by Grace Ingram
“Lady mother, that’s not so!” Gilbert protested. Bertille was binding up a bloody arm for him, and he looked harried beyond his wits.
“Why else should he live, and my son die? Where is God’s justice that my son is taken from me for that red hound’s triumph? Oh, my son, my son!”
Julitta left her to the priest and her distracted son, the greater part of her sympathy overborne by fury for Adam. The Abbess and her nuns were busy among the wounded; every injured man seemed to have at least three women to fuss over him. She searched out Avice, still cowering in a corner, and tried to shake some sense into her, but thankfully relinquished the witless lump of terror to Ivar. Old Lady Cecily surged amid children and little dogs to embrace her and be assured of her dear boy’s well-being.
The dear boy strode in, and half the women squeaked. One small girl began to howl. Julitta could scarcely blame her; that her own heart bounded with delight at sight of his purple face, bent nose and bloody garments only gave the measure of how besotted she had grown. Baldwin followed, and she saw at once that all was very well with him. His hard face was oddly at peace.
The bereaved mother screeched at Adam across the bier. “Murderer! You’ve killed my boy—you set him to be slain, all young and untried—”
Sibylla grabbed her arm, and Gilbert croaked protest. Adam’s left eyebrow flicked up; he was younger than Gautier, though only Julitta seemed to recall it. He looked to Gilbert.
“She’s—she’s distraught—don’t—”
He said curtly, “I’m mounting Baldwin and his troop from your stables and riding to Brentborough. The Scots will make for there next.”
“No! Thieve our stables empty—Gilbert, it’s your duty to seize him and avenge your brother!”
“Lady mother, it was in no way Lord Adam’s fault—”
“God’s Death, are you a man?” Baldwin’s battle-voice overbore all others. “The whelp bungled his blow and that was his ending. But for Lord Adam, you’d all be burned corpses in your household’s ashes, you screeching besom! And we don’t need your leave to borrow horses; we’ll take them!”
“My lord hired you to do his bidding—”
“And not a clipped penny has he paid us yet!” Baldwin retorted, and made for the door. Lady Matilda wept. Gilbert began to bleat, following them outside.
“Lord Adam, I… my mother’s great grief… beg you’ll not heed… after your valiant defence…”
“Hell’s Teeth, I’d not the least regard for any of your household. I fought for the holy nuns and the village folk.”
He winced. “I… I’d no share in misusing you… and now this debt…”
“It can gall you for your lifetime,” Adam answered, and stalked to the stables. The mercenaries were routing out saddles for a makeshift assembly of mounts; Gilbert’s and Gautier’s destriers, a handful of hacks and the women’s palfreys. The two men who had stripped the Scottish knight accosted Adam, and with rough diffidence proffered the dead man’s hauberk, helmet and sword, hurriedly scoured.
“If so be as you’d condescend to take it from us, Lord Adam—”
“It being nowise fitting you should peril yourself unmailed, my lord—”
“And who’s better entitled than the captain as commanded the fight?”
Adam looked from one to the other. That a pair of mercenaries should voluntarily forgo the only loot of value from the enemy dead was an almost incredible tribute, and Julitta saw that all the troop, surreptitiously listening, concurred heartily. His strained face relaxed, and he smiled at them with such a warmth of gratitude that Julitta bit her lip to hold back tears.
“Hell’s Teeth, I’d good men to command! I thank you.”
He dived into its rattling folds, and they gave him a cheer and returned zealously to work.
“And that’s truth,” Adam added to Baldwin as he helped him into the awkward garment. “Without your ruffians we’d never have held the wall.” He shrugged his shoulders into it and drew up the hood. It was of the outmoded type, iron rings sewn on leather, that had served the Conqueror’s knights a century ago, but it gave adequate protection except for its elbow-length sleeves. He laced up the throat-flap. “Did William admit to some small doubt of his Young King, I wonder, when he left you here?”
“Not of Young Henry. Of me,” Baldwin answered, adjusting the swordstrap to Adam’s greater height. His shark’s grin flashed. “I’d been your guest.”
“He never suspected you of scruples?”
“A mercenary can’t afford them. Now try the shield. Yes, the guige-buckle needs letting out a couple of holes. And my wife was set on helping yours to her desire.” His grin widened. “A profitless venture it’s been. Being in some sort your father-in-law, I’m bound to uphold you, pay or no pay.”
“You’ll be paid,” Adam promised grimly.
“What?”
“Your passage back to Flanders.”
They regarded each other with perfect understanding. Then Baldwin nodded. “My wife’s mine. I’m paid. And there’s no scope in England for a man of my trade.” He turned to yell at his men. “If there’s not saddles enough you’ll ride bareback, but move, you slow worms!”
“You’ve a horse for me?” Julitta asked.
“I can’t leave you here to be seized for a hostage.” Adam joined his hands and tossed her up on to Lady Matilda’s sedate black. She checked the hilt of her sleeve knife.
“I never gave a wench a gift repaid me more handsomely,” her husband observed gracelessly and swung astride Gilbert’s destrier. Her heart bounded to hear the old Adam jest once more.
Ivar came dodging across the garth, and scowled up at him. “I’m coming with you!” he announced belligerently.
“Get yourself across a horse then, and welcome.”
As the routiers formed line he ranged up behind Julitta, astride a sturdy pony, and asserted, “My lady’s not dismissed me from her service.”
“It being understood that you’re her man,” Adam agreed gravely, “you’ll take charge of my stables?”
He scowled again. “Since she’s set her fancy on you, aye.”
Julitta glanced over her shoulder as the cavalcade passed through the gate. “Avice?” she asked in a low voice.
He grunted. “When I gets any sense out of her, she says all she wants is to stop in t’nunnery and stay a maid for ever, and cries like a leaky bucket.” He spat violently. “Wet fish. Lord Adam was right.” He glared at Adam’s back and fell back to meditate on that culminating wrong.
One of the mercenaries had been killed and another sorely hurt, so there were fourteen left riding two by two through the ruined gateway, in the quilted leather brigandines and iron caps that had preserved them. They bore eastward along the track to Crossthwaite at a steady run, the dust rising in sun-gilded clouds behind them.
They went through Crossthwaite without slackening pace, shouting warning of Scots and news of Lord Humphrey’s slaying to villagers already alarmed by the smoke of Chivingham’s burning. They passed and likewise warned two isolated farmsteads, eased to a running walk up the ridge, clattered down the further slope trusting in their horses’ sagacity and the righteousness of their cause to preserve their limbs, and gained the lower ford.
Ivar knew it, and guided them across; though thrice as wide, it was less perilous than the upper one, and they suffered no more than a wetting. Through the woods they pounded, their trampling hooves all but drowning the river’s brawling, the cavalcade strung out behind Adam and Baldwin. The trees scattered, wide clearings opening. Thin and far away came a cry like a gull’s wail. Spurs pricked. At full gallop they stormed out on to the waste before Brentborough as the first yellow-shirted Scots reached the alehouse and smithy.
Adam and Baldwin swung shields from shoulders and drew their swords, the two crossbowmen behind parted to either side and closed in Julitta and Ivar, and the rest in a tight double column thundered after. Some sort of scrimmage was going on at the alehouse door, more saffron demo
ns swarmed whooping across plough and pasture, and from cottages, barns and byres, from fields and gardens the peasants broke and fled. The alehouse leaped to meet them. The cluster of Scots shattered apart, howls rang, Adam’s sword swung and jarred. Julitta’s palfrey stumbled, squealed, and went on over something yielding. Just outside the alehouse doorway she glimpsed a vast heap of gray homespun. Gunhild had been too unwieldy to run.
Adam brought the line about in a tight half-circle to the village street, the mercenaries keeping it with admirable discipline where knights would have broken rank to pursue at their own pleasure. Back they stormed between the cottages as the Scots ran to plunder them, into and over and through the disorderly throng, swords flailing. The man on Julitta’s right grunted and folded forward; she leaned to grab his arm, and they galloped stirrup to stirrup, his weight dragging at her hold. A gout of foam or blood spattered her cheek, wet and warm. Again Adam swung his men round and back. A riderless horse broke free and ran wildly.
The peasants had rallied. With wolf-spear, flail, pitchfork and axe they ran to meet them, while the women and children streamed up the hill to the castle. The saffron shirts scattered between the houses, wolves briefly beaten from the flock, while more and more came pelting over the stubble to join them. The villagers were all about the troop, shouting Adam’s name and cheering. Julitta secured a better grip on her man’s belt; he groaned and clutched the pommel, so she knew he lived. Adam yelled orders through the din, and the line retreated at a steady walk up the slope, the peasants around and among them. A few had snatched up bows. As the Scots loped after them, closing in, first one and then another saw feathers spring in his breast for his last sight on earth. They checked, and then their consuming passion diverted them. Most turned aside to loot the cottages, and only two or three score followed Adam’s retreat; yelling, skirmishing, darting in with spears, but never venturing to engage such resolute defence more closely.
The track tilted to the castle. The gallows loomed stark, Odo’s body swinging slightly on the rope’s end, gulls and crows crying angrily as they circled over its disfigured head. “Open! Open! Let us in!” women were wailing. They huddled with their children by the masonry abutments where the drawbridge’s end would descend, but it remained hoisted in their imploring faces, over portcullis and gate. Heads leaned from crenels above. A cracked voice screeched curses at them, but no order issued from any to lower it.
“Mother of God!” Julitta cried incredulously. “Adam, they’re refusing succor!”
He jerked his attention from the Scots, and shouted to one of the peasants. “Gyrth! Get them down to Arnisby! We’ll hold them off! At his yell the arbalesters halted, while the peasants raced up the hill calling to their families, who scuttled down to meet them. All along the western wall faces watched whitely from crenels, but entry was denied. Lord William would not shelter the folk he claimed to rule.
The men closed about their women and youngsters and started them down towards Arnisby. The Scots, howling warcries in their own tongue, gathered and hurtled at the gap, trying to turn the horsemen’s line. Adam yelled again, and the arbalesters spurred after him. Round shields, hairy faces, indecently naked limbs filled Julitta’s sight. Steel flashed and clanged, saffron shirts splashed scarlet, half an arm flipped against her saddle bow and lay an instant, fingers half-curled, before it dropped away. She clung grimly to her wounded mercenary. The Scots reeled back, and Adam shouted to his troop to halt. She glanced hastily at the villagers. A few of the enemy had reached them, but the men were fighting them off; as she looked the last broke and ran from the pitchforks.
Down the Arnisby track they moved at a walk, half-turned in saddles to watch the foe, shepherding the peasants between the thickets of gorse and thorn-scrub. A few Scots tried to dodge past among the brakes, but they could not assemble numbers enough to tackle the determined hedge Brentborough men set about their women and children. Unmailed, armed but with spears and long knives, they could not prevail against the ranked mercenaries. Twice Adam halted the withdrawal, and twice the main force sullenly held back.
Ivar had come round to the wounded arbalester’s right side and had an arm about him. He drooped limply in their grip, and blood was soaking heavily down his left thigh from under his brigandine. The castle looked down on them, the keep’s tawny stone glowing in the noonday sun. Julitta marveled incredulously that her uncle had denied entry to Brentborough folk. Whether from fear of an overwhelming rush of Scots, knowledge of rotten provisions that would not endure a siege, or recognition of Adam in command of Baldwin’s troop, he had utterly discredited himself and his rule.
A breathless cheer lifted from the villagers. They were at the bridge. The tanner and his household were toiling across it, stooped under their bundled possessions. Yellow shirts flickering on the crest had alarmed Arnisby from loom and dye vat and cooking fire, and two farm carts had been run up to the bridgehead ready to barricade it. Julitta saw men lugging up timbers and bales of straw. The peasants hastened across to safety. The mercenaries, preserving their admirable order, halted at the bank. Someone called to her to go first, and as she passed through their solid ranks a fierce appreciation filled her for the hard men and the work they had done this day. Excommunicate they might be, damned in this world and to Hellfire everlasting because they killed for hire, but she called out, “God requite you for the lives you have saved, good friends!” As she went she numbered them. They were now eleven.
Many hands reached to help her dismount, to lift down the wounded man and carry him to the baled straw. He died as they laid him down. She crossed herself and prayed with passionate regret. Her lips moving still, she turned to watch the withdrawal. Two by two they turned on to the bridge, and the Scots began to close in, pelting down the track and yelling hideously. Last of all Adam and Baldwin backed to the bridge, fighting off a rush, and then together swung their mounts about and hit the planks at a gallop.
“Now God be praised,” Father Simon crowed ecstatically in her ear, “Who sent Lord Adam at our need!”
On her other side a little withered woman, nursing an arm against her breast, sat beside the dead man on the straw bales and rocked back and forth, tears brimming from her eyes. “Gunhild’s dead,” she croaked, as Julitta stooped over her. “Poor besom took a broom to ‘em—too fat to run—”
“I’m sorely grieved,” Julitta said. “Let me see—”
“Tweren’t bad ale she brewed, but I wouldn’t never admit it,” Hallgerd regretted. “No, not bad ale. Me arm’s broke, m’ lady. Owd bones breaks easy and mends hard.”
Ivar had splints and strips of cloth before she could call for them. She set the break, aware that the priest was chanting the ninth Psalm; she caught some of the familiar words, “—destroyed the ungodly; Thou has put out their name for ever and ever.” The mercenaries were thumping from their mounts, grabbing arbalests from their saddles, setting and loading. As Adam and Baldwin pulled up lathered horses among the waiting throng they formed rank across the bridge and loosed together. The cluster of saffron shirts at its other end disintegrated, leaving four or five behind, and slowly, sullenly retreated up the hill, where Brentborough’s smoke bannered along the sky. Still the castle drawbridge remained shamefully raised.
Laughing, weeping, cheering the folk converged on Adam in wild ovation, thronging to kiss his hands, to touch his clothing or his horse, flinging themselves to their knees, holding up small children to look on the face of their young lord, returned from the dead to save his own people. Half-laughing, tears streaking his filthy face, he looked down on them, moved to the heart; then he descended into their rapturous embrace, their darling for his lifetime. He stumbled for words in his halting English.
“My thanks, good folk—enough—let be—”
His face lighted. Through the throng his eyes met Julitta’s. Suddenly forceful, he thrust against them, and with instant perception the crowd made way. It was right and fitting that he should heed no other, but in three strides re
ach his lady who had saved him from his foes, and catch her up in so fervently tender an embrace that women cooed and men sighed. They turned away to mob Baldwin and his bewildered mercenaries, hardened to obloquy and reviling but not to grateful blessings.
20
In the romances, victory was always resoundingly conclusive and the hero had no more to do than seat himself in the place of honor beside his bride at a miraculously-conjured banquet. In real life matters were less tidily disposed. The harried hero, after barricading the bridge, set about putting Arnisby in a defensible condition, lest the Scots should ford the river’s upper reaches and come at them from the south. The fishing boats were run down to the water and crammed with women, children, wounded and household goods. Since the fishers and the newer settlement were mostly at odds, it took extreme peril and all Adam’s authority to achieve so much cooperation. Young lads with no more sense than to enjoy the adventure scattered sheep over the moor, where inevitably some would be lost to wolves, drove cattle into the woods, and kept a lookout from the high tops and tall trees for yellow shirts, while their fathers smashed loopholes in cottage walls, chopped furze and thorn for barricades and grimly stood guard with whatever weapons they possessed.
Julitta had four wounded arbalesters and three villagers to tend. Beside Gunhild, two men surprised in the fields were certainly dead, and five others were missing. She tried to comfort new-made widows, prayed with the anxious, and condoled with folk who had lost all they owned. Small children screamed and capered and were sick underfoot. Two notorious scolds, already at feud, engaged in a dispute that embroiled a boatful before they were dragged apart.
By mid-afternoon, no Scot having shown himself again, Adam took those mercenaries who were fit to ride and risked revisiting Brentborough. They were away over an hour, and though she told herself severely that she must not cluck over her husband like a mother hen, she thanked God to see his mailed figure appear over the crest at the head of his company. The Scots had gone, and four of the missing villagers had returned, safe and whole. But the village was a gutted desolation, every house plundered and burned, the church a roofless shell, the beasts all driven off. The people must rebuild their existence with nothing in hand but their bare lives, thankful to have been spared for poverty and hardship.