with what he could and could not do. He was secure in Aylmer’s love, he was growing into a big-boned man and his courteous manners made him welcome in the company of the ladies. If Idonia had returned his love, Benedict would have matured into a well-balanced man.
Instead, something had been twisted and warped inside him, so that although one part of him had gone on developing the other had shrunk; the accident had crippled him in more ways than one.
He remembered how they had brought Idonia to him as he lay with his leg aflame, the day after the accident. And he had tried to lift himself, and to smile at her; to reassure her that he was not as badly injured as he appeared to be at first sight. He had been much scratched and bruised and he knew she did not like the sight of blood. She had taken one horrified look at his injuries and turned from him. And as she turned away, so Reynold had come in behind her; and she had gone to Reynold, smiling, and asked him to show her the trick he was teaching his dog.
The Siege of Salwarpe Page 17
