by C. B. Hanley
It was the tiny sound behind him which saved his life, giving him a moment’s warning. He whirled faster than he would have thought possible, drawing his dagger as the figure leapt at him in the darkness. He saw the pale outline of the blade streaking towards him and managed to swerve out of the way just in time, the knife slicing through his tunic but not his flesh. His assailant seemed bigger than he was, and was no doubt more experienced, but he had lost the advantage of surprise, and may have been taken aback by the speed with which Edwin drew his own weapon. The two of them grappled desperately in the darkness, each seeking to stop the blade of the other. Edwin was starting to panic – just as he had been so close to his goal! – and he fought to keep his head. He strained against the force of the other man, feeling the blade draw closer to him. The struggle continued for a few moments in a strange silence, each unwilling to risk alerting potential allies of the other, but Edwin knew he would eventually lose out to the stronger man. He started to kick out frantically with his feet, and more by luck than by judgement was rewarded when the other backed against a pile of rubble and was momentarily distracted. Edwin managed to jerk his arm free and lashed out with his dagger. He heard a cry – whether of pain or of surprise he couldn’t tell – and used the moment to shove his attacker away and run, unsure of how much he might have disabled the other man. The sound of footsteps behind him told him that he hadn’t caused as much damage as he might have hoped.
He fled through the darkness, sobbing, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He’d been so close! But was there yet still hope? How long had it been since he had last heard the bell of the cathedral? Had it rung again yet? Could it be that the rope might be waiting for him when he reached the castle? In his headlong rush he tripped on a loose stone and stumbled before regaining his balance and sprinting on. His shoes were slippery, he wasn’t used to running. His breath came in laboured gasps. He could hear the other man and tried not to look behind. He was nearly at the castle. The open space beckoned. He would have to dash across it. Was he close enough to shout for help, or would he merely be giving his position away to other attackers lurking in the darkness? He was almost there. He opened his mouth, and it was then that he heard the blessed, blessed sound of the cathedral bell.
Hope giving him new strength, desperation making him careless, he flew across the open space with no regard for stealth, shrieking out to those inside the castle as he did so. As he hit the wall he heard voices above him, and he clutched frantically in search of the rope. His attacker had followed him close behind and was even now grasping at him. Edwin flailed around again with the dagger which was still in his right hand, seeking the rope with his left as he did so. Shouts came from above, but no arrows came hissing down. His attacker seized him by the belt and tried to pull him away from the wall, away from the safety of the rope. He was succeeding, and Edwin felt himself starting to move even as he dug his heels into the ground.
And then the miracle happened. Edwin wasn’t quite sure that he wasn’t imagining things, but a third figure appeared out of the darkness, threw his arms around Edwin’s assailant and dragged him bodily away. The brief respite allowed Edwin’s questing left hand to find the rope, and he wrapped it once around his wrist, grasped with his hand, and shouted with all his might to those above to pull. His arm was nearly jerked out of its socket as he felt his feet leave the ground. The figure in the darkness made one last attempt but was held back by the third man long enough for Edwin to get too high for him. Then the third man escaped back into the shadows, and the assailant finally gave up and retreated, fleeing back across the open space. Edwin shoved the dagger into his belt and gripped the rope with both hands as he was hauled upwards to safety.
Dame Nicola heard the shouts as she was walking in the ward, and ran towards the tower as quickly as age and dignity would allow. When she reached the top of the steps she was rewarded by the sight of the spy, dishevelled but apparently unharmed, being untangled from a rope by two men. De Serland and an archer were both leaning out over the wall to look into the darkness, the archer loosing a hopeful arrow, although he could surely have no visible target at which to aim. She helped the spy – what was his name again? It didn’t matter – to his feet and let him draw breath before assailing him with questions. What had happened? Had he met the contact? Was there any news? As he recovered himself he gasped that he had an important message; urged on by her questioning he seemed about to spill the words there and then, but she gathered her wits and told him crisply to wait until they had reached her council chamber. Jerking her head at de Serland to indicate that he should follow, she led the spy down the steps.
Once in the chamber, with the door safely closed, she could contain herself no longer and demanded the news even as she shoved him towards a stool. The man raised his face to her and her heart began to lift – was there a chance that they were all going to get out of this alive?
He spoke. His message was very simple, but the import was profound.
For a moment she couldn’t take it in. How …? But then the realisation flooded over her, and she heard the intake of breath from de Serland, which indicated that he too had understood. She worked her way through the implications, and breathed again. There was hope. For the first time in weeks, there was hope. Thank you Lord.
She turned to the man. ‘There is no time to waste – you must get back to the lord regent as soon as you can.’
He nodded wordlessly and dragged himself up and towards the door. As he was leaving she stopped him for a moment to speak again, reaching out her arm.
‘We are grateful to you, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is just possible that you have saved all our lives.’
Again he said nothing, but his face held much emotion. He bowed his head briefly to her and left the room.
Edwin tried to marshal his thoughts as he was led towards the postern, but he couldn’t think straight. He had delivered his message, but what now? It would be of no use unless the regent was to hear of it, so he must concentrate on getting back. They couldn’t spare a man to go with him and besides, as the knight was saying, one man alone was less in danger of being seen than two. It sounded sensible as the words washed over him, but he didn’t quite grasp what this actually meant until the knight gripped his shoulder, wished him Godspeed and then pushed him outside the castle, alone.
He took a moment to orient himself, trying to identify the group of trees where the other men should hopefully be waiting with his horse. Horse. He winced at the thought of getting back on the animal yet again, but it wasn’t so terrifying: riding had become not an obstacle in itself, but merely a means to an end – he would be able to get back to the camp all the sooner. What on earth was he thinking about? Who cared about the horse? He had to get himself across all these fields first.
The moon was still bright, so he could make out the edge of the forest in the distance. How wide the open ground seemed! It was fields, or at least it had been – there wasn’t much growing there now. The French must have taken it all and cleared the ground so that they could see anyone who approached, giving themselves due warning. That wasn’t going to help him, of course, as he had to cross it now. He had no doubt that the man who had attacked him had been one of the enemy forces, rather than some common thief, for it was too much of a coincidence that he should be assailed so near the castle. Therefore he’d probably gone back to his friends to warn them that something was afoot, so others might be watching from the city walls. He had no choice, though – he would have to risk it. He waited a few moments more until a cloud moved and partially obscured the moon, and then he set out.
It was slow going, as he thought he would be better off crawling along the ground in order to minimise his chances of being seen. He made his way through the scrubby, stubbly ground, scraping his hands and knees, and pausing in any dip or behind any small patch of undergrowth. This was going to take ages, and he wasn’t even sure that he was still heading in the right direction. He would have t
o stand up and look. Shoulders twitching, as though he could already feel an arrow fizzing towards him, he stood and peered into the darkness.
It was at that moment that the moon burst forth from behind the cloud, illuminating the whole plain, and the first shouts came from behind him.
He began to run.
Chapter Nine
Sir Reginald had been sitting on his horse and scanning the open ground. He’d barely dismounted since John Marshal had returned two nights ago, although the others did so. They were lounging around in the cover of the trees, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop watching. He wasn’t very good at waiting. He was worried about his young companion, following Edwin’s admission that he didn’t know how to fight. What would he do if he was attacked? He needed someone to look out for him.
As he heard distant shouts issuing from the direction of the city he urged his horse forward out of the cover of the trees so that he could see more clearly. The moon was bright, flooding the plain, and his eye caught the movement in the middle of the open ground. Edwin. He was running. Sir Reginald looked behind the hurrying figure to see a number of men on horseback moving swiftly towards him. His heart leapt. There was no time to waste. Roaring to his companions to catch up, he shoved on his helmet, spurred his horse forward and galloped out on to the plain.
The tactics came to him without thought as he rode. If he were to stop and try to pick Edwin up, the attackers would be upon them before they could return to the woods, and it would be difficult to defend against them while there were two of them on the horse – no, better to try and delay the attackers while his companions caught up and rescued Edwin. All this went through his mind in less than a moment as he couched his lance, bracing it under his arm so that he would have the full weight of the horse to add to his own as he crashed into the enemy. There were a dozen of them, and he would have to take out as many as possible to stop them reaching Edwin. This was what life was all about! He barely gave Edwin a glance as he swept past, intent on his enemy, a wild exhilaration building within him.
If Edwin had thought about it, he would probably have said that his greatest fear was archers aiming at him. But the sound of hoofbeats drumming behind him as he raced across the open ground instilled a terror so profound that he could hardly force his legs to keep moving. He was tiring, slowing down as they approached him. He would have no chance of reaching the woods before they caught him. He was going to die. Sharp steel would thrust into his body … and then, dear Lord, the sound of a cry from the tree line. They were still there. They were waiting for him. There was hope.
The darkness of the woods erupted as a figure burst forth, and Edwin gaped as the awe-inspiring figure of a fully armoured mounted knight thundered past him, lance lowered. He was so close that he was splattered by earth thrown up by the galloping hooves. He tried to keep running, breath labouring, but the combination of fear, hope and exhaustion united to prevent him. His legs gave way and he fell to his hands and knees. He was drawn to look behind him.
The lone man continued his charge, and Edwin watched in a kind of fascination as he smashed into the party of pursuers. They were lightly armed, dressed for speed, and individually they were no match for the knight. The lead man, at whom the lance was aimed, stood no chance, and the sharpened steel head plunged straight through his body. The knight made no attempt to retrieve it but instead drew his sword and lashed about him, killing and maiming his opponents. Edwin had never seen a knight in real action before, and the sight was awesome, the violence sickening. Men scattered before his blade as he wreaked havoc.
But there were too many of them, even Edwin could see that. Gradually the knight’s momentum slowed, he became mired in the encounter, and four of the men left their companions to deal with him while they spurred past in search of their original target. Him. Edwin tried to scramble to his feet, running before he was standing, slipping in his haste as he tried to flee. The sound of hoofbeats seemed to be coming from everywhere.
As he regained his balance and forced his screaming limbs to move, he became aware that the sound really was coming from all around him. A further party of knights was issuing from the woods. He crouched and covered his head as they thundered past barely an arm’s length from him, turning to watch as some hurtled into the unfortunate pursuers and others surged forward to aid the lone knight who was still frenziedly fighting off his opponents. One horse pulled up next to him and Edwin looked up. The rider’s voice was muffled and dull inside the helmet, and Edwin couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he didn’t care. The knight reached his arm down and hauled him up behind him onto the horse before wheeling and making for the safety of the trees.
Once they were there, Sir Gilbert – for it was he – removed his helmet and turned his horse so they could see the progress of the rest of the party. He looked anxiously towards the furthermost encounter, where it seemed that the knight, with the help of his friends, had succeeded in fighting off his opponents. Bodies lay sprawled on the ground around them, as they did at the site of the second encounter. From what Edwin could see, his companions had killed all the attackers without losing a man of their own.
Sir Gilbert seemed to read his mind. ‘We had surprise on our side, and they were but lightly armed. Still, it was damned foolish of Reginald to set off on his own like that. He could have got himself killed.’
Edwin’s eyes opened wide as he realised who the lone knight was. ‘You mean … Sir Reginald attacked all those men, on his own, in order to save me?’
The knight snorted. ‘Reginald would attack a party of French for far less reason than that, I can tell you.’ He softened slightly. ‘But yes, he did, and we are glad to see you safe. Do you have news?’ Edwin nodded. ‘Good. The others can catch us up on the way, but we must get you back to the lord regent.’ He pulled the reins around and set his heels to the horse’s flank. ‘Hold on.’
John Marshal stabbed his finger at the plan of the city which was laid out on the table. The smoking torches didn’t make reading easy, but the thick black lines which represented the castle and the city walls and gates could still be seen in the uneven light. ‘The French have their main concentration of forces here. Their siege machinery is here, to the south side of the castle, and they also have troops in the north-eastern corner of the city, north of the cathedral. This area here to the east of the castle has been razed, so there is some open ground, as there is in the minster yard. But the rest of the city, southwards towards the river, is still standing and is inhabited, so we will have to prepare ourselves to fight in narrow streets.’
He turned to the nobles around him, amazed that they had managed to stop arguing long enough to listen to him.
His uncle nodded. ‘This is perhaps not the way we would have chosen to fight, but there is no choice.’ Briskly he turned to the other nobles surrounding him. ‘We will deploy in four battalions. I will lead one – ’
He was interrupted by the Earl of Derby. ‘But my lord – surely you don’t intend to ride into battle yourself? I mean, at your age … oh.’ He tailed off into silence, realising his mistake. The other nobles watched like crows circling over carrion as the regent pivoted to face him, enunciating his words very slowly.
‘Old I may be. But even if I were over eighty I should still be leading my men into battle. I am the leader of this force, William, and you would do well to remember it.’
Derby stepped back in silence, cowed, glaring at those who were casting him gloating looks. The group looked more fractured than ever. The regent made as if to continue, but the Earl of Chester forestalled him.
‘You are the leader, my lord, and none of us doubt it. But your men are not the greatest in number – mine are. So the honour of leading the first battalion should fall to me. It is my right, and I demand it.’
John looked on as the regent raised one eyebrow. ‘Demand, Ranulf? You make demands of me?’
The withering look would have intimidated many a lesser man, but Chester was made of st
erner stuff. He met the regent glare for glare. ‘Aye. I demand my rights. For if I do not lead the first battalion, I will take my men and leave. You have already dismissed Warenne of Surrey – do you dare do the same to me?’
A collective gasp was quickly suppressed by the other lords, but Chester stood still, his jaw thrust forward pugnaciously.
John Marshal watched his uncle with interest. Knowing him better than most of the other men in the tent, he could glimpse the rapid calculations being carried out behind the flat stare. William Marshal was no fool, and he would know that he couldn’t take the city without Chester and his men. Was the realm about to be riven further? But if the regent backed down, would he lose face before his men? Would they doubt his authority? But not for the first time, John had underestimated both the tactical intelligence of his uncle and his extraordinary personal charm. The future seemed to be hanging by a thread, but he overcame the difficult situation with ease.
‘I did not say which battalion I would lead, Ranulf. Of course you will lead the first.’ His tone held exactly the right amount of dismissiveness to avoid any suggestion of a volte face. Before anyone could think about it, he moved swiftly on to a self-deprecating humour. ‘I will stir my ancient bones in order to lead the second –’ his wry glance swept them all and lingered a moment on the Earl of Derby, who heartened, ‘William of Salisbury will take the third, and my lord the bishop of Winchester the fourth.’
There was a slight stir at these last words, but John grasped immediately how clever the regent had been. Peter des Roches, the bishop, was a warlike man with a shrewd mind; his leading one battalion would lend the right gravitas to the occasion, convincing the host that God was on their side. Meanwhile the other three sections of the host would be led by the two most powerful men in the kingdom, and a third who, although not supplying as many troops, was the young king’s uncle and so ranked above the others. Thus the order of precedence was set and none of the other earls and lords had been elevated into a potentially resentment-inducing higher place than the others. Everybody was satisfied, and all this with a few simple words and gestures. He marvelled.