“They carried a green branch,” he said.
Mistress Crosar sighed. “Always some trickery. When last Sterkarm is hung, this world will no miss them.” She swung around, thinking to see her niece standing somewhere near. “Where be my niece?”
“Speaking to her father for Sterkarms?” Mistress Yonstone asked.
Mistress Crosar gave that young woman a sharp look before saying, “She’ll be abovestairs.” Her hands clasped before her, her skirts swinging in a slow, stately manner, she made her way to the door.
She climbed the narrow steps to the upper room slowly, one hand on the plastered walls. In her head, she rehearsed a speech to Joan: She had shamed herself and her family, and would never get a husband. How dare she raise her voice and make a display of herself?
Mistress Crosar entered the upper room, sparking like iron taken from a forge fire, eager to dress the girl down—and Joan wasn’t there. Except for a hound lying by the hearth and the fleas in the bedding, the room was empty of life.
Mistress Crosar stood, flummoxed, in the center of the room, and then decided that Joan must have gone up to the roof, to watch the Sterkarms leave—or she was wandering the yard and alleys like a serving girl!
The climb to the roof was painful even though she leaned heavily on the wall to spare her aching hips and knees. A strong breeze greeted her when she reached the roof, and there was none of the smoke and stink that filled the lower rooms. For a moment, she was almost glad she’d made the climb, before she remembered to resent the necessity. Another thing to hold against Joan.
The guard, on his little watchtower, touched his helmet to her, but she gave him the barest nod before looking around. In the center of the roof was the tower beacon, in its iron tray and, beside it, the alarm bell. Joan wasn’t on the roof. So the little madam was parading herself around the alleys of this strange tower. A whipping for thee, my girl, Mistress Crosar thought.
She peered over the parapet into the alleys and yards below. Overhanging thatches obscured her view and made it difficult to see much of the people who crowded past. Sighing, she left the roof, leaning even more heavily on the wall as she descended the stairs. Seating herself on a settle, she waited. The ache in her hip eased, and she heard servants chattering as they returned to their work after seeing the Sterkarms leave, but Joan didn’t appear.
Sandy Yonstone did, passing the door of the hall on his way to the upper room. Mistress Crosar called out, “Master Yonstone, hast seen my niece?”
“No, Mistress.” He came into the hall and looked around, as if Joan might have been in there, overlooked. “Is she no above?”
“No, Master Yonstone. I have been above myself and made sure.”
Sandy thought for a moment. “Roof?”
Mistress Crosar sighed. “I’ve been to roof, Master Yonstone. Wouldst be so kind as to find my niece and send her to me?”
“Oh, be sure, Mistress. I’ll straight to it!” Sandy was happy to be charged with the message. Joan had dismayed him with her ogling of the Sterkarms, but since then, his mind had danced with excuses for her. He was eager to suggest a few to her in the hope that she might agree with one or two.
His search didn’t find Joan with his stepmother, nor in the kitchens or stables, nor with the henwife, nor in any other place he looked. Returning to Mistress Crosar, he admitted as much.
She rose from the settle and said, “Fetch my servants. My niece mun be found.”
It was not easy, finding one slim girl. The tower itself had only three rooms—the ground floor, the hall, and the private room—and it was quickly made certain that Joan wasn’t in any of them. But within the tower’s walls were crammed many outbuildings that all needed to be searched.
Mistress Yonstone came into the hall where Mistress Crosar waited, bringing with her one of the Grannam servingmen. “Mistress,” said the young woman, “I mun give you word we hear from our people. Joan was seen on stairs as Sterkarms left—aye, and seen running to gate.”
“What art saying?” Mistress Crosar demanded.
Mistress Yonstone and the servingman looked at each other, not daring to suggest that Joan had followed the Sterkarms.
“Find my niece!” Mistress Crosar shooed her man away from her.
Kennels and stables were searched: the hay lofts and tack room and feed room as well as the stalls. And then all the bastle houses within the tower’s wall. … It took many hours, and then the searchers turned back to places already investigated, in case Joan had slipped by them. But, as evening drew near, they had to tell Mistress Crosar that her niece was not within the tower walls.
Mistress Crosar sat on the settle in the hall, quiet and calm, though her mouth was tight. “Sterkarms have taken her.”
Master Yonstone said, “Oh nay, you mun no think—”
“Away, you silly man!” Mistress Crosar cried. “They took her! They’ve spoiled my lass!” She stood, looking around for her own men, who quickly came to her. “I mun take word to my brother—”
“I beg you shall no, Mistress,” Master Yonstone said. “Sterkarms were watched as they left our gate. They’ve done many a wicked thing, but they’ve no taken our young mistress.”
Mistress Crosar looked steadily at him. “They did. They took her, and you must after them, Master Yonstone. Hot trod, Master Yonstone!” The most urgent of hue and cries.
“Mistress, I gave them safe conduct—”
“Hot trod! They took my niece! Laird Brackenhill’s daughter! And you gabble of safe conduct! Dougie, Gavan? We mun ride, find my brother—”
“Wait until tomorrow,” Mistress Yonstone said.
“Joan was in my care. My brother’s only living child, and he put her in my care. If she is lost, I mun tell him myself, face-to-face.”
“But, Mistress—”
“Say no more to me! It was you who let in Sterkarms, and from thy tower my niece was carried off. I shall take word to my brother right now.”
“I’ll gan with you, Mistress,” Sandy Yonstone said.
Mistress Crosar gave him a sharp look, and his father protested, but Sandy spoke over him. “Lady Joan was taken from our tower. A Yonstone should be there when Laird Brackenhill hears of it. And I shall do all I can to aid and protect Mistress Crosar.”
“Oh—do as you please!” Mistress Crosar said. Slowly, with aching knees and hips, not relishing the ride ahead of her, Mistress Crosar left the hall.
Sandy was left to outstare his father and stepmother. “What be thy game?” Master Yonstone demanded.
“I do all I can to aid our neighbors,” Sandy said. “We should arm.” Leaving the hall, he ran down the tower stairs, making for his bower to fetch his gear. He intended to be remembered as the man who had provided help to the Grannams in their time of need.
16
16th-Side A:
Outside the Grannams’ Brackenhill Tower
The Elves: Patterson, Gareth, and the Mercenaries
The Brackenhill Tower was almost empty. Its laird, Richard Grannam, had led away his ride and Mistress Crosar had gone with her niece and escort. Most of its other people were still at the shielings.
Inside its walls, as evening drew on, a few servingwomen finished tasks set by Mistress Crosar before she’d left. Some older men, past their fighting days, were on guard. Soon, they’d make their own journey to the shielings, perhaps even that night. Until then, they felt as safe behind the tower’s walls as anyone ever felt in the Debatable Lands.
The watchman on the tower didn’t see the Elves, in their camouflage, moving through the scrub and bushes on the valley’s opposite side.
Patterson, studying the tower, wondered whether to call on it to surrender. If they played ball, Patterson could walk in. He’d have his secure base with no loss of men or any waste of bullets and grenades. Job done.
But would t
he tower herberts play nicely? If the Grannams were anything like the Sterkarms, no. When asked, they might say they would … But then they’d light their beacon and sound their bell, and before he could spit, he’d be up to his oxters in lance-waving horsemen. And they were fierce, crafty buggers. … It would be dangerous to think he could beat them just because he had guns and they didn’t.
Anyway, surrender meant prisoners. He’d have to lock ’em up somewhere and set guards—all the while not being able to trust ’em an inch. Nightmare.
There was a lot to be said for the direct approach.
Taking Ledbury with him, Patterson climbed the hillside. With a great gray sky above them and a cool damp breeze, they studied the tower methodically through field glasses, looking for smoke. Where there smoke, there was fire, which meant people.
“Long building by tower,” Ledbury said. “Kitchen?”
Patterson grunted in assent. “And tower. Look at Charlie up there, scratching his arse.”
“Slot him?” Ledbury asked.
“Nah.” Three minutes after Charlie’s demise, somebody might go up there with the hot beverage and tasty snacks of his choice and find poor old Charlie passed beyond custard creams. Game up then.
It didn’t matter if Charlie spotted them. It might even work in their favor. Charlie might give the alarm and summon help—but Patterson and company weren’t going to be using water pistols. By the time help arrived, on horseback, Patterson’s men would have finished the job, put their feet up for a bit, had a cuppa, and be refreshed and ready to start again.
He returned to studying the tower. Visual memory was better than verbal, and he made a little cartoon in his head. A cartoon cook in the kitchen, cartoon guards in the gatehouse … There were lots of outbuildings.
“All them hidey-holes for the fuckers.”
“Street fighting,” Ledbury said.
“Cheer up. They can only kill you once.”
“Yeah, but they can take their time about it.”
Patterson huffed with amusement but continued to watch through his glasses. “When we go in, they’ll all run like buggery into the tower and lock themselves in. So … we …?”
“Fire the buildings to the west,” Ledbury said. “Then they’ll run to deal with that.”
“You’re learning. Where do we go in?”
“Northeast?”
“Good lad. Bam, blam, scary noise and smoke. Those that still have legs run for the tower—”
“But we put gas canisters through windows,” Ledbury said.
“Give that man a chocolate! Meanwhile, the rest of us walk the streets.”
“No prisoners?”
“What we going to do with ’em, set up a sweatshop?”
“Lot of bodies.”
Patterson, thinking of the work to come, said, “I don’t think there’ll be much to bury.” He glanced at Ledbury. “Wish you’d stayed in accountancy? Too bloody late! Let’s get back to the kiddies before they find the detonators.”
Two meals each day were eaten in the tower—morning meal, an hour after rising, and evening meal, after the day’s work. As daylight dimmed, the porridge simmered in the kitchen and two men waited to carry it up to the hall. Others made last checks on the dairy, the brewhouse, stables, and other outbuildings.
The door of the tower stood open to let people come and go.
Outside the tower’s walls, Gareth lay on the ground beside Patterson. Shouts and laughter drifted to them from inside. They don’t know what’s coming, Gareth thought.
He saw flame leap up, brilliant in the cool blue-gray darkness. It was silent, but so sudden that he leaped in his skin, as if at a sudden harsh noise.
It was a thermite grenade. Patterson had explained it very simply: “Everybody should know what’s going on.” Even useless passengers like you had been the subtext. The grenade had been fired into the thatches of buildings on the tower’s further side, and it had immediately burst into flames so intense and hot that it didn’t matter if the thatch was damp.
The fire spread quickly, jumping from building to building within the tower’s crowded yard, throwing brilliant light over the walls. At the site of the fire, the exploded grenade would be dripping molten iron and aluminium through the thatch, firing the dryer layers underneath. Hot metal would fire dry timbers, floors, and bedding. Bits of burning thatch would fall, too, helping the fire along.
Gareth leaped again as a violent din broke out above.
“Jesus,” Patterson muttered beside him.
The tower’s watchman belabored his bell and yelled—obviously he’d noticed the fire, too.
Patterson partly raised himself from the ground, looking around at the vague shapes he knew were his men. “Ready!”
Gareth got to his hands and knees, which shook under him. Floating over the tower’s walls came cries and clangs. Oh God, Gareth thought. I can’t do this. I can’t.
Inside the tower, in the gatehouse, men heard the bell’s clang and, looking out, saw the fire. Grabbing the filled buckets kept in the gatehouse, they ran into the alleys.
Women ducked from the kitchen door, saw the flames, and yelled, “Fire!” They ran for tubs, buckets, and bowls to hold water. Men from the stables went running with pitchforks, hoping to tear down thatch from neighboring buildings, so the fire couldn’t jump to them.
Patterson, on one knee, patiently watched the tower top through his night sight. When the watchman came to look from his watch point, Patterson took him out with a single shot. The rifle made a soft rattle, and the gray figure of the watchman dropped without a sound.
Gareth’s heart clenched tight. He thought: I’ve just watched a man shot in cold blood.
In front of him, closer to the wall, Ledbury lay, indistinct in his camouflage clothes. If you didn’t know where to look, you wouldn’t see him. His head was turned, watching for Patterson’s signal. When it came, Ledbury rose to one knee and hefted the grenade launcher to his shoulder. He fired a grenade at the tower’s wall and then sprang up and raced back to them.
The grenade exploded and Gareth thought he’d died. Even though his helmet had built-in ear protectors, it was still the most head-cracking noise he’d ever suffered: the explosion, the shriek and roar of splitting stone, the everlasting crashing of stones falling, the ground shaking under him.
It was the loudest noise ever heard by anything living in the tower, human or animal. So loud, so unexpected, so unknown, that men and women fell to their knees in shock, hands at their heads, gaping at one another. Children screamed, dogs howled, stabled horses kicked and shrieked.
The lower and midsections of the wall hurtled inward. The timbers of buildings built along the walls’ inner side snapped with explosive cracks. The buildings fell, groaning, tearing.
Rubble smashed against the walls of the tower itself, shaking it, cracking plaster, terrifying the few left inside. They ran from the din, realized that they ran away from the stairs and escape, spun around, realized that they now ran toward that unimaginable sound, and froze, not knowing what to do.
With more din, the upper section of the blasted wall fell outward and crashed earth-shakingly to the slope below, rolling thunderously down. A dense cloud rose and drifted—dust, stone flour, things pulverized.
Gareth sat on the hillside, watching in terrified bemusement as the thick stone wall bent and folded like paper, as lumps of masonry peeked from a fog of dust, as the roar became thumps on the hillside that traveled through the ground and into his quaking belly.
Around him, men were up and running for the wall. Patterson, a frightening bogle in a breathing mask, grasped Gareth’s arm and hauled him to his feet, dragging him along—into that horror of dust and falling stone. When Gareth pulled away, Patterson shoved him in front of him.
The men scrambled over fallen masonry toward the breach i
n the wall. Gareth groped blindly, on hands and knees, through a dustcloud. A strangling grip around his neck, and he was hauled upward—Patterson had him by the collar. Then he was falling headlong.
Broken stone and timber made a slope from the breach almost to the tower. The men jumped from stone to timber, trying not to slip and break a leg in a crevice. Their helmets meant they heard little of the terrified horses shrieking, dogs barking, women calling, men yelling.
Two men, so coated in stone flour they looked like moving statues, peeled off to either side of the fallen rubble, sending machine-gun fire into the dustcloud. If anyone was still in a mood to fight, the bullets should take care of them.
Patterson let go of Gareth, who stumbled against a fallen timber. Through thick, drifting dust, he saw Patterson leading men to the tower’s door. Dizzily, Gareth staggered after them.
The door stood open. Patterson flung a flash bang inside, looking away as it exploded with blinding light and an intolerable bang. If anybody was in there, for the next several seconds, they were blind, deaf, and giddy as the shock waves sent tsunamis through the fluid of their inner ears. The men darted inside and Patterson gestured angrily for Gareth to follow.
Inside, men were heading up the narrow stair. Gareth stumbled as Patterson shoved him. Patterson continued to shove him to the stairs and followed close behind.
On the landing, Stowe pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it into the hall. He and Patterson flattened themselves against the walls, while other men ran on up the last flight of stairs, leaving Gareth alone.
The stinger exploded. Within the confined space, it was a heart-shocking noise. Gareth, despite his ear protectors, flinched into a crouch. Several hard rubber balls shot from the doorway and rebounded with great force, bouncing to and fro in the enclosed space of the landing. One bounced up and struck Gareth on the thigh, hurting despite having lost much of its force. If men were in the hall, they probably weren’t up for fighting anymore.
Patterson entered, moving diagonally and checking, as he did so, that no one was in that corner. Stowe moved to the other side of the door.
A Sterkarm Tryst Page 15