The Siege of Salwarpe

by Veronica Heley

  There had been smiles here and there, but they had been smiles of welcome, and of relief; the smiles of friends. Benedict had barely had time to note their forbearance before his mind had turned to the problem of the moment.

  He lay in bed and went over his plans once more in his mind; then he slept again.

  He woke, and jerked to his elbow. Then he swore, for he had jarred his wounded arm. The candle had burned low, but it was not yet time to rise. Neither Parkyn nor Barnabas had woken this time. The tarpaulin stirred, and she came in, with her lanthorn. Had she not slept at all? She had not taken off her clothes, nor freed her plait from its silken sheath. Around her head the honey-coloured hair was roughened into a nimbus.

  Once more she stood looking down at him. He had the oddest feeling that time had moved backward, and that it was still midnight, when she had stood looking down on him before. Only now she moved to put down her lanthorn and to bathe his face. He tried not to wince. His eye was almost closed, still.

  He turned his head to look at the candle and she slipped her arm under his shoulders, to help him lie more easily. Now he could look at it without propping himself on one elbow. Her arm stayed around him. She sat on the side of the bed.

  Surely she would move away in a minute. But she didn’t. How it came about, he was not quite sure, but one moment there was only her arm beneath his shoulders, and the next his head was resting on her shoulder. Presumably she didn’t object to this proximity, because she was holding the cold cloth to his face with her free hand … and now she was drawing the covers higher over them both.

  He thought, I must be still asleep and dreaming. Then he thought, I can’t go to sleep now.

  He stopped thinking. It was enough, just to exist.

  Now and then he flicked a glance at the candle. Surely never did candle burn down so fast! Now and then she dipped her cloth into a bowl of cold water, to lay it against his eye.

  As the minutes passed, he felt the pace of her breathing quicken. And so did his, too. He moved his head. He wanted to see her face. It was pity, surely, that caused her to hold him like that! He struggled to sit upright. She dropped her cloth into the basin and stood, turning away from him.

  ‘Is it time?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet. Ursula …’

  But their voices had roused Parkyn. Parkyn roused Barnabas, and sleepily pulled at his tunic, to make it lie straight. Ursula was looking at the candle, her hands twisting and turning.

  Then she threw back her head. ‘I forgot to ask about your knee.’

  ‘It is well enough,’ he said. ‘I can get to the foot of the steps, anyway.’

  His knee protested at every movement, but the protests were less urgent than they had been. Much of the swelling had disappeared. Parkyn was bringing up a razor and towels. He was yawning, but his eyes were properly open at last. Barnabas was floundering about, cursing under his breath.

  ‘It is still quite dark,’ said Ursula. ‘I will go to see that grandfather is awake, and then I will meet you on the ramparts, to ensure that you are properly armed this time.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Everyone had to be in their place, an hour before dawn. At dawn Hugo’s men would be roused in their camp, and come up the hill to start swinging the ram at the battered inner gate once more. At his current rate of progress, he would be inside the castle before noon, for the inner gate towers had not been built as stoutly as their companions.

  Sir Henry was to stay in the castle with Simon Joce, to defend the gate-tower as best he might.

  Reynold was to lead the party which was to go down the sewer. No-one had been more surprised than Benedict when Reynold had volunteered for the task. Originally Benedict had intended to go that way himself, but his knee injury had put paid to the idea.

  Reynold was to be guided by Merle. Once in the dell, Reynold and his party were to await a signal from Benedict, and then they were to release the men imprisoned in the two houses near Dead Man’s Cave, thus swelling their ranks with some twenty or so more Salwarpe men. Six of Reynold’s men were then to go to the jail and release the hostages there, while the rest made their way with all speed up the road and fell on Hugo and the men with the ram.

  Benedict and his party would have the farthest to go and would therefore start first. He was going in the boats with Dickon and the Peasmarsh folk, together with all the fishermen who could be armed. They would sail or row round to the quay—depending on the wind—and there disembark. Dickon and a picked handful of fishermen would then take the boats back to the castle to fetch the next contingent—that of the womenfolk. These latter were also armed, though with a strange assortment of weapons. The women had been given the task of going through the houses one by one after Benedict had passed through the town, to seek out and deal with any mercenaries who might yet linger there. Much against her will, Ursula was to stay in the castle, and one boat was to be left at the foot of the cliff steps, for emergencies.

  Benedict’s task was to detour round the town, deal with any mercenaries who might have stayed behind in the camp there, and then hasten up the hill to join Reynold.

  It had seemed a good plan when Benedict had outlined it to his men the night before. Now, in the uncertain hour before dawn, it seemed doomed to failure. He knew he must show nothing of his doubts. The men around him would despair if he did.

  He took his crutch and set it under his arm, when the tarpaulin was drawn back and four grinning men came in with a chair which they had lashed to two stout poles. He was not going to have to walk anywhere. They put him on the chair, picked it up and carried him thus all the way to the steps, and thence out onto the ramparts by the postern. There Ursula awaited him, with his armour.

  Files of armed men passed by and most saluted him as they went through the postern gate and down the stairs on the cliff-face. The flickering light of the torches held by Barnabas picked glints from their armour. He had forgotten how heavy the chain-mail of his hauberk was. It chafed his arm, despite the quilting of the jupon beneath. The metal greaves on his legs were almost unbearable, but he knew that if he tried to take them off, Ursula would only start scolding him all over again. And of course on horseback a man’s legs were the most vulnerable point.

  She was kneeling at his feet, buckling on his spurs. How strange it seemed, this ceremonial arming … when he had been knighted, Aylmer’s wife Joan had buckled on his spurs, and now Ursula. …

  There, it was done. She handed him his sword. Her eyes were wide and dark. She moved like a sleepwalker, like a priestess. …

  He settled his sword against his thigh. As usual, it got in the way of his bad leg. After this—if there were to be any ‘after’—he would have done with armour and battles and poking his nose into other people’s business.

  Parkyn was pulling the chain-mail hood over the linen bonnet on his head. Over that would go his helmet. Damn all helmets; never could see out of them properly.

  Ursula said to Barnabas, ‘Go out and see if they are ready for him.’

  All around them was dark, but they stood in a circle of light … a charmed circle …

  Benedict said, ‘In a few hours, it will be all over.’

  ‘Will it?’ It was a challenge. She was not referring to the siege.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It must be.’

  ‘What if I don’t agree?’

  He shook his head. How could he explain? Surely, she must understand.

  She tore the silken sheath from her hair and bound it round his upper arm.

  She said, ‘There. I know you will say I ought not to do this, but surely it is only right. If ever there were a true knight, it is you. And should not a true knight be rewarded?’

  ‘I have had my reward.’ Was he thinking of the minutes he had spent resting in her arms, or the good opinion of the garrison?

  Barnabas came back, to say that they were ready for Benedict.

  He hesitated. It seemed that he had something else to say to Ursula, but was not certain how
to express himself.

  She stamped her foot at him. ‘Go, now. Before I change my mind and forbid you to risk your precious life! Oh, go! Don’t you see how it is with me? No, I will not cry! You must not be distracted, I realise that. Do what you have to do, and then … I will be waiting.’

  He took the crutch which Parkyn was holding out to him and went out onto the cliff-face. There, at the top of the stairs, was the newly-built hoist that he had designed to bring sacks up from the jetty. Now a chair had been fixed to the hook at the end of the rope, so that he could sink down the cliff without effort. As he was lowered over the edge, so Ursula came out onto the cliff-top, holding a torch above her.

  And then all was dark about him.

  A man with a lanthorn met him on the jetty. Two more men lifted him into the Peasmarsh boat, and then they were pushing off and oars were being dipped into the water. Behind and ahead of them went the masthead lights of other boats, manned with fisherfolk. Round the base of the hill they went, and drew up to the quayside.

  The place was deserted. Hugo’s men had long since ceased to take any interest in the smashed boats that still lay there. A fine-looking horse was led ashore by means of some planking, and Benedict hoisted up into the saddle.

  It seemed ridiculous to be so high in the air when everyone else was going to walk, but that was the way it had to be. He felt like a giant, riding amid a sea of pygmies. John Peasmarsh the elder led the way, letting his lanthorn shine out now and then to show the company the path. They did not go into the town, but skirted it on the side opposite the castle.

  The journey was a nightmare. Benedict’s leg ached. It was still dark. His horse was being led by someone who knew the way. He had nothing to do but sit on it and worry. He was good at worrying.

  They didn’t really need him at all. He was nothing but a dead weight, having to be picked up and carried here and there, having to be looked after at every turn. Ursula was quite right. He had been a fool to leap into the fighting on the ramparts yesterday without thinking about armour. But Sir Henry had been hard-pressed and Benedict had not thought before he leaped, any more than he had thought before leaping to throw Aylmer aside, so many years before.

  Something was happening. They had come to a halt. His horse was being led in a circle and was now facing in a different direction. Something large and dense was on his left. Ah, the mill.

  John Peasmarsh was giving whispered instructions.

  They waited.

  There was a frightened cry nearby. Someone snickered.

  ‘Hugo set a guard on the mill. More fool he!’

  So. The first man killed that day was Hugo’s. Benedict supposed that that was a good thing. He didn’t wish anyone killed. He’d never seen the point of killing. Except that sometimes there was no alternative.

  ‘All set,’ said John Peasmarsh the elder, back at Benedict’s stirrup. ‘I’ve sent my son ahead to see if anything’s stirring in the camp yet.’

  Another voice. ‘The night-watch are just turning in. The camp’s quiet, and empty. You can hear men marching up the hill, and see their lanthorns. They’ve gone to set the ram going again. The camp should be easy to take, but there’s something going on in the town, I think. Lights, and men shouting.’

  ‘That’s not our business,’ said his father. ‘Give the signal, lad.’

  They didn’t need Benedict, even to give orders. They knew what to do. Two of their men were already climbing up the stairs inside the mill, to set torches alight in its upper window. The mill stood on a hillock and could be seen by sentries atop the castle, and by Merle in the dell. The signal had been given.

  ‘Forward!’ screamed John Peasmarsh, raising his pike.

  Benedict didn’t have to give any orders himself. His horse started forward of its own volition. He certainly hadn’t applied spurs to its flanks. Or perhaps it had been pulled forward by the groom. No, the groom had been left behind and now Benedict was being bumped up and down in a most painful manner … he thought he could probably hold on, but as to striking a blow for Sir Henry or anyone else …

  He heard a startled cry, and a white face fell behind. There was a mace hanging at his saddlebow. He liked maces. If you hit someone with a mace, he didn’t answer back.

  Another white face, and a hand grabbing at his horse’s reins. He swung the mace and the white face was tossed aside. His horse sprang forward once more.

  There was a yelling, screaming horde at his horse’s heels. He reined in, whirling the mace around his head, shattering the arm of a mercenary who was running ahead …

  The alarm had been raised in the camp. An officer was rousing the men, sending them streaming towards the church, which was stone-built and therefore defensible. That couldn’t be allowed. They couldn’t leave an armed body of men behind them, when they went on up the road.

  Benedict turned his horse’s head and set spurs to its flanks … leaping, snorting, riding men down before him. … and then he was between the main body of men and the church door, and something pricked at his thigh, above the greaves and under the mail.

  Then the townsfolk, heedless of danger, were falling on the mercenaries, and Benedict and his horse were being driven back against the church doors. … those within were turning and trying to get out. Benedict contrived to close one leaf of the door and hold his position there, beset on all sides.

  The thud and whimper of men at hand-to-hand fighting. …

  The gurgle of a man, coughing out his life-blood. …

  Benedict’s arm was tiring, wielding the mace, but there was Barnabas, armed with iron cap and leather jerkin, wielding a long knife at one stirrup, and John Peasmarsh the younger crowing like a child as he turned his pike in the belly of a fallen soldier.

  And then there was a space before the door. The townsfolk rushed into the church, and there was peace outside, if not within.

  ‘That’s about it!’ said John Peasmarsh, the elder. He straightened his bloodstained tunic, and brushed off a piece of dirt in a gesture reminiscent of his master, Sir Henry. His pike had gone, but he had acquired a sword, and a shield. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the shield. He slung it round his neck, where it bobbed up and down, getting in his way.

  ‘Like me and the sword,’ thought Benedict. ‘I’m better off with the mace, and he’s better off without that shield.’

  ‘Are they all dead?’

  ‘Nigh on.’

  ‘We can’t afford to …’

  ‘Come, haste!’ screamed John Peasmarsh to his men. ‘Shut the doors, and leave a guard on them … yes, you and you! Leave them to the womenfolk! We have other work to do …’

  ‘I think we had best …’ began Benedict.

  ‘Aye. Dowse the lanthorns, you two. No need to give Hugo warning of our coming. On!’

  ‘Wait!’ Benedict raised his hand and there was a seething silence around him. The noise which had attracted Benedict’s attention was not far away.

  ‘To the jail!’ Benedict set spurs to his horse, and bent low. He thought, ‘I ought to have known Reynold would mess it up. …’

  The square was thronged with soldiers, fighting with Reynold and his men. In the middle of the square someone had set light to a large bonfire, and in the midst of the bonfire, roped to a stake, writhed the grey-headed skeleton of a woman.

  Benedict swung his mace, scattering burning wood. Screams followed, as the embers flew at the backs of the mercenaries. Benedict did not heed them. Swinging his mace again and again, he cleared the burning wood from around Mother Peasmarsh, while her son and grandson fell on her bonds with their knives.

  And then Benedict bent down to hoist the frail old creature up onto the saddle before him.

  ‘They had more men billeted nearby,’ said Reynold, appearing at Benedict’s side. ‘They had the woman tied up overnight. … they’d learned she’d tricked them … she was to burn this morning, as a signal to restart the ram …’

  The ram! Benedict had forgotten the ram.


  He turned in his saddle, listening. Yes, there it was. The boom of the ram was already picking away at the last defences of the castle, while he lingered below.

  John Peasmarsh was waving his arms again and screeching. The shield swung as he summoned his men to action.

  ‘Lock the rest of them in the jail. … Merle, you take four men and see to it! Come on, men! What are you waiting for?’

  And he set off up the hill, with the townsfolk streaming after him. As they left the square, the first of the women arrived, leaping along, knives in their hands. They barely looked at Merle and his fellows, who were dragging and pushing the last of the living soldiers in the jail. They ran on, past the jail, out of the square, and on. …

  On, up the hill. Feeling the pull of the slope. Knives at the ready, most already blood-stained. Eyes straining in the dawn, eyes flickering with thirst for blood and yet more blood.

  Benedict rode along with them. He didn’t think they even knew he was there. He rode among them like a ghost, with them and yet not of them.

  The fisherfolk left the road and leaped up the hillside, swarming over rocks and up gullies, their eyes ever on the backs of the unsuspecting soldiery above.

  And then a mercenary turned and saw them. He cried out in shocked disbelief. Another reached for his crossbow … and was knocked over in the rush of men and women, striding up and over him … overwhelming the enemy with the force of a tidal bore.

  Benedict had nothing to do but pick off the few stragglers who managed to crawl out of the mêlée and run for it. Again and again he swung his mace, or pointed to Barnabas to deal with the fellow for him. Barnabas was laughing.

  Then there was silence. The birds were singing above. Benedict looked up. The sky was blue and the sun well up.

  He looked around him, and there was nothing to be seen but dead men and shattered masonry. The townsfolk had all disappeared within the castle. The portcullis was up and, although the drawbridge was not down, staging had been thrown across the pit, so that one could ride across it. There was a gaping hole in the masonry of the inner tower, large enough to accommodate a man on horseback.