B00B9BL6TI EBOK

by C. B. Hanley

  The regent continued. ‘Now, as to the order of the march; we will have all the crossbowmen, under Falkes de Breauté, a mile ahead of the main host,’ – John nodded to himself at the sense of this – ‘and the baggage train a mile behind, to keep it out of the way.’

  Mention of the baggage train had put John in mind of something else and he drew breath, but then stopped again, unsure as to whether he should bring it up. The regent noticed the sharp movement and bade him speak.

  John decided that it was better to declare his thoughts. ‘My lord, our sources inside the castle indicate that the enemy forces outnumber us: they estimate six hundred knights and about a thousand foot. As we approach they’re bound to see us, and they’ll know that we’re small in number. We need to make sure that they don’t sally forth and attack us on open ground, where we would be at a great disadvantage. Might we devise some strategy to make them think that we are more numerous than we are?’

  The regent looked interested. ‘What would you suggest?’

  ‘Well, my lord, it might not be strictly according to the rules of war, but some ruse might be employed. Most of the knights in your host will have two banners: instead of each displaying one and keeping the other stored, why don’t we fly all the extra ones in the baggage train, to make it look like another force of knights? To be sure, it might not fool the enemy for long, but if it stops them attacking long enough for us to approach the castle and enter via the postern, it will help.’

  The Earl of Chester seemed about to say something, but the regent cut him off, speaking with authority. ‘I do not think we need to dwell too much on the niceties of chivalry. Anything which gives us an advantage will be needed. We will do this.’ Others nodded as the regent continued. ‘A good strategy, John, you have done well.’

  John Marshal basked briefly in the appreciation, but was too scrupulous to take all the credit. ‘Thank you, my lord, but although the idea of the banners was mine, the original plan to make the host look bigger was devised by the man Weaver who was with me in the castle.’

  The Earl of Chester grunted. ‘Well, let us hope that he isn’t still there. We must prepare to leave soon, regardless of whether he returns or not.’

  The regent acknowledged this. ‘Within the hour. It will take about three hours to march the host to Lincoln from here, so we will need to leave as soon as dawn breaks. That way we should get there round about Prime.’ He slapped one hand into the other. ‘Damn it! I am still not happy with this entering through the postern – it will take too long and they will be able to assail us while we wait to be admitted.’

  The Earl of Salisbury spoke. ‘But my lord, we have no time to build siege machinery, and short of battering down the city walls, there is no other choice. Your nephew has already told us that the castle and its garrison are near to breaking point.’

  John Marshal stepped back from the table and resumed his pacing. There must be another way. There must! But he was damned if he could think of one. Again he berated himself for leaving the man Weaver to enter the city alone. He should have gone himself. His sense tried to speak to him – it would have been much worse if he hadn’t been able to bring back what news they already had, and Weaver was by far the better of the two of them to go into the city. He spoke English, for a start, which he himself couldn’t do. But his heart overruled him. If something needed to be done he should make sure he did it himself. No good ever came of relying on others.

  His thoughts were interrupted by cries from outside the tent and he strode out to see what they signified, hoping rather than expecting that there might be more news. He was greeted by the sight of Gilbert de l’Aigle riding straight through the middle of the camp, ploughing through the surprised men right up to the regent’s tent. He reined in his horse.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you thus, my lord, but I thought you might like us to be as swift as possible.’ He turned in his saddle and John Marshal could see another man behind him on the horse. The other man tried to dismount and fell in a heap on the ground, to be assisted to his feet by one of the guards outside the tent. The man stood and faced him. Marshal’s heart jumped several times. It was Weaver. He looked exhausted, breathing heavily, and he was dirty, covered in mud splatters. But as he stepped forward, his smile lit up the night sky.

  Alys had stared into the fire until long after it had gone out, the flames dying into glowing embers which in turn had become cold grey ashes. What had she been thinking about? In truth, she couldn’t say. Everything. Nothing. She had simply gazed into the middle distance while the room cooled and the sun came up. As the first rays slanted in through the ill-fitting shutter of the kitchen window, she finally awoke from her trance and shook herself. She was cold. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she rose and began to prepare the room for the day. The familiar tasks increased the sense of unreality at what had happened during the night. She would like to think that Nick’s death had just been a nightmare, but she knew it was true, did not dare go into the shop to see him there again. But she supposed she must; there was always the chance that one of the children would go in there, and she couldn’t bear it if they saw him. And as to the rest of the night’s events, had she really welcomed a stranger into the house, a spy who would help to relieve the suffering of the city? Or had she dreamt it all? And what had happened to him once he left? Had he reached the castle in safety, or would he turn out to be another corpse discovered in an oozing gutter?

  She shivered at the thought. As dreamlike as the overnight events had become in her mind, one thing still seemed real: Edwin himself. His honesty, his openness, the feeling that one could trust him; how nice it would be to have a man like that around during these times. She ached for someone to take the responsibility away from her. She wanted to be looked after. But there was nobody. After all the death, she doubted even that Thomas would ever come back. What were the chances that he had somehow survived the ravaging of the countryside around the city? No, it would be up to her to look after the remains of her family. But how could she care for them if the current situation continued? She had a little wood left, so she relit the fire in the hearth to warm the leftover pottage. There would be food for the morning, for the day if she eked it out carefully, but what then? There was nothing in the house, very little in the city, and every day it became more dangerous to venture out of the four walls of the building. If something didn’t happen soon they would all starve.

  The first sounds of movement came from upstairs. She went up to fetch the children and brought them down to the kitchen, now warming again, for their meagre meal. She sighed as she thought of the long day ahead. What would she do? How could she keep them occupied and out of trouble?

  A knock sounded at the kitchen door and immediately they all stiffened, Randal almost falling off his stool in fright as he looked around for somewhere to hide. Alys stood, unsure whether she should open it, but she was reassured by the voice of Master Pinel calling out that it was only him and that he’d come to see if they were all right. Relieved, she opened the door to him. His ruddy face emanated sense, solidity, something to hold onto. And yet, Alys knew he had been visiting another woman and leaving his wife alone. What else might he be capable of? But she needed to appear normal. As she greeted him, a movement in the back yard caught her eye, and she moved her head just in time to see Aldred slipping away through the back gate. What was he doing here? Had he been hanging around the house all night? He had clearly been doing something since she last saw him, for he had a stained bandage tied around his head, covering one eye. He saw her looking at him and quickly turned his face away as he went through the gate.

  Master Pinel turned to follow her gaze. ‘What is it?’ He seemed as jumpy as she was, but then, it would be strange if he wasn’t.

  She recollected herself. ‘Nothing. Do come in.’ She moved back to allow him entry, and he stepped inside, wincing as he did so.

  Alys was concerned. ‘Are you hurt?’ She put out a hand to steady
him.

  He grimaced. ‘No more than I am due for a man of my age. Recently I’ve been getting pains in my back, but it’s not serious.’

  She apologised that she had no food to offer him, but he waved away her concern, saying he was fine, and besides, the children needed it more. She made an effort to try and dredge up some small talk, but he spoke first and she was immediately wrong-footed by his first question – he thought he had heard screaming coming from the house in the night, had something happened? Hence his concern for them all this morning. He looked at her pleasantly.

  Alys floundered, not wanting to mention Nick, not now, not to him, not in front of the children. She came up with a weak excuse about nightmares – although it was probably less feeble than it would normally have been, given what had been happening recently – but was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Mistress Guildersleeve and Gervase, who called out from the yard seeking entry and saying they had brought some bread.

  Relieved, Alys went to the door to greet them and asked them in, seeking to cover her confusion in a fuss over the new arrivals, thanking them for their gift and dividing the bread up among the children, who fell upon it without a word.

  She bade everyone be seated, but there weren’t enough stools, so Randal moved to stand close to her, one hand clutching her sleeve, and Edric clambered happily up on to Gervase’s knee. He ruffled the boy’s hair as he asked if anyone had heard any further news about the siege.

  Alys was spared from speaking by Master Pinel, who immediately launched into a report of a conversation he’d had yesterday with a friend who had told him that he’d heard from someone he knew that the castle couldn’t possibly hold out for much longer. He was interrupted from time to time by Mistress Guildersleeve, who peppered his monologue with remarks on how dreadful everything was and how difficult it was getting to find anything to buy. Between the two of them there was no pause for anyone else to add anything, for which Alys was profoundly glad. As the conversation went on, she slipped into the shop at the front of the house. She stood for a short moment looking down at the beloved face, now more peaceful in everlasting sleep, and covered the body in a swathe of cambric. Then she unbarred the front door in order to peek out into the street. Normally it would be bustling by now, with shops and stalls trading and all the goodwives out to make their purchases. But the street was deathly silent. She guessed that everyone was about the same sort of activity as they were: staying indoors, gathering in small groups, desperately worried about their fates, talking and trying to predict what might happen next, attempting to stay hopeful but knowing that time was running out. She took one more look at the street before moving back inside and barring the door. It was not just the absence of people; the emptiness was suffocating. The city was holding its breath.

  They were on the march. Their plans had been remade and now they were on their way to do battle. Edwin could hardly believe it. Things had been such a blur since he’d arrived back in the camp.

  He had been exhausted, falling off Sir Gilbert’s horse – he really must stop doing that, especially in front of noblemen – and virtually into the arms of John Marshal, who had dragged him inside the tent to tell his story. He had left out most of it, of course, such as the details of his conversation with Alys and the fact that he’d been attacked on the way back to the castle, but he’d conveyed the essentials. When all was said and done, the message had been only six words, but they might hold the key to the whole siege, even the future of the kingdom: the western gate is not blocked.

  Even with his lack of military experience, Edwin could see that this was hugely important. John Marshal had been concerned at only being able to send a few men in at a time through the postern, meaning that precious hours would be wasted and the French might have time to attack; now they would be able to flood the city with troops very quickly. It turned out that the townsfolk, in whom the nobles in the castle had so little confidence, had organised a resistance and had spent many nights painstakingly moving the rubble while still making it appear that the gate was blocked. This must have been an incredibly dangerous thing to do – well, of course it was; he knew of at least three people involved who had been murdered – but the citizens had been willing to risk their lives to help save their town.

  He’d had no need to explain all of this to the leaders of the host; the mere knowledge of the gate being unblocked had stirred them into immediate action. He’d been rewarded by a thump on the back from John Marshal which made him wince, and something he could never have dreamt, not in his most fevered imaginings – courteous thanks from the regent of all England. Then he’d been permitted to remain at the back of the tent while the plans were laid, listening in numb exhaustion as it all washed past him.

  He was surprised now to find how much of it he recalled: his mind must have been less deadened than he’d thought. They were to leave Torksey at dawn, to march towards Lincoln. Apparently a strategy for the host to be split had already been made, and this plan was to remain intact: they would be divided into four battles, or some similar word, plus the crossbowmen and the baggage train. When they reached Lincoln, the host would divide into three parts. One group, led by the Earl of Chester, would move to the north gate and would strike the first blow, hoping that most of the French would run up that way to defend it. The crossbowmen and some foot soldiers under someone with the strange name of Falkes somebody would be sent in via the postern, in order to sally forth from the castle and cause a further diversion, while a few men, Edwin among them, would slip out to open the all-important west gate. The remaining three battalions – yes, that was the word – would enter via the opened gate, and then they would all join forces, sweep the French down through the streets and out of the southern end of the city, over the river. At least that was the theory. Edwin had thought that it all sounded clear and easy when it was being confidently explained by the regent, but he had no doubt that things would be much more difficult in real life.

  Finally he’d been dismissed so that he could catch an hour’s rest and eat a huge meal before he was to start the march back to Lincoln again. He’d been glad of Sir Gilbert, who had instructed his own men to feed him, otherwise he would be hungry still.

  Now he rode again with the host on its way back to the city. It was strange: had he ever thought of himself in an army, he would have imagined trudging with the footsoldiers, as was his place in life, but now his position seemed to have changed. In some ways he was glad of it – riding might be somewhat painful but it was better than walking – but in other ways it was disturbing. He’d been fairly sure that he’d be dismissed once he’d given his message, but John Marshal had said he needed him to come back. He was the only one who’d been in the city, and there must be no delay or mistake in finding the all-important west gate. So here he was. He had too much time to think about what was to come, and now he was wishing that he hadn’t eaten quite so much breakfast.

  His companions noticed his grim silence and sought to distract him. Sir Gilbert chaffed Sir Reginald amiably about his single-handed attack on the men who had pursued Edwin, but the younger knight sought to play down his deeds, asking instead about Edwin’s experiences in the city. He grinned knowingly when Edwin told him of his meeting with Alys, and Edwin was uncomfortably aware that his heart beat faster at the thought, and that his face was becoming hot and red while the knight teased him. He thought of her again. How would she fare once fighting took place in the city? Would she be safe? Would the fighting pass near to her home? He couldn’t bear to think of her being frightened, and trying to protect the little ones against armed men. Perhaps he might have the chance to warn her once he was in the city? But that would mean that he would have to bypass the fighting in order to get to her. Perhaps once the gate was open there might be the possibility of slipping away through the streets to reach her house. He wasn’t going to be much use in the battle, after all, and she would need protecting. Plus she would be facing other dangers. Someone, somewhere
in the city, had murdered her father and brother, presumably in order to get the very information which she had passed to him. Her life was now in danger because of that, as well as the siege. But how could he help? He must try and think through everything she’d told him, to try and work out who had done such a foul thing. Then if he could only manage to reach her once he was in the city, he might be able to help. He concentrated, closing his eyes against the world, looking inside himself as he tried to remember every word she’d said, every place and time and person she’d mentioned, but somehow he was distracted by the remembrance of her face in the firelight …

  His thoughts were interrupted by Sir Gilbert asking about his return to the castle. How had he managed it? He was interested, having had no time to question Edwin on the way a few hours ago as they made all speed back to the camp. Edwin told them of his journey through the darkened city, and was gratified when they both drew breath sharply at the mention of his attacker. Their motives were different, though: Sir Reginald wanted a blow-by-blow description of the fight, which Edwin was not sure he was qualified to give (unless the knight wanted to hear that he’d been frightened out of his wits and then lucky), but Sir Gilbert had a deeper purpose.

  ‘If someone attacked you as you made your way back to the castle, it’s possible that this person knew that you carried a message and sought to stop you delivering it.’ Edwin agreed, thinking of the body and particularly the beaten face and missing finger: what had the boy given away under such pain?