“Never mind. We know the Scots are on the march.” Oliver’s face fell into angry lines. “I was out the day before yesterday, and we lessoned some raiding parties very well. I piled their dead in heaps all along the borders of your land, and they have stayed well to the east of Sandhoe since then. But they were only small parties, raiding. Alain has patrols out in the hills south of the great wall. Did you not see them?”
“Only raiding…” Audris shuddered and swallowed hard, but she did not tell him what she had seen. She knew his indifference to what happened on land that was not beholden to Jernaeve. Then she answered his question. “We came in from the north where the breach is near the bridge. Hugh wanted to be as far from Dere Street as possible.”
“That was wise,” Oliver approved. “There is an army going southeast along that road, perhaps to attack Durham or even intending to threaten York. Corbridge is taken, but no large force has come west from there. Young Oliver is by Hexham, and the Scots have not yet troubled the abbey. But they will not forget Jernaeve, curse them. They will come.”
Suddenly Oliver stopped and blinked and Audris realized he was wondering why he had been telling her, of all people, such things. She was not certain herself, first associating this rare exposure of his concern with her own feeling, which had been growing steadily, that she was capable of doing anything necessary for herself. The notion had crystallized in her mind when she had wanted to go to Morpeth; it had been confirmed when—ignorant and all unknown as she was among the people of Heugh—she had hidden her fear, descended into the seething inner bailey, and chosen just the right woman in whom to place authority (backed by her own status as a noblewoman). Thereby, all the women had been organized so that the stock was penned, the children controlled, and a good meal produced for the men guarding the walls.
However, as she nodded and agreed sadly, “Yes, they will come,” and her uncle stared at her for a moment, his mouth setting harder with disappointment, Audris sighed. Oliver had not recognized her change from girl to woman; he had only been hoping she would foresee safety. Well, she was silly to expect more, Audris thought. Had she not thanked God more than once that Oliver was not the most perceptive of men? She could not have it both ways. It was enough that he loved her. Let him see her as pleased him best, for in the end it mattered little. She was ripe to make her own life now.
While they were talking, Eric had stopped sucking. Feeling him release her breast, Audris pulled her gown up and rose to her feet as she lifted him to her shoulder, patting his back to bring the wind up. Oliver stepped back a pace and drew a long breath.
“Go up to the keep,” he said. “Your tower is as you left it. Your aunt will welcome Lady Maud. I must send out messengers to bring in the yeomen.”
Memories of the horrors they had passed rose in Audris’s mind, and her eyes closed over tears as her arms tightened around Eric. “I pray God you have not waited too long,” she whispered.
Oliver had started to turn away, but his soles gritted on the floor as he swung back toward her. “So? I will bid all make haste. And what of Alain and young Oliver? Shall I call them to Jernaeve to—”
“No!” Audris exclaimed in instinctive fear and revulsion—and then she was ashamed, for she had no present cause to dislike and distrust her cousins, so she kept her eyes closed. But she did not wish harm to come to them; Oliver and Eadyth would grieve. “Send them to their keeps to watch the southern croplands,” she said. And when she did open her eyes, Oliver was nodding and looking at her with a kind of uneasy wonder.
“You are right,” he said. “The army will settle around Jernaeve, but Alain’s and Oliver’s men cannot make the difference between holding the lower wall or losing it. On the other hand, they may make the difference between having some crops or no crops to harvest this autumn. From their own keeps they may be able to drive off the small parties foraging south for supplies.”
Audris looked up at him blankly; she had known nothing of the reasons. She only feared her cousins—although it had been many years since either of them tried to do her a despite. But she could not tell her uncle; her aunt would not listen when they had hurt her and Bruno had been punished for protecting her. Had she understood her uncle better then… but she had not; it was much later that she had learned to love him. At that time she had feared Oliver almost as much as she feared his sons. And then Father Anselm had come, and she was mostly safe after that. It was all long ago, but still Audris felt relief that Alain and Oliver would not be in Jernaeve. She smiled to herself as her uncle left and walked toward the barracks. Hopefully he would be very disappointed in her, and the Scots would not come soon or, if God was merciful, at all. She had had no foreseeing—no vision, no urge to weave.
***
Unfortunately, however, Oliver was not disappointed. In fact, Audris’s instinctive remarks fit the timing of events far better than she wished. Had Oliver’s summons to his yeomen been a day later, many of them would have been lost. Moreover, his summons would have been just a day later, for the day after Audris arrived, a number of men who held small keeps along the North Tyne sought shelter in Jernaeve for themselves, their families, and their small troops of men-at-arms. Some had been driven out, and some had yielded on terms. All reported that Sir William de Summerville was bringing a large army south along the river from Liddesdale. Oliver had shrugged angrily. Summerville was bad news; probably he carried a grudge over his last attempt on Jernaeve.
There had been discussions that day and the next—while still more refugees of all types came to Jernaeve’s gates seeking safety—among the knights who had gathered. Most of them wanted to attack Summerville’s army near the breach in the great wall. They argued that it would not take many men to hold that breach, with the river on one side and Jernaeve’s lower wall on the other. No matter how many men Summerville had, only a few at a time could come through.
“Yes,” Oliver pointed out dryly, “but they can keep coming through long after you are exhausted.”
“Unless Summerville has orders to bring his army south and he does not want to suffer losses or delay,” one of the more hopeful knights suggested.
“If he fears losses or delay, he will not come through that breach at all, but leave the Tyne, turn east along the wall, and then go south on Dere Street,” Oliver answered. “He must know that road has been cleared of resistance.”
“And if that is his intention, had we not better stay quiet behind these walls?” another, less sanguine man asked. “If we attack, might that not draw down a vengeance on our host he might otherwise have been spared?”
Since Oliver was almost certain that Jernaeve would be attacked no matter what the dispossessed knights did, his lips twisted wryly at the “consideration for his welfare,” which, he suspected, was a good part simple cowardice. That man would bear watching; despair could spread like a pestilence. But even from such as he, Oliver did not need to fear treachery. Most of the men had probably kept their lands the first time David had brought an army through Northumbria by swearing fealty to Matilda, but their current fury showed clearly that they had not been offered any choice this time. Whether the decision was David’s or Summerville’s own, now the intent was plainly to conquer Northumbria and make the conquest permanent by replacing the current holders with David’s men. They would all fight, because fighting was the only hope they had of recovering their lands.
While they argued, Oliver considered their numbers, adding in the yeomen who had decided to take refuge in the keep. There were more than enough men to defend the lower walls—if Summerville was not prepared to take huge losses. If, on the other hand, Summerville threw his whole army against them, attacking on all sides simultaneously, it would not take many assaults to win a bridgehead on a mile and a half of wall. And once a safe passage was held, the rest would flood in. Fifty men would make no difference; probably even a hundred would make no difference. Moreover, there were far too many m
en to defend old Iron Fist itself. If they were driven out of the lower bailey and up into the keep, they would the sooner be starved out.
“Three men and their troops,” Oliver said quietly, after slamming the hilt of his sword against a convenient metal buckler for silence—the argument between those who wished to attack and those who felt a passive course was best had been growing heated. “That is what I think can be safely spared from the defense of Jernaeve for guarding the breach and attempting to drive Summerville’s troops along the wall to Dere Street. Will you cast lots among those who desire to try to drive Summerville east to Dere Street?”
It was a bitter irony of fate that they did not have time to cast lots. As they were arguing about the method to use—agreement even on that seeming impossible—one of the men Oliver had sent west of the river to hide atop the great wall and watch rushed in to report that the vanguard of Summerville’s army was less than a league from the breach. Oliver hit the buckler again and, when relative silence had fallen and all eyes were on him, pointed to three men who had been among the most vociferous of those who wished to hold the breach.
“You three,” he ordered, “take your men and go. Remember, we will not open the north gate to take you in again, no matter how hard-pressed you are. If we can, we will open the south gate, the one here near the river, where the bank is narrowest and fewest can attempt to rush the gate and keep it open—but I do not promise it. If we cannot take you back into Jernaeve, ford the river and ride south to Devil’s Water. My son Oliver will shelter you there.”
Shouts broke out—approval, protest, questions—and Oliver let out a roar that brought silence again. “I am master in Jernaeve. You came to me for refuge. While there was no threat, I was willing to listen. Now I command, and you obey without question or argument. If you cannot, go!”
In a sense it was a dangerous gambit. Each of the men was accustomed to being master himself, to giving orders, not taking them; in fact, more battles had been lost because leaders could not control their vassals than for any other reason. However, Oliver had two strong supports for his claim to mastership: the common sense of most of the men, who recognized the danger of anarchy and Oliver’s right, and the knowledge that old Iron Fist, the last refuge in the keep itself, was closed as tight against them as against the enemy. The upper walls were held by Oliver’s own men-at-arms under the command of his steward of many years, Eadmer, and all knew he would not permit anyone to enter unless Sir Oliver led them in.
An angry cry or two dwindled into silence as those who uttered them realized they had little support. Oliver noted who had made the protests, but he did not comment. His next remarks concerned which men should hold what posts along the wall. Without making obvious what he was doing, he set the protesters in among those he knew best and trusted most, and those he had marked as least willing to fight, he ordered to the northernmost wall, the great wall itself.
His reasons were simple: the great wall was higher and thicker than the east and west walls, and there was no way down from it, except by rough, ladderlike stairs at each corner where it met the lower walls. For those reasons, it was the least likely to be attacked; thus, it was best to have the weakest there; moreover, the north wall was farthest from the keep, so the other defenders would have more warning if the Scots did make a successful assault on it.
All hurried to their posts, but for a time it seemed Oliver’s conviction that Jernaeve would be a main target was wrong. Some troops did engage the men holding the breach, but most of the army hurried east along the north side of the great wall as if they were headed for the route south along Dere Street and would leave Jernaeve unmolested behind them. Insensibly, as the day passed, most of the men began to relax. True, the assaults against those holding the breach, which had been intermittent at first, were becoming more violent, but many blamed Oliver’s stubbornness and the bitterness of those fighting there for that. Most no longer associated the desire to pass the breach with an intention of attacking Jernaeve. After all, early in the day between assaults, the Scots had called to be allowed to pass, saying they would do no harm to those who had fought them and would permit them to reenter Jernaeve in peace.
All knew, of course, that passing meant freedom to raid the lands south of Jernaeve—and it was that, the men thought, which Oliver wished to prevent. So, as the shadows grew longer and the breach was forced—those who had held it being driven back down the bank of the river—many who watched felt a bitter sense of satisfaction. Had not their lands already been lost to them while Oliver’s were still untouched?
Some did not even order their bowmen to fire on the Scots when the bank between the river and the wall narrowed enough to bring them within arrowshot, to hold them back so that the weary defenders could be got in safely. But for all his hard words, Oliver did not desert them. He came out of the south gate himself, leading fresh men who were filled with rage and eager to strike some blows at those who had driven them from their homes. The charge drove the attackers back almost to the breach, so that the eighteen men—all that remained of the seventy-two who had gone out in the morning—could be taken in. Then, while the attackers were regrouping, believing that a new and equally stubborn force was pitted against them, Oliver led his men back inside Jernaeve.
By then the light was failing. Those by the north end of the wall, where the river was more than half a mile away, noted that men—none could say how many—began to come through the breach, but they stayed well away from Jernaeve’s wall. None passed down along the narrowing strip of land between the river and Jernaeve while it was light enough to see, and if they passed at night, they did so very silently. It would not be very strange for the Scots to pass by night, because that would save them from being targets for missiles from Jernaeve when they had to be close to the walls in the yards-wide area near the ford and while they were crossing the river. The men on Jernaeve’s walls had the whole next day to argue about whether the Scots had passed or not. They were glad of the subject, because it had begun to rain before dawn and they were wet and miserable as well as bored. There was no shelter on the walls, and all were growing resentful at being kept there under arms, feeling, as they did, that all danger had passed.
Even Oliver had begun to wonder. He himself would have judged from the behavior of Summerville’s troops that his army was hurrying south to join King David. Yet Summerville was clever; Oliver did not trust him—and Audris had said there was little time. Oliver paced the walls and saw no more than the others saw. Summerville might be under orders strict enough to make him pass Jernaeve without a challenge—but Audris…
Shaking his head angrily, Oliver told himself he was a fool to give so much weight to her words when they were most likely spoken in fear and ignorance, but somehow he could not change the orders he had given—nor could he, filled as he was by doubt, enforce them. He distrusted himself all the more because he felt unwell. He had twice been wounded lightly in the charge he had led—a slash on the left thigh and a cut from an arrow that had not really penetrated on the shoulder. The wounds were nothing, but he had had an urgent desire to ask Audris to tend them—which was ridiculous, for he had suffered far worse and healed well without her help.
The long day passed, and still the rain fell. An hour before the evening meal, Oliver had resolved he would send messengers to tell all except a few guards to come down and take what shelter they could find. Many, he knew, had already done so. But he stood mute, watching the servants load wagons with bread and cheese and ale and start along the walls to deliver the food. He could have sent the message with them, he thought dully, and the men—those who were faithful—could have eaten as dry as those who were faithless. They would sleep dry, though, he resolved. Those who had done their duty would be relieved by the men who had abandoned their posts without permission. He would ride along the wall himself as soon as the meal was over. Those who had come down could sleep in the wet.
Had the rai
n stopped, Oliver might have yielded to his sense of foreboding, no matter how foolish it seemed, and changed his mind again. But as dusk fell, the skies opened in a new deluge. Thus, Oliver did as he had decided—but he could not sleep himself, and his heart was heavy as lead inside his chest. Sometime before midnight, he gave up trying, roused a groom to saddle his horse, and rode north to see if the weaker men had abandoned the wall altogether. The rain had finally stopped—the downpour at dusk seemingly having emptied the skies—but the air was full of a mist so deceptive that Oliver found his horse wandering off the well-known road. He would never have known it, except that the squelch of his stallion’s hooves as they pulled out of the muddy road stopped when he got into a field.
Oliver cursed softly. The mist seemed to muffle sound, too. He should have been challenged as he rode, but he had not been. Were all the guards asleep? He called out and received a reassuring response, but the relief he felt did not last long. Soon his mouth was dry, and his heart pounded. Never in his life had Oliver been so frightened—and there was nothing to fear, nothing.
The shouts of warning cut through the miasma of terror like cries of salvation instead of threats of disaster. He responded at once, kicking his destrier into a dangerous canter and bellowing, “Up! Up! The Scots are at the walls!” And although he was well aware of how perilous the situation was, he was no longer sick at heart. The threat he had felt was real, no product of a superstitious and disordered mind. He had known Summerville desired Jernaeve and known he was a crafty opponent.
All along as he passed he heard men calling out, saw torches flame into life, saw some running eagerly to the stairs to mount to the wooden rampart—and noted a few holding back. A bitter, grim smile twisted his mouth. This time the cowards would find no safety on the ground. There was a blackness ahead, somehow more solid than the dark broken by the haloed yellow spots of the torches. Oliver slowed his mount’s pace, knowing he had come to the great wall in the north. He had intended to turn right and ride completely around the wall, but when he drew breath to shout his warning again, he heard a voice cry “Quarter!” That drew a roar of rage from Oliver, and he flung himself from his horse and ran for the steps, pushing others out of his way but bellowing for them to follow.
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