B00B9BL6TI EBOK

by C. B. Hanley

  The other knight paused for a moment, and then dropped his own sword as a gesture of surrender. He struggled into a sitting position and removed his helmet, casting it aside. He stood, stiffly. No bones broken.

  The victor spoke. ‘Sir Gilbert de l’Aigle. You are not injured?’

  The captive replied. ‘Sir Robert Fitzwalter at your service.’ He picked up his sword and passed it, hilt-first, to Gilbert.

  Gilbert passed it over to the group of his men who were behind him and bade them take him away and keep him secure. One of them caught the reins of the loose horse and they led away man and beast.

  Gilbert mounted his own horse again and looked around. Most of the fighting had stopped. Knights and lords were surrendering all around him, while their foot troops fled as best they could, knowing that only death awaited them. He didn’t think they stood much of a chance: there were many miles between them and their nearest allies, miles which were filled with the local peasantry who had had their homes and livelihoods destroyed, their families killed. There would be revenge.

  Another loose horse shot past him, a knight’s destrier, and he tried unsuccessfully to catch the reins. A second captured horse would be valuable, even if the owner of it had got away. But as he looked at the animal, his heart faltered in its rhythm. He knew that mount. That saddle. Reginald. His blood turned to ice.

  The victorious regent was surrounded by cheering men. John Marshal looked on as the old man was congratulated by his compatriots, the Earl of Chester being among the first to shake his hand. Chester’s arrival at the Stonebow gate had certainly been timely, but John Marshal couldn’t help but wonder whether it had been staged that way, so that the earl should be the one whose intervention proved decisive. Had it really taken him all that time to break through from the north gate? But no matter, it was done now. The battle was over. The captured lords and earls – Saer de Quincey of Winchester, Henry de Bohun of Hereford, both the de Clares, Gilbert de Gant, whom Louis had had the temerity to name Earl of Lincoln, so many! – were making their submission.

  It was still only mid-morning, so there was plenty of the day left. John Marshal took his contingent of men to find the rebel headquarters. There might be some important information there which would be of use in driving the French out of the rest of the country, but more to the point, there would be valuables to be seized. Such had been the speed of their retreat that they were bound to have left most of the treasures they’d stolen. He could do with some pecuniary gain: as a bastard son he’d inherited little of worth from his father, and he could expect little from his uncle, who in any case had five legitimate sons of his own to provide for. No, he had to make his own way in the world and that suited him well, especially on a day like this. He felt a glow of satisfaction as he remembered the fight, and particularly the action around the siege engines.

  On finding the French headquarters he was agreeably surprised to find that there were even more goods than he’d expected. Once he’d appropriated the best of them for himself and on behalf of his uncle, he allowed his men to take the remainder. As he looked about him he realised that he wasn’t the only one to have thought of plunder: others were allowing their troops to loot as well. As he watched, a group of Chester’s men kicked in the front door of a house and started to carry off goods from inside, to the screams of the inhabitants. A man, presumably the householder, tried to stop them, but he was knocked to the floor and beaten viciously before they made off with his possessions.

  Possibly this was going too far? He made his way back to his uncle, temporarily installed in the minster yard, and reported the situation to him. The state of affairs was becoming more serious: as some men saw others starting to loot the houses, they themselves joined in. But surely they had come to rescue these people? Had they not suffered enough under the French rule? He put it to his uncle. The other lords pressed around eagerly like wolves, greed plain on their faces.

  The regent was silent for a moment as he considered. Then he pronounced judgement. ‘I think we will allow this. Firstly, the men will be difficult to stop now that they have started and developed a lust for plunder. Better to let them continue with our blessing than to try and stop them and let them realise we have lost control. Secondly, they have just won a battle for the king, so they must have their reward.’ He paused and chose his next words with care, looking at his nobles. ‘It is also possible that the citizens of Lincoln surrendered too easily to the invaders and collaborated with them, so the stripping of their town will serve as an object lesson to other places which may be attacked, to encourage them not to submit so tamely.’

  It would be impossible to argue with him, and of course he was talking great sense. The only thing John Marshal should do would be to ensure his own personal share of the plunder – as some of the others were obviously about to do, slipping away surreptitiously from the gathering – and yet he hesitated. He had seen something else out of the corner of his eye, which made even him balk. He tried one more time. ‘But my lord, they are even starting to loot the cathedral, the house of God.’

  Even the regent looked taken aback by this, but the papal legate, hovering at his elbow, bent down to whisper in his ear, and then stood to address the gathering in his reedy voice. Men strained to hear.

  ‘As the representative of the Holy Father it is my decree that the clergy of Lincoln did not do enough to fight the invaders in the name of their true king, and so they are to be considered as enemies and excommunicates.’

  So that was that. Encouraged by their leaders, the victorious army started to attack and steal from the town they had come to save. John felt ambivalent – taking the French treasure was fair game, but the trinkets and possessions of the citizens was another matter. And yet, could the victorious men be denied? They’d fought hard, after all. He decided that he wouldn’t take any more for himself – what he had taken from the French would be plenty – but he wouldn’t seek to stop anyone else from gaining, either. Fair was fair. He rode through the streets, watching. All around him soldiers were entering houses, carrying off anything they could find and beating down anyone in their way. Women’s screams started from many places – there would be more crimes than robbery this day. A group of Salisbury’s footsoldiers broke into a tavern and rolled out the barrels of ale, which they smashed open in the street. Others joined them and soon the road was full of drunkards.

  Amid the chaos he found one who showed distaste. Gilbert de l’Aigle joined him and they rode side by side through the madness. The other knight shook his head, indicating his disapproval as another shop was plundered in front of them, the owner beaten and kicked into the gutter as he sought to save his wares. ‘I don’t like this.’

  John Marshal shrugged. It probably wasn’t fair on the townsman but he had seen such things before, and he knew it wouldn’t stop until the evil had run its course through men’s veins, until they had gorged themselves on their crimes, until the city was stripped of its last silver halfpenny. He merely said, ‘My lord the regent has sanctioned it.’

  His companion did not reply but looked on tight-lipped as citizens started to flee their homes, carrying whatever possessions they could carry. They didn’t really have anywhere to go – some sought to hide, others fled downhill towards the south gate, following the path of the invaders who had taken flight.

  John Marshal watched them and didn’t at first hear the other’s question, but once it was repeated he was able to answer. ‘Reginald le Croc? We were together by the siege engines, and then in the melee near here. I think I saw him heading off down that street there. He may have been following someone. I lost sight of him.’

  Gilbert thanked him and departed, as John Marshal continued to watch the destruction unfold.

  Edwin and Alys looked at each other over the dead body of the knight. Edwin had a sense of unreality, and he could see that she looked dazed as well. There was blood and broken furniture everywhere, the front door hanging crazily off its leather hinges, and, of cou
rse, three bodies on the floor and another in the kitchen. He sought to come to terms with what had happened. Vaguely, he became aware that the noise of battle had ceased; men were no longer running in panic past the door. Carefully he moved his arms, laid Sir Reginald’s head gently on the floor and rose. His whole body was stiff and aching. He was covered in blood which was drying on him and he was aware that he stank. But he was alive, and so was she.

  He risked looking out of the door and stepping outside. The street was empty, although discarded weapons and the occasional corpse lay around. He sought to close the door as best he could, although it would need mending. He turned back inside, to see that she had mutely taken one of the pieces of cloth which littered the floor and was reverently covering the knight’s face and body with it. She arranged it a little more carefully than was necessary, and stood. Still she said nothing.

  He had to break the silence. ‘I think it’s over.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  But he was wrong. From the higher part of the city came more shouts and screams, although this time without the clash of weapons. What was going on?

  She knew, for she had been warned. ‘They’re looting.’

  He was shocked. ‘They can’t be. We’ve won. We came to save you, not to destroy the town.’

  But the sounds were coming nearer. Shouts. A door being kicked in. Gleeful calls. Dear Lord, the victorious army was breaking into the houses. How would he protect her? He looked futilely at his knife – it would be of little use if a gang of armed men broke in. But he had to try – he hadn’t come this far to give up now. ‘You should go and hide upstairs. I’ll stay here to try and see them off.’

  ‘You can’t.’ She was quaking, but firm. ‘You came here to save us, at the risk of your own life. I can’t leave you here alone to face them.’ She looked around then picked her way through the debris to pick up Gervase’s discarded and bloodied axe, which trembled in her hands. They stood side by side facing the door.

  The looters had reached the empty house on the end of the block. Edwin could hear them crowing over their gains as they made off with whatever they had found. Then crashing and splintering coming from next door. A man’s voice, shouting at them to stop. The sounds of a struggle, a thump on the floor. Then laughter. Footsteps outside the house. He braced himself and gripped the dagger. There was a scuffle outside the door, and then it was flung back, crashing into the wall as most of the remaining hinges gave way. Alys swallowed and raised the axe.

  A man stood in the doorway, but as Edwin’s heart lurched he recognised the figure. Dear Lord, it couldn’t be. Were they to be this lucky?

  It was Sir Gilbert. He looked around at the carnage in the room and at Edwin.

  ‘I’ve driven them off, for now. I saw you outside the door a moment ago. Thank God I found you. You’re injured?’

  Edwin looked down at himself, realising how he must seem. ‘No. It is not mine. Most of it is …’ he looked down at the shrouded figure on the floor.

  Sir Gilbert followed his gaze. ‘Oh no. No. Please …’ He stumbled over and drew the cloth to one side. He fell to his knees, then looked up, confusion turning to anger, fury blazing in his eyes. ‘Who did this?’

  Edwin backed away, afraid of the rage. ‘It was him.’ He pointed to the body of Gervase.

  Sir Gilbert blinked as though he had noticed the other bodies for the first time. ‘What in God’s name has been happening in here?’

  Edwin drew breath to answer but was interrupted by more shouts from outside. Sir Gilbert whirled around, sword drawn. Three men had appeared in the doorway, footsoldiers with some kind of livery which Edwin didn’t recognise. He tried to prepare himself for a fight, but the men took one look at the gore-spattered knight, the blood-drenched man behind him, the carnage and the corpses on the floor, and fled.

  Sir Gilbert spoke. ‘No time now. Get upstairs, both of you. I’ll defend the house.’

  Alys opened her mouth but Edwin knew better than to argue. The knight was angry, and any potential looters would bear the brunt of his wrath. The house would be safe, but she probably didn’t need to see the consequences. He took her arm and dragged her towards the staircase. ‘Come!’ Somewhat unwillingly, she allowed herself to be guided.

  Edwin started up the stairs, but as he reached the top there was a sudden flurry of movement and he had a brief moment of warning as the knife came towards him. He ducked quickly back down and the weapon flailed over his head, the holder of it overbalancing. Edwin grabbed his assailant’s foot and pulled him over, readying his own weapon, but Alys screamed at him to stop and wrenched at his arm. He looked properly at his attacker and realised it was a small boy. It must be one of her brothers. Quickly he ascended the last few steps to allow Alys entry to the room, where she immediately grabbed the boy and held him close. He was obviously frightened out of his wits, but he had been ready. Over in the corner two other children huddled on the bed, looking in terror at him. He must look like a figure from their worst nightmares. Alys stumbled over to them and hugged all three children as they clung to her. Edwin stationed himself by the top of the staircase, dagger drawn, ready to repel any attack.

  It wasn’t needed. He stood unmoving for what seemed like hours, but the trouble in the rest of the street didn’t bother them, the sight of the armed knight standing guard at the door being enough to put off any looters. Eventually the worst of the noise passed and moved on, and he risked moving back from the steps and sitting heavily on the floor. He realised how exhausted he was.

  Alys looked up from the children. She was still white-faced. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He realised that she didn’t know who either of the knights were who had come to her aid. ‘They are companions … friends of mine.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I mean … I don’t understand how Gervase could do those dreadful things. I’ve known him for years, he was a friend of our family, and yet …’

  He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know how. ‘He’s dead. He will harm you no more.’

  She nodded and fell silent. But after a few moments she spoke again. ‘When he said …’ she swallowed her next words, aware that the children were listening, ‘when he was saying those things downstairs, about what happened to Nick and to Papa. He must have had someone else. He didn’t say “I did this”, but “we”. Who was he talking about?’

  Edwin reached forward and took her hand. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was late in the afternoon, and the last sounds of looting in the street had been some time ago. Alys sat on the bed in the chamber, with the children draped round her. Edric was still watchful, and hadn’t let the knife fall from his hand through all the day, but now it drooped as he fought against exhaustion. Margery and Randal were fast asleep, Randal’s hand clutched around a fistful of her gown even as he slumbered. Next to the bed Edwin lay sprawled on the floor, exhaustion having eventually overcome him too, but he still gripped the dagger in his hand as though ready to wake and defend them if the need arose. She wasn’t sure he would be able to, though, even if something did happen, for he was so deeply asleep that she’d felt obliged to check several times to make sure he wasn’t dead. From downstairs came the sound of the knight as he paced. He had stood guard at the door without flagging for many hours, and she’d heard how he’d been forced to drive away drunken thieves and looters several times. Gratitude to him – and to Edwin, and to the dead knight downstairs, and even to Aldred – penetrated every bone in her body. She touched each of the children in turn, stroking their faces, and knowing that they wouldn’t be here alive had it not been for the efforts of brave men to protect them.

  The noises from downstairs changed – no longer a pacing but a kind of dragging – so she decided to go and see what was afoot. He’d told them all to stay upstairs, but surely the danger was past now. Gently she disentangled Randal’s hand from the skirt of her gown, and shifted quietly so as not to disturb
Margery. Edric too had nodded off, so she laid his head down on the pillow. With a final look at them and at the slumbering Edwin, she moved towards the steps.

  She was tentative as she neared the bottom, not wanting to startle the armed man, so she waited and coughed loudly before attempting to set foot off the stairs. He heard her and came through, bareheaded now and having laid down his sword and shield. Sweat streaked his face, but at least it was the one part of him not covered in dried blood, so he looked a little less nightmarish. He too looked exhausted and she felt a pang that he’d given up his chance to rest in order to protect them. His face was sombre and stern, and she was a little afraid. She had never spoken to a knight before – how was she supposed to address him?

  When he saw who was standing on the stair, he softened and held out his hand to help her down. ‘Come. There is no danger.’ His voice was hoarse and his English accented.

  She took his hand and stepped down. ‘Sir, I …’

  He led her through to the shop and released her hand before turning to face her. He spoke gently. ‘My name is Gilbert. And you must be Alys.’

  ‘Yes, but how did you know?’

  The corners of his mouth made an effort to turn upwards. ‘Edwin spoke of little else once he had returned to pass on your message.’

  She didn’t know what to say, but was saved from replying by a look of some consternation on his face. ‘Is he …?’

  She hastened to reassure him. ‘He’s asleep. As are the children.’

  He nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Edwin said you had a family. Well, while they’re resting, perhaps you could help me. I’m trying to create some order down here.’ He gestured round the room, and Alys could see that he had already righted the damaged counter, and had moved Aldred’s body in from the kitchen. He saw her looking and spoke again. ‘I don’t know much of how you live in this house, but I thought if I cleared the kitchen then it might be better for when the children come down, so I moved him in here.’