The Lady Editha gave a little cry and sank onto a bench. Ursula hesitated and then went to her, putting her arms round the older woman.
‘There is only one thing,’ said Benedict, speaking with his usual diffidence. ‘All pigeons look alike, save to those who have trained them. But it seems to me that the pigeon we sent back to Spereshot had more white feathers on it than this one. I cannot be sure, of course. Could either of the ladies identify their pigeon?’
Both Ursula and Editha shook their heads.
‘Then it is possible—only possible, of course—that Hugo is bluffing. Sir Henry may well have received our message, and know that we are coming. Hugo’s men may have been on the look-out for a pigeon; very likely they were. But there is nothing to prove that this one is the one we sent.’
‘Then how do you account for Spereshot being burned?’
‘We did not keep our meeting secret the other day. He could have heard by a dozen different routes. Messengers have been passing freely from us to Spereshot. The ladies rode to Spereshot when they left Salwarpe. So Hugo looks hard at Spereshot and, when he hears that one of your men is there, he rides over to investigate. He could have learned the details of our plan from your messenger before he died, and not from the pigeon.’
‘Either way he has burned Spereshot, and denied us the boat and guide we need.’ Aylmer sighed. ‘The man knows his business. We will return to the castle in the morning, and hold another meeting.’
Ursula said nothing, but her eyes were mutinous. Perhaps she would have accepted Aylmer’s decision as final, if it had not been for the accident. In such case, it is unlikely that Salwarpe would ever have been relieved.
The rain ceased, but a mist hung over the forest. The air smelt fresh, and there was a general stirring of greenery after the long drought.
‘It will be another fine day tomorrow,’ said Aylmer, looking out of the window at the evening sky. ‘Providing this mist lifts. We should make good time on our journey back to the castle.’
Servants were bringing dishes in to lay on the tables for supper. Aylmer never travelled anywhere without his own cook and personal attendants, who tended to get in each other’s way when in a confined space. A scullion collided with the butler, and a dish went flying. Aylmer stepped in the grease and fell, catching his side on a trestle-table.
At first it seemed the injury was slight, but Benedict looked grave as he helped Aylmer to a bench. Ursula took one look at Aylmer’s contorted face and thrust Benedict aside. Her hands confirmed what Benedict’s frown had already told her.
‘Why, my lord! You have cracked a couple of ribs, it seems,’ she said. ‘You will not ride back to the castle as fast as you came here.’
Her eyes met Benedict’s. The ribs were not cracked, but smashed. What an unlucky chance! And yet …
Benedict’s eyes continued to hold hers, and seemed to be saying …
She rose to her feet, thinking hard. Had the idea leaped from his head into hers, or had it been there all along, waiting for an opportunity to surface?
If Aylmer were ill, and not able to oversee matters with his usual competence … If he were, for instance, to be given a sleeping-draught tonight … and oversleep. Surely he would need a sleeping-draught, for he was in pain. And then …?
Benedict gathered Aylmer into his arms and carried him up the stairs and into the solar. His strength was amazing. Of course, it was all in his arms and the upper part of his body, making him look top-heavy, except when he was on horseback.
Ursula continued to stand there, tapping her teeth. Then she realised that both Reynold and her aunt were staring at her; the one with bewilderment, and the other with something very like fear. Yes, Aunt Editha would guess what was in her niece’s mind, and would be afraid, even as Aylmer had been afraid for her.
Ursula squared her shoulders and went to help Benedict make Aylmer comfortable.
Only, she was conscious that both men were watching her, and waiting. …
At first she thought she would say nothing to Aylmer. It would be better to let him sleep, and then she could slip away at first light with Benedict and Reynold, and Aylmer be none the wiser till she was long gone.
Only, the look in Aylmer’s eyes echoed the fear in her aunt’s face. And Benedict seemed to expect her to seek Aylmer’s permission for what she was about to do. Quite how it came about that she was aware of what Benedict expected of her, she did not know. He stood between her and the door, willing her to confess. …
Confess? What an absurd word to use! She was merely going to do what lay in her power to save Salwarpe. Aylmer was not her lord and master—yet.
But presently she knelt by his bed, took his hand in hers and put it to her cheek.
She said, ‘My lord, forgive me that I disobey you. I must go to Salwarpe. If I fail, then you are well rid of me. But if I succeed, then I will only be repaying my grandfather for his past care of me.’
Aylmer’s fingers tightened around hers. He said, ‘I knew you would go. … I saw it in your face … and in Benedict’s. Ursula, I am afraid. …’
‘So am I. But not as afraid as I would be if I stayed here, and did nothing. I know this is a bad beginning to our marriage … but would you have me break faith with my grandfather at such a time?’
‘No. I love you the more for it. Only, I wish we might have been wed before you put yourself into danger.’
Benedict said, ‘Shall I send for the priest from the castle? He might be here some two hours after dawn, if he rides fast.’
Aylmer had closed his eyes, to hide his pain. Ursula bathed his forehead.
She said, ‘I had thought to leave at dawn, but if you wish, I will stay. … only, I want to be on the marshes at sunset, and any delay …’
Aylmer shook his head and then stiffened the muscles of his face. The slightest movement caused him agony. He opened his eyes and said, ‘No, my love. Go at dawn. I would be a poor sort of bridegroom in this state, would I not? I did not think of wooing you like this. You shall go, and I shall stay behind to recover. And when it is all over I will come to Salwarpe and we will wed there, with your grandfather to give you away. Only, will you kiss me before you go, Ursula?’
She was near to tears. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. …’
He smiled and gave her hand a tug. She kissed him, trying not to hurt him. He sighed and closed his eyes.
She stood up, feeling as if she had been dismissed. Benedict was ready with a sleeping-draught. He bent to Aylmer, giving him the potion with smooth efficiency.
He said, over his shoulder, ‘Reynold and I will be ready at dawn. I will tell the servants to have your horse saddled. Go now and get some sleep.’
Aunt Editha cried. ‘You cannot, must not go! You will be captured, for sure! Or that monster Benedict will do something terrible …’
‘He is not a monster, and I think I would trust him further than I would trust Reynold …’
‘If you would only let me come with you …’
‘Impossible. Now, my dear, be sensible. You know you could never climb that cliff, and besides that, who is to nurse Aylmer if you come with me?’
‘Ah, the poor man! How could you leave him in such straits?’
Ursula said nothing to that. In truth, when she thought of Aylmer, she did feel guilty. That kiss. …
She had never kissed a man on the mouth before. It had been a strange experience, and she was not at all sure she wanted to repeat it too quickly. Of course she was going to be a good wife to Aylmer; that went without saying. But he seemed to want more than dutiful compliance from her, and she was not sure that she knew how to give it. When she had thought of being married to Aylmer, she had thought of his wooing her, of his putting his arm round her, and stealing a kiss … and then becoming bolder, perhaps … it was to have been a progression of love. She would have had time to become accustomed to his caresses that way, and then in due course she would no doubt have been able to return them.
She was—no
t exactly frightened—but certainly taken aback by the demands he was making on her. Of course she would have married him straight away if he had insisted on it, but she was rather glad that he had not done so. They would have time now, to adjust to their new roles.
Long before dawn the two women were up and about. Editha helped Ursula to coil her hair up into a net. Her skirts she kilted about her, as peasant women often did when they worked in the fields. Her long riding-boots would serve well enough, and overall she wore a serviceable wool cloak with a deep hood.
Benedict and Reynold were waiting for her by the stables. She mounted her horse and, with a lantern slung at her saddlebow, led them away from the lodge up the trail through the forest. She looked back only once. There was a light in Aylmer’s room. She turned away from the sight as if it hurt her eyes.
She led them along the forest track, keeping well ahead, and relying on her ears to tell her if the others lagged behind … which they did not. Presently she could extinguish her lantern.
All the time she kept scanning the sky ahead. The mist had not cleared, and faint rustlings came from around and above as droplets formed and fell onto the earth beneath the trees. On either side of the track could be heard the mournful chirp of birds, disturbed in their passing; but ahead of them the sky was clear.
If there had been any great force of men moving on the track ahead of them, the sky above the trees ahead would have been aswirl with birds. But it was not.
At midday she led them off the track into the forest to the east, and sought for the stream which she knew ran parallel to the path. She could hear it even in this subdued, misty weather … yes, there it was.
She signed to the men that they should break their fast and rest awhile. They had spoken little to each other on the way there, and even now Benedict seemed as disinclined as Ursula to talk. She sat some way from them, with her back to a tree.
At last Reynold could bear it no longer. ‘Shall we not pass the time of day with the maiden?’
Benedict said, ‘If she wishes us to attend on her, she will no doubt say so.’
‘You are so ungallant …’
‘I am mindful of Aylmer.’
‘Who is not here …’
‘I am willing to be his left hand, even if his right is disabled.’
‘A new part for you to play—that of protector of women!’
There was no reply, but it appeared Benedict had said enough to restrain Reynold, for the latter made no attempt to approach Ursula then, or during the afternoon’s journey.
They did not return to the track, but followed the course of the stream, which gained strength as it ran north and then turned a little to the east. Once they came near the outskirts of the forest, and then Ursula held up her hand, and was still.
The smell of burning drifted downwind to them and once she thought she heard men shouting. They were within half a mile of Spereshot.
Now they went on with even more caution than before, picking their way to the north-east through dense thickets. They were following a second stream now. Not once did Ursula falter. She had hunted widely over this land and knew it well.
Dusk drew in early, but the light held till they came to a place where rushes began to thrust themselves up through the stream’s surface.
Then and only then did Ursula dismount and turn, waiting for the two men to catch up with her.
‘Your orders, lady?’ said Benedict, also dismounting.
‘You must obey me now as if you were children, and I your mother. If you wander from the path you will sink into the marsh, and there will be nothing I can do to help you. We are come to the edge of the estuary. The tide is coming in, as you will see in a moment. I wanted to arrive earlier, because no boats—except perhaps for a punt—can move on the marsh when the tide is out. But in this mist no one will see us.
‘There are ridges of firm land in the marsh. One or two of these ridges lead to small islands which lie above the marsh even when the tide comes in and covers the rest of the estuary. On one of those islets lives a man, a fowler. He makes a living off the waterfowl and fish. He has a small shack in which we can rest till the moon rises. He also possesses a boat and a punt, one of which we will ask him to let us borrow.’
‘Why ask? Why not take it by force?’ said Reynold, his hand on his sword.
‘Now that would be worse than useless,’ said Ursula. ‘The men hereabouts are a hardy lot, and resentful of foreigners. In this context you are both “foreigners”. More, he is a freeman, and proud of it. If you get on the wrong side of him, he would sooner destroy his boats than allow you to borrow them.’
‘How much should we pay him?’ said Benedict.
‘He will do it for nothing, or he will not do it at all. Let me do the talking.’ She held up her hand. ‘Listen!’
They could hear the whirr of birds flying overhead, though in the misty conditions they could not see them.
‘The birds are returning from the marshes on which they have spent the day. Come, follow closely where I lead. Keep your horses on a tight rein.’
She led them east, and then inland. Reynold began to protest, until he saw that they were skirting the mouth of yet another stream. They waded through the shallow stream some fifty yards inland, and then went on, always going east. Suddenly Ursula turned and walked out directly into the mist. Rushes loomed on either side of her, but the ground underfoot was firm, if springy.
Reynold slipped, and his foot splashed into water. He swore. Benedict said nothing, even when his eyes began to ache with the strain of keeping Ursula in sight. The mist was closing in. The dusk was deepening into night. Ursula’s figure was sometimes a solid silhouette, and sometimes a dimly-seen wraith.
She stopped, waiting for them to catch up with her. Then she set off again, in a different direction.
Or was it a different direction? In that light it was almost impossible to tell which direction they were taking … time passed and surely they had been following a will-of-the-wisp for hours.
Then she paused again … and turned to the left, so sharply that Benedict’s horse began to flounder, and he had to haul on the bridle, and coax it with muffled oaths, till it squelched out onto firmer ground, trembling …
A dog barked nearby.
She stopped.
She held out her hand to Benedict and looked over her shoulder at Reynold.
She said, ‘We have arrived.’
They couldn’t see anything. She stepped forward, and there before her a dark shape loomed out of the mist. It was a weather-beaten shack made of boards, tarred, and thatched with reeds. The lap of water was all about them.
‘Ah … ee!’ she said, between her teeth. Nearby a small boat lay, its bottom staves splintered. ‘We may be too late!’
A light streamed out over them. A man was holding up a lantern, standing in the door of his cabin.
‘Mistress, is it you?’
‘Oh, Dickon!’ Ursula ran to the man and clung to his arm. ‘Oh, Dickon! We have to get back to the castle, and Hugo has sacked Spereshot, and I thought to borrow your boat …’
‘Nay, nay! Sweetling, come within! How cold your hands are. … come and get warm … and your friends with you! Weep not! Did you think old Dickon would give Hugo best?’
He showed them where to stable the horses, in a lean-to at the back, and then drew them into his cabin, and barred the door. A fine-looking dog came to sniff and sneeze at Ursula’s skirts. Then—predictably—he sat at Benedict’s feet to have his jaw scratched.
The cabin was barely furnished, but there was a fire, and a stew-pot simmered upon it. The aroma of stewed duck caused Ursula to swallow her tears. Dickon ladled broth and lumps of succulent meat into bowls and handed them round. His pottery was cracked but his cooking beyond reproach.
As she ate Ursula poured out their story while Dickon listened, one hand behind his right ear, and his face cracked into a hundred wrinkles.
‘Nay, little mistress! We heard ye had escaped
the net and we knew as you’d be back with help. I rowed into the town the day afore yesterday and spoke with the priest—poor man, fair doidered he was with all this trouble. Hugo had had the fisherfolk’s boats drawn up onto the quay, and a set of his spoilers went over them, staving them in while the women wept and wailed around them.’
‘What, all our boats? How are our fisherfolk to live?’
Dickon spat. ‘The man’s a fool. He didn’t even count them, or enquire as how many we had in the first place! Then today they rowed out here at high tide, and said as they knew I’d a boat, and where was it. So I showed them it, and they stoved it in, like the others, and I managed to squeeze out a tear or two, just as they like us to do. And then they went off, hugging theirselves, and I got the punt out of the water again, where I’d sunk it at the end of a rope, and it’s drying out nicely.’
‘You saved the punt? Oh, Dickon, how clever you are!’
‘I thought as I’d best let them have the boat, seeing as they’d noticed me rowing around in it. They didn’t know about the punt, and I wasn’t about to tell them. Besides, I can go almost anywhere on the marshes in the punt, but the boat I can only use in the channels or when the tide’s in. A’ course, it’ll only take me a day or so to mend the other.’
‘So,’ said Ursula, ‘Hugo does know that we intended to get into Salwarpe by boat. He wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble, smashing up the boats, otherwise. And that means grandfather probably doesn’t know we’re coming.’
Benedict leaned forward. ‘Is Hugo keeping any sort of watch on the channel from the river which leads to the foot of the castle cliff?’
‘Aye. He took the best of the Peasmarsh’s boats, and it’s sitting out there with a crew of landsmen in it, all holding their stomachs and wailing they’re going to die. Aye, they’re on guard, if you can call it that. At low tide they’re more often on the mud than afloat, and at high tide they drag their anchor with the slightest of breezes. But it’s true that they sit across the channel, a stone’s throw from the foot of the cliff.’
The Siege of Salwarpe Page 5