‘Well, what d’you want to know? There isn’t much to say.’
‘Well I’ve not got much to say either.’
‘All right. My family. Let’s see . . .’ Emily frowned and began to count points off on her fingers. ‘There’s me, Mum, Dad. Don’t see much of Dad. He works most weekends, brings papers home and sits in the dining room. Doesn’t like being disturbed. Mum’s mostly around, watching TV. It’s all right. They let me do my own thing, except when the relations turn up; then I have to show my face. Otherwise I can go where I like. As long as I turn up for meals, they’re happy. That’s it. Dull, eh?’
‘You’re right,’ Marcus said. ‘That is dull. Must be awful, hanging out at home, your mum and dad letting you do what you want.’
‘Sounds all right to me,’ Simon said. ‘You don’t get picked on, anyway.’
Marcus groaned. ‘I was being sarcastic,’ he said wearily. ‘OK, what did you ask me? About my dad and tonight. Yeah, I didn’t tell him anything. He doesn’t know. He leaves for the site at ten thirty tonight and doesn’t get back till nine tomorrow at the earliest, by which time I’ll be safely home and in the kitchen, making him his breakfast.’
Simon frowned. ‘You cook him breakfast?’
‘Yes, five days a week.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘I wash his clothes as well. On Sundays. Anything else you want to know?’
Emily was a little taken aback. ‘No, you’re fine,’ she said.
‘I’ve got a question,’ Simon said. ‘It’s not ten thirty yet. So your dad must know you’re out somewhere.’
‘Sure he does. He knows I’m at the library. I told him I was working there tonight. For a school project. I lie very well. He thinks I’m a ponce, but he let it go.’
‘But libraries aren’t open till eleven,’ Emily said.
‘Well he doesn’t bloody know that, does he? Never been in one in his life.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘It’s an early start for you then, tomorrow,’ Emily said. ‘Bring your alarm clock?’
‘Yes. Can I have some more of that turkey?’
Conversation ceased. While Marcus continued to eat, Simon struggled out of his sleeping bag and walked over in his socks to place another couple of sticks on the fire. The blaze was flaring nicely. Smoke thinned and vanished up the chimney. A flickering red glow filled the wide mouth of the hearth and cast a constant play of light and shadow on their faces. The rest of the room was black. The heat of the fire was sufficient to warm their faces a little, but had not yet shifted the underlying chill. None of them had taken their hats off and Emily was still wearing her gloves, which were now greasy from the cheese and turkey.
‘Let’s put the heater on too,’ she said.
‘Not yet.’ Simon carefully lowered a large piece of wood onto the fire. ‘Wait till these catch; we’ll get some real warmth then.’
He returned to his bag. Marcus had rolled over and was reading his book again, holding his torch in one hand. Emily leant on an elbow and watched the play of the flames. Slowly the fire grew and with it the heat in the room. Shadows danced on the walls and ceiling.
Time passed. Emily felt warmer and more comfy than at any time all day. She was approaching the lovely, hazy, indeterminate time between wakefulness and sleep when Marcus suddenly spoke again.
‘I was right what I said about battles,’ he said. ‘You know, when we were in the gatehouse that day. There’ve been some great fights here.’
Emily’s drowsing mind became aware of itself again. There was a discontented grunt from Simon’s direction, suggesting he had been in a similar state of relaxation.
‘The biggest battle was when King John came here to attack Baron Hugh,’ Marcus’s voice went on. ‘The barons were rebelling against the king’s authority and John wanted to sort them out. He motored up here in 1215 and set up a monster siege. Hugh and his men and all the locals were penned up inside the castle walls with enough provisions to keep them going for six months if necessary. The king dug himself in around the moat. He had an army of two thousand men, while Hugh only had four hundred. The king told Hugh that if he surrendered forthwith he’d just confiscate the castle temporarily. Hugh would be banished for ever, but his son Roger could inherit it when he came of age.
‘Well, that wasn’t good enough for Hugh, who hoped that some of the other barons would quickly come to his aid. He rejected the proposal and settled down for the siege. John was furious and launched an attack the very same day. His men tried storming the gatehouse across the bridge, but Hugh’s archers cut them down. The moat around the gate was choked with bodies and the water ran with blood. It was hopeless trying to get in; the bridge was the only place where the moat was spanned and it was just too well defended. So John had to sit back and wait. Months went by.’
‘What about the other barons?’ Simon’s voice asked from the direction of his sleeping bag. ‘Did they turn up?’
‘No, they didn’t. John hadn’t needed all his men for the siege, so half his army had gone off and mopped up some of the other rebels in neighbouring castles. Hugh was trapped, completely isolated. But he didn’t give up hope. He still reckoned that John might get bored or be called away or something. Every day Hugh toured the battlements, talking to his men, encouraging them to constant vigilance, telling them that help would come. His little son, Roger, would go with him. He was only twelve years old, but really brave and everyone in the castle loved him.’
‘Maybe this was Roger’s room,’ Emily suggested. ‘It sort of feels like it might have been. A nice room for the lord’s son, somehow.’
‘Go on, Marcus,’ Simon said. ‘So what happened? Did John find a way in?’
‘He didn’t, but someone else did it for him. Some monk reckons it was the worst act of treachery he’d heard of in the history of England, which sounds a little steep, I reckon, but – ’
‘Get on with it!’
‘OK. Hugh and his men held out for six months, by which time the stores should have been all gone. But they’d been prudent, they’d used them up sparingly, so there were still some left. The water was fine – they had the well. Two more months passed and by now nearly all the grain was gone. The salted meat had been finished long before and people were starting to get very weak. A few of the old men and women died, and there was talk of killing the horses and dogs and eating those. Well, Hugh was still adamant that there would be no surrender – he knew what would happen to him if he fell into the king’s power. But not all of his men felt that way, and one of them was the steward, Hugh’s right-hand man. He took a look around and saw everyone in the castle beginning to starve, while outside the walls the king’s camp was fixed as permanently as the fields and the forest. Winter was not far off and he thought it was crazy to let this go on any longer. So he decided to help John win.’
‘Sounds a sensible man,’ Emily said.
‘Get off!’ Simon retorted. ‘He’s a traitor.’
Marcus chuckled. He was enjoying the effect his story was having on his listeners. ‘He was a traitor,’ he said. ‘And this is what he did. He got some of the guards at the gatehouse on his side and with their help smuggled a message out to the king’s camp. He promised to open the gates on an agreed date, provided he and his friends were spared when the army broke in.’
‘What a git,’ Simon said.
‘Well, the king agreed and the very next night the steward slipped down to the gatehouse before dawn. He and his men killed the guards who weren’t in on the plot, then they raised the portcullis and unbarred the great door. When all was ready, the steward lit a torch in one of the gatehouse windows – that was the signal to the king.
‘No sooner had the torch been raised than horns were blown and John’s army charged over the bridge, through the defenceless gatehouse and into the castle bailey. The defenders sounded the alarm, but it was too late for the soldiers on the outer wall. Before they could regroup, arrows were raining into their backs and the king’s men were running throu
gh the houses and stables, setting them on fire and killing the panic-stricken inhabitants as they ran out.’
‘All this happened here?’ Emily said, aghast. ‘How awful!’
‘This is brilliant,’ Simon said. ‘So what happened – was Hugh killed?’
‘There’s one more twist,’ Marcus went on. ‘Hugh and his family were all here in the keep when the enemy broke in, of course, and Hugh immediately gave word that the keep’s doors were to be secured. He reckoned that John might capture the outer walls, but he wouldn’t be able to break into the keep itself. So while the buildings outside were burning, Hugh climbed one of the towers to join his men, who were firing arrows down on the soldiers below. On the way up he paused only to send for his son, Roger, whom he wanted close at hand. Well, after a while, he realized that Roger hadn’t turned up, so he sent for him again. Still he didn’t show. This wasn’t like him – normally Roger was the first at his father’s side. So Hugh went down and discovered all the servants hunting high and low – but no one could find Roger anywhere.
‘Greatly concerned, Hugh returned to the battlements to resume the resistance, but he hadn’t been up there more than a minute when he saw a sight that made his blood run cold. Can I have a sip of water? My throat’s getting dry.’
‘No! You can’t!’ Simon roared. ‘Keep it away from him, Em, till he finishes the story.’
Marcus grinned. ‘I’ll hurry it up, then. Well, the sun had risen by now and light was spilling into the burning courtyard. Hugh was looking down from the battlements, and he suddenly saw what he most feared. There, lying in the mud, was his little son. He was wearing his nightshirt and he had his sword in his hand. But he was dead – lying in a pool of blood. He’d been run right through!
‘Hugh knew then what had happened. When the alarm was raised, his brave son hadn’t waited, but had grabbed his sword and left the keep to meet the danger head-on. Before he’d got ten paces one of John’s men had cut him down.
‘When he saw this, Hugh gave a new order and his men followed him. They left the battlements, charged down through the keep and burst out of the door to take their revenge on the king. It was a final gallant gesture of defiance, but it was hopeless too. In a moment Hugh was down, shot through the throat with an arrow. His men were either killed or cornered. A few minutes later the survivors surrendered. The great siege was over. When everything was quiet, John himself entered the castle.’
‘You mean he wasn’t even taking part?’ Emily said. ‘What a coward!’
‘That wasn’t John’s way. But he did do one good thing.’
‘What?’
‘He sent for the treacherous steward and his friends. They were just about the only men in the castle who weren’t dead or injured, and they were pretty pleased with themselves since their plan had been so successful. “So,” said John. “I suppose you are keen to enter my service now?” The men said they were. “Well,” John continued, “just as every lord in the land must swear allegiance to the king and never betray him, so every man must swear allegiance to his lord. Your lord betrayed me and he has paid the price for it, but you in your turn betrayed him. And a man who betrays his master proves one thing only – that he is not fit for office, trust – or life.” At this, the steward and his friends flung themselves on their knees and begged for mercy, but to no avail. They were dragged away and put to death.’
Marcus finished in a tone of great satisfaction.
‘That seems a bit harsh,’ Emily said. ‘I mean, I know they were pretty bad, but they did help John take the castle.’
‘No, they deserved it,’ Simon said.
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Good story, wasn’t it though?’ Marcus said. ‘That was the only time the castle’s ever been taken. By treachery. There were a couple of other sieges, apparently, but the castle held out both times.’
‘And all that happened here . . .’ Simon lay back with his hands behind his head. ‘Imagine looking down from the tower and seeing your son lying dead.’
‘Which tower was it?’ Emily asked. ‘Might be the one up our stairs here.’
‘Don’t think anyone knows.’
‘Pity we can’t get to the top.’
‘Hold on.’ Marcus fumbled in his bag and brought out his crumpled pamphlet. ‘I think . . . let’s see . . .’ He peered at the castle map in the light of his torch. ‘Yes, one of the towers is still open. The one on the opposite side to here. Don’t know whether it’ll be locked now, but we could go and see sometime.’
‘Let’s go now,’ said Emily, who was getting a bit hot and itchy in her sleeping bag. The fire was heating the room very effectively. ‘Why not? It won’t take long.’
‘It’d be a tad cold,’ Simon said. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘I won’t be able to stay tomorrow,’ Marcus said. He pulled his sleeping bag down and began to wriggle out of it. ‘Come on – it’ll be really creepy in the dark.’
Emily followed suit. Simon groaned but complied.
‘Just when I was getting comfortable,’ he said.
{7}
They fixed themselves up with shoes and extra layers. Simon put the final pieces of wood on the fire, then joined them at the door. All three carried torches, Marcus directing his onto the map in his hand.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving home base. We’ve got two possible routes. When we get to the floor below we either go round the keep by the walkway and past the kitchens, or through the chamber and the chapel.’
‘Which way’s warmer?’ Simon asked.
‘They’ll both be as cold as each other. But the chapel route will be more under cover, in case it’s snowing or something. Let’s go that way. I’ll be able to show you the murder-holes too.’
‘Close the door quickly,’ Simon said. ‘Keep the heat in.’
Marcus swung the door open and stepped through into the pitch-black stairwell. His torch lit up the creamy stones of the central pillar – they shone coldly in the weak light. He set off down the steps, followed by Simon and then Emily, who shut the door behind her.
‘Don’t let the light show through the windows,’ she whispered. ‘You never know if someone will be watching.’
‘We’re safe here,’ Simon whispered back. ‘It’s the other side that faces the village.’
‘Even so . . .’
Down the staircase they went, the freezing air biting at their faces. Simon and Emily followed Marcus’s black shape, which was outlined in the bobbing movement of his light. On the next level he turned to the right and went down the passage that led to the lord’s chamber. Here he swung the torch around, illuminating the fireplace and the barred arch that led onto the vanished hall. Marcus didn’t linger. He ignored an archway on the right – ‘That’s the bog,’ he hissed over his shoulder – and ducked through one leading straight on. It opened out immediately into a smaller room.
‘The chapel,’ he mouthed.
‘Why are we whispering?’ Simon whispered.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Well, shall we stop?’
‘Might as well.’
However, this was easier said than done. The castle enclosed them. Its silence was so absolute that it seemed an act of violence for anyone to raise their voice. All three were used to the quiet of the countryside. But that quiet normally held some sounds within it: the hum of a distant road, the noise of farm machinery, birdcalls, wind in the trees. Night silence normally contained sounds too: owl hoots, lonely cars, barking dogs or, again, the tireless wind. Here inside the castle the separate silences of the countryside and the night were combined and deepened and although it did not oppress them, it made them cautious and respectful. They walked carefully, slipping along softly like thieves in a slumbering house.
Simon and Emily anxiously followed the meander of the torch beam, watching Marcus’s breath frosting up in front of it. He led them through the chapel, under an arch and into a room of uncertain shape and size. It contained several pillars m
ade of rounded stone blocks. Marcus shone his torch upwards.
‘The roof’s come away here,’ he said softly. ‘You can see the stars.’
Where his torch was pointing, the ceiling ended in a black gap.
‘Move your torch,’ Simon said. ‘I can’t see the sky.’
Marcus swung the torch beam down – and something sliced through it, a descending blur of movement. The air shifted in front of their faces. Marcus and Emily both cried out; Marcus dropped the torch. There was a crack. The light went out.
Darkness. Silence.
‘It’s all right, you cretins,’ Simon’s voice said. ‘It was a bat. Maybe two of them.’
‘Never mind what it was.’ Marcus’s voice sounded shakily from somewhere near the floor. ‘Put your bloody torch on. I can’t find mine.’
‘You can see the stars now, if you look.’
They were the faintest suggestions of light in the formless, dimensionless dark; countless pinpricks, which Emily found that she could see most effectively if she held her gaze a little to one side of their centre.
Marcus’s voice came again. ‘Very nice. Now, about that light . . .’
Emily switched her torch on. Marcus swooped on his torch and picked it up.
‘Drat, it is broken.’
‘Never mind, we’ve got two more.’
‘Yeah, but it’s my dad’s. What if he needs it?’
‘You can get it fixed. Come on.’
‘Give us a light then. I know the way.’ Marcus took Emily’s torch and proceeded past the pillars. He angled the beam towards the floor, centring it on two black, circular holes in the flagstones. ‘Murder-holes,’ he said briefly and passed on.
They followed him into another long passage. Marcus’s torch lit the walls on either side, the light accentuating their texture. Emily imagined how this passage must have looked when the castle was new, lined with burning torches and filled with smoke and golden light.
There was still no ceiling above them. ‘Careful,’ Simon called to Marcus. ‘You’re blasting that light into space. Someone might see it now. Can’t you turn it off?’
The Last Siege Page 8