‘The main one do,’ said Barnabas. ‘But the grating over that one is too stiff for me to shift. I know all the tunnels under the castle, you see. When people get in the habit of kicking you when they see you, you learn fast.’
Benedict began to laugh. ‘Now, do I take my good clothes off, and risk being kicked when I get down into the town … or do I keep them on, and get them spoiled?’
Before leaving the castle, Benedict had a team of workmen roused to go down into the cellar. First they were to clear the entrance into the sewer, and then build a stout timber frame to support a new grating. This new grating would be padlocked, and a guard kept on it from now on. The gatekeeper of the postern overlooking the cliff was also warned that Benedict might be returning that way later on that night.
From Barnabas, Benedict had learned that Hugo had imposed a curfew on the village, and that a guard was kept on the causeway where the fishing-boats had been drawn up and put out of action. There was also a guard set about the jail which held the hostages. Apart from that, an hourly patrol had been deemed the only precaution necessary.
‘If the smith is in the jail,’ said Merle. ‘What’s the point of going down there?’
‘I doubt he stayed in the jail,’ said Benedict. ‘He’d be too useful. He’ll be out by now. Maybe his wife or one of his children is standing hostage for him. We won’t know till we get there. The point of this expedition is to find out exactly who is where, and why. Who do we ask, Merle?’
Merle scratched his chin. ‘Old Mother Peasmarsh,’ he said at length. ‘She’m a holy terror. The mayor’s her eldest son. She’d be mayor in his place, if they let women do the job. If she’s not in jail, then she’s the one to go to.’
The passage through the sewer was unpleasant but soon over. They washed their bare legs clean in the dell and resumed their shoes and hose. Then they set off down the hill by a winding track, bending low to duck under branches as indicated by Barnabas. The boy held a dark lantern, but they did not let its light beam forth, relying instead on the fitful shining of the moon. Clouds obscured much of the sky.
‘Weather’s changing,’ whispered Merle. ‘Lucky for us!’
They waited, crouched flat behind a convenient bank above the village, till Hugo’s patrol had passed by, and then dropped down into the street. The houses were all dark, observing the curfew, but Barnabas led them without faltering to a house somewhat larger than the rest. It was built partly of stone, with its upper story of wattle and daub.
Barnabas scratched on the door. Nothing happened. The house remained dark. Merle found a shuttered window and rapped in a certain fashion on it. Was that a chink of light within? They waited.
A voice hissed at them to be off. It came from the window.
Merle turned the lanthorn’s light on his face for a couple of seconds.
The door was unbarred. It opened a crack and a hand drew them inside. All was dark, save for the glow of a banked-up fire. Then, when the door was safely barred again, Merle opened the lanthorn’s sides, to reveal that they were standing in a large room, well furnished and with a tiled floor. There were benches round the long table, cupboards standing against the wall, and a locked chest at the foot of the stairwell. The fireplace was large and lined with baking ovens. There were bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling, but no hams curing, as would be normal in such cases.
An elderly woman in a tangle of cloaks stood before them. Though she must have been disturbed from her sleep, her eyes were bright. The heads of two frightened servants peeped from round the door to the stairs. The woman went to the door and shut it, ensuring privacy.
Merle introduced Benedict and said that Sir Henry de Thrave sent his greetings to Mistress Peasmarsh.
‘My son’s in jail,’ she said. ‘And my grandson. And the bailiff. What do you want with an old woman that’s long since done for?’
She was so obviously a force still to be reckoned with that both Benedict and Merle smiled.
‘Well?’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘If you’re caught here, do you know what will become of us all? If it’s food you want, there’s little we have left. Hugo’s men have been through the village twice, looting everything they fancy. And we can’t go fishing, without boats.’
‘I did hear,’ said Benedict, taking a seat unasked, ‘that your people were clever enough to hide some boats by dipping them under water. I am certain you would not have let Hugo’s landlubbers take away your livelihood without trying to save something for the future.’
‘Boats!’ She spat her contempt. ‘Nasty, uncomfortable things! If you want our boats, if that’s why you’ve come, then you can go searching for them yourself! Catch me having anything to do with boats! My family were all farming men. Why I had to go marrying a fisherman, I don’t know. I can’t do nothing for you, with my men in jail. You can tell Sir Henry we’re all safe as long as we do what we’re told. Hugo needs our men to get the harvest in, you see.’
‘Ah, but what will happen to that harvest when it is gathered in?’ said Benedict. ‘Do you really think Hugo will allow you to keep any of it? Why should he? And as for leaving you alone, why did he take hostages, if he’s going to leave you unharmed?’
‘To make sure we behave. You don’t catch me putting a foot wrong, while they’re in jail.’
‘Suppose we got them out?’
She laughed. ‘What, and have the rest of Hugo’s men down on us, burning and raping and looting, like they did at Spereshot?’
‘But suppose they thought your son and grandson were sickening of a fever … or what looked like a fever? And that the fever was spreading through the town, and people were dying of it? Suppose the fever reached the jail? Suppose you offered to nurse the sick all together, in a place set apart from the town. … such as down on the quayside? Suppose you kept taking people out of their houses, looking very sick, and groaning as they went through the streets. And then kept them in the “fever” houses a day or two … so that Hugo’s men could see they were really sick. … and then you could tell Hugo that they had died.’
The old woman seated herself opposite Benedict. She said, ‘Speak more plainly, young man. My hearing’s not as good as it used to be.’
‘I was only thinking …’ Benedict gestured to the bunches of herbs that lay on the table and above his head. ‘That nettles make an excellent soup, but they also inflict a rash on sensitive skins. That mustard makes people vomit. That perhaps symptoms of fever could be induced, in healthy people. You are short of food, you say. Doubtless there are one of two cases of sickness already in the town …’
The woman started and Benedict’s manner became more assured.
‘. … And I suppose Hugo may know of these cases. And if he doesn’t, you must be sure that he gets to hear of them. And tomorrow or the next day some of the sick people will die—or be reported to have died.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘It would explain why people kept disappearing from the town. … whole families at a time would be stricken with fever. … and “die”. Only of course they wouldn’t really die, and they wouldn’t really be sick. They would only be “ill” long enough to give them an alibi, and then they would slip away from the town to safety, in the boats you have hidden away.’
‘It is impossible!’ she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
‘Not if the priest helped you,’ said Merle. ‘He’s a good man, and discreet. He could visit the sick daily, and then toll his bell for those who died … and bury the coffins. …’
Mistress Peasmarsh said, ‘The carpenter’s a cousin of my daughter’s husband. He’d do anything for money. So many coffins to be made … and filled with earth, no doubt. He’d be over the moon with pleasure! Ay, he’d play his part well enough. For cash.’ She fixed her bright eyes on Benedict, who took a purse from his wallet and laid it, unopened, on the table.
‘Well, young man? Suppose we did this? Where would our people go?’
‘To the castle, of co
urse. They would go round the hill in their boats, and climb up the cliff by ladders which we are having made. They might not all stay in the castle, because we also have food problems … though these are in a fair way to being solved. But once in the castle they are out from under Hugo’s hand.’
‘Why should we leave our homes and set out in nasty smelly boats? Are we not safe here, while we obey Hugo?’
‘Mistress, you know better than that.’
The old woman bowed her head. Presently she said, ‘I know which herbs to use. The priest will gladly help us, and I can answer for the carpenter. You say you know how to get my folk out of the jail?’
‘No doubt Hugo has decreed the town should feed its own people. No doubt you take pasties and ale to the jail for your menfolk. You will give them doctored food, and instructions as to how to act. Be cautious; no more than two or three must sicken in the jail at once. Then you will petition Hugo to let your men out, before they die. He will do so, for fear that the rest of the hostages may also be affected. For what use are dead hostages to him? So he will let out two or three … and take two or three more hostages in their stead. But these latter that he takes will be lesser men, because he took the best, before.’
‘So not everyone can get away?’
Benedict hesitated. ‘I can’t answer that. Certainly you will be able to get your own menfolk out, and probably anyone else whom you consider important. Certainly we can take some ten or twenty folk away each night in our boats, if they are ready and waiting at the turn of the tide—after Hugo’s patrol has been withdrawn. … you must make sure that Hugo withdraws the guard from the quayside. Fear of infection should do the trick. When infection strikes a town, people flee. They will slip away in twos and threes, despite all that Hugo can do. They will melt into the forest, steal a horse and ride off. … shoulder a bundle and walk. … anything to escape. Some will not wish to leave their fields at harvest-time, but these are probably safe from Hugo for a while. The others … carpenters, the smith, fisherfolk … and all their families … they are very welcome in the castle. You must decide which families to approach, for there must be no tattling to Hugo. Once a man agrees to go, he must be taken to the fever-house at once, with all his family. I am giving you the power of life and death over this town, mistress.’
She shrank within her coverings. ‘At my age, it is a terrible temptation. All the old scores I could pay off. …!
You would have me imperil my soul, master. Even with the priest to help me, how am I to say which man should live, and which die?’
‘I will stay to help you,’ said Merle. ‘It is the only way. You cannot do this all by yourself. I know these people, and they know me. They will trust me.’
‘If I do this thing,’ said Mistress Peasmarsh, ‘then I fear I will not go scatheless. … I doubt I will be caught. And then I shall not die in my bed. Nor Merle, neither.’
‘I realise there is a risk,’ said Benedict, looking down at his hands. ‘It is not for me, who am now about to go back into the safety of the castle, to say that you should or should not do this thing. You owe no allegiance to me. Only to your own people.’
‘I think I can do it,’ said Merle, clenching his fists. ‘I think I can. But if I am caught—God have mercy—I do not think I could withstand torture.’
Benedict put his hand over his eyes. ‘Merle, if you are put to the question, you must speak freely. I would not expect anything else.’
The old woman lifted her head. ‘Merle will not betray you, master. I will give him a potion in a tiny bottle that he may wear on a chain about his neck. If he is questioned, he will say it is holy water from Glastonbury … and it will save him from the torture, if it should come to that.’
Merle stood up and trimmed the wick of the candle in the lantern. ‘We’d best get started. Whose boat do we lift first? And how many people can we take away with us tonight. …’
‘They’ll have to be fit,’ said Benedict. ‘They’ll have to go back by the sewer, unless we can decoy the guard away from the quayside.’
‘Oh, them!’ The woman spat. ‘They’ll be fast asleep by this time! They took a barrel of my best home-brewed ale this morn, and I put a trifle of this and that into it to give them sweet dreams. I was planning to visit my granddaughter’s on the quayside tonight, after curfew. She’s been sickly these last few days, and kept her bed. Always the same, when she’s pregnant, but I thought I’d go sit with her awhile.’ She threw off her topmost cloak, to reveal herself fully dressed underneath. ‘I would have had her with me all the time, but her husband’s the smith, and they like to keep an eye on him. No visitors in the day-time, and so on. I told them, did they really think they could keep me from my own kith and kin?’
She began to gather various herbs and bundles of greenstuff, and put them into her wallet.
She said, ‘I’ll dose the smith tonight, and he’ll be sick enough to worry Hugo tomorrow. … and then in a couple of days’ time, he’ll be up with you. You’d best take his wife tonight, and her two little ones; you won’t raise either of the sunken boats by yourself. They’re round the other side of the harbour, in a little creek. We’d best waken one of my other grandsons, living next to her. He’ll help you lift his boat, and you can take him off. … and my granddaughter’s husband’s younger brother. …’
Merle was counting on his fingers. ‘How many will that be?’
‘You’d best take their lad, too,’ said Mistress Peasmarsh. ‘He’m only fifteen but he wields the hammer well enough. And that’s what you came for, I take it. Isn’t it?’
‘Who?’ said Benedict.
‘Our apprentice smith,’ said Merle. ‘The smith’s younger brother. He’s not bad.’
Benedict seized Mistress Peasmarsh and embraced her. The old woman pretended to be flustered, but looked pleased. When they turned to go, Barnabas was there, holding out some coins and a silver-hilted knife.
‘Is that you, Weasel?’ cried the old woman. ‘And what have you taken of mine, you thieving rascal?’
‘Nothing,’ said the boy, wincing as Benedict caught his arm. ‘These were Master Merle’s. It was only because he kicked me! Besides, I’ve not got to steal any more, ’cos of being baptised soon.’
‘Very true, Barnabas,’ said Benedict. ‘And that includes the things you took from Sir Reynold earlier on this evening.’
‘I didn’t think you saw me. Well, maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. But I swear I won’t steal from you, ever.’
‘If I weren’t so near death myself,’ said Mistress Peasmarsh, ‘I’d take my broom to your back, Weasel!’
‘Enough,’ said Benedict. ‘No one expects the lad to become a saint overnight. He is doing his best. What more can any of us do?’
‘And God have mercy on our souls,’ said Merle.
They roused the two households, managed to lift one of the sunken boats and transferred twelve men, women and children from the quayside to the foot of the castle cliff before dawn. The weather had indeed changed. Scuds of rain came and went and, when the sun finally managed to struggle through the early morning mist, it did not put up much of a showing.
Benedict was the last of the party to haul himself up the cliff and step out onto the sward. Then he had to steady himself against the boisterous greeting of the dog.
‘Dickon must be back,’ he said, making much of the animal. Benedict was tired and dirty. His hands were chafed where he had taken a spell at the oars. His eyes ached. Yet he smiled as he looked around him. The men, women and children from the town were being taken care of, the trebuchet was in position and loaded and Ursula had come to greet him. More, at her back was Dickon, and behind him, smiling and nodding, was Peter Bowman.
Benedict straightened his back. ‘Yes, Peter? What is it?’
‘Another two trees felled. Beeches.’
Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. Six or seven trees in all. Not only a ram, but also a trebuchet. The trebuchet would be brought up first, to hammer away at t
he gate-house. And the ram would be shod with iron in the meantime … except that the smith was now groaning and feverish on his bed, while the carpenter was knocking up coffins for his supposedly deceased wife and children … Would Hugo be able to replace the smith? Possibly, but not yet awhile. … which meant no iron tip to the ram, which could only be to the good. …
Benedict smiled. He’d give something to see Hugo’s face when he learned that “sickness” had broken out in the town, and that the smith was one of the first victims.
‘Well, well. There is much to be done. We must have a better system of ladders up the cliff for a start. One broke on the last lap. The ladders must be attended to at once. And Peter, I will come with you. We must devise some system of padding to protect the gatehouse walls …’
Ursula said, ‘You are not going anywhere, except to bed. Parkyn tells me you have slept barely four hours in the last two days. You are going to bed, and I am going to lock the door, and keep the key. If you are needed, they will have to come to me, and I will judge whether you are to be disturbed or no.’
Dickon was grinning, and so was Peter Bowman. So were many of the others who stood around. Ursula was smiling at him, too.
Benedict glanced at Barnabas. Barnabas was looking amused. Well, if Barnabas was amused at the thought of being locked in, it followed that Barnabas knew how to get out of the room without going through the door. Benedict hesitated. There was indeed much still to be done and he knew he could keep going for another twelve hours if necessary.
But was it necessary? Had he not done enough for the moment? It would take Hugo at least a day to build, and another day to bring up, a ram or a trebuchet—at the very least. Possibly as much as three or four days, depending upon whether he was going to waste time looking for another smith, or wait for the man in the town to recover. If he, Benedict, were to sleep now, he would be fresh and ready for when the attack came, later. Merle was doing well in the town. There would be alarm to spread about the fever, and hints that the guard might be safer, if withdrawn from the quay … coffins to be built, services read for the dead … more men to be sought out and dosed, their wives to be reassured and removed from their houses. …
The Siege of Salwarpe Page 15