To give him his due, Reynold had hesitated, glancing at Benedict. Then Idonia had pouted and shrugged, and said that she didn’t think she could do anything for poor Benedict, and the sun was shining outside …
Aylmer had been sitting beside Benedict at the time. He had said, ‘She is very young, Benedict. I will have a word with her.’
But whatever Aylmer said, it did no good. Idonia could never bear the sight of Benedict after that. He was so ugly now, she said; so awkward. If she had known he was going to ruin his looks. …! She had avoided him while he convalesced, and he had known that during that time she was usually with Reynold. In the evenings he had to watch her dancing with Reynold, in the day-times he had to watch her ride out beside him.
When she did meet him, painfully limping along on his crutch, she would turn aside with her hand over her mouth to stifle laughter. Reynold taught her to say things, slyly, about Benedict; hurtful things which she knew would be repeated to him. Aylmer had tried to protect Benedict, but what man could protect him from the wit of a spiteful girl?
Benedict had suffered, for he loved Idonia. He lost his self-confidence. He began to take himself at her evaluation of him. He would have released her from her vows of betrothal, but Aylmer had insisted that the marriage go through.
Why had Aylmer insisted? Looking back, Benedict thought of all the pain that had arisen from that insistence and wondered if Aylmer had been wise. If the match had been broken off, even though it would have meant a great deal of trouble for everybody, even though Benedict would have smarted for a while, yet surely he might have made another match, later on?
And she? Benedict sighed. Well, what would she have done? Married Reynold? Perhaps she might have wished to do so, but it had long been understood that Reynold was to marry a distant cousin. True, his bride was some years older than he, but there was a considerable inheritance involved, and Reynold knew the value of a bird in the hand. He could not hope to gain Aylmer’s consent to his marrying Idonia, if she broke her vows to marry Benedict. No, Idonia could not hope to marry Reynold, and so … over-persuaded perhaps by Aylmer … she had married Benedict. And made them both suffer for it.
For ten days she had held him off, making excuses, saying she could not be expected to enjoy the caresses of such an awkward creature, that he must woo her all over again … and then had laughed at his attempts to do so. He had been at that difficult stage, halfway between adolescence and manhood, when to be laughed at was doubly hurtful. He had been crude, even rough, perhaps. But he had tried every way he knew to show her that he loved her, and would be patient if only she. … but she did not wish to listen. How well Benedict could remember the frustration, the humiliation, of that time! And then Aylmer had taken him aside and bid him show Idonia who was master. And he had done so, despite her raging. She had said he would regret it, and so he had.
Benedict turned over in bed and gulped. It was not an episode of which he was proud. He felt sick shame when he thought of it, even now.
Yet he had succeeded, in spite of what she said later.
Well. Perhaps he ought not to have forced her. Only, what else?
If he had waited? But she had made it clear that he had lost her respect, because he had not exercised his rights … and then, when he did. …
Benedict bit on his lip. She had waited till the whole court was assembled, and then gone on her knees to Aylmer to request that her marriage be annulled, on the grounds that Benedict was impotent. In front of everyone. … of Reynold, sniggering behind his hand, of Joan looking distressed. … and of Benedict, scarlet in the face, protesting. … and feeling sick because he saw that his protests were unavailing.
Neither Joan nor Aylmer had believed Idonia, but it was plain that some way must be found of breaking the deadlock. Aylmer suggested that the couple separate for a few months. Idonia was very young … perhaps so much adulation had gone to her head, and so on. Joan had flatly refused to allow Idonia to stay on in her household. She would no longer be responsible for the girl, she said, because of her outrageous flirtations with Reynold.
Aylmer was to take a contingent of knights to fight in France, and it was decided that Benedict should be one of these knights. As for Idonia, she might take up her abode at one of Benedict’s manors for the time being. Both agreed. Benedict took Idonia, with a train of servants, to a comfortable, well-furnished manor and left her there. She barely spoke to him on the journey and turned her back on him when he would have kissed her at parting.
And that was the last time he had seen her, for she had contracted a fever late that summer and died within the week.
Benedict had inherited her estates, which was all to the good. But the slander which she had perpetrated on him, the lie that he had not been able to consummate their marriage, that also had stayed with him.
Benedict opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t often think about Idonia, nowadays. Perhaps it was having Reynold at close quarters which brought her so much to mind. Yet the sting was leaving the old wounds. Sir Henry’s kindness, Ursula’s saying “I choose honeysuckle”; even if both were due to diplomacy, even if they did not really like him for his own sake …
No, they both liked him. He was sure of that.
A strange thing, that he should find people to like him here in Salwarpe, so far from his own estates, even though Reynold was around to remind him how stupid and awkward he was.
Benedict thought: One can’t get away from one’s past, exactly. But as one grows older and has new experiences … perhaps the old wounds close up? I didn’t think they ever would, but perhaps they can.
Someone came rapping on the door and he swung his legs out of bed.
Another evening in the hall, watching Reynold drink himself into a stupor. Another night of dreamless sleep. Another pleasurable awakening … no trebuchet, no cries of alarm, no Ursula. The smith had come, with another boat-load of refugees. Bravo, Merle! And now the forge produced more than just noise.
But.
His uneasiness grew. He frowned as he went about his work, overseeing the laying of the last planks on the jetty below the cliff, signalling to the men who were anchoring the fireboat in place … walking the ramparts with Peter Bowman, and talking of Merle. Below in the valley the church bell tolled for yet another family who were being “interred” by the priest in the churchyard. How many coffins were being let down into the ground? Eight? There were unusual scurryings in the streets below and now and then they could hear the cries of mercenaries searching for and taking men to work on the quayside, or in the fields. Or. …
‘That’s where they’re building the trebuchet,’ said Peter, pointing to a space beyond the church. ‘There’s an open piece of ground there. You can’t see it properly from here, because the church is in the way. But there’s carts been hauling timber there, and the timber’s not come out again, and there’s men been driven with whips to that place … and they don’t come out again, neither. So that’s where they’re building the trebuchet.’
‘And no smith,’ said Benedict, with a grin.
‘Ah,’ said Peter, also grinning. ‘But if they catch Merle. … he’s a big chap and noticeable. They tell me he’s hiding by day and moving by night. His brother and family have reported sick today … I saw them being helped out of the mill early this morning, and taken to the houses on the end of the quay. The mercenaries don’t like working on the quay any more. Nervous, it makes them. And sharp with their whips. But they’ve nearly got those boats ready to sail.’
‘We’re ready for them,’ said Benedict. ‘The fever story is spreading better than I thought it would. Sir Henry says he’ll give old Mother Peasmarsh a grant of land, if she comes through this. And Merle.’
‘I hope I live to see it,’ said Peter.
Benedict went up to the gatehouse. He had been avoiding it for some time, believing it best to allow Reynold his head there. He was not happy about Reynold. Drinking in the middle of the day? Benedict rubbed his
head in perplexity. What the devil had got into the man?
Simon Joce joined him at the gatehouse. He was looking expectant. Benedict sighed. Was he going to have to do Reynold’s work for him yet again? It looked like it.
‘Have we any stone-masons? If not, we’ll have to learn how, won’t we?’ The gatehouse was built in a hollow square, spanning a deep pit. Top and bottom of the square were the two sets of gatehouses, linked fore and aft by high walls with cat-walks above them. Between the outermost pair of towers was the portcullis, which dropped into a slot in the ground. The inner gatetowers supported the drawbridge, which, when it was in the “up” position, formed a second door, barring the way to any who had got through the portcullis.
Except that you didn’t need to break through the portcullis or the drawbridge; if you were wise you broke into one of the outer gatehouse towers, inside which was the mechanism that operated the portcullis. A narrow postern was situated at the bottom of one of the outer towers.
‘Wall that up for a start,’ said Benedict. ‘And fast!’
He waved his hand at the stone walls which linked the two sets of towers. ‘Bad design,’ he said. Both sets of towers had stairs within their walls, leading from ground floor to ramparts. You could run up the stairs within the first tower, run across the catwalk overlooking the pit into which the drawbridge was meant to sink, and then run down the inner tower steps.
‘We must either break down the catwalks,’ said Benedict, ‘Or build walls blocking off the ramparts, and preventing access to the catwalks. If they force the first tower, well and good. But we needn’t give them easy access to the inner towers.’
‘If we do that,’ said Simon, ‘we’ll have to keep the drawbridge lowered, or our men won’t be able to get into the front towers at all.’
‘That’s right. Put extra men on duty, ready to bring the drawbridge up at a moment’s notice. I doubt they’ll be needed yet awhile, but it’s as well to be prepared. If only I could think of a way to bring a trebuchet into use on this side. …’
Both Simon and Benedict shook their heads. The castle wall was so high at that point, and the gate-towers so extensive in area, that no trebuchet could be brought near enough the inner walls to throw stones over it.
‘We might make two smaller ones, to mount on top of the gatehouse towers,’ said Benedict. ‘But there’s so little room up there that they couldn’t be very big, and if they aren’t big they won’t have much power. I’ll speak to the carpenters about it.’
‘Sir Benedict, do I ask Sir Reynold, before I start these alterations?’
Benedict hesitated. He’d passed Reynold, drinking in the hall, some time back. Then he nodded. ‘Ask him, but make sure he’s asked in such a way that he does it.’
‘The men at the outposts will have to come back under the portcullis every time we change the guard. I’ll have to put extra men on duty at the portcullis, as well as on the drawbridge, if we wall up the postern.’
Benedict nodded and left Simon conferring with his men. What was it he had not done? He went in search of Sir Henry, who was wandering towards the garden.
Sir Henry took Benedict’s arm. ‘Smile, my lad. Always smile when things are going badly.’
Benedict took one look at Sir Henry’s elaborate gold coiffure and wide grin, and stretched his own mouth in a smile. Things must indeed have been bad.
‘We are short of food?’ he guessed.
‘Appallingly,’ said Sir Henry, smiling and bowing as they passed a group of carpenters. ‘You eat enough for three, my boy. You ought to know.’
‘I thought the food would be here on the next tide.’ They had daily news of the troubles Ursula was having, getting the ships loaded and away.
‘Certainly. But I have just been told that Hugo’s men have two boats in the water, and are loading them with men.’ Here he stopped to pat a small boy on the head. ‘There’ll be a certain amount of sabotage, naturally. One of the refugees has a son who swore he’d left a seam uncaulked. Perhaps the boats will not be able to set sail this afternoon. But it’s going to be a close-run thing.’
‘A fight at sea. Not precisely my strong point. Never had to do it, before.’
‘My men have, of course. That’s a point in our favour. But I don’t like to think of my granddaughter in the middle of one. Sit down, boy. It wasn’t about that I wanted to speak with you. …’
Benedict snapped his fingers. ‘Merle has been found out!’
‘He has been taken hostage in exchange for two others who “fell sick” and have been released by Hugo. I doubt Hugo knows what Merle was doing, but took him merely as being a man of substance. Still, it is a blow. Both the Peasmarsh men have arrived here. They really have been ill, incidentally. Conditions in the jail are not, I gather, quite what one would wish. But it wasn’t about that I wished to speak, either.’
‘Reynold.’ Benedict sat beside Sir Henry and folded his arms.
‘You must be more careful with him, my boy. Poor Reynold lacks your self-confidence. He is so afraid he will fail when it comes to the crunch.’
Benedict’s jaw dropped.
‘Hadn’t it occurred to you? He’s never been in a siege before, has he? You keep telling him it’s different from the tourney, and of course it is different, but …’
Benedict began to laugh. Then he sobered. Sir Henry was looking at him with a mixture of amusement and concern.
‘You really think he’s afraid?’ said Benedict. Sir Henry nodded. Benedict rubbed his head. ‘Well! And here was I coming to you to ask you to help me with him. And something else. I’ve missed something, Sir Henry. I don’t know what. I’ve been over and over it, time and again. Can you spare the time to go over it with me once again?’
A page came out, bearing cold meats and some ale for them to drink. It was pleasant to sit there in the sun and share one’s troubles. The page poured out some ale for Benedict and set it on the bench beside him. Benedict made as it to lift the cup, and then stopped, hand in the air.
The surface of the ale had been disturbed by an intrusive fly.
‘What a fool I’ve been!’ cried Benedict.
Food forgotten, he snatched up the cup and raced to the nearest stairs. Up onto the ramparts he went, crying for Peter Bowman, for Barnabas, for Simon Joce. To the astonishment of the sentries he set the cup down on the flagstones by the outer wall and crouched above it, watching the surface of the liquid as if his life depended on it.
‘Here, my lord!’ Here came Barnabas, with Peter Bowman loping along behind him.
‘Bowls. I asked for bowls of water to be set about the ramparts. Quickly! Run!’ Barnabas ran.
‘What the devil …!’ This was Simon Joce.
‘Look at the liquid, man! Look closely. Did it tremble? No, perhaps not. I thought for a moment … Not here, at any rate.’ He stood up and looked around him. A dozen or so men had collected to stare at his antics. He pushed through them, to set the cup down twenty paces further on and once more crouch down beside it.
Parkyn and Barnabas ran up with two more bowls. Then Sir Henry was there, too.
‘Benedict, what …?’
‘Mines, Sir Henry. A standing bowl of water will show if anything is moving under the surface. Deep down, where we can’t feel movement normally. There are tunnels and caves beneath this castle, are there not? We know of two, but what if there are more than two? What if Hugo has learned of one, and. … see!’
The surface of the water was shuddering.
‘Magic!’ whispered one man, and crossed himself.
‘Not magic,’ said Benedict. ‘But picks and shovels attacking the rock beneath us. Picks, mostly. Set those bowls down further on, Parkyn … and over there, Barnabas. Let’s see if we can discover exactly where they are working …’
The bowls were set and men craned their necks over each one.
‘Yes. … here!’ cried a dozen voices at once.
‘Not much movement,’ reported Simon, from the far end.
‘Set more bowls here, and here!’ said Benedict, pacing out distances. ‘And further over, just in case they’ve got two mines going. We needn’t worry about the cliff side, or the gatehouse … just this steep hill overlooking the town.’
‘But the townsfolk, the refugees, would have told us if anything were going on,’ protested Sir Henry.
‘Would they know? Ask them. And ask them about the existence of any other tunnels. Barnabas, where are you? Ah, there you are. Are there any tunnels they could reach from this side?’
‘N-no,’ said Barnabas. ‘Not to say “tunnels”. There’s the Dead Man’s Cave, a course. But that doesn’t lead anywhere much.’
Several men rushed to the ramparts and looked over. ‘There!’ cried one. ‘Look, there!’
Peter Bowman held his hands over his eyes and scanned the ground below, where the furthest flung of the houses were situated at the bottom of the cliff.
‘There’s men been using that track,’ he said, pointing to a dusty space between two houses. The track disappeared into some bushes, and then an outcrop of rock cut off the view. ‘That’s where the entrance to the Dead Man’s Cave lies, and it’s right beneath us. No, a trifle to the left.’
‘And the sewer is a dozen yards or so to the right,’ said Benedict, also peering over the edge. ‘See where the dell lies? They can’t know about the outlet from the sewer. The track up to the dell doesn’t look as if it’s been used recently.’
Sir Henry sent for some of the refugees from the town and questioned them. No, they had never heard of any tunnel up into the castle. No, they thought the sewers from the castle all went out the other side, into the marshes. Yes, Hugo’s men had been asking about tunnels and caves and sewers and the like, and it was true that one of the younger ne’er-do-wells, who had been accustomed to spending a lot of time birds-nesting, had recently disappeared from his home and been seen in Hugo’s camp, eating with the mercenaries. And yes, about twenty of their men had been taken from field-work and now lived in those two houses down at the bottom of the cliff there, under close guard. They were driven into the cave every morning, with picks and shovels. It was thought they were constructing extra stabling for Hugo’s horses, or some such. Daft-like. Wasn’t there stabling and plenty to be had, already?
The Siege of Salwarpe Page 18