“I insist,” he pressed. “Bring the children and line up.” He kept eye contact with her while holding a wide grin.
Sybil suddenly had a measure of dislike for this man. From her perspective, she was in a position of servitude and believed it would be setting a negative example if she and her family were to take from the table before the villagers had their fill.
From Eowyn’s perspective, they were women with children and they needed to keep up their strength. If anyone were to complain about it, he would have very public words to say about them.
Reluctantly, Sybil stood, causing the chair she sat on to scrape loudly on the wooden floor. Keeping composure, she strode over to her daughters and took them by the hand. The three of them walked silently down the steps to the floor level of the auditorium and joined the end of the line.
“You should take the head of the line, my lady,” said the woman queued in front of her.
“No thank you.” Sybil smiled. “There are no places of privilege or prestige in times like this. Tonight we share this meal together as family.”
The other wives and children sitting at the long table on the platform joined her in the line. Catherine Warde placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as tears welled in her eyes.
Chief Shelley paced back and forth in the armoury, a large building next to the Great Hall. He smelled the horses in the stables nearby and heard the murmurings of the men waiting for orders as they sat around in various locations around him.
A runner opened the door behind him allowing a chill breeze to sweep into the room. The man, clad in leather armour, stepped into the armoury and approached the Chief.
“My lord,” he announced. “There has been no change. Lords Fysher and Warde have said the torches have not moved since they appeared over an hour ago.”
Chief Shelley scratched his beard and furrowed his brow as he returned to pacing the floor.
“What are they waiting for?” he asked himself. He moved his gaze across the faces of each man in the room. All were looking to him for instruction. They bore the faces of eager young men who were confused yet excited by the prospect of battle.
Jitters had hold of some, causing hands to shake and legs to vibrate. Some gripped the hilts of their swords tightly as they rested the tips of their blades on the floor. Others rocked and silently prayed to the gods for comfort, assurance and guidance.
Chief Shelley thought about the torches amongst the grove. He wrestled with the idea that the invaders had merely lit them and retreated, leaving the flickering lights in order to give the impression that they were waiting. The chief pictured them in his mind, sneaking out of the brush to the north and returning to some camp they had established miles away. They were probably singing and dancing, joking and laughing about the fools at Woodmyst who were afraid of some candlelight.
“I want scouts to go into the grove,” he ordered. “See what you can find and report back as soon as you can.”
An armoured man crossed the room to Chief Shelley, “How many would you like to send, my lord?”
“Send ten men,” he answered. “Five to the west and five to the east.”
“Volunteers?” the armoured man asked the others around him. All men stood, over twenty in all. The armoured man standing by Chief Shelley’s side counted nine and instructed them to follow him.
The chief placed his hands against a table, pushed up against the wall and breathed a long breath as the men exited the room. His mind was still wrestling with the invaders’ tactics. Now, he didn’t concern himself with the idea that the intruders had merely left the torches behind. He now worried that he may have just sent his men into a trap.
Word was passed along the wall to the towers about the scouts and their mission. Alan didn’t like the idea and voiced his opinion to the others on the tower with him.
“It’s lunacy,” he said. “We have no idea how many could be waiting in there.”
“I think that’s the point, my friend,” Peter pointed out. “We need to find out what is in there. That’s why we have scouts.”
“They could all be walking into doom,” Alan sneered.
“Sometimes sacrifices need to be made.”
“What sort of thing is that to say?”
“You and I both saw battle,” Peter said. “We saw real sacrifice during the war. Necessary sacrifice.”
“Not necessary,” Alan argued. “Not necessary at all. Look what good it did. The kingdom stands no longer. No good will come of this either.”
Peter silently surrendered. Arguments with Alan would simply go around and around on themselves. His friend’s point of view was valid, but he felt Barnard was doing the right thing. The need to know was paramount.
“Where did they leave the village?” Peter asked the tower guard.
“They were lowered over the southern wall,” he answered. “They intend to follow the river in both directions for some distance away from the wall before making their way towards the grove.”
“Good idea.” Peter nodded. “If they are out there, they’ll be watching the walls, not the river and not the fields.”
“Unless they have scouts also,” Alan cynically remarked.
Cautiously and quietly, five scouts slunk along the northern riverside. Their clothing was soaked through after crossing the river moments earlier. They kept low, concealing themselves from the view of anyone watching from the grove, staying behind the embankment that dropped steeply from the pastureland to the water’s edge.
They drew close to a farmhouse not too far from the river. The lead scout halted and held his hand high for the others to see.
Stop!
Instantly, the other men froze in place. The lead scout slowly raised his head above the embankment to take a look.
The farmhouse stood silent, abandoned by its owners in favour of the safety behind the walls of Woodmyst. Its mud packed walls and thatched roof glistened silver in the moonlight.
Strong shadows were cast over the western edge of the house. Beyond was open grassland with no protection from spotters hidden in the brush. The northeast tower could be seen some distance to the west of their position. The lead scout could faintly make out the figures of men standing upon the observation platform.
He moved his gaze along the ribbon of blinking light threaded throughout the trees until they reached the hill at the far end of the meadow. He calculated they had positioned themselves about halfway between the hill and the village.
His attention returned to the grassland between the farmhouse and the grove. He quickly deduced they would need to crawl on their bellies the whole distance in order to go unseen.
Signalling the men to draw nearer, he maintained his watch of the grassland and the torchlight beyond. “Head for the shadows of the farmhouse,” he whispered. “Keep low.”
One by one, the men crawled to the darkness along the western wall of the structure. They held the position momentarily before the lead scout spoke again.
“We crawl,” he instructed. “Keep your bellies and your crotch to the ground. The grass should be long enough to hide you unless you let your fat arses stick up into the sky.”
The men smiled.
They were nervous.
They were afraid.
The light-hearted comment from their leader eased their fears a little, but not much.
“Keep your swords sheathed,” he instructed. “The moon is no friend to iron tonight.”
With that, the lead scout moved first. He lowered his body flat to the ground and pulled himself along slowly with his arms. Moving his legs only when necessary, he opted to drag himself along the ground.
Eventually, the five men crawled into the meadow. They moved out of the cover of shadow and into the tall grass. Their view of the grove was now obscured as they deliberately and sluggishly inched their way further from the river and closer to the flaming torches.
Chapter Seven
Richard Dering stared into a dark pocket between the fl
ickering lights. He thought he saw some movement, but wasn’t sure if it had just been a trick of the brain.
He and Michael Forde had been posted upon the northwest tower for the second night in a row. Two tower guards were also on the tower with them, keeping watch over the area where the grove and the forest met.
A low mist had crawled from among the trees and spread itself over the open grassland. Richard wasn’t sure if this was a good omen or not. On one hand, it offered cover for the scouts who were making their way towards the trees. On the other hand, it offered cover for the invading force also.
“Anything?” Michael asked his friend.
“Nothing,” he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on one tiny speck of darkness.
“Do you think they’re still there?”
“Every man on this wall is asking that question,” Richard replied. “I’m not one to speculate upon such things.”
Michael pulled his hood over his short-cropped hair and hugged his chest, “Have you ever noticed how the nights feel the coldest at the end of winter?”
“Not really,” Richard answered. “I think it’s just because you have a silly haircut and no meat on your bones.”
“You think I’m thin?”
“The ladies call you sickly.” A smile spread across Richard’s face as he spoke.
“I’ll have you know,” Michael retorted, “that the ladies refer to me as many things but not sickly or thin. They call me the staff of justice. The rod of pleasure. The pillar of ecstasy.”
“The twig of smallness,” Richard quipped.
“The phallus of floppy,” said one of the tower guards. The three men laughed leaving Michael to scowl silently.
“My point is,” he started.
“Not very big?” The other tower guard chuckled.
“My point is that I’m not thin,” Michael quickly spat.
“That’s not what his mother tells,” said one tower guard pointing to the other.
The men burst out laughing again. Richard had water well in his eyes and wiped the tears away as Michael finally lost composure and started laughing also.
At that precise moment, from between the flickering torchlights among the trees, something moved.
Martha Fysher carried a large basket full of freshly baked bread through a doorway to the side of the platform. The serves and kitchen staff had been instructed to use the passage into the Great Hall as a safer alternative to the main doors.
The passage led to a thin corridor that ran along the edge of the raised platform, hidden behind the interior panelling and tapestries hanging on the walls inside the auditorium. The corridor, just barely wide enough for one man, then continued on to another door that opened onto an alley where the kitchens were housed in tiny huts.
Chief Shelley had ordered the main doors to the Great Hall to be shut and barricaded. This left the only access in and out of the building through the long, narrow corridor to the tiny door that led to the alley.
For now, the door remained open for the kitchen staff and serves. Those bringing food and water inside as others brought empty vessels and trays back out experienced some difficulty.
Still, they managed.
Martha took the warm loaves of bread from the basket and placed them on the tables in the centre of the room, by the fireplace that blazed bright orange light and immense welcoming warmth.
She turned, intent on returning to the kitchens for what duties needed her attention, only to almost bump into Catherine Warde. She gasped as she gave a little jump in fright.
“Sorry,” Catherine said, covering her mouth with her hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” Martha answered. “I was preoccupied with my thoughts.”
“I was just wondering how you are holding up?”
“I’m fine,” she answered. “I feel needed in the kitchens. I couldn’t bear being here last night, just sitting and waiting.”
Catherine nodded and placed her hand on Martha’s shoulder. “You will let me know if you need my help? I could come back there and assist you.”
“You already are assisting me.” Martha smiled and nodded towards her two daughters, Agnes and Jane, playing with Linet Warde on the rug near the platform. “Keep them occupied while I’m out there. I won’t be in the kitchen all night. We just got word that once we’ve served up tonight’s portions, we’re to retire into the auditorium and bolt the back door. Chief’s orders.”
“We’ll keep a place for you with us,” Catherine informed her.
“You are a good friend, Catherine.” Martha hugged the other tightly with one arm as she kept hold of the empty basket with the other.
“As are you.”
Martha returned to the opening near the platform with tears welling in her eyes, disappearing through it as Catherine looked on.
Martha briskly walked the length of the corridor, almost bowling over a young female serve carrying a steaming pot of soup in the other direction. The young serve was quick to recover and managed to keep the contents of the pot from spilling.
“Sorry,” Martha said before continuing down the passage.
“It’s all right, my lady,” the serve replied.
Martha crossed the alley and entered the nearest kitchen building where bread was being baked in a number of ovens. A large man with a white apron and four female serves were kneading dough and laying it onto large trays to be placed into the ovens.
“My lady?” The large man raised his eyebrows.
“I’m fine.” She smiled falsely. “What do you need me to do?”
“Another few loaves could be made in preparation for breakfast,” he suggested.
She nodded and headed for a barrel full of flour, content to keep active and her mind occupied.
Chief Shelley sat on a bench that ran along one of the walls inside the armoury with his head in his hands. His thoughts swam in circles as he weighed up whether the decision to send the scouts had been the right thing to do.
His wide eyes stared blankly at the floorboards beneath him as he pictured the faces of the men who volunteered to go over the wall. Each one of them had family of his own. Some had a wife and children while others at least had brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers.
It had been at least two hours since the scouts were lowered to the southern fields outside the wall. Shelley had gone to see them off and wished them well. He watched as they split into two groups of five and parted in opposite directions along the wall.
He kept his eyes on them until they vanished into the darkness of the night. Afterwards, he returned to the armoury and paced. When pacing became tiresome, he sat and stared at the floor. When nerves got the better of him and sitting became uncomfortable, he paced again.
And so this was how it had been for what seemed an eternity.
Serves brought hot cider and food to him only to have it politely turned down. Jitters invaded his stomach and he didn’t want to risk the possibility of a mixture of his nerves and food manifesting as violent illness.
The chief raised himself to his feet and started pacing again. He was increasingly impatient as he waited for word about the scouts’ progress. He walked the length of the room to the back wall before spinning on his heels, turning to walk towards the door.
On the fourth turn back towards the door he saw a soldier standing in the doorway. Chief Shelley paused and gave the soldier a quizzical stare.
“I have word, my lord,” the soldier announced.
Chief Shelley nodded, Go on.
“Fog has rolled in and our spotters have lost sight of the scouts,” informed the soldier. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
With that the soldier disappeared into the night leaving Chief Shelley to gape vacantly at the open door. He sauntered to the long bench and plonked himself upon it. His head returned to his hands and his gaze fell to the floor.
He hoped his men were still alive, but his faith was wavering.
The mist had rolled over the five me
n as they edged slowly towards the grove’s edge, concealing them from the eyes of any who watched the open ground of the meadow. Likewise, however, the mist also obscured the view of the grove from the scouts as they cautiously crept on.
An orange haze refracted through the fog giving them an indication of how close they were to their goal. The lead scout estimated it was only a short distance to the nearest tree, but he couldn’t see any if they were there.
Still, he crawled forward, inch-by-inch, trying desperately to remain silent and not disturb the grass around him too much. His men followed his lead closely, each keeping the next in view.
It wasn’t long before the scouts saw the trunks of the trees nearby. They kept to the ground and dragged themselves slowly into the grove, hiding in the undergrowth.
The mist continued to blur their surroundings. The torchlight flickered and moved in the vapour but no clear sign of life could be seen. The men lay on their stomachs in silence, intent on listening for movement. Apart from the flapping the flames made in a breeze, there was no other sound.
The lead scout signalled to the others that he was going to move further into the brush. The others nodded and followed with care. They moved slowly away from the line where meadow and grove met and deeper, deeper into the shadowy coppice.
Gripping fallen logs that had gathered moist moss over time, he pulled himself along the ground as he kept his eyes on the orange glow to his left and right. The blurry light started to separate into individual sources, allowing him to pinpoint where each of the closest torches was positioned.
He saw one flickering to his right a short distance away. Another was ahead of him a little way off. The closest was to his left, almost within arm’s reach. The mist, however, floated closely to the ground and continued to hinder his view.
He was certain if he were able to lift his head slightly, the surroundings would become tremendously clear. But fear gripped him. If the torchbearers were to see him, they would cut him and his men down in an instant.
Risking it was a necessity. His mission was to find out if anyone was out here and he was not able to do this if he didn’t lift his eyes above the line of the low lying mist.
The Walls of Woodmyst Page 6