Oh, but the idea of matching them was monstrous!
Ursula looked within herself and acknowledged the truth. The idea of Benedict’s marrying the pale slip of a girl from Spereshot was monstrous because she, Ursula de Thrave, wanted him for herself.
No, I don’t!
Yes. Oh yes, you do. You want him, and have wanted him from the moment you saw him turn faint and sit down on the trebuchet this morning. … No, before that. When he dragged Dickon up the cliff. Or even before, when he discarded his armour in Dickon’s cabin. No, when he chose honeysuckle in the garden right at the beginning …
Oh, but this is ridiculous! The man is uncouth. Diffident if not downright rude in company. He is not even handsome, or straight in body. He limps. Hoppity, hop. It is enough to make one laugh. Or cry.
And there is Aylmer. You are to marry Aylmer, and you know very well that he is the sort of man you need.
Ah, but Benedict needs me more. And there is an end of it.
Someone was holding her arm. It was her grandfather.
He said, ‘Ursula? Are you sick? Benedict is coming down.’
She discovered that she was leaning against Sir Henry. She lifted her eyes to the collar of his tunic, but no higher, lest he read her mind. She smiled and smiled, and pushed him away, that she might stand on her own once more. There had to be no sign of weakness. There had to be no weakness at all.
The flight of stairs leading down from the keep into the banqueting-hall was wide and shallow. Benedict’s legs came into view, first his good leg and then his bad. The girl from Spereshot was hesitating at the foot of the stairs, looking back at Ursula. Ursula nodded, and signed to the girl to press on. The girl, with a diffidence becoming in one of her years and position, held up the sprig of honeysuckle towards the dimly-seen figure on the stairs. Then Benedict was bending his head and taking the sprig from her. He stopped, to speak with the girl. And she … wonders would never cease …! She laughed, and put her hand in Benedict’s as if she had known him all her life.
Ursula had forgotten how good he was with children and animals. The girl would seem but a child to him. He would see her shrink, and forget his own diffidence in caring for her.
They stepped into the body of the hall together, and Ursula caught her breath, for Benedict had been so polished and decked with good clothing that he was almost unrecognisable.
‘Fine feathers. …’ said her grandfather, in her ear.
Ursula’s mouth ached with smiling. She nodded, not taking her eyes from Benedict. She thought it was like the silver plate off which her grandfather ate. Now and then the plate became dulled and had to be polished back to splendour. The silver was still of value when it was dull, but when it was properly looked after it was hard to remember what it had looked like before.
Benedict’s hair had been cut to a smooth bob and, though it had not been curled, it seemed to have a shining life it had not possessed before. He wore a black and silver supertunic of velvety fustian. It had been bought by Sir Henry some time ago but had proved too heavy for his slender frame. On Benedict it looked magnificent. His brown skin stood the test well. Every line of him seemed sharpened. For the first time Ursula realised that Benedict had considerable presence. If Aylmer were to stand beside him now, there might even be some doubt as to which was the more authoritative figure.
The girl gave a little skip as she walked beside Benedict. He was smiling, acknowledging the greetings of those around them.
Ursula started. Her grandfather had pinched her arm. She stepped forward, taking the wreath from her waiting-woman and presented it to Benedict. He was still smiling. Then she saw that his smile was as rigid as her own. She spoke a few words. He bowed, turning the wreath round and round, making it clear that he did not know what to do with it.
‘Put it on your head,’ hissed Ursula.
He shook his head, for a moment showing a flash of panic. Then he turned to the little maid at his side and placed the wreath on her head, instead.
‘For me?’ she cried, in delight. She put both hands to her head and settled the wreath more firmly upon it.
And now there came that burst of spontaneous applause which the Lord of Salwarpe had planned should occur when Benedict first stepped into the hall. Why it had not come at the proper time was a moot point. Perhaps the garrison had been awestruck by the sight of Benedict in good clothes for a change. Perhaps they, too, had needed time to adjust their opinion of him.
However it was, the cheers this time were genuine. Benedict ducked his head, and turned to Sir Henry, with a disclaiming, modest gesture. This did him no disservice, either. Ursula rearranged the seating, so that Benedict should sit between the little maid from Spereshot and her mother. She herself sank into a chair between her grandfather and Sir Reynold.
‘That was well done,’ said Sir Henry in her ear. ‘Now the little maid will win everyone to our side with her tales of Sir Benedict’s chivalry. We could not have devised a better ambassadress for our cause than she will be, when she goes to the abbey.’
They feasted long and well. They danced. Everyone danced, even Sir Henry and Benedict. Sir Henry danced with his granddaughter because she, being betrothed to Aylmer, might not dance freely with the unmarried knights. Reynold danced with the Lady of Spereshot, who had taken a fancy to him, and Benedict helped the maid to walk through a measure before they both decided that they had had enough.
When the moon rose, Simon Joce slipped through the throng and whispered in Sir Henry’s ear. Then the music was halted and the company’s mood changed. Some prepared to bed down for the night in the hall. Some went to stand in watchful silence on the ramparts. Simon Joce passed from a man here to a man there, checking that all was in order, while Reynold was helped into his armour by the ladies of the household.
Benedict watched Simon for a while and then, being satisfied that the sergeant knew what he was about, left the hall and went to the gate-tower. He wore no armour, because he had no intention of going out with the assault party that night. He had other work to do; it was less obviously a soldier’s work, but work that had to be done that night, and that none other than he could do.
He trod softly up the stairs. He felt slow and heavy with an old sorrow, revived by this new love. Ursula had changed in her manner towards him. He could guess why. It was the usual thing for women to turn from him in disgust at some point … except that it had not seemed to be like that with her. She had altered the seating arrangements so that she might not sit beside him. It had hurt. It had been the sort of trick Idonia had played on him, time and again. And yet it had not been done for the same reason. He could have sworn that Ursula had sent him a glance of apology when she indicated where he was to sit. There had been something else … a plea for understanding? It had looked like it at the time, but …
No, no. It was simply that she had grown tired of him, as Idonia had done. There was nothing new in that, and he could bear it if only she did not turn from him to Reynold, as Idonia had done.
He came out onto the ramparts. Outlined against the moon were two figures, leaning against the wall. They were talking in low voices. One was Peter Bowman. The other Benedict did not recognise.
His ears were sharp, and they were careless.
Peter was saying, ‘… you really think he’ll make a pig’s eye of it? Surely, with Simon Joce behind him, even the Cock can’t go far wrong.’
‘I’d sooner it were Old Limpy in charge.’
‘Aye; Simon would, and all. Likely the Cock will fire the bushes nearest the castle first, instead of getting as far down the hill as he can before the alarm is raised. He’d see a bogey in a hazel twig.’
‘Doesn’t the other one go with us tonight?’
‘Nah. He’s got something more up his sleeve than his arm. Dickon says. …’
Benedict’s hands closed round the back of their necks and pushed their heads together down onto the stonework.
‘And if Old Limpy hears you miscall Sir Reynold de
Cressi once more, there’ll be a public whipping! You hear?’
He released them, and they fell apart, muttering apologies.
‘Don’t apologise to me,’ said Benedict, grim of voice. ‘We’ll have no tale-bearing and muttering about your betters in a siege, if you please. Sir Reynold is one of the bravest of knights and you’ll not undermine his authority.’
‘My lord, you should hear what he says of you, behind your back …’
Benedict laughed. ‘So! What of it?’
‘De Cressi is a fool!’ said Peter’s companion. This man had an odd habit of speech, as if his mouth were twisted, so that his voice came whistling through his teeth. ‘But I’ll not say so to any but you and Peter; and Dickon, of course. And Simon Joce. And Sir Henry, who is very well aware of it …’
‘Save the mark!’ cried Benedict, but softly, for fear he might rouse the enemy’s watchman. ‘What have we here? A man with no respect for his betters?’
‘A man with every respect for his betters,’ said the other, ‘but none for fools.’
‘My lord,’ said Peter, nudging his companion into silence, ‘they said you needed a squire. Sir Henry said as you must have a man at your back, wherever you go. Now that’s not the same thing, it seems to me, as having a squire. My Lord de Cressi has chosen a squire from the oldest of the pages here in Salwarpe, and is having the lad fitted out with his own livery and a good horse, and all that. But what I said was that you’d prefer to choose a man who knew what he was about …’
‘… and who doesn’t talk too much, Peter Bowman!’
‘Aye, there is that. Though sometimes it’s good to know what goes on. So I said to Simon that Merle the Miller here would be best, and Simon agreed with me. Merle is from the town, but he’s a good man, for all that. He was delivering flour when Hugo’s men came, and so he was trapped here. I’ve asked Merle about serving you till the siege is over, and he said as he didn’t have any great objection. So it’s all settled.’
Benedict said nothing.
Peter began to fidget. The other man stood still, doing nothing, saying nothing. Only the whistle of his breath as it came and went betrayed that he was alive.
At last, ‘Will you obey me,’ said Benedict, ‘whatever I tell you to do? And without arguing?’
‘If I see my way clear,’ said Merle.
There was another silence.
‘No,’ said Benedict at last. ‘You are too valuable a man to be my bodyguard. The number of men who can think for themselves inside Salwarpe is small. Simon, Dickon, you and Peter here. And Sir Henry, of course.’
‘And his granddaughter,’ said Merle.
‘Yes,’ said Benedict. ‘That is true. There are seven of us. Seven good minds and thirty able bodied men against …’ He looked down the slope to where watchmen’s fires flickered. ‘Against how many? Two hundred mercenaries or a whole town of people. And twenty-nine days to go. I will have a council meeting tomorrow at noon, and will require you both to attend. In the meantime, I have something else to do, and I need a man at my back when I go down the cliff. I want a man who will react to my orders without argument, without thinking. I want someone who knows every nook and cranny of this place, and of the town below. He needn’t be able to handle a boat, though it would help if he could. But his hand must live on his dagger. If you know of such a man, send him to my room in the keep in an hour’s time.’
‘I know of none such,’ said Peter Bowman. ‘Or none who would be of any use to you …’
‘I know of one,’ said Merle, and it seemed that he was enjoying a private joke. ‘I will send him to you.’
Benedict considered whether he should press Merle to disclose the source of his amusement, but decided against it. Time was too short.
CHAPTER NINE
Benedict waited at the foot of the gatetower only long enough to see the file of men issue forth and creep down the hill. When the first of the fires were set in the bushes, he left the gatehouse and made his way back to the keep to write letters. There Parkyn had set a brazier of hot coals for him at the side of a writing-desk, with everything ready to hand. It was not long, however, before Dickon arrived and demanded speech with Benedict.
Dickon was angry. He stood with arms akimbo, glaring at Benedict.
‘Yes,’ said Benedict. ‘I know just how you feel. You’d like to slide a knife into my ribs, but you aren’t quite sure whether Sir Henry would back you up or no.’
Dickon thrust his hands within his belt and raised his shoulders to his ears. ‘I don’t like being shut up in this place. Or any stone-built place. You said as you’d let me go when the tide went out. But they won’t let me through the postern gate without the password.’
‘That’s war all over,’ said Benedict. ‘You do someone a favour, and they turn round and say it’s not enough. You of all men should understand that.’
Dickon spat into the brazier. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then I’ll let you go, without your punt. You’ll have to swim back.’
‘Can’t swim.’
Benedict looked up from sealing his letter and smiled. ‘Neither can I.’
Both men laughed and the laughter released the tension between them.
‘What be it you want done?’
‘In the first place, what I don’t want is for you to go back to your place and be killed. As soon as Hugo’s men see signs of life at your cabin site, they’ll be over to deal with it. They know you helped us get into Salwarpe. They won’t forget. You think you can hide in the reeds till they’ve gone. Maybe. And maybe not. Why take a risk, when if you wait till Hugo’s been dealt with, you can demand what labour and materials you want from Sir Henry, to rebuild?’
‘What be it you want?’
‘More than you can perform. But for a start I want someone to take the Lady of Spereshot and her children over to the abbey on the far side of the estuary. I want them out of here tonight, before Hugo thinks up some way to stop them leaving. Once at the abbey, with letters which I shall give them, they can rouse the countryside against Hugo. And perhaps meet up with their lord and master, whom I believe escaped the burning of his manor. Will you do that?’
‘Just because I saved a baby once …’
‘Aye. Though these three will be more trouble to you than your present mistress ever was. The Lady of Spereshot is one who would raise Cain if she felt a speck of sand in her shoe, and the boy is a lump of dough. You’ll find them worry enough, I’m thinking.’
‘What’s the point of it? What good will it do to rouse the countryside, when Hugo’s hand is fast around the castle?’
‘Food, Dickon. There’s more people in the castle than usual, and less than enough to feed them on. I must have more grain, and there’s not much point in asking Hugo for it, is there?’
‘Hah! And am I to bring you back a sack of grain in my punt? ’Twould be enough to feed the chickens that peck around the granary door for a couple of days, maybe.’
‘A sheep might be of more use, but a sack of flour would do. We have no mill here in the castle, so it would be a problem to deal with grain. But pay for it, Dickon. If I could only lay my hands on a half dozen punts, to bring in half a dozen sacks of flour at each tide …’
‘No boat would risk coming to the castle, with Hugo sitting in the channel. But the abbot is one with an eye for a bargain, and it is well known his granaries are full. Even if they weren’t full, he’d deny his own men, to sell flour to us at an inflated price. But he wouldn’t sell unless he had cash. Promises—except those about sinners going to Hell—aren’t in his line.’
‘If I write a letter to the abbot, promising part cash, and giving him a draft on the merchant who buys my fleeces for the rest, do you think he would treat with us?’
Dickon fingered his chin. ‘If you came with me. …?’
‘I cannot leave here at the moment. Perhaps Sir Henry. … no. Not he. Well, the first thing is to make contact with the abbot … and then. …’
Some
one pounded on the door. It opened and a white-faced youth was projected into the room. It looked as if he’d been thrown in, rather than entered of his own accord. The door slammed shut again. The youth picked himself up and backed away to the wall. His chin was on his shoulder, and his eyes everywhere. Benedict picked up the candle and took it over to the lad, who shrank from the light. His hand was on the dagger in his belt.
Benedict thought, Is this the lad Merle has picked out for me? Wherein lies the joke? The lad is terrified. …
‘What do you want with that one?’ demanded Dickon. ‘He’d steal the shirt off your back while you slept.’
The lad’s eyes flickered at Dickon and returned to Benedict. He raised his right arm, as if expecting a blow. He looked as if he’d been fighting recently and got the worst of it.
‘I wouldn’t have him, my lord,’ muttered Parkyn. ‘He’s not one of ours. He’s from the town. Lives off pickings, as you might say.’
‘I didn’t ask to come!’ The lad was snivelling. ‘That Merle pulled me up and kicked me up the stairs, and threw me through the door, and I wasn’t doing nothing!’
‘Let me throw him out,’ said Parkyn, moving to grab the boy’s arm.
At once the youth ducked. His knife seemed to jump into his hand, and his teeth came out over his lip, giving him a wolfish appearance. Parkyn stopped dead.
Benedict laughed. He appreciated the joke, but nevertheless … ‘He couldn’t be better. He’s the man for me. Provided, my lad, that you don’t try to cheat me, or to steal from me. Is it understood?’
‘Would I do such a thing?’ whined the boy.
‘Oh, yes. I expect so,’ said Benedict. ‘That is, if you thought you could get away with it. You’re to guard my back, do you understand? You’ll sleep across the door here, have clean clothes when you need them, and eat with Parkyn. When the siege is over, I will pay you whatever you have been worth to me. Is it a bargain?’
The lad looked undecided. It was unlikely he had ever been promised wages for anything before.
The Siege of Salwarpe Page 11