by Jason Vail
They stepped back to regard each other, Edgar breathing hard, Stephen, who was trying to conserve himself, less so.
“Lucky,” Edgar said.
“Of course,” Stephen said.
The spectators had shouted encouragement to Edgar during the first exchange, but they fell silent as the two men came together again. The only sounds in the hall now were the scraping of their feet in the dirt, the clatter of the sticks when they came together, and the occasional clang when Edgar set aside a blow with the buckler. Even the household staff had paused in their work to watch, and the ring of bodies was a solid wall around the duelers, with people standing on the benches to get a look over the heads of those in front of them.
The fighters paused now and then after an exchange only to come forward again, the air filled with feints and false blows, followed by good ones that sometimes were parried and sometimes not. Stephen collected bruises on his forearm, collarbone, and knee, but he gave back better than he got, a fact that frustrated Edgar and made him more aggressive.
Then, one cut to the head led to a furious exchange of head blows which each man parried with a hanging point before returning with another cut, until Edgar broke the rhythm by striking with his buckler at Stephen’s elbow. The blow turned Stephen and opened him to a cut to the head, but he dived and rolled out of the way. Edgar rushed after him, stick raised above his head. Stephen slipped underneath the blow and wound his left arm around Edgar’s right, trapping it, and throwing him to the ground. Stephen prodded Edgar’s chest with the point of his stick. Then he backed away and tossed the stick to the boy Edmund.
“I think that’s enough,” Stephen said to Walcot. “Don’t you?”
“You know what you’re doing, I’ll give you that. You looking for a position?”
“I wouldn’t mind if I found one.”
“I can promise you the usual, a shilling a week. I can’t pay regularly — we’re short of cash. But when we’re flush, which happens from time to time, I’ll make the amount good.”
“As long as I get hot meals and a warm place to sleep, I would be honored to enter your service, sir.”
Walcot nodded. “Good.” He waved toward the hearth, where a man, obviously another lord, sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire. Of all the people in the hall, he alone had paid no attention to the duel. “Come meet Sir Warin. This is his house. We are guests here for the time being.”
Chapter 21
“So,” Warin Pentre said, “you’re a swordsman. That’s an odd thing for a common man to be.” Had he not been flushed, he would have been handsome, his mouth framed by a trimmed goatee.
“My father was a sergeant,” Stephen lied. “He raised me to be one too.”
“But you haven’t managed it,” Pentre replied, eyes returning to the fire. The cup made a journey from his lap to his lips, where it lingered for a considerable while, then fell back to his lap.
“I am the victim of misfortune,” Stephen said.
“Aren’t we all. It’s everywhere, misfortune. The priests all say He is a loving God, but I wonder.”
“Now, there,” Walcot worried.
“Our chaplain’s gone to his reward,” Pentre said. “I can say what I think.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about.”
“I know who you’re worried about. I don’t care if He hears.” Pentre’s face screwed up momentarily. “He’s got it in for me anyway.”
“You must buck up, man,” Walcot said. “You’ll find another wife.”
“Not like her,” Pentre said, draining his cup and holding it up for a servant to refill. “There’s no one like her.”
“That may be, but there are plenty who are serviceable. Many with fortunes.”
“You keep saying that. I’m tired of hearing it.” Pentre turned his attention back to Stephen. “So, can you shoot as well as you fence?”
“No,” Stephen said. “But well enough.”
“An honest answer,” Pentre said with some amazement.
“You’d probably find out soon enough. Or your man Edgar there would have.”
“He doesn’t miss much,” Pentre said. “He’s a good judge of men. And you can ride as well?”
“As I said, my father meant me to be a man-at-arms.”
“Well, stick with us for a while and you may well make it, if you don’t piss away your share like the others at gambling and whores.”
“Share?”
“You didn’t tell him?” Pentre asked Walcot.
“Not yet.”
Pentre said, “Of the loot. You get wages and a share of what we take.”
“From whom?” Stephen asked, the hair on his head tingling. “The Welsh?”
“There will be that come the spring, but meanwhile, we’ve other work to do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re at war, man. It’s a small war right now, but it will be a big one soon.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Have you been asleep these past years? Simon de Monfort’s back and that means the barons will rise. Prince Edward has commanded us to put them down. We’ve just started a little earlier than most people.”
“Oh.”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“Fighting’s fighting. Doesn’t matter who as long as the pay’s good.”
“Precisely.”
“There is one thing that puzzles me,” Stephen said to Walcot as they left Pentre by the fire.
“What’s that?”
“No offense, lord, but neither you nor Pentre seems high enough to get orders directly from the Prince.”
Walcot smiled. “We hardly are. But FitzAllan is his friend, and he is our lord. So if he says that the Prince wants something done, we do it.”
“What is that, exactly?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
There was nothing for Stephen to do for the rest of the day but sit by the fire, and as it grew cold and blustery, threatening either rain or snow depending on whose opinion was being aired, it was crowded there with every man who appeared to be a soldier. There were quite many of them, too; twenty-one at Stephen’s count, too many for him to remember all their names after the introductions, and that didn’t include the poor fellows pulling guard duty. This complement was far more than needed for even a castle as large as the one at Clun in peace-time. Walcot and Pentre soon went off somewhere, Pentre a little wobbly from all the wine he had drunk, and with their departure, the talk grew more liberated, dominated by expressions of discontent, especially about money.
“They make big promises,” one of the archers grumbled, “but they pay slow.”
“We’ll see something when Ralph gets back,” another said.
“Ralph?” Stephen asked.
“He and a few of the fellows took a load of corn to Clun.” The fellow who answered smirked. “We’re grain merchants.”
“How is that?” Stephen asked. He had forgotten about Ralph and the wagon train. That pushed the number in the garrison close to thirty.
“Why, we buy and sell just like it’s always done.”
“Only we don’t pay in coin,” said a third archer.
“No, we pay in arrows!” the first archer said.
“It’s cheaper and saves a lot of time in the haggling,” the second archer said.
“Sounds like robbery,” Stephen said.
“Robbery – do we look like thieves? It’s just business. Stuff just happens to get lost in war.”
“Pentre mentioned there’s a war. Though it doesn’t seem to be against the Welsh.”
“Well, there is that one, too, but they’ve hardly got anything worth taking. Our enemies, though, they’re rich and fat. War’s good business all round. We got whores in the village. Didn’t have none before. The alewife loves us. And there’s even a stonecutter.
“He won’t be here long,” said another man. “He don’t count.”
“A stonecutter?” Stephen murmured.
“You building a stone castle now?”
“Hell, no. He’s here for the marker. For the lady.”
There was quiet.
The fellow who had spoken finally said, “She was a beauty, the lady.”
“Pentre’s not got over her yet and it’s been almost two months.”
“Since what?” Stephen asked.
“Since she ran away, fool.”
“She ran away? I thought she died.”
“That’s only the story that Pentre’s put out. He can’t stand the fact that she didn’t fancy him.”
“How’d she manage to run off?” Creeping out of the castle would be hard enough for Stephen to manage when the time came. A lord’s wife had even less freedom to move about.
“She just slipped out one day with that bitch of a maid of hers, and off she went without a word of goodbye. It’s the curse.”
“What curse?”
“Don’t matter now. She took it with her.”
“When did this happen?”
“Before the Welsh came. End of November. The lord would have gone after her but he couldn’t. We knew the Welsh were coming. The earl would’ve had his head if he found out Pentre had deserted his post over a wife he couldn’t control.”
“It doesn’t look like the Welsh came here,” Stephen said.
“Well, they didn’t, but they burned a village not two miles away, including the castle. Killed everybody.”
“We’d have given them more of a fight if they’d come here,” somebody else said.
“That’s probably why they didn’t come. The Welsh aren’t as stupid as you.”
There was a chorus of “ayes.” It was not clear which statement everyone agreed to.
Those who had predicted rain were proved right when in the late afternoon, just before supper, a drizzle began to fall which added to the cold and damp, and made spots by the fire even more desirable. Servants brought in armloads of wood, creating a large pile by the hearth, which people fed constantly so that it was a roaring blaze hot enough that you could feel deliciously seared even sitting against the wall if there hadn’t been people in the way, well the part of you facing the fire, anyway; the part away from the fire was chilled, the normal thing with fires. But it was enough to make for a merry atmosphere, especially as the men finished their rations of ale and hard cider. Pentre and Walcot allowed the men enough to feel happy, but not enough to get drunk, which just led to disagreements, fights, and hard feelings that often lingered to poison the air.
As the new man, Stephen did not engage in conversation much, and was on the lookout whenever anyone engaged him for the customary leg-pulling, lies, and deceptions that were the lot of the new.
After Walcot and Pentre retired, Edgar sought out Stephen. “You’ve the middle watch tonight. Best get what rest you can.”
Stephen had expected something like this. The middle watch was the least popular, since it meant that you got a bit of sleep, were awakened in the middle of the night for your watch, and then got what sleep you could in what remained. The next day you were expected to do the same work as everyone else, even if you had to drag your ass around to do it, and you were not expected to complain.
As he went for his belongings, which were still in a heap by the door, he saw that the men had begun to file out of the hall, leaving it to the servants. Edgar waved and said, “This way.”
Stephen gathered his things and followed Edgar into the yard. The men headed to the right to another large, though one-storied, building, where a fire burned in a central hearth — a barracks for the soldiers. Everyone seemed to have their own place on the floor here and even their own straw mattress, for a couple of the men were at the mattress pile distributing the pads, calling out men’s names which they knew from marks made upon the mattress sacks. Stephen was last to get one, a spare that had barely enough straw in it to separate him from the ground.
The others had all seized their places, and were throwing cloaks and blankets over themselves while one of the men laid a few more logs on the fire as Stephen looked about for a good space to claim for himself. He settled on a spot by an interior support post and put down the mattress. He put half his blanket on the mattress and was about to lay down when he noticed that an unlit candle sat upon a little shelf on the post just above his head. Marking the candle’s presence, he lay down, pulled on his knit cap before draping the other half of the blanket over him, pulled his woolen cloak over that, and settled down to sleep, hoping that the rain would continue and get worse.
Someone shook Stephen awake deep in the night. “Your turn,” the man said, without waiting to see if Stephen would rise.
Stephen did not tarry. He rose, grasping a handful of straw from the rushes on the floor, which he stuffed under his shirt, pulled on his coat, and hung his cloak upon his shoulders. Then, before the fellow who had roused him reached the door where two other men were waiting, he snatched the candle from its ledge.
“You coming or not?” the fellow asked at the door.
“I’m coming,” Stephen said as he stepped around the sleeping bodies, careful not to stumble on anyone, for waking someone in the night without cause was a good way to start a fight.
The four of them crossed the bailey, slipping in the mud forming there to the single gate tower. A wooden stairway climbed to the first floor, as the stone base proved to be solid. All four men entered, where another four were waiting around a candle burning on the table beside an hour glass in which the sand had run out. It was cold enough to see everyone’s breath.
“All right, then,” said the fellow who had awakened Stephen. “We’re here.”
“Took you damned long enough,” said one of those who had been waiting for them.
“The new man wanted to sleep late.”
“I’m sure that’s it.” The other fellow, who had to be the earlier watch commander, glanced at the four spears leaning against the door. “Be sure to dry off the heads this time. You forgot last night and they’re getting rusty.”
“I know what to do.”
“Then act like it.”
With that, the four men of the previous watch filed out the door.
“So,” asked the man who had awakened Stephen and who, he now understood, was the watch commander, “who goes first? Oh, yeah, you.”
“You” meant Stephen. He had expected this and pulled his hood over his head as the others settled onto the benches and the watch commander turned over the hour glass to start the sand running.
“Try not to get lost,” the watch commander said as Stephen took up a spear and opened the door.
“I think I know the way,” Stephen said as he went out into the rain. It had not picked up any, falling slow and steady, if lightly. But it would be good enough as long as it held.
Stephen had stood castle guard enough times in his life that he knew what to do. One of the four should have been sent to stand watch in the tower on the motte, but none of them had gone there, and since he had received no such instructions himself, he assumed the watch commander expected him to make a circuit of the walls. Circuiting the walls meant only walking around them, theoretically alert for any sign of trouble, but in reality lost in one’s own thoughts and struggling to stay awake. Walking the circuit was not so bad here, since at least half the circuit was roofed over. He could have tarried in these shelters, but he had the feeling that the watch commander knew how long it took a man to make the circuit and would be waiting for him to report. This proved to be the case, for when he returned to the tower, the watch commander was seated at the table staring at the candle flame as if mesmerized. The other two men were asleep with their heads on the table. Ordinarily, it would now be another man’s turn to make the circuit, but the watch commander did not rouse any of the others and said to Stephen, “Glad to see you made it without falling off. Keep going.”
“Right,” Stephen said, not surprised at the order. He had been through this before. In fact, he was counting on it.
It t
ook almost an hour for the watch commander to finally fall asleep so that all three men in the gate tower now had their heads upon the table, even though the candle was still burning. Stephen closed the door softly soas he would not disturb their slumber.
He stood upon the walk and surveyed the bailey. All was quiet and dark; the fires in the hall and the barracks had burned down so low that no light from them showed in the cracks around the shutters. It was as if Stephen had the whole place to himself. If there ever would be a time to do what needed doing without provoking questions, it would be now.
Stephen climbed down the stairs, careful about falling, but even then his foot slipped in the wet — leather soles were notoriously dangerous on wet wood. He dropped the spear, which clattered to the ground, in order to catch himself. He paused, hoping that the racket didn’t waken anyone, especially the fellows sleeping in the guard room, but no one stirred, and no dog barked at the commotion.
He crossed the yard to the large barn that stood to the right of the gate tower and jutted out into the bailey rather than having been built against the embankment as were the other buildings, as if the barn had been there first and the fortress thrown up around it.
Some lords kept their barns locked, but this was not one of them, probably because Pentre thought that his archers were keeping watch during the night, and the dogs could be counted on to raise the alarm if anyone wandered about the bailey who should not be there. Fortunately, the rain kept the dogs in their kennel. Even dogs avoid the cold and wet if they can. It was a small matter to lift the bar and slip inside.
It was as dark as the inside of a sack and smelled of dust, onions, hay, and, implausibly, mint and evergreens with a hint of pitch. He leaned the spear against the door, and knelt to feel the ground. It was dirt. He removed the straw from beneath his shirt, where it had rubbed scratches, and laid the little pile on the ground. Then he fumbled in his belt pouch for his flint, which was wrapped in a piece of leather. He struck the pommel of his dagger upon the flint to produce sparks, which landed on the straw. After several tries, the straw smoldered. He blew on it to kindle the flame, which he used to light the candle. When the candle came alive, he stamped out the straw. The odor of smoke lingered in the still air.