Longsword

by David Pilling

  They tramped past a few of the tents, most of which were crammed to bursting with sleeping men, huddled together for warmth. Further on lay a neat row of bodies wrapped in white canvas. The wrappings were stained with old blood. A sickly sweet stench rose from them.

  The captain stopped outside the double doors of the inner bailey, next to the keep, and shouted for the guards to open up. After a long wait the gates creaked inwards, pulled by four men. Hugh noted how pale and tired they looked, the sluggishness of their movements.

  He and his companions were led up the wooden steps to the first floor of the keep, past more irritable guards who clearly weren’t getting enough food or sleep, and so inside.

  The interior of the keep was cold and dark. It smelled of damp, wood smoke and unwashed bodies. They entered the vast, gloomy cavern of the hall, dimly lit by a fire in an enormous hearth that sent shadows dancing up the bare walls. These were unadorned by curtains or tapestries. Their white paint was peeling away to reveal the rough grey stone beneath. The floors were bare stone, with no carpets or rushes, and the only furniture a bench and a table on the dais in front of the fire.

  A man sat alone at the table, spooning watery gruel into his mouth. He looked up as the newcomers entered. John strode up to the dais and bowed.

  “These three just came over the wall, milord,” he said. “Two of them you know: Roger Godberd and Thomas de Reymes. The third they claim to be a friend. His name is Hugh Longsword.”

  The man carefully put down his spoon and wiped his lips. Hugh realised this must be Henry de Hastings. He had heard a great deal of this knight and his fearsome reputation. Like his soldiers, Hastings was gaunt and pale, his skin stretched too tight over a face that was naturally all sharp planes and angles. Hugh was put in mind of an undernourished gargoyle. Hastings’ beard had grown shaggy and tangled. Under his fur-trimmed cloak he wore a mail hauberk that hung awkwardly from his emaciated body.

  “Godberd,” he rasped in a voice that scraped like a file across Hugh’s threadbare nerves, “so you’ve come back. What happened to your rabble?”

  “Mostly dead, milord,” Godberd answered. “Spitted on royalist spears and lances, or hanged from trees. These two are all I have left.”

  Hastings rubbed the deep hollows of his eyes. “Your coming here is an inconvenience. There is little food left in our stores. What we have won’t stretch for another three mouths.”

  “How much food?” Godberd ventured.

  “Two cupfuls of flour and water a day, mixed with oatmeal and biscuit. We have no bacon left, no cheese, and we ate the last horse weeks ago. I have a suspicion that some of the men have taken to eating bits of our dead, but have not the will or strength to investigate. Our dead will soon outnumber the living.”

  He treated them to a mirthless grin that stretched the skin tighter across the bony contours of his face.

  This one is mad, thought Hugh, or very near it. How long will the garrison obey the orders of such a man?

  “I had a thousand men,” Hastings said, “and now half are gone. Their spirits cluster about our fires at night, like moths drawn to a flame. Not that we indulge in many fires now, do we, John?”

  “The firewood ran out two months ago,” said the captain. “We had to strip the roofs and some of the floors of timber. The castle is a shell.”

  “That it is!” Hastings cackled, and banged the table with his open palm. “A cold, haunted, stinking shell, peopled by ghosts and the walking dead!”

  Godberd cleared his throat. “Milord, one of the reasons I came back, and risked my skin getting through the royalist lines, was to tell you the war is lost. Kenilworth is the last redoubt. Everywhere resistance fails, and men lay down their arms. The peace terms…”

  “Are not acceptable!” Hastings interrupted. “King Henry is trying to buy us, as if we were so many Judases. Why should men pay to redeem their lands, when they did nothing to lose them? Why should we trust in the word of this king, for whom deceit rolls off the tongue as easy as warm honey?”

  Hugh decided to weigh in. “Better to pay than die, Sir Henry. Those men buried in the grave pits outside might have agreed.”

  Hastings looked at him with revulsion. “This one speaks, does it?” he said with heavy sarcasm. “It had better make a better choice of words in future. My soldiers were not serfs or bondsmen. They were freemen, and fought and died for a cause they believed in. A cause we still believe in. If it comes to it, my bones will happily rest alongside theirs.”

  He clenched his fists as he spoke. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. “If you came here to advise me to surrender, then you have had a wasted journey, and risked your lives for nothing. There will be no surrender, and no peace, until the king accepts our terms. We will last him out, even if we are reduced to eating our boots.”

  He fell silent and went back to his gruel. It was clear the interview was over. John jerked his head at Hugh and his companions, indicating they should leave. They quietly filed out.

  John took them to a deserted guardroom above the entrance to the keep. “I’ll take you to the armoury tomorrow,” he said, “and find you some gear. We have plenty, provided you don’t mind using dead men’s kit.”

  He left them some bedrolls and a spare candle. Godberd listened at the door until his footsteps had faded down the passage. Then he turned to Hugh.

  “Well?” he whispered. “Have you seen enough?”

  Hugh shook his head. “Not yet. I want to have a look at the stores and gauge the morale of the garrison. If they are all like Hastings, the siege could drag on for a year.”

  “Until they have all eaten each other, and the last man eats himself,” said Reymes with a grim smile. “What a den of zealots.”

  Godberd started to crack his knuckles, an irritating habit that set Hugh’s teeth on edge. “No. Hastings may be as committed as he claims, and some of his knights, but many of his soldiers are simply following orders. I know them better than he does.”

  “Do you think the garrison could be turned against him?” asked Hugh.

  “A few, perhaps, but he was right in one respect. His men are soldiers, not serfs, and loyal. Besides, they are afraid to surrender. Only a fool would trust King Henry and the Lord Edward, no matter what promises they make.”

  “Then we must see how much food is left,” said Hugh, settling down to sleep. “Tomorrow will give us a better idea of how long the garrison can last.”

  His inspection of the stores had to wait. John woke them at first light and took them to the armoury, part of a row of buildings separate to the keep inside the enclosed inner bailey.

  “Our cook wasn’t happy to be told he had extra mouths to feed,” he said as they tried on helmets and coats of mail, “but you can take your breakfast, such as it is, in the Great Hall. All we have is flour, water and some biscuit. We can’t make bread, since that means lighting a fire. There is a strict ration on timber.”

  Hugh exchanged his filthy, tattered old gambeson for one that seemed relatively unused, though there was an old bloodstain and a patched-up hole over the breast. He grimaced as he pulled it over his head, wondering if the previous owner had taken a long time to die, or if the thrust to his heart had been a clean one. He had come into Kenilworth armed with nothing but a dagger, and selected a well-balanced falchion from the racks of gleaming weaponry on the walls.

  Breakfast, as William had promised, was taken in the Great Hall, an even draughtier cave than the one in the keep. The cook had set up a row of upright barrels in the middle of the floor. He ladled out cupfuls of watery flour and broken-up pieces of biscuit to a long queue of hungry men.

  Hugh and his companions took their place in the queue. He carefully studied the faces around him. Every man looked sullen, exhausted and underfed, and shuffled along with his bowl cupped in his hands, head down, barely exchanging a word with his fellows.

  “If the king’s army attacked now,” he said to Godberd when the pair found a quiet corner to talk after b
reakfast, “they would surely overrun the castle within an hour.”

  Godberd looked sceptical. “Don’t underestimate these men. They are tired and hungry, yes, but their spirit isn’t broken. Their discipline is holding. Did you notice that none tried to shove past in the queue, or steal food off a weaker man?”

  “Some can barely stand!”

  “I know soldiers, Longsword. They might grumble and look like death, but you only judge them when the drums beat and the trumpets sound. How many times have the royalists tried to carry the walls, and been sent off with a bloody nose?”

  Hugh thought for a moment. “I’ll tell Master John the rebel stores are running low, half their fighting men are dead, and they barely have two sticks of wood to rub together. Hastings is prepared to hold out until he’s forced to eat his own fingers, and his men still have a deal of fight left in them.”

  “That should convince the Savoyard. You will run tonight, then?”

  “Yes. There’s no point staying any longer. I know what I need to know.”

  “Then listen. I’ve arranged for Thomas and myself to be on sentry duty by Lunn’s Tower this evening, between None and Vespers. The northern wall would have been preferable, but the shift was already taken. Meet us there at dinnertime. No-one will suspect anything if you bring us food. You’re doing two old friends a favour, nothing more.”

  Hugh met them on the walkway at the appointed time, carrying their unappetising dinner in a couple of bowls. It was almost Vespers. The grey autumn skies had darkened to the colour of slate, with ragged black clouds billowing in from the west.

  “They’ve been quiet,” said Thomas, nodding in the direction of the royalist lines. The trebuchets and ballistae and other engines of war had stood silent all day. This apparent lack of warlike activity, coupled with the bright colours of the tents and pavilions – red and green, striped and chequered, many of silk and woven with images of fantastic beasts – lent the camp an almost holiday atmosphere.

  Hugh was looking at the sky. “Not dark enough yet,” he muttered, moistening his lips. He glanced nervously at Godberd, and then along the walkway.

  The broken shell of Lunn’s Tower, much damaged by months of bombardment, was a few paces to their right. To their left was a long stretch of wall, ending in a gatehouse that overlooked the ditch to the north. Midway between their current position and the gatehouse was where they had been lifted on a rope into the castle, only the previous night. To Hugh it seemed like years ago.

  There was no sentry on the shattered battlements of Lunn’s Tower. Thomas was slowly pacing up and down the walkway. There were men on the ramparts of the gatehouse, at the far end, distant shapes almost lost in the gloom.

  “It’s dark enough,” said Godberd, “follow me.”

  He led Hugh into Lunn’s Tower. The room inside was meant to be an airy upper-floor chamber. One of the king’s trebuchets had made it airier still by smashing a great hole in the roof.

  Hugh’s mouth dried up. He was frightened, more frightened than he had ever been. Being chased by wolfhounds through Sherwood was child’s play compared to this.

  Godberd fished inside the stairwell and lifted out a coiled length of rope. “I took this from one of the storerooms,” he said, handing the rope to Hugh. “Use it to lower yourself over the wall. Once you are safely away, I will raise the alarm and pretend you slipped past me.”

  His words tailed off as a soldier entered the room through the opposing door. He was a big, burly man, armed with a spear and shield. Judging from his furious expression he had heard every word.

  “Traitors!” he cried, levelling his spear and turning his head to call for help.

  Godberd didn’t hesitate. He threw himself at the soldier, knocked aside his spear, seized him about the waist and ran him against the wall. As they struggled, Godberd slammed his hand over the soldier’s mouth and gestured frantically at Hugh.

  Without thinking, Hugh drew his falchion and thrust it into the soldier’s gut. His victim screamed silently and convulsed. Hot blood gushed from the fatal wound and soaked Hugh’s sword-arm to the elbow.

  Godberd dumped the dying man on the floor and sat on his chest. “Go, quickly,” he hissed. Hugh snatched up the rope and ran outside.

  He fastened one end tight around his waist, looped the other about a merlon and made it fast. To Hugh’s left, Thomas de Reymes leaned on his spear and stared out over the battlements.

  Hugh’s heart raced as he jumped onto the gap between the merlons. He looked down and immediately wished he hadn’t. There was a forty-foot drop to the grassy bank below.

  Shouts and the sound of running footsteps spurred him into action. He leaped, twisting in the air so his feet thumped flat against the wall, and let himself down in a series of clumsy jerks.

  He heard the sound of raised voices, including Godberd’s. Hugh glanced over his shoulder. Another fifteen feet to go. The rope could be spotted at any moment. He pulled out his falchion and sawed frantically at the rope, just above his waist. The last threads parted just as a spear plunged out of the darkness and hit him in the chest, above his heart. The iron spearhead lodged in the thick tow-stuffed leather of his gambeson. The skin beneath was merely grazed, but the shock alone made him cry out.

  He dropped like a stone, limbs flailing at empty air, and hit the grass with an impact that knocked the breath from his body. Stunned, he rolled and bounced down the muddy slope and into the ditch. For a few seconds he panicked as the black waters closed above his head. The weight of the spear stuck in his breast threatened to drag him down. He tugged it free and struck out for the surface.

  His head broke clear. Hugh gulped in a quick lungful of precious air before diving again. A crossbow bolt hissed through the water inches from his head. Once he reached the opposite bank and tried to climb out, his broad back would make a perfect target.

  He floundered on through the dark, slimy waters, trying to ignore the hideous clanging in his ears and the pain in his lungs. At last he reached a soft wall of mud and reeds. He dragged himself up and out of the water.

  “There!” he heard a man on the wall behind him shout. “There he is! Shoot!”

  God must have cast sand in the eyes of the crossbowmen. Their bolts flew wide of the mark as Hugh scrambled up the grassy slope.. Then he was onto flat ground and running for his life. The line of mantlets was just a few feet ahead of him. He could see men between them, helmeted figures with crossbows.

  “I’m a friend!” he cried. “Don’t shoot!”

  Hugh flung himself onto the dirt as a volley of bolts and arrows skimmed over his head. For an awful moment he thought that both sides were trying to shoot him. The mantlets and safety beckoned to him, just a few feet ahead. He would never make it. He had to try.

  “Get up, man!” someone shouted. “You’re almost safe! Run!”

  Hugh made a last dive for safety and blundered straight into two waiting sergeants. They almost fell backwards under his weight, grabbed an arm each and dragged him into cover.

  He collapsed onto all fours, shuddering and gasping for breath. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. He looked up to see a young, fair-haired knight with a leaping griffon on his tunic. The young man’s pink, beardless face glowed with admiration.

  “That was some dash you made, fellow,” the knight said with a grin. “Now. will you take wine or ale?”

  29.

  The Isle of Ely

  Sir John d’Eyvill sat enthroned like a petty king in a chair draped with the skin of a recently killed bear. He rested his bearded chin on his fist and glared down at his guest.

  Cardinal Ottobuono had not chosen a physically impressive specimen for an envoy. The man standing before d'Eyvill’s chair, blinking nervously as his blindfold was removed, was small and fragile, with a head too large for his undernourished body. An Italian like his master, with olive skin and scanty jet-black hair, he wore a wide-brimmed hat, a fine ankle-length crimson robe, and a great deal of costly jewellery. Gold ring
s flashed on his white fingers. The figurine of Christ on the little crucifix hung about his neck was pure silver. His crimson robe and pointed velvet shoes were spattered with fresh mud from the trek through the fens.

  “You’ve ruined your fine shoes,” murmured d’Eyvill. “A stout pair of boots would have served you better.”

  The Italian swept off his hat and bowed courteously. “Greetings, Sir John d'Eyvill,” he trilled in a high, sing-song accent. “I am Orazio Fieschi, ambassador and kinsman of Cardinal Ottobuono. His Grace sends you his warmest regards, and hopes that the unhappy conflict that has consumed England for so many years can be brought to a peaceful conclusion.”

  D'Eyvill was impressed by Orazio’s composure, surrounded as he was by fierce outlaw knights who might have cut him to pieces at any moment.