Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four)

by Roberta Gellis

  “It will take too long,” he said. “If more than one man at a time could come through the gate, de Gant would have forced it long ago. Either we would be attacked while waiting to enter the city, which would mean we would be at a disadvantage because they are many more than we are—”

  “It will not do to mount an assault on the walls,” de Breauté said.

  To that, there was instant agreement. De Breauté had been accused of many things during his lifetime, most of them with justice—he had been called cruel, devious, dishonest, grasping, irreligious and immoral—but there were two things no man had ever said of him. No one had ever impugned either his loyalty or his courage. He was, in fact, brave to the point of fool-hardiness. If Faulk de Breauté said Lincoln’s walls could not be assailed, they could not.

  “I never thought of the walls,” Pembroke agreed, “but we came to break into Mountsorel. We have engines of war with us and ready. Let us attack the three gates.”

  Adam groaned softly. He knew what that meant. They would sit around for weeks waiting for the rams to batter down the gates, which would be constantly reinforced by those inside the town. Probably it would take so long that the attack on Lincoln would begin just when Adam should be back in Tarring to lead Gilliane’s men against Bexhill. On top of that, they would be bored to death, the only excitement when archers shot at them from the walls, or…

  “Oh, I say,” Adam burst out. “Archers!”

  “Archers? What use are archers against the gates of Lincoln?” Pembroke asked.

  Adam blushed. He was well aware of being the youngest present, and also aware that, if his father and his lord had not both died and the land not been in a state of civil war, he would still be a squire rather than a knight leading a considerable following.

  “Not for the gates, but inside,” he answered quickly. “Sir Faulk says we can go in. At least we should be able to disrupt the attempts to break into the keep.”

  “Yes, indeed,” de Breauté assented heartily. He did not love to sit in front of a town battering at its gates any more than Adam did. “Not only that, but once you have blocked all three gates so that they can neither escape us nor ride out to attack us, perhaps we can assault them from within.”

  The three younger members of the group applauded this suggestion with great enthusiasm. Salisbury, Pembroke, and Ian looked sourly at their sons who so eagerly embraced the idea of risking their necks climbing roofs to shoot arrows and fighting afoot through winding streets, which provided many easy ambushes. Still, the idea did have great merit—de Breauté was an astute and experienced military leader—and it was even possible that a group from the castle could fight its way to one of the gates and open it. Geoffrey made that suggestion. The others leapt on it with joyous additions and amendments. All three fathers—two of the body and one of the heart—opened their mouths simultaneously to forbid such rash actions.

  “I will allow them to do nothing that will endanger them without adequate recompense,” Faulk assured them.

  The assurance changed no one’s sentiments because Faulk was not a cautious fighter, but it stopped the fathers’ tongues. Soon after, the impromptu conference came to an end and all left together to join a general council of war. This was quite brief, everyone having had just about the same notion of what should be done. There was little to discuss except which parties should attack which gates, and acceptance of the plan to cull out the archers of each group and send them with Faulk and his contingent into Lincoln keep through the postern door. Adam, Geoffrey, and William Marshal promptly offered themselves and their men to accompany him.

  As events occurred, the anxious fathers were both right and wrong. Conflicting opinions among Louis’s men—the French scorning the advice of the English and the English unwisely keeping information from the French—permitted Pembroke to begin his operations at the gates without any opposition and without the withdrawal of any of his enemies. Faulk de Breauté’s entrance into Lincoln through the postern door on the west side was also accomplished without difficulty. Thus, it was still quite early in the morning on the twentieth of May when Geoffrey and Adam unlimbered their longbows, strung them, and went out on the battlements to bedevil the attackers as best they could. Faulk had decreed their position, pointing out when they wished to accompany most of the other archers down to the roofs of lower buildings that their mail would make them clumsy and a danger to the other men.

  It was just as well they and a number of other knights of Faulk’s retinue who were skilled with the bow did remain. Nearly all the French noblemen and English rebel barons were with their men in the open area between the front of the cathedral and the wall of the keep, which was being battered into collapse by mangonels and trebuchets. The rain of arrows from the battlements and roofs did far more damage than had been expected. Men and horses alike were struck. A few of the horses fell, screaming, many tried to bolt where there was no room to run, or bucked and lashed out with hooves and teeth, panicking other horses that had not been wounded. Men fell also, some struck by arrows and some thrown by their frantic mounts; they were crushed under their own horses or kicked by others, as were any footmen near the beasts. In only a few minutes, there was bedlam and chaos where an army had been massed for attack.

  Faulk was not one to ignore such an opportunity. He called together those knights of the castle and of his own who were not on the walls and rode out to make hay among the disordered invaders while he could. On the walls, Adam and Geoffrey cursed their own skill because it had kept them from hand-to-hand combat, which both preferred infinitely to long-distance assassination with a bow. However, they were soon freed from bondage to their longbows. As Faulk’s men became intermingled with the besiegers in violent action, it was as likely an arrow would hit a friend as a foe, and the archers ceased to loose.

  Adam and Geoffrey leaned forward to watch enviously the progress of Faulk’s attack. This, unfortunately, was not going well. In spite of the confusion and damage caused by the archers, there were so many in the opposing force that Faulk himself was surrounded and in imminent danger of being made a prisoner. Shouting with mingled consternation and pleasure at the idea that they would get into battle after all, the knights on the battlement rushed down to mount their horses and ride to the rescue.

  Meanwhile, Peter des Roches, who was as eager a warrior as any despite being Bishop of Winchester, had taken a party on a tour of inspection. He had, thus far, had no chance to take part in the active fighting, although his embassy to Lady Nicolaa was very nearly equally hazardous. The lady did not love churchmen, since the town of Lincoln had been yielded. She recognized Peter, however, as one who had never wavered in his faith to the crown, and listened to him. Now Winchester was looking for a way to contribute to the battle. Instead of a route for a charge, he found an old gateway in the wall north of the keep itself, but with entry into the town. The gateway had been blocked with mortared stone, but this was crumbling and in no condition to resist a battering ram. Whether the French knew of the weakness in the wall, Winchester had no idea, but obviously they were far too busy just now to think of defending it.

  Messengers were sent to Pembroke. A ram was brought around. By the time Faulk’s captors had been ferociously reft of their prize, it was apparent that his rescue had not really been of much importance. The body of the king’s forces was pouring over the rubble of the old gateway. For a brief time, perhaps a half hour, the fighting was fierce. As a chronicler was to write a few years later, “Then sparks of fire were seen to dart, and sounds as of dreadful thunder were heard to burst forth from the blows of swords against helmeted heads.” Strangely enough, that was all it amounted to, a great deal of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

  The next day Geoffrey wrote a full description of the battle to Joanna. “It was more like a mock battle at a fair than a real thing. Between the first and third hour after sunrise, the whole action—including looting the French baggage train, the town, and the churches—whereby I have some
new and very pretty trinkets to bestow upon you, my dearest love—was over, and we were finished and seated, eating and drinking, at tables by the ninth hour. There was so much noise and confusion, such screaming and rushing and clanging of arms, that I would have expected my horse to be wading to his knees in blood.”

  Geoffrey paused to look at the window behind him and shake his head in wonderment before he dipped his quill again. “Instead, out of this travailing of mountains, not even a mouse was born. There were some hurts among the common soldiers, but even among them, only one was killed. Of the noble party, Reginald Crocus was slain by a mischance. That would have been the full tale of losses on both sides, but when the Count of Perche—a proud and stupid man—was called upon to yield, being completely surrounded, he cried out that he would not give up his sword to the English, who were all traitors, even to their own king. Adam and I were there together and we laughed at such vainglory, as did most who were by. But one, doubtless touched to the quick because he had wavered in his faith, leapt forward before the rest of us could disarm that silly fool and pierced him through the eye. The thrust went to the brain and Perche was dead upon the instant. It is too bad. He would have brought a rich ransom.

  “I must say, however,” Geoffrey continued, “that we have so many prisoners—more than four hundred knights—that the anger at the waste of Perche was not much. This, in fact, is why I am not writing to say that I am on my way home to you, beloved. Pembroke left us at once to carry the good news to the king and the legate Gualo. My father, Chester, and Ferrars are charged with the division of the spoils and the prisoners. I would not stay for that, except that I do not like the way my father looks. He, like the knight who fell upon Perche, remembers too often that he once turned his back upon his brother and would not serve him. His awareness arouses uneasiness in Chester and Ferrars, who do not see that his guilt is for the past and fear some future act. I am, therefore, his hands and feet and mouth again for this time. However—”

  At this point Adam strode into the chamber where Geoffrey was writing to inform him that there was more good news. “A man just rode in to say that Pembroke had word the knights holding Mountsorel have fled. We came to take it, and we have—without ever going near the place. Anyway, Ian has been told to go with the Sheriff of Nottingham and see that the place is razed to the ground, so I will have to escort Ian’s prisoners to Roselynde.”

  “I will take them,” Geoffrey offered, “if you want to get about that business at Bexhill.”

  “No. I have to bring my own prisoners to Kemp anyway, so it is not far out of my way. Besides, I think you should be home with Joanna as much as possible just now. She is due to lie in next month, is she not?” Adam saw Geoffrey’s eyes cloud and his mouth tighten. Death in childbirth took about one third of the women delivering their first child. “Oh Lord,” Adam said, “I did not mean there was anything to worry about. Joanna is just like Mama—slow to get with child, but fast and easy to deliver them, you will see.”

  “I hope you are right.” Geoffrey bit his knuckles. “I swear I had rather go through Bouvines again, even knowing what would come of it.”

  Adam had a sudden horrible sinking of heart. He was not worried about Joanna, in whose strength and good health he had the infinite, unreasoning faith of a younger brother, but he suddenly saw himself facing the same situation, and he did not have equal faith in Gilliane’s strength and health. Had Gilliane’s mother died in childbearing? He shook off the thought. He would do no good to anyone by adding to Geoffrey’s anxieties by showing his own fear.

  “Well,” he said, “do not tell Joanna that, for God’s sake. I know it drove Mama wild when Ian hung over her, asking every minute how she felt and pacing the floor a month ahead of time.”

  Geoffrey could not help laughing. He, too, remembered Lady Alinor’s barely controlled impatience with her husband’s fears. She was pleased that he loved her, but she preferred other demonstrations of it. Of course, it was Lady Alinor’s sixth or seventh lying-in, which made a difference. Nonetheless, Adam was right. He had better not frighten Joanna by appearing frightened himself.

  “You are right,” he confessed, “but who told you of it?”

  “I was at home for Mama’s lying-in with little Alinor, who died. My lord had that first spell of sickness, and there was naught for me to do on his lands. Mama used to beg me to make Ian ride out or practice at arms. I was only jesting when I said he asked every minute how she felt—of course he did no such thing—but he watched her. It teased her, yet she wanted him near also.”

  “Yes. Joanna was not overjoyed at this summons—but then, she always hates when I ride to war.”

  “That is common to all women. At least,” Adam amended with a grin, “to all of them that do not hope a war will make them widows. Which reminds me,” his happy smile was replaced by a frown, “I must write and tell Gilliane I am still alive. Do you have another piece of parchment and a quill?”

  Gravely, but with a quivering lip, Geoffrey drew another large sheet of parchment and a fresh quill from the writing desk beside him. Adam groaned, then turned to Geoffrey with an ingratiating smile.

  “You have already written the tale of the battle, have you not?”

  Since a full sheet and a half written in Geoffrey’s neat script were lying on the table, he could not deny it, although he longed to do so. It would have afforded him considerable amusement to see what Adam would make of a battle description. He was forced to nod.

  “Good. Please tell Joanna to read that part Gilliane—and do not tell me Gilliane will want to see it in my own hand. Perhaps she will, but a woman can be spoiled too much.”

  With those words, Adam drew his knife and severed a small section from the parchment, dipped the quill and began to write. Geoffrey bit his lip. The twisted contortion of Adam’s face could not have been increased by the agony of having the barbed head of an arrow torn out of his flesh. Geoffrey could not resist adding to his letter a description of his brother-by-marriage’s struggle with that most recalcitrant of all enemies—a pen. After that, however, Geoffrey’s good nature prevailed and he begged Joanna not only to read the battle description to Gilliane but to assure her it was not owing to lack of love or good intention on Adam’s part that he did not write his own. In all this time, Adam had committed two lines to the parchment.

  “Beloved, we won with great booty. I am safe, entirely without any hurt. I must carry my prisoners and Ian’s to our keeps.”

  At this point Adam looked up at Geoffrey. “You can, if you will, do a favor for me, Geoffrey. If this business of the prisoners is delayed above a few days, I will not have time to ride back to Hemel to fetch Gilliane and still reach Tarring before the last day of the month to greet Gilliane’s men. Could you spare two days, say on the twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth of this month, to see Gilliane safe home? Then, even if I were late by a few days, she could explain to the men.”

  “Of course. There can be no favor in it. You escorted my wife farther, and under worse conditions.”

  That was formal, if sincere, but Adam frowned. “Do not be so sure of worse conditions. There will be bands of escaped survivors of this battle roaming the entire land between here and the south coast like starving wolves. We took most of the knights, but you know many of the foot soldiers escaped. Otherwise, I would not trouble you to escort Gilliane. Her husband might even be…good God!” Adam jumped to his feet. “Perhaps de Cercy is one of the prisoners. I must go see about that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Adam’s hopes were not fulfilled as Osbert was still ensconced in the merchant’s house in Tarring town. He was enraged, impatient, near to giving up hope of achieving his objective. He was still there only because he had no place else to go and Louis was still, as far as he knew, at Dover. In this supposition, Osbert was utterly mistaken. The “fair” at Lincoln was a disaster of such magnitude that Louis’s hopes for the conquest of England were, if not dead, mortally wounded. FitzWalter and de Quin
cy had been taken prisoner. Great numbers of English rebels, those who were not also prisoner, promptly deserted Louis and either locked themselves in their keeps, in the hope they would be overlooked by the king’s retribution, or rushed to Pembroke, Gualo, or Peter des Roches to beg for peace and mercy.

  There could no longer be even the slightest chance of taking Dover and, as besiegers, the French were now in far greater danger from their position, which was exposed to attack by the king’s forces, than the besieged. Louis fled to London, where the fears of the populace that had welcomed him from the beginning, the great walls, and the river route to escape would permit him to treat for peace in relative safety. Naturally enough, he did not give a single thought to Osbert, who was a contemptible minor cog in a wheel already broken and useless. And Tarring, being already of Henry’s party, lay quiet and undisturbed by news or rumor of danger.

  On the evening of the twenty-seventh of May, Gilliane returned to Tarring with Geoffrey. He was somewhat concerned that there were no more than thirty men-at-arms in the keep and offered either to leave her his troop or stay until Adam arrived. She refused with thanks. Under the circumstances, it was incredible that Tarring would be attacked. Who was there to attack it? Furthermore, Sir Richard was five miles away with troops all ready to march against Bexhill. Even if the unthinkable should happen and some army under a renegade knight should try to loot the keep, Sir Richard could be with her in two hours.

  On the other hand, Geoffrey could not travel safely without the twenty men who had come as an escort nor would Gilliane consider keeping Geoffrey with her. Joanna was plainly near term, large, unwieldy, uncomfortable, and eager to be rid of her burden. Alinor was coming from Roselynde to be with her daughter, but she had not yet arrived when Gilliane and Geoffrey left Hemel. He hid it as well as he could, but Geoffrey was in an agony of anxiety about leaving his wife alone—although what he could do to help Joanna, Gilliane thought with concealed amusement, was beyond her comprehension. Still, Joanna wanted him near, Gilliane knew, and she would not have kept him even if she was worried, which she was not.