The Wolf at the Door

by The Wolf at the Door (retail) (epub)

  Hugh and Ralf were waiting in the street. One end of the ropes had been fastened to the hay-cart and, as the knights staggered to safety, more men ran forward to catch the rope tails. Hugh yelled, ‘Now! Fire it!’ and flaming torches were thrust into the pitch-soaked hay. The contents of the cart were instantly ablaze, and the brothers led their teams along the street, hauling away from the castle.

  Below the barbican the ropes quivered and slid around the posts. The cart rolled forward beneath a cloud of bituminous smoke, whilst the Lusignans roared encouragement at their men. The smoke billowed between the houses, then spread as the cart tumbled across the twenty yards of open ground. The gate guards stared in horror, or leaned out in an attempt to drop rocks directly on the anchor posts. Thus exposed, they were an easy target for Hugh’s bowmen.

  The cart was travelling fast when it hit the gate. Its weight alone was enough to splinter the studded planks, but that damage was concealed by the explosion of burning hay, pitch and barrel-staves. The gate was immediately set alight and the smoke rolled upward, blinding the defenders. They had no choice but to abandon the barbican towers and make their stand on the lower walls. But by then the first grappling hooks had caught the inner edge of the battlements and the first ladders were in place.

  The imaginative use of the tow-ropes had achieved a twofold purpose. The fire-cart had been guided accurately against the gate and, protected by the houses, the hauliers had remained unscathed.

  From then on the attack was more costly. In the next hour twenty-three knights fell dead or wounded from the scaling ladders, and another dozen were cut down on the walls or inside the bailey. Ralf of Exoudun was hit by a ricocheting sling-shot, but the stone had lost its impetus and he merely suffered the indignity of a bruised buttock. Hugh sported a shield in which were embedded three arrows, their shafts snapped short.

  A number of Lusignan bowmen were also killed during the assault, along with innocent townsfolk who fell victim to stray arrows or far-flung stones. In all, the attackers lost thirty or forty men, but it was a low enough price for victory. By midday, the outer defences of Mirebeau had been overrun and all but ten of the wall-guards slain. There remained only the moatless, insubstantial keep.

  The brothers interrogated their ten captives and learned that Queen Eleanor was still present and that her nearest saviour was eighty miles away, holding court at Le Mans. Under torture, the guards admitted that a messenger had left Mirebeau the previous evening, en route for the court of King John. But yes, they winced agreement, the messenger would not yet have reached the court, and yes, when he did get there King Softsword would scream and rage and totter about on his high heels. And yes, it was true that he would not dare start south without his army, and yes, the cumbersome force would be at least three days on the road. Yes, yes, the king was too far away, and the journey would take too long, and he would arrive too late. Yes, they would admit it, there was no hope for Mirebeau.

  Hugh and Ralf stood together beneath the fire-scarred arch of the barbican gate. They drank wine and studied the single shaft that comprised the keep. Ralf massaged his buttock and grinned at Hugh. ‘We’d best not stand here, brother.’

  ‘We’re well beyond arrow shot.’

  ‘So we are, but we don’t want the gateway falling on us. Look at it. A good fart and it’d crumble to powder.’ He moved away, laughing at his joke. Hugh watched him for a moment, then shook his head indulgently and followed him into the yard. Young Ralf’s mind was a cesspit of vulgarity, but the soldiers worshipped him, and there was time enough in which to teach him good manners. As with the capture of Mirebeau – time enough and to spare.

  * * *

  They gave the constable until nightfall to surrender the keep and deliver up the dowager queen. He replied that he would give over neither his house nor its occupants to a pair of Poitevin brigands. ‘The countryside crawls with them. You two may bear the brands of nobility, but you move with the slyness of felons. Worse than that, you’re simply wild dogs masquerading as hounds. The kennels are near the gate, and you’ll find your way to them by the smell.’

  At dusk, the brothers hanged five of their captives. Then they gave the constable until dawn, at which time the remaining five guards would be hanged, and with them five of the townsfolk.

  Hugh decided that by now the messenger must have reached Le Mans and delivered his plea for help. Softsword would be grinding his teeth and stumbling about the court, or shrieking at his warlords to assemble their contingents, harness the siege-machines, organize the stocks of food and weapons and wine. He would never go without his wine, nor his windbreaks or pavilions or brightly garbed troubadours. And even if he did, he would not dare set foot outside Le Mans without a ring of armoured knights, ten deep and a half-mile long. Oh, he would come, determined to save his mother, but he would not set out to rescue the Virgin Mary herself unless he was first protected by iron.

  At dawn the doors of the keep stayed shut, so five of the townsfolk were dragged from their beds and hanged, along with the wall-guards.

  Hugh and Ralf again conferred near the gate, and it was Ralf who suggested firing the keep. ‘Why spend time on the place? Stack a bundle of twigs against the door and they’ll be out like rats from a barn. Do you think the constable will allow Eleanor to burn? You watch. The first sniff of smoke and that feeble tower will be empty. Leave it to me, brother. I’ll have the old woman lifting the hem of her gown.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Hugh nodded, ‘but we’ll warn them first. Eleanor is only of value to us while she lives, remember that.’ He studied Ralf’s hard, greedy expression – how he’d love to set Mirebeau alight – then said, ‘I’ve seen siege fires before, and I’ve seen them run out of control. That keep is nothing more than a chimney; it’s old, and the beams and flooring will be as dry as chaff. Make one mistake and your fire will engulf it, and we’ll be left trading Eleanor’s bones. She’s an exceptional woman, Ralf, but she’s not yet a saint. It’s better we keep her alive and sell her off to John or Philip.’

  ‘You want to warn them first? Very well. And when we’ve warned them, we’ll warm them, eh, brother?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hugh encouraged. ‘We’ll turn them out, or burn them out.’

  Ralf loved that. He sent forward a spokesman, protected by a white sheet tied to a pole, and the occupants of the keep were informed that they had until dark to surrender. If they did so they would be treated honourably and their lives spared. Even the constable, who had been so generous with his insults. But the brigands would not slit his throat, nor would the wild dogs emerge from their kennels to savage him. Instead, his tongue and hands would be removed, as a lesson in manners.

  However, if the defenders did not emerge, then sunlight would give way to flames. They had been warned.

  * * *

  A subversive riddle posed the question – ‘Which creature mounts an ox in the morning, and nests at night, yet is never seen in the field or orchard?’

  It was a laboured joke, but it brought a sly grin from those who knew the answer. King John was the one who mounted ox-hide heels and made his nest with the Sparrowhawk, and it was he who had yet to take the field of battle and snatch the fruits of victory.

  The riddle had gained wide, if whispered, circulation, and there seemed no reason why it should not continue to spread. The king lacked both the stature and magnetism of Richard Lionheart. John was a thief, who had stolen another man’s betrothed. He was a coward, absent from the ambush and and the battlefield. And finally he was a monarch with neither scope nor purpose.

  So the Lusignans were understandably surprised when a force of Angevin knights swept into Mirebeau two days early and with the King of England first through the gate-arch.

  * * *

  The brothers were not together when it happened. Ralf of Exoudun was over by the east wall, supervising the men-at-arms who ran forward to stack bundles of kindling against the door of the keep. An occasional arrow flew from one of the cruciform slits,
but it was loosed more as an act of defiance than in the hopes of deterring the attackers. Ralf’s archers did not bother to reply; the rats would be smoked out soon enough.

  A long trestle had been set up near the barbican gate and Hugh le Brun was still there, discussing with his commanders where best to hide Queen Eleanor. It pleased Ralf to lay his fire, but Hugh was convinced that at any moment the door of the keep would be pulled open and the defenders emerge to sue for peace. And then what to do with Softsword’s mother?

  The consensus of opinion was against holding her in a castle, for both Philip and John could bring their siege-machines to bear on even the strongest walls. No, the answer lay in secrecy rather than strength. Install her somewhere out of the way; a small manor house, a mill in some distant corner of Poitou, a cave in the hills if need be. Somewhere that would not have to be defended, for it would never be discovered.

  Hugh accepted the advice, rested his feet on the table and listened to the sound of thunder rolling across the dull grey sky. He had posted a number of guards on the walls, and they gazed down at the firewood detail. It would be dark soon, and then the Lord of Exoudun would remind le Brun that it was time to light the fire. A few of the guards glanced scowling in the direction of the thunder roll, anxious that the approaching storm should not drench the blaze.

  They might have wondered that the sky was cloudless above Mirebeau and that no lightning stalked the horizon. They might have wondered that the thunder did not swell and break, but merely grew closer, as though exploring the terrain.

  On the long table a pewter jug chinked against a dish. A shield that had been propped carelessly against the gatehouse fell to the ground. Hugh peered at the sky, then swung his feet from the table and placed his hands palm down on the boards. The wood trembled to the touch and he said, ‘It doesn’t drum like that. It isn’t thunder.’ He pushed himself erect, while his companions frowned at him or copied his movements. Then they realized the truth. As Hugh roared the alarm, the diners broke away from the table and went for their swords. Ralf saw them, heard his brother’s warning cry, and started running across the yard. The men-at-arms hesitated, then streamed after him, while the wall-guards turned and yelled at what they saw.

  Hugh le Brun had reached the fire-scarred gate-arch when the first horse pounded through. A collision was unavoidable and, in the instant before the palfrey’s broad chest sent him flailing backwards, Hugh recognized the rider. It was John of England, the man who should have been at least two days distant, the man who had never yet led a charge. Pluck any name from the air – any name but John’s – for it went against reason to put Softsword first in the battle line. Yet it was John and, as though on cue, he had been met at the door by his avowed enemy, the master of Lusignan.

  It was too great a coincidence, too extraordinary a compression of time and distance. It denied the world’s knowledge of the indoor Angevin, for he should have been the last to enter Mirebeau or, more likely, never have left Le Mans. How had he managed to cover more than eighty miles in a night and a day, unless by magic? And what spells had been cast that could transform the wolf into a lion? Surely there was none powerful enough to instil courage in a creature such as John, not even if they were conjured by the devil?

  The thunder of hooves filled the yard. Three hundred horsemen followed their king through the gateway, then spread out to trample the besiegers. No quarter was given to the common soldiery and with the dying of the day went half the Lusignan force. John dismounted and moved about, slashing indiscriminately at the dead and wounded. By doing so he may have killed some of his own battalion, though no one seemed prepared to stop him. All the while he mouthed things about Eleanor, what he would do if she had been harmed, what more if she was dead. His own life was in danger, for the yard was committed to chaos and a number of Lusignan archers were still at large. Arrows flew in the darkness, and men who had feigned dead sprang up in a desperate bid for freedom. Some who had already been seized produced hidden daggers and struck out at their captors, while one fanatical group retreated to the steps of the keep, intent on firing the wood. They were cut down by a dozen Angevin knights and the kindling dragged from the doorway.

  Ralf of Exoudun was cornered, though not immediately disarmed. He stood with his back to the wall, sword drawn, inventively cursing the half-ring of knights. The edge of his left hand had been cut, and he raised it to his mouth, licking the wound. When he had finished he resembled some grotesque carnivore, his lips and chin shiny with blood. ‘Come on, filth, share the profit. Six of you? Aren’t you strong enough yet? Or dare you not move for fear your bowels will empty? Come on, come ahead, at least half of you will survive the encounter and— Ah, God, I think someone’s voided already.’

  His insults were almost too much for them, but they had strict orders to take the Lusignans alive and were awaiting one of the senior overlords. However, if he did not appear soon he’d have a wasted journey…

  The rescuers had driven the enemy from the ramparts and the lower end of the bailey, and several torches now burned in the wall brackets and in tripods around the yard. Hugh le Brun had seen nothing of the battle, for the collision with John’s horse had flung him against the gatehouse wall, and the second impact had knocked him senseless. Fortunately, the king had not thought to go back and finish him, so the Lord of Lusignan had suffered nothing more than a battered chest and a thick ear. He still lay on the ground, but robbed of his sword, belt and boots, and watched over by three conscientious knights. He made no attempt to move, then fell back, his arm numbed by the flat of a blade. The man who had struck him said, ‘No account has been taken of your wounds, my lord. We’ll make the list as long as you like. You’re to be kept alive, that’s all. That’s our only restraint.’

  Thirty yards away, brother Ralf complained about the stench, then stopped in mid-sentence. William Marshal shouldered his way into the semi-circle and the two men looked at each other, Ralf’s expression settling into a bloody smirk, Marshal betraying no emotion.

  ‘It’s over now, Exoudun. Reverse your sword.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Ralf squinted. ‘Ah, yes, the Arab. It’s difficult to see you in the dark, you’re so akin to an Islamic pig. Well, earl Arab, you weren’t expected here so quick. How did you cover the miles?’ He asked another question and lunged as he did so, his sword levelled at Marshal’s chest. His tone of voice had not altered, but his expression had stiffened, and the Earl of Pembroke was already moving back. He retreated far enough to draw his enemy off balance, then brought up his own sword, both hands around the grip, and banged Ralf’s blade aside. That done, he checked and went forward, his sword pommel serving as a ram. The pommel was in the shape of a simple iron mushroom and Marshal used it to break Ralf’s nose. The Lord of Exoudun grunted with pain and, unable to stem the sudden rush of tears, lurched back against the wall. He felt his arms pinioned, his sword wrested from him, and then he heard Marshal’s voice, low and pitiless. ‘Now you must believe it, Exoudun. You are at an end. And in all the years you live, all in a dungeon, you’ll remember how it ended for you. Taken by surprise, then disarmed by – a pig?’

  He turned away, sheathed his sword, and went off to find the king. The knights who now held their prisoner thanked God they’d done nothing to upset Earl Marshal. He might be old – was old in years – and to those who had not seen him in action he might appear thin and dried out. In which case more fool they. Witness Exoudun, with his broken bridge.

  * * *

  The siege and relief of Mirebeau were over. The prisoners were rounded up and divided into two groups, the archers and common soldiery herded into the corner of the bailey, the knights and nobility assembled near the barbican gate. The latter group was the larger, for no more than a handful of the infantry had been spared. They were, after all, worthless in terms of ransom, and no one would trouble to extract a promise of fealty from them. A place might be found for the sergeants, but the remainder would be hanged in the morning, or mutilated and set
free. And, from John’s point of view, either fate was better than they deserved, for they had not merely risen against the crown, but against his beloved. All Christendom knew how close they were, the king and dowager queen, even though appearances occasionally deceived…

  * * *

  Lapped by the tide of cheers, mother and son embraced on the steps of the keep.

  There had been an hour’s delay, for the bantam-like constable had refused to let Eleanor leave until he’d been assured that every guard-room and outhouse in the bailey had been searched. ‘I know this place,’ he said. ‘I know where a man can hide. Drop a torch down the latrine shafts. Fork the hay in the stables. Check that your own men have not been infiltrated, and then I’ll send her out. But I will not put her at the mercy of some wild assassin.’

  ‘And how many do you think we’ll find disguised, as hay- sacks or Angevins?’

  ‘Is the number significant, my lord king, so long as it exceeds none?’

  In the event, they discovered three Lusignan archers, two of whom were still armed.

  John’s astonishment gave way to shuddering relief and, within a month, the constable of Mirebeau had been awarded fiefs in Touraine, Anjou and the English county of Kent Nothing was too good for such a man, the king decided, not when his kind were so scarce upon the ground.

  One public embrace would have satisfied Eleanor, but John clung to her, needing to believe that the rescue had been inspired by love. He had closed his mind to reason, aware that reason would say different. The dowager queen belonged less to her son than to the nobility of England. It was they who adored her, and they who would never have forgiven him had he left her to the mercy of the Lusignans. It was not filial devotion that had brought him down from Le Mans or sent him first through the gate-arch of Mirebeau; it was the knowledge that Queen Eleanor was too popular to lose and that, if he did lose her, he would soon afterward lose his throne.