by Anita Mills
“Aye. Not even the weather will halt him,” Woodstock muttered, echoing her own pessimism. “I’ll warrant he means to strike whilst there is no king.” The captain’s scowl deepened as he considered the possibility that Brevise would finish what he’d begun. Aye, a ruse was to be expected of Lord William, for had he not taken Geoffrey de Lacey’s life through ambush? “I suppose we had best treat with him,” he mused aloud.
“Nay! So that he may kill Aubery also? And what of the others—and of you?” she questioned hotly, disputing him. “The dead carry no tales to Winchester!”
“He’d not kill a maid—not even Brevise would kill a maid. And I see not how—” Simon stopped, well aware that, made bold in the absence of royal protection, Brevise would not stop at taking the castle— he’d want none left to carry the tale to the next king.
“Can we not take him by deceit? Simon, can we not best him through trickery?” She spun away and began to pace anew in front of her brother’s funeral bier. “Oh, would that I were a man! I’d—”
“He’ll burn us out ere he leaves.” Simon shook his head, not daring to meet her eyes. “Nay, but we are no match for him. There’s not above twenty-five men in this keep, and seven of that number are wounded.”
“As if we are lost already! Nay, but if only . . .” Her voice trailed off as she appeared to consider the matter, and then she whirled on him. “Simon, what if he thought we meant to surrender? What if we lowered the gates? He’d not burn us then surely— he’d not burn Beaumaule if he thought it to be his.” The blue in her eyes sparked martially at the idea newly forming in her head.
“Nay, but—”
“We lower the gates,” she continued, ignoring the negative shake of his head. “And when they are almost to the bridge, we loose the arrows. We take them even as they took Geoffrey, Simon.” She stopped pacing and faced him, her chin set with determination. “But we wait until Brevise himself is on the bridge. I’d not let him escape justice—nay, I’d not.” Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper as she met his eyes. “Aye, I’d see Lord William’s head above this gate—I would.”
“ ’Twill be said we acted dishonorably,” Garth protested.
“And what honor was there to my brother’s death?” She rounded furiously on the boy. “Nay, we will take him as dishonorably as he took Geoffrey’s life! Simon, do you think ‘tis possible to draw him in?”
Geoffrey’s captain stared hard at the statue of the bleeding Christ before them, as though to seek the answer. “Your brother always said you had the mind of a warrior, Demoiselle,” he conceded with grudging admiration. “Aye, I think it possible—I think it a risk worth taking.” Turning back to her, he fixed her with eyes as blue as her own. “But if we fail, I’d have you save yourself to tell the tale. I’d have you hide from William of Brevise’s wrath.”
“His men will take the women, and there’s naught we can do to prevent it. At least my name protects me from that.”
“Nay—he’ll have no care what they do with you ere you are killed. I mean to put you in the scullery as a boy and hope he spares those who would feed him. I doubt he would think to look for you there.” His expression still grim, he nodded acceptance of her plan. “I am ready to do your bidding in this, Demoiselle, but you will swear to do mine if we are lost.”
“We dare not lose, Simon.”
“I pray God you are right,” he muttered under his breath, turning away. “Garth, see that every man and boy breathing in this keep has a bow.”
2
The rain froze on the steel helmets as soon as it hit, leaving a shiny glaze that dripped to form icicles over the men’s faces. As Richard of Rivaux lifted his mail-encased arm to brush at his face, the ice cracked like eggshells at his shoulder and elbow.
“God’s bones, Everard, but can you see anything? I’d thought to be to Beaumaule and a warm fire by now.”
“Nay, my lord.” The captain’s breath was white like hoarfrost before him, crystallizing almost immediately. His fair eyebrows glistened with shaggy bits of ice as he lifted his head to stare through the pelting sleet at the hill ahead of them. “I pray ’tis but beyond that, for I am nigh frozen to my saddle,” he muttered.
“Aye—as are we all,” his young lord agreed. “But I’ve no doubt that de Lacey will bid us welcome, and we shall break our journey there.” Shifting his stiffened body uncomfortably, Rivaux rose in his stirrups to study first the road and then the heavy clouds. “ ’Tis too far to press on to Winchester in this storm, anyway. And if we cannot travel, then neither can Gloucester’s enemies.” Settling back, he clicked his reins and urged his horse onward.
“Myself, I’d as lief we’d waited for Gloucester and made the crossing with him,” Everard of Meulan grumbled. As captain to Guy of Rivaux’s son, he served one of the greatest families in the Anglo-Norman baronage, and therefore he’d expected a life of greater ease. But Count Guy had asked him to serve Richard well, releasing him from his earlier oath to the father. And his heart, if not his loyalty, was oft torn by the conflict between them, for he’d soon found that his new lord chafed under the weight of Guy of Rivaux’s glorious reputation. Aye, at twenty-three, the young man sought to separate himself from Count Guy, seeking his own way, his own fame. Like the Alexander of the Greeks, he wished to conquer something for himself, and now King Henry’s death gave him the opportunity he sought: he’d speak before the Curia Regis on Robert of Gloucester’s behalf—even if it meant setting himself against his father, who could be expected to honor his oath to Henry’s daughter.
Aloud, Everard muttered through teeth clenched against chattering, “I am glad you are certain of our welcome, my lord, for we sent no word.”
“Nay, I dare not—’tis Kent. If you do not count de Lacey, we are among Stephen’s vassals now.”
“And I like it not.”
“Without pennons and devices we risk no recognition,” Richard reassured him. “Aye, Gloucester’s enemies will not expect us to come this way.”
“Still, I cannot like it.”
Rivaux’s ice-caked black brow rose despite the weight on it. “Everard,” he said with deceptive patience, “there’s none to guess we are here, I’ll warrant. Nay, but they all warm themselves by their fires.”
The captain fell silent, knowing this argument would but provoke his lord’s already strained temper. It had all been said before they’d left Normandy, and naught had dissuaded him—not Gloucester’s bastardy nor Guy of Rivaux’s expected support of Mathilda.
“My lord, look ahead!” Walter of Thibeaux, Richard’s squire, edged his horse even with them at the crest of the hill, while every man in Richard’s mesnie tried to follow where he pointed. Even before their lord decided, “Aye—’tis Beaumaule, I’ll warrant,” shoulders that had been hunched against the cold were squared in anticipation of mulled wine and warm beds. The news spread down the thirty-man line, picked up and passed on eagerly, brightening the grim mood immediately. “Should we sound the horn, my lord?” Walter inquired.
“When we are closer. De Lacey’ll not think we are come to make war on a day like this.” Richard chafed his hands in his heavy mailed gloves as his dark eyes studied Beaumaule, a small stone-and-wooden stockade built on a motte of packed rubble. He’d been told once that it stood on the site of an ancient hill fort, but this was the first time he’d actually seen it. For a moment he was disappointed by the meanness of it, but reason reminded him that not all who fostered with Robert of Gloucester were sons of wealthy men. Indeed, Geoffrey de Lacey had been in the lowest ranks, trained because his late father beggared his patrimony for the honor. ’Twas said at the time that the old man wished to secure Henry’s favor through the influence of Gloucester, but it had not happened. The young de Lacey had spent his years with the earl as squire to a lesser knight rather than Gloucester himself and had not gained much notice.
“ ’Tis misnamed—there’s naught pretty about the place,” Everard complained under his bre
ath, echoing Richard’s own thoughts. “ ’Tis a wonder it still stands, for I doubt it could withstand a siege with those timbered walls.”
“They have been at peace.” Irrationally, Richard felt the need to defend de Lacey. “The king’s justice forbade petty quarrels amongst the baronage here, and ’tis not so unsettled as in Normandy—or at least it has not been until now. But with Henry dead and a crown to be had, I expect ’twill change even in Kent.” He pressed his mail-clad knee against his horse’s side to urge it up the ice-packed trail that passed for a road. “Jesu, but ’tis long since I last saw him—nigh to three years, I think.”
“Aye, and you scarce knew him then—he was but another mouth at Gloucester’s table.”
“I pray we are welcomed.” Richard’s young squire pulled his heavy woolen cloak closer about his frozen face.
“Aye. In three years, he could have become Stephen’s man,” Everard observed sourly.
“Nay—I was not his enemy either. And there’s none who have served Gloucester as would be against him. You may sound the approach now, Walter.”
“God’s blood, but his lips will freeze to the horn, I fear.”
Richard smiled to himself. There was that eternal pessimism about Everard of Meulan that belied his true character, for despite his apparent dissatisfaction with everything, he was an outstanding soldier, always ready to ride into the thick of battle, always ready to lead his men where few would go. Brave, utterly fearless in the face of death, Everard seemed nonetheless unwilling to tempt fate with boastful words. He always expressed the worst fears about everything, possibly in hopes of being proven wrong. And to Richard, his captain’s bravery more than compensated for his tendency to grumble. Everard was one debt he owed his father.
“My lord, there is no need—they wave us in.” Walter raised his arm in an answering salute to the men who peered over Beaumaule’s wall.
“Aye, they lower the bridge—though God knows they cannot recognize us through the storm.” Everard raised his hand to signal those who rode behind to fall into line. “Jesu, but what I would not give for a warm bed and a wench to heat my blood.”
“Mayhap they take pity on poor travelers on such a day,” Walter guessed. “Were it not unseemly haste, I’d race to the bridge.”
“Your animal’s too tired,” Richard answered with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “A mark says you cannot make it before me.”
“Aye, and you’ll both break your necks.” Everard’s face broke into an answering smile that lightened his usually serious mien. “But I’d put my money on Walter—as squire, he carries less weight and less mail, my lord.”
“You’ll pay me a mark this day, my lord!” Walter shouted at Richard, kicking his horse so hard that it nearly reared. “I’ll drink the first wine to be had in Beaumaule!”
A cheer rose behind them as Rivaux spurred after him, and the entire column joined in the pursuit, riding haphazardly despite the roughness of the road and the ice. The bitter cold and the harsh, pelting sleet were forgotten at the thought of shelter. The man and the boy were nearly even when Richard’s horse slowed on the precarious footing, and his young squire was first on the bridge. At almost the same time that his horse leapt to clear the gap, Walter’s shout of triumph died in a hail of arrows. And as his mount lost his footing, the boy pitched like a sack of grain to the other side and lay inertly in the ice-crusted dirt. The bridge, which had been lowering, stopped with a lurch as someone on the other side reversed the pulley before the heavy wooden platform could touch the frozen ground. The ropes creaked and groaned, drawing the bridge upward, obscuring the squire from view.
“Walter! Nay! Sweet Jesu—nay!” Richard cried in dismay and horror. Despite the arrows that fell around him and glanced off his own helm, he drew his sword and spurred his mount furiously, forcing it to jump onto the rising bridge. The animal neighed frantically as it reached the wooden floor and skidded downward. Richard, braced backward from his saddle pommel, managed somehow to keep his balance on the frightened horse. Shouting, “For Rivaux! For Rivaux!” he brought down the man who worked the gate with a single blow that cleaved him from the side of his neck to his breastbone. Dark crimson spurted from the man’s wound, spraying Richard’s heavy fur-lined cloak as the young lord leaned to strike at the heavy rope, sundering it. The fellow on the other side of the gate fell back, cowering against the wooden wall, while the rope next to him unraveled, letting the bridge fall.
Shouts of “For God and Rivaux! For Rivaux! For Rivaux and Saint Agnes!” followed Richard as his men whipped their horses across the icy wooden platform.
An arrow struck and lodged harmlessly in the thickly padded leather and mail that encased Everard’s shoulders. Cursing, he raised his sword to strike the second gateman.
“Mercy, sweet lord! Have mercy!” The fellow extended his hands outward as he pleaded.
Above them, there was pandemonium on the wall as the defenders realized their mistake. Someone shouted loudly, “Holy Mary—’tis Rivaux!” and cries of “Sweet Jesu!” mingled with “God aid us—’tis Rivaux!”
Still cursing, Richard’s captain contented himself with a kick of his heavy boot that sent the gateman sprawling. Seeing that there was no further resistance to be had in the small courtyard, he rode to where his lord had dismounted over the body of Walter of Thibeaux. Tears streamed down Richard’s face as he tried to raise his squire, and Everard, who thought himself inured to the sight of death, watched with a painful catch in his chest while Richard removed his gloves to feel along Walter’s jaw for a pulse.
“ ’Twas treachery, my lord.” The gruffness in the older man’s voice betrayed his own grief. “By the looks of it, there are not many defenders—would you have us storm the archers?” Already the men of Rivaux were climbing the walls in search of revenge. And above them a man, apparently Beaumaule’s seneschal, shouted down his surrender.
“Aye.” Looking upward to the wall, Richard’s eyes went hard and the muscles in his jaw tightened visibly. “I’d punish them all for the insolence—bring them down that I may hang the one who ordered this.” Resting his weight on the hilt of his bloody sword, he exhaled heavily and turned again to Walter. “Sweet Jesu, but I’d not have had him harmed. I swore he would come to no harm in my service.”
“Nay, you cannot be blamed, my lord.” Clearing his throat to relieve his own aching, Everard shouted to the others, “Tell them to throw down their weapons!” Shaking his head, he muttered to Richard, “ ’Twould seem de Lacey welcomes us not.”
“Aye, and for this he will pay.” Richard’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking the set of his face. “He learned no such treachery from Robert of Gloucester.” He felt again along the fallen boy’s jaw, tracing downward from the ear, but could not be sure he detected a faint beat. In a final desperate effort, he struck a blow to Walter’s chest, expelling the air there. The boy choked, retched, and began to regain his color. “Thank God he lives, else I’d kill them all,” Richard muttered under his breath. “Walter . . . Walter . . . can you hear me?”
“He lives? God be praised! But I thought—”
“So did I, but I can see his breath now also. Mayhap he was winded when he hit the ground.” For answer, Walter of Thibeaux’s eyes flew open and fluttered to focus on his lord. “Nay, do not speak save your breath,” Richard urged him. “I can see you live.”
“My arm . . . Jesu . . . my arm,” the boy gasped.
“Cover him ere he freezes. Everard, do not let him rise ere you see what injury he has taken.” Already the men on the walls above them were hastily surrendering their weapons to Richard’s men, but he wasn’t attending. He eased Walter into another man’s arms and stood, staring across the small yard at the keep itself. “I’d go first to be certain there’s none to resist in there.”
“My lord! My lord! ’Twas a mistake!”
Richard turned back but briefly, noting the faded wool cloak and the poorly patched mail on the
man who called to him. “Aye,” he growled, “ ’twas that, I’ll warrant. I’d have justice for the treachery you offered me.”
There was such contempt in Rivaux’s face that Simon of Woodstock felt a surge of impotent anger. Turning instead to Everard, he addressed him. “As seneschal to Beaumaule, I submit and ask your terms.” Even as he spoke, he unbuckled his worn sword belt and proffered his sheathed weapon hilt-first.
“Terms!” Everard spat viciously at the ground and snorted derisively. “Art a fool to ask—’tis Rivaux you have attacked!” The wall emptied behind them and he counted the defenders who now filed soberly to flank their captain. “I see but seventeen here, my lord. I’ll warrant—” But Richard had already left them, moving in long strides toward the hall of the keep. With a sigh he turned back to Simon of Woodstock. “Art a fool,” he repeated. “Rivaux brooks no challenge. He’ll have Geoffrey de Lacey’s head for this.”
“De Lacey’s dead—felled by the blow of an ax yesterday. ’Twas thought you were Brevise come to finish the task of taking Beaumaule.”
“Holy Jesu!” Everard spat again, this time to hide his shock at the news. “Then these are all that are left?”
“Aye.”
Richard paid no attention to the protests of Beaumaule’s defenders, ignoring the cries of those who were shoved against the walls. He’d been fired on without reason, and he did not mean to be merciful. His sword in his hand, he approached the timbered building that obviously housed Beaumaule’s hall. Aye, if he met any further resistance, he’d burn the place down about their ears. He raised the heavy blade, holding it before him, and kicked the iron latch upward viciously. The force sent the door banging inward to reveal the long, seemingly empty room.
He was unprepared for the scene that greeted him as his eyes traveled warily along the soot-blackened walls. Unlike his own keeps, this one was sparsely furnished with rough-hewn tables and benches gathered close to the central fire pit, giving the place an even poorer appearance. The remains of the morning’s blaze smoldered and sent black smoke curling upward to the vent hole in the cross-timbered roof. Edging warily now, he entered the hall, half-expecting to be set upon, but he was alone. His nose wrinkled at the stench of the fire, for it was not unlike what he’d smelled before when he’d come across the burned out hulls of peasant cottages. He moved closer, drawn by the strange odor, and he could see now what smoldered in the brazier—it was human hair. Bright, coppery human hair, so hastily dumped that it over-flowed the metal grate and spilled onto the floor, lay in a heap beside the fire pit. One hand still on his sword hilt, he leaned over to lift a handful of it. It was long—more than an ell, he guessed—and as red as any he’d ever seen. He let the strands slide like so much silk through his bloodstained fingers before bending to retrieve a lock and tuck it into the purse that dangled from his belt. As he straightened, he thought he noted movement behind the faded arras that hung at one end of the long room.