by Wayne Grant
“None, my lord,” he answered honestly. “You’ve built well.”
***
Roland passed what was left of the afternoon back at the smith’s shed working the bellows and keeping a watch on the castle gate. He doubted any of the newly-arrived English mercenaries would know him, but he wanted no surprises. With the arrival of these hired swords and the news that de Courcy would march on Tyrone in three days, the need to escape from Carrickfergus had become urgent. Somehow he had to get free of the Prince’s hospitality and get a warning to Declan before his friend got swept up in a war. Lost in thought as he pumped the bellows, he almost missed the arrival of the English.
Two men, dressed in good mail and sporting expensive cloaks, presented themselves to the guards at the gate and were ushered into the keep. Roland was relieved that neither man looked familiar. In less than an hour the two reappeared on the steps of the keep and were escorted back through the gate. Roland guessed the new arrivals would be quartered in the town. John de Courcy might be a bold man, but he was no fool. He would not invite two hundred heavily armed mercenaries to enjoy the run of his fortress. Such men might come to covet the place.
The sun was hovering just above the western wall of Carrickfergus, when he saw Finn scurry through the gate and look around. Roland stepped out of the smith’s shed and caught the boy’s eye. Finn made no acknowledgement of the glance, but turned and hurried up the stone steps to the wall walk above the gate. Roland made his apologies to the smith and wandered slowly across the cobbled courtyard. There were more than the usual number of people about, hurrying to complete their business before nightfall, but none paid him any mind. He climbed the steps and ducked into the cramped wooden structure where he had first met the boy.
Finn was waiting for him.
“The situation has changed, Master Finn,” he began. “I need to take my leave of Carrickfergus—tonight if possible. You said you would think on a way that I might get free of this place unnoticed.”
The boy screwed up his face and shook his head.
“Oh, that’s why I come t’ see ye, lord. I had a plan and a good one, but it can’t be done as quick as all that. Once a week, I come with a cart to the inner ward and muck out the stables there. Ye see, Lord de Courcy pays for the stablemaster’s services in part with horse shit and the stablemaster sells it to the farmers to spread on their fields. It’s a profitable trade.”
“I see,” said Roland. “You would have me buried beneath the horse turds.”
“Exactly, my lord! I have never had a guard take a second look at that dung cart as I’ve passed through the gate. I’d have trotted ye right over to the stables, put ye on that big grey horse and off you’d go.”
“It’s an excellent plan,” Roland agreed, “but….”
Finn spread his hands and shrugged.
“But I may only come on the assigned day and that is four days hence.”
Roland sighed. De Courcy and his army would be a full day’s march ahead of him by then. He needed to be gone well ahead of them if he was to get a warning to Declan.
“Is there no other way out of here, Master Finn?” he asked quietly. “I believe I may need to leave this very evening.”
Finn’s shoulders slumped and he did not speak for a long time, then his head came up.
“There is a way, my lord, but I doubt ye’ll like it any more than the horse turds.”
“Tell me, lad.”
“Well sir, the gate is closed tight at full dark and well-guarded. There’ll be no escape through there,” the boy said. “So, if you are to escape Carrickfergus tonight, you’ll have to go over the wall.”
Roland frowned at that.
“It’s a good twenty-foot drop to the path that runs from the gate to the drawbridge, boy. It could be done, but not without being seen by guards on the wall, even in the dark. Once they raise the alarm, I’d not get far.”
Finn shook his head vigorously.
“No, not that wall! Even if the guards did not see ye, there are two more men on duty at the drawbridge over the dry moat, and it will be raised after dark.”
“Then where?” Roland asked, beginning to get exasperated.
“The west wall, sir.”
Roland stared at Finn in the dim light. Perhaps he’d misheard the boy. He’d seen the west wall that overlooked the harbour when they’d docked days ago and had studied it carefully since in his inspection of the castle grounds. There was nothing but jagged rock extending out from the bottom of that wall for ten feet. Beyond that was the water of the harbour.
“The west wall, you say? Do you think I have wings?”
“Wings, sir? Why would you need wings?” the boy asked, genuinely curious. Then before Roland could answer, Finn brightened.
“Oh! I suppose ye’ve only seen the bottom of that wall at low tide, sir. Hereabouts, the water rises over ten feet at high tide and covers most of the rocks. The next one will be when ye hear the bells ring for Compline tonight. If ye take a good long jump, ye clear the rocks and land safe in the water.” The boy paused, then added, “Can ye swim?”
Roland reassessed his judgement of the boy. This plan was less revolting than hiding under horse manure, but considerably more dangerous. Still, it might work, and he’d take his chances with the rocks and water rather than trust to John de Courcy.
“Aye, Finn, enough to paddle to shore. If I go tonight, can you have my horse saddled near the harbour and ready to ride?’
Finn rubbed his chin.
“Aye, I could sir, but…”
Roland smiled. Finn gave up nothing without payment.
“What is your price?” he asked.
The boy fixed him with a pleading look.
“Take me with ye when ye go, Master Inness.”
Roland had been reaching for his coin purse and had not expected this answer.
“No,” he said firmly.
“Then ye can find yer own horse,” the boy replied softly.
“Finn, if we’re caught, de Courcy will take no account of your youth. You’ll be killed.”
Finn snorted.
“If I deliver your horse to you from the town stables, how long will it be before they know it? If I help ye, I’ve a better chance to stay alive going than staying.”
Roland looked at the boy in the dim light. He was coiled up in the corner of the tiny room, his eyes full of fear and defiance, like some small animal brought to bay. Roland sighed. This boy, he knew, had an instinct for survival and had weighed the risks with a clear eye. They would, in time, learn that he had abetted the escape. Besides, he’d taken a liking to the lad—and he had to have his horse.
He held out his hand.
“Agreed,” he said.
Finn spit in his hand and reached out to grip Roland’s, sealing the bargain.
***
As the sun dipped below the western wall of the fortress, Roland dutifully headed for his room in the barracks. He looked up at the sky and saw a line of grey clouds moving in from the west. It would likely be a moonless night, which was both good and bad. The deep darkness would make it easier for him to gain the west wall unseen by the night watch, but the thought of leaping blindly into the darkness was daunting. It meant putting all his faith in Finn’s assurance that the evening high tide would be sufficient to keep him from being smashed on the rocks beneath the wall.
Finn was to wait near the harbour with The Grey and a mount of his own until midnight. Beyond that time, the ebbing tide would make a plunge off the wall suicidal. For his part, Roland would wait until he heard the chapel bells ring the call for evening Compline prayers, then slip out of the barracks and make his way to the west wall.
He reached his small room and sat down on the straw mattress to wait. There was a small window set high on the wall that let in whatever lingering light there might be and he watched as the view through the opening slowly darkened. The chapel bells rang out the call for Vespers, marking several more hours until the call to Compline.
He’d just stretched out on the straw mat to rest, knowing he would likely get no sleep this night, when there was a rap on his door. Startled, he leapt to his feet and opened the door to find a page standing there. The boy bowed, then issued an invitation.
“His grace, the Prince, wishes you to join him for the evening meal, Sir Roland. He says he wishes to hear more of the Battle of Towcester. You are to follow me.”
Roland’s stomach clenched. Now, of all nights, to get such an invitation! He thought to grab the boy, haul him into the room and knock him cold, but one of de Courcy’s men-at-arms was lounging in the corridor leaving him no opportunity. The page had already turned back the way he had come and Roland hurried to follow, cursing under his breath. He now had to hope that the evening meal would conclude before midnight or there would be no escape this night.
The page hardly looked back as he hurried across the bailey and up the stone steps of the keep. Once inside, he led Roland up the narrow spiral stairs, to the second floor. The great hall that had been largely empty the week before during de Courcy’s rambling interrogation was now filled with tables and benches and a few high-backed chairs.
Most of the lower tables were already occupied by Sir John’s retainers and what appeared to be prosperous local tradesmen from the town. Most paid no attention to his arrival, occupied as they were with each other and the pitchers of wine on the table. There was no sign of the lord of Carrickfergus or any of the newly-arrived English mercenaries.
“The Prince will be here shortly,” the page announced as he guided Roland through the throng to the high table at the south end of the hall. “You will sit at his table.”
Roland noted that his place was near the end of the high table, next to a fat and florid man who was dressed like a merchant and barely looked up as he took his seat. At the opposite end of the table sat the dour priest, Father Tibold, who, between gulps of wine, darted glances in his direction. Roland inclined his head toward the churchman in greeting, but Tibold chose to look away rather than return the gesture.
From his seat, he scanned the hall. Directly opposite him was the large arch of the main entrance. Through that door was the spiral stairs that led to the first floor and the only way into or out of the keep. He twisted around and noted two smaller archways behind the high table on either side of the hall. Where they led, he could not tell. When he turned back he saw three men enter the hall, flanked by a page. Roland had seen two of the men earlier when they had come to pay their respects at the keep. The third man had not been with them, but he was clearly their leader. The man was tall and lean and though his carriage was relaxed, there was a hint of coiled energy in his bearing. Roland did not recognize him, but he knew that look. It was the look of a man accustomed to violence and to command.
As the new arrivals made their way across the hall, Roland casually slid a carving knife off the table and tucked it into his boot. Thankfully, the fat man to his right was already in his cups and did not notice. As he watched the three men make their way through the hall, he saw little likelihood of trouble, but that was exactly when trouble tended to occur. The page directed two of the Englishmen to lower tables. Their leader he guided through the crowd toward the Prince’s table.
As the mercenary captain approached, Roland watched the man’s eyes casually scan those already seated. When his gaze landed on Roland, it lingered for a moment, then moved on. The page led the man to his place at the right hand of de Courcy’s throne-like seat, marking him as the guest of honour. The mercenary’s face showed little more than boredom as Father Tibold tried to engage him in conversation. The fat drunkard seated next to Roland belched loudly, just as a page rose to announce the arrival of their host.
“His grace, the Prince of Ulster!” the man intoned solemnly above the buzz of the dinner guests.
The room fell silent as all present rose and bowed as their host entered the feasting hall through the small arched door farthest from Roland. Sir John de Courcy looked resplendent in white robes set off with three crimson eagles embroidered on his left sleeve. He beckoned everyone to sit and after much scraping of chairs and benches, the dinner guests settled back into their places. The lord of Carrickfergus greeted his mercenary commander warmly before taking his own seat and soon the two men were deep in conversation.
Roland did not object when the fat merchant draped a meaty arm over his shoulders and poured wine into his empty cup while mumbling drunkenly in his ear. He preferred ale, but took a long swallow of the red liquid. It looked to be a long night.
As soon as de Courcy was seated, the kitchen staff began bringing in large trays laden with food. It seemed the Prince of Ulster did not spare expenses when entertaining guests. There were platters piled high with roast grouse and partridge and trays groaning with choice cuts of beef. Baskets full of fresh brown bread were placed on every table along with delicacies such as boiled crab and steamed oysters.
For a time, the buzz of conversation quieted as men tucked into this feast. Roland’s table companion had been regaling him with rambling details on the leather trade in Ulster, but turned his attention to the delights of the meal as soon as the food reached the table. Roland had little appetite, but stabbed a roast quail with a fork and forced himself to eat. If he made it out of the castle this night he would be on the run and one never knew when or where another meal might be taken.
He cast a quick glance at the centre of the table. De Courcy had taken even less food than Roland had—a few oysters and a chunk of brown bread, which he picked at as he listened to something his guest of honour was saying. He had seen nobles give lavish feasts before and the host usually led the revelry at such events, but de Courcy seemed disinterested in the food and drink.
A strange man, Roland thought.
***
An hour into the meal, trays and platters were still arriving from the kitchen and the merchant was snoring beside him. Through the thick stone walls of the keep and above the drone of the diners he heard the faint sounds of bells. It was the hour of Compline, leaving little more than two hours until midnight. He had a growing fear that the feast would drag on past that critical hour and his chance to escape would be lost for this night. Then there was a tap on his shoulder and he looked up to see the page bending over him.
“Lord de Courcy requests your company, Sir Roland—if you please.”
Roland nodded and rose from his chair to follow the page. As he approached de Courcy, the Prince was still in animated conversation with the mercenary captain, but looked up as Roland neared and beamed.
“Sir Roland, good of you to come!” he said above the buzz of conversation in the hall. “May I present Captain Charles Oliver, commander of my English mercenaries. Captain Oliver, this is Sir Roland Inness. He’s come from Chester and is my guest for a fortnight or so. As it turns out, he was at Towcester, same as you—but fighting on the winning side!”
Oliver gave Roland an odd look, but laughed at de Courcy’s jibe.
“I trust I’ve chosen my sides more carefully for this campaign, my lord!” he shot back.
“No doubt you have, sir,” de Courcy replied then turned back to Roland. “I thought it would be fascinating to hear how your accounts of that day might compare.”
As de Courcy spoke, Roland looked at Charles Oliver. The man was staring at him now.
Trouble.
As de Courcy finished his introductions, Oliver spoke up.
“My lord, I did not realize you had Sir Roland Inness as your guest!” he boomed and stuck out a hand to Roland. Roland took it with a sinking feeling in his gut. The mercenary turned back to de Courcy.
“Has Sir Roland brought his Invalid Company with him? By God it would be a relief to be on the same side for once! I rode with Prince John’s heavy cavalry at Towcester. We struck the centre of Marshall’s line that day, but it would not budge. I learned later it was held by Earl Ranulf’s Invalids, commanded by Sir Roland here,” he said shaking his head and turning back to Roland. “It
’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your boys can fight. If they be cripples, I saw no sign of it that day!”
As the man spoke, the smile on de Courcy’s face faded and his face grew flushed. Captain Oliver seemed prepared to continue, but de Courcy raised a hand to silence him rising to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at Roland.
“You have played me false, Inness! Bodyguard for a priest? Bah! I should have seen from the start that this pilgrimage was a farce. You, sir, are a spy for Earl Ranulf!”
“I am not, sir!” Roland shot back.
De Courcy turned to Oliver, who stood there, looking shocked at this sudden turn.
“Imagine that, Captain! Sir Roland proclaims his innocence, yet he has flown a false flag while enjoying my hospitality. We shall see! I have men who can put him to the test. It’s a painful process, but always brings forth the truth in the end.”
Roland began to back slowly away. De Courcy drew a dagger from his belt and handed it to Oliver. The mercenary, like all of de Courcy’s guests, had been disarmed before entering the hall.
“Seize him, Captain!” de Courcy ordered.
By now the mercenary had recovered from this surprising turn of events and he did not hesitate. He stepped around de Courcy and moved toward Roland, his knife held low.
“This is out of my hands, Inness,” he said quietly. “Don’t make it hard.”
Roland reached down and drew the carving knife from his boot.
“Hard for you or hard for me, Captain?”
Oliver just shrugged and kept coming, though a bit more cautiously. Roland took a quick glance at the far end of the hall. The two men-at-arms stationed at the main entrance had seen the sudden commotion at the high table and were forcing their way between the dinner guests who, oblivious to the drama playing out, clogged the aisles between the tables. Roland backed slowly toward his only clear path to an exit, the small arched door in the corner of the hall behind him.
“Take him!” de Courcy roared, goading the mercenary into action.
Oliver feinted low with his blade, then thrust at Roland’s chest. It was a move Roland had learned to counter long ago after hours of practice under the watchful eye of Sir Alwyn Madawc. As the mercenary chief changed the angle of his thrust from low to high, Roland followed, bringing his knife hand under Oliver’s and forcing the man’s arm upwards. In the same motion, he stepped forward and brought his boot down on the man’s knee, forcing it back at an unnatural angle. The mercenary screamed in pain and collapsed to the floor.