‘Does he, indeed?’ She began striding towards the bridge to the middle bailey.
Sir Rollo pulled her back, but as she struggled against him there came a scream from the keep and Milburga was running towards them. ‘William, it’s William.’
‘What about him?’
‘Ain’t here. Not nowhere. And his fishing rod’s missing. Little bugger, I’ll flay his hide when I gets him.’
Milburga was panicking, another astonishment of this dreadful day. Dear Christ protect him. The boy had gone to Kingcup Brook, crept out of the castle before dawn as he usually did, and they had yet to work out how, to come back with a creel full of trout for his father’s breakfast.
And Kingcup Brook was in the path the besieging army had pursued on its way to besiege them.
‘He’s allus home by now,’ wept Milburga.
Dear Christ, dear Christ.
When Sir John had first brought his son to the castle and presented him to her – ‘Here’s a stepson for you’ – she’d kissed the boy, smiled and nodded without warmth; she didn’t like children much, and certainly not one sprung from her husband’s loins; even less one who, if he lived, would inherit her castle.
The thing was, William turned out not to be at all like his father. She supposed the gentle face and features, the pale and floppy hair, were an inheritance from his dead mother, the unknown woman for whom Maud felt the deepest sympathy.
Expecting the boy to be given preference, as heirs were, she’d been taken aback to find him almost as much an object of Sir John’s bullying as anyone else in the castle.
William, at the age of seven, had gentle manners, an aversion to bear-baiting and a leaning towards bookishness, all attributes of his late mother – a weakling, according to the boy’s father – which must be beaten out of him if he were not to become an effeminate, namby-pamby milksop who’d rather stay in m’lady’s chamber playing a fucking lute than go to war.
Maud, having her own problems with his father, had stayed aloof for a while – everybody else in her household conspired to mother the child – and was only drawn in by an event that was afterwards referred to with awe as ‘Milburga’s victory’.
It had taken place in the keep’s kitchen. Milburga, passing through the tiltyard where young William had been put to practising sword blows against the battered tree trunk set up for that purpose, saw blood dripping from the child’s right hand.
‘You come along o’ me,’ she’d said. She’d taken him by the scruff of the neck and marched him to the kitchen so that she could minister to a small palm off which the skin had been taken by friction against the sword’s grip.
When Sir John had found them there his bellows of rage attracted half the castle.
By the time Maud arrived on the scene, Milburga, shielding William behind her, was squaring up to Sir John, equally tall and big, both faces puce with shouting.
‘I’m his father, you fat cow. I know what’s best for ’im. He’ll learn swordsmanship if it kills him.’
‘Bloody sword’s too heavy for him, you girt great fool. Taken the skin offen his poor little hand.’
‘Get out of my way, bitch.’ Sir John raised a hand like a ham as if to strike her.
‘An’ don’t you be calling me no bitch,’ Milburga had yelled back, ‘or next time they brings you your bloody soup I’ll have pissed in it.’
There was a sudden silence. The crowd round the kitchen door hunched its shoulders in terrible anticipation.
Then … the man’s hand had fallen to his side, like Balaam’s when the ass he was beating for refusing to move saw the angel of Jehovah blocking their way. Sir John was giving a grunt of approval and the hand which he had raised in violence now stretched to ruffle his son’s hair. Turning to Milburga he said, ‘You’ve got balls, woman, I’ll say that for you. All right, if he wants to, he can leave off practice for today.’
Milburga had won.
But William betrayed her victory. Getting to his feet, he’d picked up his sword. ‘No. I’ll go back, Father. I’m sorry.’
As she watched the small, courageous figure leave the kitchen, Maud had felt a rare pity and the early stirrings of maternal love.
Now, with Sir Rollo dumbstruck and staring at Milburga, those same feelings propelled her across the bridge, through the middle bailey, across the next bridge – not registering the sudden quiet, nor that the men by the trebuchets, the spearmen, the archers lining the walls, were now so still they might have been ossified.
In a world of concentrating silence, the only sound came from one carrying voice: ‘… we will hang your son.’
Sir John was standing in one of the crenels on the outer allure glaring across the Thames to the Crowmarsh bank. He was in his nightshirt, having been drunk the night before and still asleep when the alarm sounded. His squire hopped beside him, trying to get him into his mail shirt and helmet. Stang, his second-in-command, was with them.
Panting, Maud joined them to look where they were looking.
It was a beautiful September morning with a light breeze fluttering the pennants of the besieging force. And, dear Mary, Mother of God, a little boy stood in the midst of them with a rope round his neck which ran up through a ring on the cross-piece of a high, stout pole. The tall man standing beside him, one hand resting on the child’s shoulder, his other arm through the guige strap at the back of his shield, was demanding Kenniford’s surrender. At the far end of the rope were two more men, ready to pull.
In that instant, the pity Maud had felt for the boy transformed into something more agonizing. She’d never been so afraid – not of the danger the castle was in, not even for the crowd of people immediately below, cowering against the castle’s gate, but of what the man at her side would do, or, more terribly, would not do. She knew him.
And the child, so small, so brave, so very pale. God help him. God, I’ll do anything, I’ll build You another church, just save him.
The call came across the river for the third time from the man with his hand on William’s shoulder. ‘You will be given honourable terms if you give in, but in the name of Empress Matilda, I say again, surrender your castle or we hang your son.’ The guttural Norman French carried easily.
‘Can you see if the bastard’s got a dolphin on his shield?’ Sir John’s question was for Stang.
Stang squinted. ‘Some sort of fish, my lord, far as I can make out.’
‘That’s Alan of Ghent, then,’ Sir John said. ‘Fleming. I’m not surrendering to a fucking Flemish mercenary.’
‘You must! We’ve got to surrender.’ Maud knew it was no good pleading with him; he’d never listened to her yet; nevertheless she had to.
‘How many d’you reckon?’ Sir John asked.
‘Four hundred,’ Stang told him. ‘More among the trees maybe.’
‘Should’ve had that fucking wood cut down.’
They were discussing it, discussing it.
‘Tell the archers to let fly,’ said Sir John. ‘Get the Fleming first.’
‘No. Stop it.’ Clawing at her husband, Maud put her body in front of his but he pushed her away.
Stang was reluctant. ‘We might hit the boy.’
‘You do as I fucking tell you. He shouldn’t have left the castle, been told enough times. I’ll parley with the bastards, and you let fly when I say.’
Sir John moved into the centre of the embrasure, roaring. He lifted the front of his nightshirt and grabbed what lay beneath in order to waggle it. ‘See this, you fuckers? Do your worst. I’ve got the hammer and anvil to make plenty more sons.’ He turned to Stang. ‘Give the order, and hand me a bow; I’ll kill that Flemish cunt myself.’
Maud shut her eyes and heard the note that is like no other: the sound of multiple arrows displacing air as they crossed the river. Stang was pushing her under cover; the opposing archers were returning fire. She fought against him. ‘Is he hit?’ she shouted. ‘Is William hit?’
She managed to grab on to one of the merlons and pu
ll herself up to look round the embrasure next to it. There was no small body on the grass of the other bank. The Fleming who’d threatened to hang William was retiring backwards into the trees with him, covering them both with his shield.
‘Mary, Mother of God. Thank you, thank you.’ With arrows clattering around her, she turned to look at the man she’d never forgive. ‘And you … you …’
He capered at the enemy. ‘Yah, you’re all fucking eunuchs …’ he was shouting; nevertheless she thought she saw just a flicker of relief in his expression as he watched the Fleming carry William to safety before he exhaled, clutched at his nightgown and dropped to the floor.
‘He’s hit.’ Stang left her to run back, but although he got an arrow in his arm for his loyalty, still managed to drag his commander into the shelter of a merlon.
Maud crawled after him. There was no wound that she could see immediately, but her husband’s face had gone lopsided and his mouth was working without sound.
With the help of one of the archers and keeping low, they managed to haul him down to the bottom of the allure’s steps where they could go no further for the arrows pouring down into the outer bailey.
It took a tortuga of men, protecting themselves, Maud and Sir John with their shields, to drag him across the outer moat’s bridge, through the next bailey and a further bridge, into the comparative safety of the upper ward where Milburga was waiting for them with a scolding for Maud. ‘I’ll flay you. What you go racing into danger for?’
‘They’ve got William, Milly. They’re threatening to hang him. Not yet, though. They took him under cover.’
Milburga wiped her forehead, and turned her attention to Sir John. ‘So what’s the matter with that bugger?’
‘I think he’s been hit.’
Stang, the arrow still sticking out of his arm, gave orders and accompanied the two women as his commander was carried into the hall and laid on its table.
Milburga tore Sir John’s nightshirt open all the way down, turned him over as if he were a roll of pastry and tore again. She rolled him back to peer into a face that drooped down one side. ‘He ain’t hit, he’s had a seizure.’
‘What’s it mean?’
‘Means he ain’t going anywhere.’
‘He’s crippled?’
‘Can’t walk, can’t talk. Maybe never will.’
Maud pushed her to one side so that she could lean over her husband. His eyes pleaded with her. Gurgles came from his mouth.
‘It’s all right. We’ll make you comfortable,’ she said. It was an automatic response to a soul in terror. She felt no triumph that a man prepared to let his son and her villagers die had been reduced to a useless hulk, but she recognized God’s punishment when she saw it.
The hall was becoming busy; wounded men were being brought in, one with an arrow sticking out of his nose being teased for it by another. Her head smith was holding his blackened, peeling hands up to her and grinning: ‘Got the fire out, didn’t I, my lady?’
What fire?
Lady Morgana was at the other end of the long table dealing with Stang. She glanced towards Sir John and Maud. ‘Better fetch Father Nimbus.’
‘Is he going to die?’
‘Best be on the safe side.’
Going upstairs for the priest, Maud’s mind moved as fast as her legs. Yes, yes, it could be no worse than it had been. She could do that; she would do it.
Her seven months of marriage had not been happy. Any authority she’d held in the castle had been taken away from her. Yes, she was permitted to oversee what food was served – as long as the meat dripped blood. (She’d stopped attending the feasts because of the behaviour of the men he brought to them; Sir John hadn’t cared whether she came or not.) Yes, she and her immediate household could take their meals in her solar, and remain there all fucking day as far as he was concerned; just stay out of his fucking way.
By the grace of God, and possibly Kigva, he’d come to her bed less often than she’d feared – from the first they’d had separate rooms, he having turfed Father Nimbus out of his – though the occasions when he did so disgusted, humiliated and appalled her that she lived in horror of the next.
Bursting through her solar door, usually drunk, Kigva wailing for him outside it, he uttered not a word, just penetrated her and jerked up and down for a while until a grunt told her he’d been satisfied, after which he went away again. He’d never asked why, as he left her, she began furiously munching the seeds from a bowl she kept nearby, though – and this had been alarming – he’d begun to enquire: ‘Your belly swelling yet?’
For the rest, she was sidelined and could merely look on as what had been a functioning home of a castle became a fortified hell. Her orchard and herb beds disappeared into a new moat; guardhouses sprouted along the rose avenues. There was a barbarously early slaughter and salting of cattle, sheep and pigs in order to feed the increased garrison through a possible winter siege. Rents not due until December were called in early, while the coffers of money so carefully kept and accounted for by Sir Bernard, the chief steward, were put in the charge of one of Sir John of Tewing’s men.
All this might have been forgiven on the grounds that Kenniford had to be put on a war footing. What was unpardonable was the behaviour of the mercenaries Sir John inflicted on the castle. They were mainly Brabançons, who, according to him, had more balls than fucking Flemings, which may or may not have been true. What they did have was savagery.
It was like the Norsemen come again; if they didn’t think their food rations were enough, they raided the storehouses. Thirsty? They were always thirsty – they raided the cellars. Women? No maidservant was safe. Maud’s own men, outnumbered two to one, were jeered at for being amateur soldiers (which they were; knights, sergeants and guards did their duty as Maud’s vassals for their regulation three months and then went home to see to the harvest, being replaced by an equivalent number once the crops were in) and set on if they jeered back.
After one fight between the two sides, so many of Kenniford’s had been injured that Maud ordered Sir Rollo to bring all of them into the inner bailey and build yet another guardhouse for them, leaving the mercenaries to their own devices.
This, however, as she’d pointed out to her husband, defeated the purpose of feudal service. ‘My men can’t patrol, can’t drill, can’t do anything, they’ve been rendered useless.’
‘That’s what they fucking are. Get rid of ’em. My Brabançons are all we’ll need in a fucking siege, they’ve got balls.’
‘But I’m besieged now,’ Maud shouted at him, ‘I can’t go hawking or coursing without filth being shouted at my ladies.’
He’d merely shrugged and walked away from her.
And now he was helpless, and she was once more Kenniford’s keeper. She had her castle back – if the Empress’s men didn’t destroy it.
Father Nimbus was in his chapel, trying to comfort a sobbing, frightened Cousin Lynessa with one hand, while, with the other, packing his chrismatory box ready to take it up to the outer walls to give the last rites to whoever needed them. ‘Now, now, dear heart, don’t take on so or you’ll set me off, and we don’t want that, do we? Today, we’ve all got to be brave little soldiers for the Lord.’
‘Sir John’s had a seizure,’ Maud said, ‘Milburga says he might die.’ She didn’t pretend to grief – with this priest she didn’t have to.
He felt it, though; his little face screwed itself up into concern. ‘Oh dear, then I must go to him.’ Father Nimbus suffered for anybody and everybody who was hurt, even for a man who’d constantly held him up to ridicule as a ‘flouncing fucking betty’.
Cousin Lynessa clung on. ‘Don’t leave me, Father. We’ll all be raped.’
‘Oh stop it, Lynessa,’ Maud snapped at her; she was too strung out herself to countenance another woman’s hysteria. As Father Nimbus began tripping towards the door, she held him back. ‘I’m going to surrender the castle.’
The chrismatory box dropped to th
e floor and the priest’s rosebud mouth formed an ‘ooh’ of shock.
‘I’ve got to,’ Maud said desperately. ‘William’s been captured. He slipped out again before dawn and they found him. They’re threatening to hang him unless we give in. He was going to let them do it.’ Identification was unnecessary. ‘And he wouldn’t let the villagers come in, so they’re stuck in the line of fire. I’ve got to.’
‘Little William,’ moaned Father Nimbus. ‘Those dear people.’ His eyes were filling with tears; he cried often – a habit that caused people who didn’t know him to dub him a coward. For years he’d fought for Maud’s soul against her sense of her own worth, asking her to value more what was due to God than the Caesar she regarded herself to be. ‘Sweeting,’ he said, ‘are we sure we are giving up the castle for the sake of William and the villagers? Or are we tempted into exchanging one regime for another? In which case we may be jumping from the frying pan into the boiling pot, where neither William nor our people will be any safer. Is it revenge for a marriage that has made you unhappy? Let you search your soul.’
She searched it. Saving William and the villagers, she thought, was the laudable act of a woman forced into submission out of love for those threatened. If, coincidentally, it provided that same woman with the opportunity to throw off a yoke that was hateful to her, God would surely forgive her.
‘There’s a bit of that,’ she admitted, ‘but I can’t allow slaughter.’ She began to babble. ‘It won’t be so bad, will it? It’s just exchanging an invasion of one lot of damn mercenaries for another, and at least the ones holding William had the decency to protect him when the arrows started flying. And after all, the war’s as good as over with the King in prison. It’s common sense to declare for the Empress now she’s won. At least she’s a woman.’
Father Nimbus flicked the tears off his cheeks. ‘Well then, sweeting, what is it we must we ask ourselves?’
‘ “Would Jesus do it?” ’ It was a question she’d grown up with under his tutelage. ‘Yes, He would.’
‘Then so must you.’ He picked up his chrismatory box. ‘Take Sir Bernard with you. Oh, and wear the purple bliaut, dear; it gives you gravitas. Must have gravitas if you’re dictating terms.’
Winter Siege Page 6