by Ling, Maria
Knight for a Husband
by Maria Ling
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Maria Ling
Cover photo copyright Vladimirs Poplavskis - Fotolia.com
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***
They would break through the walls. Any moment now. He could hear the stone crack and shift under the pounding, could feel the tremors as the shock waves ran through the rock under his feet. They were coming, they would get here this time, they would get through now. Except they didn't, the stone walls held them off still, his castle was stronger than he dared hope.
Thirty men. That was all he had. Just himself and thirty men and the boy. And his wife, he wished he'd got her out of here before it started, he could have done so, he'd had warning. But she'd have wanted the boy with her and he'd have wanted to go, and the screams and wails would have gone on after she and her handful of women had left. And he'd need women in the castle still, the boy wasn't of age to handle himself among men, and none of them knew how to care for a child even if they were inclined.
So he was stuck with all of them, every one, six women and a child. Could have killed them already, he supposed, could have cut their throats and silence that infernal squealing, and known that no matter what happened they wouldn't be taken, wouldn't be held and used against him. Not that it would matter, he'd never give in, they could hang the lot for all he cared. But it wouldn't come to that, not now. The walls still held. And if they broke he'd give the order, he had two men by the stairs at all times, they knew what they'd have to do. Though he'd rather deal the stroke himself, at least to the boy. Didn't want to leave it in the hands of another man, who might bungle the job, might not do him first and fast as he'd ordered, might let the child feel a moment of stark terror before death arrived. Not that it would matter, in the end. They'd all die, sooner or later, first into Paradise wasn't so bad a deal. But he'd rather do it himself, all the same.
The thuds ended. Silence hovered around him, stung his ears. He waited, held his breath, felt the tension run though his shoulders and chest and arms. Wanted to fight, now, wanted the release of battle, to hack and swing and know nothing but the fierce rage of killing.
If they came. But they wouldn't come. The walls still held.
He'd gone round like this forever, caught within the confines of his own mind, trapped within it the same way he was trapped within this keep. Round and round, with never any hope of escape. They wouldn't escape from here either, they couldn't. Only two hopes left to him, if hope there was: that the king's forces would be called away, to deal with some other recalcitrant baron far away, not that there were few of them, they could all stick their heads out now. Or that the earl arrived with reinforcements, he'd sent a messenger to plead as soon as his scouts spotted the king's army on the march, he knew it had come for him. But the earl never replied, or if he did the message never got here. He might be on his way. Or he might be busy, as he was always busy, about the empress' business or so he claimed. About his own more likely, it was no secret Robert of Gloucester would step up to claim the throne, soon as he'd ousted his festering cousin from English land. But the empress made a fair shield for his own ambition, she was true issue and recognised by the Church, and half the barons had sworn fealty to her, more than once too. Whether they kept that word or not was another matter, whether they'd meant it even when they spoke it only they and God knew. But it was a peg, an excuse, something to hang a cause on. Robert for the empress and old King Henry's line, that made a fine battle cry. Better than Robert for himself. And it beat Stephen for gain and ambition, though that might prove the better cry yet, or victorious at any rate, it came to the same thing once enemies lay rotting.
Curse those battering rams, they were at it again, hammering down on his castle walls. They'd broken the curtain wall, they'd left wide gaps for Stephen's men to storm through, he'd barely made it back to the keep with his own force. Fifty he'd begun with, thirty he'd counted now. They were all here, assembled in the great hall, orderly as for a meal. Quiet, even, each man checking sword and shield and armour, though they'd done so ten times already. It helped to keep busy with something, it was better than just standing here and listening and trying not to flinch, as he did now, as he'd been doing for what might be an hour and might be the whole of his life.
They hadn't let the door alone either, they beat against that with their giant trunk fist, it would break at any moment now, it had to, it must. He'd give the order, one curt nod to the men at the foot of the stairs, and they'd run up the circling steps and find his family and their attendants and kill them all, every last one. Then descend again, just as quickly, to join him and the rest of his men in one last battle to the death.
Which they might win. They might. Hold this castle against a much mightier force, defeat the king's own army, kill or capture the king himself. Or die defending it, die screaming and spewing blood, here in his own hall. For the empress' cause. Or rather for Robert's own.
Robert had better be grateful.
Though there wouldn't be anyone to show that gratitude to.
He should have sent the boy to safety. Should have done. But it was too late now.
The hammering stopped.
He waited. And waited.
But it didn't start again.
***
"How far away?" Stephen wiped mud from his face. It was no life for a king, this, he should be safe and comfortable among cushions and gold-plated cups, not stuck out in the dirt and blood. But he must be seen as a warrior, his opponent had a reputation that smirched his own. Robert of Gloucester was a man of battle, every man spoke of his courage, and this vassal of his brought forth hushed tones. Fierce they said, and bold, and stern, and utterly without cowardice. Never flinched when the arrow struck his eye, never made sound as it was drawn out after. And still lived, got back on the horse he'd fallen from and rode on towards victory. So they said.
Stephen doubted it. But it was no use voicing those doubts, he'd only sound like a weakling and a coward, a mean and petty man grudging the natural king his throne. Robert might be a bastard, but he was no less liked for that. And with men like William of Rowes fighting for his cause, he held admiration as well as support.
One-eyed Will, Stephen called him in thought. But he didn't say so, didn't breathe aloud his contempt for such fairy tales. Most likely the eye had merely been grazed, or perhaps it was only a story put about by those who would sow sedition among his own followers. He couldn't count on loyalty, he knew that, no one cared much whether he ruled or not. He'd won the throne by speed, moved fast when opportunity arose, never thought he'd have to fight to keep it. And hadn't needed to, not until Robert landed and made his declaration in form. He'd misjudged the man, Stephen had, he'd thought a few quiet threats and permission to return to Normandy would see off his lone rival for the throne and end his own unquiet nights. Now he knew that wasn't so, it had made a bad situation worse, it had caused silent enmity to flare up into open hostility. Now he had a war to fight, little as he liked it and much as it was to the taste of the men who opposed him.
Like William of Rowes. Curse the man. Who didn't have sense or decency enough to swear allegiance to his true anointed king, or at least to die in battle and be gone from Stephen's mind. A thorn in straw, he was, l
ying quiet until he could scrape an unwary backside. And he'd done that now, drawn blood too, Stephen had lost three dozen men in storming the castle. Storming the walls, at least, they had those now, they'd run for the keep fast as legs could bear, but the door had slammed shut and arrows hissed from high slots and he was stuck out here now, exposed and vulnerable, rejected. Laughed at. He could hear them from within, or thought he could, imagined the sneers. They'd laugh at him, those men who'd fought more battles than he'd ever seen, who knew war as they knew their prayers. Better, his bishops said, and gave him anxious reassurance that God had indeed chosen him, that God was on his side, that all Christians must bow before the Lord's anointed or risk hellfire and eternal damnation. So they said, though for all he knew they said the same to the Hound of Gloucester, or would if they ever got the chance. He'd paid them as much as he dared, land and treasure to the Church, he ran lean now and he knew it. He needed replenishing, soon he'd have little enough to give away, and then they'd desert him. Run to the Angevin cause, leave him stranded and alone and laughed at. Again.
"At least three days." William, the captain of his mercenaries and the one man Stephen trusted for as long as he paid him well, offered the hint of a shrug. "We could take this place before they got here, swing around and punch them in the mouth. Not a problem. But you said you wanted to be told."
And he had, he'd thought it was what leaders did, ordered men to keep them informed. But he didn't know what to do, now. William, shrewd or oblivious, had given him his line.
"We'll bring the castle down," Stephen said. "Use it as our own base if necessary. I don't want to meet him in the field." That sounded like cowardice, he reached for one of William's own tenets. "Too chancy. Any stray thing might influence a battle. Castles are better than fields."
"They are that." William nodded to the men at the rams, and the hammering began again.
***
They hadn't stopped, after all, hadn't withdrawn at news of reinforcements, hadn't turned to fight against a sudden unexpected attack. He was stuck in here still, facing death.
That he could handle. He didn't fear it, or not much, it wasn't the worst of deaths. His name would live on, as his body never could, and he'd be lauded in heaven. For what that was worth, he'd never listened to priests over much. But his line, his lands, his own little princedom here on earth -- that would be lost. With no heir to take it up after him, with no boy for Robert to shelter and grow on into a man, and grant land and titles to once the child had been knighted, William of Rowes would leave nothing else behind other than that name. And men might not speak it long, they might choose not to remember. He'd earned himself enemies enough, he knew that, and lost none of them through choosing to be the partisan of the Hound himself.
And he might, he thought. Might just take a chance on continuing that line, after all.
"Hold here," he said. "Don't worry. The walls are strong. I'll see my son on his way first."
They parted to let him through, grim sympathy on every face, he didn't need that and didn't deserve it. For he was a coward, after all, he'd discovered that in this moment of certain death. He'd proved himself weak in his own eyes, and soon he'd be weak in the eyes of others. But he couldn't let the child die. Not while there was still hope of relief from the west.
Two men followed him up the stairs, into the chamber where his wife and her women rose in respectful greeting. Stood alert and ready, hands a little raised for the swift drawing of knives.
"Take them," William said. "Over the wall at the back. They're busy with the rams, they can't hear and I doubt they'll see. Get my wife and son to Robert of Gloucester, and tell him with my compliments that I'd be glad if he can find room for them."
The men stared at him. This wasn't what they'd been told before.
"I've changed my mind," William said. "Be thankful that it's granted you life, for a little while."
"I won't thank you for that," one of the men said -- Harry, a fine soldier and a good friend for many years. "You'd send me away like a coward, when there's a battle to fight?"
"I'd do that," William said. "You have your lord's command. Take them, and go. But if it should come to it -- " He gave them a significant nod. They nodded back, understanding, then grabbed woman and child and pulled them away.
"What about you?" his wife asked.
She'd been pretty once, before children aged her. And she'd lost them, for all her care, each but this one. She held on to him all the tighter because of that. He'd have a lioness for a mother, this young sprig of Rowes. Which he'd need, at a court of Angevins.
"I'll stay," William said. "Wouldn't let Stephen have the pleasure of seeing me run."
***
She didn't think she could do it, but neither protest nor refusal was an option. They lowered her down by rope, her heart broke as Will yelped for her, but his voice vanished abruptly under a muffling hand. She understood why, he must be quiet, he couldn't draw attention or they would all die. But she couldn't be easy until he lodged in her arms again, and then she held him close and tight, whispered to him that he must be brave like his father, like the soldiers that defended the castle, like these two men who braved an entire army to bring them away to safety. He nodded, he understood, and he remained utterly silent as they stole away.
They got as far as the woodland across the beck, past the great swathe of charred land, she'd watched the smoke as her husband cleared it and prayed none of the families were harmed. He'd refused to tell her, said it was no concern of women, but she'd prayed all the harder and listened for screams. Nothing stood there now, it was all burned level, she feared they stood out against the bare and flattened ground. But no one shouted, or if they did she couldn't hear it over the din that rose from within the walls. No one stormed towards them, no horsemen galloped down to surround them. They made it to the forest, hid within its welcoming arms.
"This way." Harry touched her arm, he was an old friend of her husband's, she trusted him. He'd keep Will safe, and her too, though that didn't matter so much. She wanted to live for Will's sake, wanted to see him safe and happy and comfortable, tucked away somewhere far from blood and fire and swords. She could take him to her aunt's house, it was on the coast somewhere, she'd been there twice but wasn't entirely sure of the direction. Her husband had dealt with such things, she was used to staying quietly in the litter and never arguing with him. Though the children had spoken, or shrieked rather, he'd whipped them for that until they fell silent at his glance. It burned her heart, she'd pleaded with him to stop, caught the lash in her own hand when he ignored her. And then he'd beat her too, so hard the children screamed and cried and clung to her, and he'd told her it was her fault, that she was distressing them, that she'd hurt them worse than he ever did. She'd kept quiet after that, even as he lashed them, and begged them to behave. Which they did, though never well enough for him.
They were safe now, gone to Heaven, she wouldn't believe the Lord there could be so cruel. The Virgin would watch over them, if she closed her eyes she could see them safe in Her arms, cuddled and held and reassured. Nothing could harm them there, no mortal ever could, nothing evil would ever reach them there. She clung to that hope.
And maybe it was better for Will to die, maybe he'd be happy and content in Heaven with Her. She ought to wish for that, if she was a good mother. But she didn't, she couldn't do it, she wanted to cling to him with all her strength. Never to let him leave her, never to let go. She never would, she'd promised herself that, fiercely, she wouldn't ease her grip for an instant. And they fled now, at her husband's orders, not because he cared about their safety, she couldn't believe that, but because he didn't want them taken, held and used against him. She'd stake her life that it was so, she'd seen his eyes as he spoke of hostage-taking. And she feared that, a cold terror that froze her heart. Because he wouldn't yield, not to save their lives, he could get a new wife and new children on her, he'd told her so often enough. Last when their daughter died, her and the baby
not two months apart, she'd thought her heart had splintered and would never beat again. But she lived on still, though each day was torment, because she had her son still, she had her darling boy alive, and nothing would ever take him from her.
"Hold." Men stepped out from among the trees. Men with leather armour and long bows.
She clutched Will to her, so hard he shot from Harry's grip and into her body. She held him there, tight to herself, while Harry and his companion drew their swords. And fell abruptly, crumpled into the bracken and grass, with long thin shafts sprouting from their eyes.
"Neat shots," one man said. He sheathed his sword, beckoned to her. "Come here."
She couldn't move. Just clung to Will, so hard she thought she might strangle him -- and she might do it, too, it would be better for him, her husband had told her of men chained up in sight of their own keep, of children dangled for the sake of bringing their fathers to surrender.
"I won't harm you," the man said. "It's not my habit to make war on women. Or children either." He glanced at Will. "Tell your mother she need not fear."
Will just stood there, motionless, passive in her grip.
The man made a faint sound not quite a sigh. "Or we can do it the hard way," he said. "Believe me when I say you won't be difficult to capture. Either brought down by force, bound and beaten and dragged away. Or you can walk like sensible folk, wherever I tell you. Choose."
Will squirmed. Mary forced open her fingers, held him lightly, didn't dare let him go.
"My name is Hugh de Vion," the man said. "Hugh the Sullen, men call me. At least the ones with a sense of humour. Come, be reasonable. I detest a whipping." He regarded Mary, who straightened and bore it as well as he could. "Would it help if I give you my word not to harm either of you?"
She glanced at the men on either side of him.
"Or command anyone to harm you," Hugh said. "Good thinking, there."