by K. M. Grant
“Constable?”
“If I snap my fingers, you know what to do?”
“The torches are already lit.”
The soldiers guarding the door drew their swords. The constable smirked. “Not so clear now, eh, Gavin? Here we are, Miss Eleanor. Come forward at once and make your promises.”
Before Gavin could prevent her, Ellie did step forward. The draft from behind the tapestry drove her on. Surely this was the moment. She seemed to give the constable her hand, and his eyes flashed with triumph. Then using the whole weight of her body, she slapped him across the face. Her blow was so hard and unexpected that he listed heavily sideways, tripped over a chair, and fell headfirst onto the stone hearth, arms akimbo. There was an electrifying split second before, with a mutter that quickly turned into a roar, he heaved himself onto his knees, salty tears springing to his eyes.
Ellie retreated with her head held high. Now, Will, now, she prayed. If you are there, come now. But nobody came. Instead, she had to watch the constable spitting out the blood from his split lip while loosing a cascade of abuse. He began to rise. Ellie began to shake. Where, oh where, was Will? Surely she was not mistaken. He must be behind the tapestry. She must play for more time. With Gavin and Kamil on either side, she addressed her would-be husband, enunciating each word with perfect, chilling clarity, trying to keep his eyes fixed on her.
“Never, never will I marry you, whatever threats you utter and whatever tricks you use. You can kill me. You can do anything. We may all die, but at least we will not be dishonored. I am not frightened of you, de Scabious. There are worse things than death, and being married to you would be one of them.”
The constable’s voice veered wildly upward. “Worse things than death, eh?” he screeched, wiping the blood from his chin. “I’ll show you worse. Fire the hay! Fire the hay and burn the fat, lardy woman! And burn that mare, too. You, by the door, can you not hear? Fire the hay!” The soldier vanished. De Scabious bared his gums like a cornered rat. “Destroy me, would you, you witch?” he snarled. “Not a chance. The future belongs to men like me. You and your kind are finished.”
Quite beside himself, he yanked his sword out of its scabbard and thrust it straight at Ellie’s heart. Gavin moved quicker than Kamil. In a moment he spun around to use his body as a protective shield. But the weight of de Scabious’s lunge cut straight through his mail coat, and when the constable triumphantly withdrew his sword, it was covered in blood right up to the hilt.
For a moment everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Ellie cried out and caught Gavin as he fell to his knees, and they sank to the floor together.
“Ellie,” he whispered, clutching her arm.
His blood seeped into her dress and onto her skin as she rocked him to and fro. Her agony was acute. Will had not come! All was lost. She hugged Gavin to herself and cried his name again and again. He put up his hand to comfort her, and it lingered for a second on her neck.
“I have your green jasper,” he breathed, and put his hand on his breast. “It’s here. But Ellie”—he struggled a little and she held him tighter—“you have kept faith better than I have. And Will, too.” A shadow crossed his face. His breath was not coming easily now. Ellie moaned, but Gavin’s eyes were clear, although his chest was rattling. “Look at me, Ellie.” He caught her hand and held it to his lips. “I have always loved you,” he said simply. “I am glad I can be worthy of you at the end.”
She tried to reply, but her voice was only a sob. As she bent down to kiss his lips he smiled at her, not just with his eyes, but with his whole self, then gave a small sigh and died.
Chaos broke out. De Scabious, half astounded at what he had done, was galvanized into action only when he found Kamil’s mouth an inch away from his ear. He blinked. There was something familiar about this man. Kamil said only one word—“Hosanna!”—and de Scabious erupted.
“You foreign dog,” he howled. “We made a bargain. You’re a traitor. I’ll get you for this, you devil,” and he raised his sword.
But before he could bring it down, there was a tremendous ripping sound, and the constable reeled backward as, at last, the tapestry exploded in a monstrous, billowing cloud of heavy yellow dust. Huge and greedy, the dust, like a great, gritty tidal wave, swelled and swallowed everything up, all but blotting out the flames of the fire. In the thick and eerie darkness that followed, all that could be heard was the tight, strangled rasp of people and dogs choking to death. De Scabious, clutching his throat, scrambled and clawed his way to the open door, pushing his gagging and disorientated sergeant straight at Kamil, who chopped his neck with one sharp, killing blow and deftly caught his sword as it flew out of his hand.
Ellie crouched underneath Gavin. His slumped body protected her, and she shut her eyes, only opening them once the dust began to settle. Twisting her head, she saw an extraordinary sight. It was as if the tapestry had come to life. Dozens of ghostly figures were leaping silently through its gaping maw like giant moths, their faces roughly shrouded in strips of cloth. Ellie closed her eyes again. Will was here now, and others besides, but they had come too late. The thought was torture, and Ellie could feel no relief as she stroked Gavin’s dead face and clung to his battered body. She could not see how she would ever let it go.
Spluttering and wheezing, their swords falling from their hands, de Scabious’s men were petrified. Their masked enemies seemed to have appeared from nowhere, as if born out of the dust itself. Even the air had turned against them, coating their lungs and caking their lips. The more superstitious had only one explanation.
“It’s the king. Richard has come to avenge Gavin de Granville.”
Anything seemed possible. As the men tumbled back into the bigger hall they found the constable goading them on from the safety of the small minstrels’ gallery. Every time a Hangem knight surrendered, his venom shrilled forth. “Fight, you useless bags of offal, fight!” he howled.
But his underlings grew uncertain as cries of “King Richard! King Richard!” began to drown out the increasingly lonely retaliatory shrieks of “King John! King John!”
Yet it was not until his own men begin to shake their swords at the minstrels’ gallery instead of at their enemies that de Scabious realized with cold terror that he was losing control. Immediately he turned to flee, but it was already too late. The unmistakable sound of boots on the gallery steps sent him into rapid reverse. As the steps grew nearer, their aggressive intent undisguised, he did the only thing possible: He climbed onto the balustrade, sat for a moment, then tipped himself over. For a second his hands snatched at the rail as he hung in midair, a strange, insect figure with skinny legs waving on either side of a bulging paunch. Then he dropped like a stone.
Kamil, who had also wrapped a cloth around his mouth and over whom the dust clung like a felt coat, broke de Scabious’s fall. He angled his sword to spit the constable through, but thought better of it. Instead, he drew back and watched the wretched man clamber to his feet, only to be confronted by two of his own servants.
“Move,” the constable barked as his eyes darted here and there. The men remained side by side. De Scabious kicked their shins, but they did not retreat, only pushed the constable backward with the points of kitchen knives until he tripped. Sprawled over a body, his dignity outraged and his position ridiculous, he at last found some courage. Seizing the corpse’s sword, he clambered to his feet, his head jerking back and forth in his characteristic turkey-cock pose. “Here.” He skipped, thrusting the sword to right and left. “Here. Come on, then. But King John will get to know. Mark my words.” The servants drew back a little, but still they would not let the constable pass.
Will was fighting in the doorway. He had no idea what had happened in the tapestry room while he had been delayed in the tunnel, and as he finished off his enemy and saw the antics of the constable he looked quickly around for his brother. There did seem to him to be something familiar about the man who broke the constable’s fall, but before he could m
ake his way over, Ellie suddenly appeared, wild-eyed and running, and forgetting everything else, he ran to meet her.
Lying huddled under Gavin’s body, she had, at first, been too distraught to move, but something kept pricking the back of her mind, and when it finally pricked hard enough, she leaped up, horrified. Fire! The constable had ordered Old Nurse and Sacramenta to be burned. Leaping up, she sped through the dust, hardly even seeing Will, who had forgotten that with a cloth mask and his hair incongruously decorated with frayed strands of faded tapestry wool, she would hardly recognize him. As he caught her arm she fought him.
“Ellie, Ellie, it’s me!” He tried not to hurt her, and when she cried, “Fire!” he went pale under the dirt. They ran out of the hall together. At the top of the steps, Ellie clutched the door frame with relief. Sacramenta was tied to a ring outside the armory, and Gethin, who had pulled the burning bundles of hay away from the cellar, was busy breaking down the door.
Will led Ellie back into the hall, unbinding his mask.
The constable, still held at bay, could hardly believe his eyes or ears. “You! You?” He glared with almost childlike incredulity at Will. “How are you here?”
Wishing that Gavin would appear, Will wiped his face. “You do not know this tower as well as you think,” he said. “Now the question is, what are we to do with you?”
The only defense left to the constable was bluster. “John is due to arrive any time,” he declared. “He will have an army, not just a few grubby knights. I should be careful, Master William. You may be master of this tower, but you are not master of the country.”
Will’s reply was clear enough. “Put the constable in chains,” he ordered, “and secure him outside. I want everybody to see that his rule here is at an end.”
Kamil, who kept his mask on, stepped forward to obey, and although Will stared, he still did not recognize him. When the constable would not willingly walk, Kamil dragged him out of the door, down the steps, and into the courtyard. Finding a set of iron collars lying by the wall, he slipped them over de Scabious’s neck and wrists, and attached the chains to a ring set into the wall of the well. Then he hesitated for a few minutes before slipping out through the now unguarded gate and down the hill to the horse lines.
Back in the hall, those soldiers now anxious to disassociate themselves from their former master began to help pile up the bodies with pathetic eagerness. Will moved to help, but Ellie shook her head. “First this,” she said, and her face was like stone.
The dust was no longer floating about the tapestry room, but had covered the walls and floor with a thick, dull glaze. The slashed hanging flapped untidily over the tunnel mouth. In the mottled light, picking her way through the blood and grime, Ellie took Will to Gavin. The shock almost floored him. Ellie waited silently as he struggled with himself before she knelt, and after a moment or two, he knelt heavily beside her.
At first he could do nothing but stare and stare; then with infinite care, he got up, lifted his brother’s body, and laid it tenderly in front of the smoldering remains of the fire. A faint glow picked out Gavin’s features. In death his expression was almost radiant. His top lip curled slightly as if he were about to sit up and tease Will, as he had loved to do before disappointment, doubt, and injury had cast shadows over both their lives and robbed their childish quarrels of their innocence. Will could no longer bear to look. All he could think was that their last days had been spent in acrimony and jealousy and that when his brother needed his protection, he had failed him. He stood, unable to find even one word.
“He died for me, Will,” said Ellie, smoothing and smoothing Gavin’s hair. “And his face … I will never forget it. He seemed so happy. It was as if it was the one thing in the world he wanted to do. He looked just as he looked that afternoon when you came back from the crusade.” Her voice, which had been steady, began to waver. “Just as he should have been able to look on our wedding day.” She was silent for a moment. “He really loved me, Will,” she said at last, needing to hear herself say it. She looked up, but Will could not look down at her.
“And you loved him?” The words, when they came, were all wrong. Ellie crossed Gavin’s arm over his heart, and as she did so, she felt the green jasper necklace at his breast. Carefully she slipped her hand through the rents in his tunic and reclaimed it. Then she lifted his head onto her lap. “Yes, I loved him,” she said simply, “but I don’t think he ever really knew it, and perhaps I didn’t really know it until now.”
Will would not have wanted Ellie to speak anything but the truth. Nevertheless, her words made him stagger a little. The brother with whom he had been through so much was dead. There would be no chance to make amends for all the harsh words now, and Will could hardly bear this. But in death Gavin was still proving a rival, and Will found that his fists were clenched. The weight of conflicting feelings rapidly became insupportable, and with a mute gesture of apology, he bent down, touched Gavin lightly on the forehead, and walked away. At the door he turned to look at his brother one last time. Ellie was swaying to and fro, singing a song that Old Nurse had sung in the nursery. Her sweet, clear voice was bleak as a dying bird’s, and Will listened until it threatened to overwhelm him, then headed out into the courtyard. He must find Hosanna. Only in his horse was there a chance of comfort now.
It was already difficult to see clearly, for although the snow had given up, the clouds still hung low, blotting out the sun. Evening came early. The Hartslove men were making themselves at home, knowing they would be going nowhere tonight. Will breathed slowly, drawing the air right down into his clogged lungs. The constable was clanking his chains, but Will hardly saw him. Old Nurse was now free, and she sat, a mountain of tired flesh, on an untidy pile of the same hay that the constable had intended would form her funeral pyre. She was sharing ale and bread with Elric.
Will hurried over, and Old Nurse tried to get to her feet. “Ellie’s safe, Old Nurse,” he said. “She’s with—” He stopped, not knowing if she knew already that Gavin was dead. He spread his hands.
“I do know, dearie,” the old lady said quietly. “It is very hard to bear.” She turned away for a second. “But this young man”—she turned back and pinched Elric’s cheek, shaking her chins—“reminds me of you and Gavin when you were both younger. He crawled along the tunnel to that terrible cellar, and when the hay was lit, he started to pull away the stones to see if he could get me out in case it took too long to break through the door. Look at his hands!” She caught one and showed Will a set of bloody fingers. “He could have been killed.”
Elric tried to pull away. This enormous woman who kept stroking him and calling him “dearie” was embarrassing. He slipped out of her grasp as she drank some more ale and tugged at Will. “Shall we go to the horses?” he asked. Will shrugged at Old Nurse and allowed himself to be pulled along. Elric chattered as he looked about for Kamil. “Somebody has let my da and his friends out now,” he said. “After your men tied them up, I don’t think I can go home. He’ll beat me senseless. Careful now!” They both slithered a little on the slushy ground. “I wanted to follow you into the tapestry room, but I had no weapon.” The boy’s voice still reflected his keen disappointment. “But,” he added cheerfully, “I went down the tunnel. It was all smoky, but I found that old nurse. The constable wanted to roast her to death.” Elric stopped in his tracks. “And I thought hanging was bad,” he said. He shook his head and began to look around the courtyard again. “I can’t see the foreign man, but perhaps that’s just because it’s getting dark. He must be here somewhere.”
Will was trying to listen, but his head was already too full, and suddenly, a roar of shouting and stamping from the other side of the wall began to drown out the boy’s chatter. One of de Scabious’s soldiers rushed to Will. “Shall I open the gates?” he asked nervously, anxious to please anybody who might turn out to be his master. “I think the rest of your men want to come in.”
Will pushed Elric to one side for a moment.
Desperate as he was to find out if Hosanna really was still alive, Gavin’s death meant he must take charge. “Climb up onto the top of the wall,” he ordered the soldier, “and tell me what you can see.” The soldier, glad to impress, climbed quickly.
Elric crept back. “I didn’t make it up about your horse,” he said.
“I hope not,” said Will, straining to hear what the soldier was telling him, “because if you did, I will find it hard to speak to you again.”
“There’s banners,” came the voice from above. “But it’s difficult to make them out in this light. There are a lot of people. There are two standards flying. One is yours, I think, and the other—well—I can’t make it out. There is no fighting, though. They must be friendly.”
“Come down,” Will called back, “and throw open the gates.” He gestured to other soldiers milling around. “Stick with me,” he said to Elric, “or you’ll get run down.”
A trumpet sounded outside, and people gradually fell quiet, all except for de Scabious, who strained at his collar and used vocabulary rivaling that of Old Nurse. From her throne of hay, she was momentarily tempted to reply in kind, but Gavin’s death dented her heart too much.
To Will’s astonishment and relief, first through the gate after the Hartslove standard bearer was Hal. He was riding a scruffy pony, and by his side was Prince John. When Hal pointed Will out, two expressions fought for dominance over John’s face. One was arrogance and the other was shame. Will did not move, but Hal leaped off and took hold of the bridle of John’s horse. The prince was going to speak. Before he could open his mouth, however, the constable’s invective morphed into squeals of delight.