Ah, but it would be hard work, down in the town. And if the guard were removed from the quayside, and two more boats full of refugees arrived at the cliff stairs tomorrow morning, then there would be so many more mouths to feed, which meant …
His mind went into a whirl, and then steadied.
He beckoned Ursula aside. It seemed only natural to urge her into the angle of the keep where the honeysuckle grew. The bench was warm beneath him as he sank onto it. ‘Dickon is back? What news from the abbot? You will see that I am bringing the townsfolk here, and this means …’
‘It is our place to deal with the abbot,’ she said. ‘Did you think my grandfather and I could not do anything by ourselves? You will put the food problem out of your mind.’
Her eye was calm and she held herself well. He thought: Is she lying? I did not think the abbot would agree both to sell, and to transport, the grain. Yet if she says that she can deal with the matter … it is true that I am tired and could do with a few hours’ sleep. But who will she send with money to the abbot? And when? Tonight, probably. I could go tonight. No, it would be best if I stayed, in case that trebuchet is brought up earlier than …
Ursula said, ‘If you will let me have the letter you intended to send the abbot, authorising him to draw on your account with the wool merchant, I will see that it is sent to him.’
‘Silver is better.’ Fumbling, for he was very tired, he unbuckled his leather belt and stripped off the lining. A shower of silver pieces fell onto the bench. ‘The silver will convince, whereas the letter would only tempt him. You shall have the letter as well, of course. It is already written.’
‘Do we need to take everything you have?’ Her face was troubled.
‘Yes, I think so. After all, it is my fault that you have the townsfolk to feed now, as well as the garrison.’
‘You should keep something back for yourself.’
He took two coins and put them into his wallet. He said, ‘One thing. Was the honeysuckle really your favourite? What if I had guessed wrongly?’
‘Whatever you chose would have become my favourite. You know that. But in fact the honeysuckle is one of my favourite flowers. It has always been so. My aunt has tried to get a garden growing here for years. She sets lilies, roses, peonies, fruit-trees. Few of them flourish in this barren spot. But the honeysuckle always seems to flower, every year. I had taken it for granted, till all this happened, but I think it will in truth be my favourite from now on.’
She spoke without coquetry, seemingly without intent to please. But it did please him. She was looking up at the honeysuckle, which was in full flower with bees humming around it.
He jerked himself awake. ‘The smith! The lad does not know what it is we need! I must speak to Simon …’
‘You will do nothing of the kind. Simon has all your drawings. He and Peter Bowman will see that the lad sets to work at once. You are going straight to bed.’
She urged him off the bench and up the stairs into the keep. She saw that there was water and towels set ready for him. Then she locked him in with Parkyn and Barnabas, and took away the key.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ursula hung the key to Benedict’s room on a ribbon round her neck. She kept one hand over the key while she went about her work, settling in the refugees from the town and arranging about meals. Reynold invited her to go and walk with him, but she shook her head and hurried away.
The key seemed to become larger under her fingers as the day wore on. The key became warm, though the wind was chill. Now and then spots of rain fell. Stray gusts of wind began to strike at the walls. The water in the river was whipped into white flecks, and the gulls’ cries became strident as they swooped low over the castle.
The key’s warmth excited her. She had Benedict in her power while she held the key. As she caressed it, she thought of what it might be like to touch his hand, his arm … the hard line of his jaw … the crisp, short-cut hair at the nape of his neck …
The key represented power. She knew that she had power over him in more ways than one. Whatsoever she asked of him, he would perform. It was at once awesome and exciting to have so much influence over him. If she smiled at him, he smiled back. If she frowned, then he was cast down. If she showed him favour, he glowed.
If he had not been in a position of power himself, she would perhaps have been able to ignore him. But he was no expendable peasant. He was the man who was going to save Salwarpe, more or less single-handed. He was modest, he was courteous, he was …
‘Benedict de Huste,’ she murmured, ‘Benedict …’
What did it matter that he limped, and was ugly? No, he was not ugly. He had the sort of features which made other men look insipid. There was so much strength there, so much …
‘Goodness of heart,’ she murmured. ‘He has the face of a good man.’
‘Talking to yourself, Ursula?’ said her grandfather.
She covered her confusion with a smile. ‘There is a very great deal to think about, especially if I am to leave at the next low tide with Dickon. We’ll have to take the punt; the guard-boat is still not ready. You are sure you will be all right?’
‘Oh yes,’ sighed Sir Henry. ‘You leave me in very good hands, you know. It’s you I’m worried about. Are you sure you can manage the abbot?’
She nodded. She sat beside her grandfather and took the abbot’s letter from his hand. Benedict had guessed correctly. The abbot’s letter was full of shocked horror that his neighbours should have been subject to harassment … ‘“Harassment”!’ said Ursula, with a snort … and naturally anything he could do to help … but though indeed he did have some grain which he might be willing to part with, at a price, he was not at all certain that he could risk supplying it without payment in advance, and he did not feel able to support or feed any extra mouths, if Sir Henry was thinking of sending the women and children out of the castle … and indeed the perilous passage would militate against such a course of action. … and the blessing of. … etc.
‘He won’t die a poor man, anyway,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Did you get the money out of Benedict?’
‘Of course. There’s more than enough there. He gave me everything he had, and the letter pledging further funds from his banker, the wool merchant.’
‘He’s a splendid example of true chivalry—luckily for us. You’ll have to get Aylmer to give him a present when all this is settled. A costly present, mind! A loving cup or something of that nature.’
There was colour in her cheeks. ‘He’d like a book better.’ She fingered the key. She did not like playing the role of beggarmaid, even though Benedict had made it easy for her to do so. She was giving him nothing, while he was giving her everything he had.
‘I don’t like myself much,’ she said. ‘It’s so ridiculously easy to make him do what we want.’
He patted her hand. ‘Yes, child. But there’s the point. If he weren’t such a chivalrous fool, he wouldn’t do all this for nothing.’
‘Sometimes I think … just occasionally … that he does realise I’m playing with him. And then … oh, you’ll laugh! I find myself being very anxious to reassure him. Really wanting him not to be hurt. He’s so vulnerable, and he’s a good man, I think. Don’t you?’
‘Not as great a man as Aylmer.’
‘No. Of course not. Did you think I needed to be reminded of Aylmer?’ She smiled at her grandfather with a sudden brilliance and then took the key off its ribbon. ‘Keep him safe for me till I return.’
It was noon before Benedict awoke. As he came slowly to consciousness, he was aware of a sense of well-being such as he had not experienced in years. He lay still, eyes closed, to savour the moment. He was safe. No one was going to hurt him and he was not going to do anything stupid. The maiden had the key and no-one could get at him.
He listened. The sound he dreaded—the thud and crash of stones thrown from a trebuchet—was not to be heard. There were no cries of alarm outside. There was the clang of metal from the reopened
forge … the hammering and sawing of the carpenters … the smell of freshly-baked bread.
He was hungry.
He opened his eyes and sat up. Barnabas and Parkyn were seated at the foot of his bed, eating hunks of bread and cheese and drinking ale while they played dice. The food and drink had not been in the room when Ursula had locked them in, so …
Barnabas said, ‘They forgot to put bars on the window. It’s easy to get in and out. I put your share on one side.’
Benedict grinned. The two of them were looking shamefaced at being caught playing dice while their master slept. Barnabas had found a clean woollen tunic from somewhere—best not ask where—but it didn’t look as if he’d washed or brushed his hair. Perhaps a word in Parkyn’s ear about Barnabas’s appearance might do the trick?
Parkyn said, ‘No-one’s come to the door. You can rest a while longer.’
Barnabas picked his nose. ‘She’s gone to the abbey for food.’
Ah. Benedict pulled up a pillow, punched it into a better shape and leaned back, munching bread and cheese. So she had gone, had she? He’d thought she would. The pattern had been laid down before, when she’d left Aylmer to come back to Salwarpe. As soon as he’d seen Dickon’s dog, Benedict had known that someone would have to go to the abbey. That someone could not be him and therefore it would have to be the girl.
Typical.
She was right to go, of course, though it made him feel curiously empty to know that she was no longer in the castle. If only she had felt able to trust him—or Aylmer. Aylmer would have been hurt if she had gone without a word … and that word had only been spoken because he, Benedict, had seen to it that she confessed her intention. Aylmer had forgiven her, of course. Aylmer loved her. Well, who didn’t?
Benedict thought about Aylmer. He remembered the first time he had seen the man who was to be his guardian. A big brown bear of a man, jumping down from his horse and sweeping the five-year-old orphan up into his arms. “So you are Benedict? For your father’s sake and for your own, I shall love you. I have no sons of my own as yet, Benedict. When I have, you and I shall teach them how to go birds-nesting … eh?”
But Aylmer had had no sons, or daughters, either. His wife Joan had been a gentle, loving creature; not pretty, nor even very accomplished as noble women went, but she and Aylmer had fitted each other’s corners well. She had taken Benedict to her heart as she took any stray animal or child … and he had mourned for her almost as deeply as Aylmer, when she died.
And now, Ursula. Ursula de Thrave of Salwarpe. Ursula of the long fair hair and quick intelligence. She had some of the same warmth as Aylmer’s dead wife, but overlying it was a consciousness of her beauty, which Joan had never had. Joan had put her husband first in all things; Ursula put Salwarpe first. It was always as well to remember that, when dealing with her. Sometimes one forgot it, and thought she smiled at one because she liked one … but of course that was all nonsense. How could she like a limping, ugly, untidy creature like Benedict de Huste?
Now and again she had made him forget that he was awkward and lame. If she was kind to him, perhaps it was not only because he was the means whereby Salwarpe was to be saved … or was it only that? He couldn’t be sure.
Idonia had never let him forget that he was awkward and lame. There had been other mornings when he had awoken and … he drew in his breath and closed his eyes. He lay rigid awhile, remembering. Then he made himself relax. It was all in the past. It was no good thinking about it. It hurt still, to remember it, but over the years he had trained himself not to think about it very often. He had achieved contentment working on his estates, building a new mill here, improving the water-meadows there. And he had won some sort of respect among his fellows, campaigning in France. Not that he had ever wished to take part in another siege!
If he could have got out of this one, he would have done so. He didn’t like sieges. Very expensive, in more ways than one. It was clear that Sir Henry was a poor man and that he would never be able to reimburse Benedict the money advanced. Aylmer had offered to give Benedict some money, the night before they left the hunting-lodge, but Benedict had said there was plenty of time and that he had some with him …
Yes, Aylmer would repay him. Probably.
It was necessary to put one’s problems into different slots and not take out one problem to look at it before the previous problem had been solved. The only difficulty was that you had to choose which problem was the most urgent. If you chose wrongly, then something was liable to get forgotten.
Those outposts. Reason told him that outposts were a good thing. Instinct told him they would lose some good men when Hugo came up the hill. Should the outposts be withdrawn, or did they have enough good archers to replace those they might lose? And how many men were they going to be able to get out of the town before Hugo discovered the deception practiced on him? And would Merle and Mistress Peasmarsh come out of this alive?
And Reynold. Benedict sighed. He could have done without Reynold, just at the moment.
Benedict had a nasty feeling that he had overlooked something, somewhere. What? Peter Bowman. No, he was all right. Dickon? Gone with Ursula, of a surety. Sir Henry? Trust that old fox to come through this in one piece. Merle? We’ve gone into that already. The trebuchet, the carpenters, the smith …
Benedict sat up with a sigh, shaking his head. Something was amiss, somewhere. He had better make a round of the castle, checking on everything. Someone rapped on the door and then put the key into the lock and turned it. Not Ursula, of course.
Reynold de Cressi. He had come to make trouble. Benedict saw that at once. Parkyn had a cauldron of water keeping warm on a brazier. As Benedict sat up, Parkyn took the cauldron from the coals and began to pour it into a tub.
Benedict brightened. He felt in need of a bath. That sewer last night. … ugh! He thought: Must check that they sealed off the entrance to the sewer …
As Benedict stepped into the bath and Parkyn reached for the soap, Reynold kicked the door shut and stood with arms akimbo. ‘Well, slugabed!’
‘Reynold … any sign of the trebuchet yet?’
‘Trebuchet? No. I doubt it’s all a figment of your imagination. Your very fertile imagination.’ Benedict was meant to wince at that thrust, but he was surrendering to the warm of the water. He smiled, instead. Parkyn rolled up his sleeves and attended to Benedict’s feet.
‘I came,’ said Reynold. ‘To demand the return of the knife and ring which your man stole from me. And to have him whipped.’
Barnabas shrank into a corner, his eyes flickering to the door.
Benedict brushed soap from his eyes—Parkyn was washing his hair—and said, ‘I thought they had been returned to you already. My man Barnabas has forsworn petty theft. Hand the things over, Barnabas. My apologies, Reynold. It will not happen again.’
Parkyn’s fingers were something less than gentle about Benedict’s head. The man was more enthusiastic than skilful at his job. What had his old job been, anyway?
‘It certainly will not happen again,’ said Reynold. ‘I will see he has such a whipping as …’
‘No whipping,’ said Benedict, standing up and allowing himself to be enfolded in a clean towel. ‘I need him in one piece.’
‘How very like you to employ the scum of the castle!’ said Reynold. ‘A thief, and a clumsy, cack-handed ostler.’
An ostler? Was that what Parkyn had been? And was there so much difference between grooming a horse and grooming a man?
‘They serve me well,’ said Benedict, and was rewarded by grateful looks from both Parkyn and Barnabas. Well, he knew better than Reynold what sort of men they were. Badly-trained servants they might be, but then, who was Benedict to deserve anything better? Parkyn replaced the wet towel with another, dry one. Perhaps he was not so ill-trained, after all?
Benedict sat, while Parkyn prepared to shave his master. Usually Benedict shaved himself, shrugged on his own clothing and ran a comb through his hair—if he remembered.
He had not had a personal body-servant since his father’s valet had died. … four years ago … five? Since just after he parted from Idonia.
‘You spend long enough on your toilet,’ said Reynold, with a sneer.
‘I do not know when I shall have time to do so again,’ said Benedict. Barnabas was kneeling at his master’s feet, rolling on a pair of hose. Barnabas’s shoulders were hunched, and his elbows sharp with unspoken protest at Reynold’s behaviour. Benedict closed his eyes, surrendering to Parkyn’s hands. Perhaps the man was not so unskilful, after all. Perhaps he had merely needed encouragement, in order to display his talents.
Reynold still had something to say. ‘When I think how poor a showing you make in the tourney, I wonder at it that you should have been put in command here! Of course the de Thraves knew no better …’
Parkyn’s hands trembled. Barnabas was buckling on Benedict’s boots, and his hands, too, had become unsteady about their task. Benedict thought: By the Rood, my servants want me to refute Reynold’s charge, and I cannot do it.
‘It is true that you are skilled in the tourney,’ said Benedict. ‘Very true. I believe you did well at York, recently?’
‘You should have been there to see me! But then, you had other, pressing business on your estates, did you not? The building of a mill, or some such?’ Reynold snorted. ‘Understandable, seeing how often I have tumbled you in the dust!’
For once Benedict was moved to protest. ‘The tourney is not everything. Wars are not fought according to the rules of the tourney, and I have seen something of war, you know.’
‘The tourney is the only true training-ground for war. How else can a knight be sure of unseating his opponent in a charge?’
‘The tourney is as much like war as a mumming play is to real life. The mummers pack their properties and jog on to the next town when they have finished their play, but in real life the war goes on, as this siege does. Let us talk of this no more, until you have come through a siege. Only then can you make comparisons.’
The Siege of Salwarpe Page 16