The Siege of Salwarpe

by Veronica Heley

  Benedict urged his horse forward, past the still bleeding corpses and the much-battered framework of the ram, through the tower and into the castle itself.

  There had been bitter fighting in the tower, but it was all over now.

  Sir Henry was leaning against the mounting-block. He had taken off his helmet and was smoothing down his curls. Ursula was beside him, a helm on her head and a hauberk over her gown, waving her sword at him.

  Eager hands reached up to take Mistress Peasmarsh from Benedict and to exclaim over her narrow escape from death.

  They were all cheering.

  At first Benedict had thought they were cheering for Mother Peasmarsh but then he realised they were cheering for him. He went red, and tore off his helm because he was hot inside it; and then wished he hadn’t, for it seemed he’d collected a buffet or two on his way through the town, so that every movement hurt. He looked around for the Peasmarsh men, who had really been responsible for clearing the town and raising the siege, only to discover that they were cheering as loudly as anybody. … John the elder was beating with his sword on his captured shield. Even Reynold was grinning, as he wiped blood from a hand that had been grazed through his chainmail mittens.

  So Benedict had to endure the penalties of fame at last. He was given a triumphal tour of the castle grounds on his horse, before being allowed to dismount.

  ‘For there is still much to be done,’ he said, rubbing his bad leg. ‘Where is Hugo?’

  No one knew.

  The cheering died away. There was a blanching of cheeks. Women and children were hustled under cover while armed men went seeking the man. It was known that he had been in charge of the ram when it pressed home its last attack at dawn. He had been seen. He always wore a surcoat of red and gold and was therefore easy to recognise. Many people spoke of the surcoat, but few could give any better description of the man himself than that he was dark and of medium-build, clean-shaven and of middling years.

  The surcoat was found, stuffed behind a block of fallen masonry within the castle.

  ‘That proves he’s still here,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Find him! A reward to the one who brings him to me, alive!’

  Benedict looked up. He’d been tying some linen round a cut on Barnabas’s arm. A string of disshevelled mercenaries were being led past, to be housed in the dungeons. Some wore the full chain-mail of the professional soldier, some the heavy leather and metal jerkin. A few still possessed their iron caps.

  ‘That man there,’ said Benedict, pointing towards the end of the line. ‘No, not him. The one that was looking at me. The one with the good leather boots. Bring him here.’

  The man was extracted from the line and led forward. He did not speak, but stared at Benedict. And Benedict stared back. The man wore a poorly fitting jerkin and had a bloodied bandage round a dirty face.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Benedict. ‘Hugo de Frett.’

  ‘What?’ cried Sir Henry, peering at the sorry-looking creature. ‘It can’t be! Is it? I’d never have recognised him, myself. Though, come to think of it … By all the saints, but it is: Benedict, I’ve seen the man a half dozen times, but I’d never have guessed … he must have changed jerkins with one of his men and dirtied his face. When did you meet him?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ said Benedict. ‘But when you’ve fought to the death against a man, you learn what he’s like. I knew him as soon as he looked at me.’

  The man tore off his bandage and threw it on the ground. He said nothing. He looked at Benedict as if to say, Yes, and I know you, too. Then he made Benedict a bow, and turned his back on Sir Henry as if to indicate that he had no further interest in the proceedings.

  ‘He would have found some way to escape, if we had not identified him,’ said Benedict. ‘He must be securely guarded until he is handed over to the justices for trial. He will try bribery, of course. He will be a difficult prisoner. Best hand him over to Aylmer. And ask for a ransom or compensation of some kind. Someone’s got to pay for all this.’

  Benedict looked around him, imprinting the scene on his mind. Then he got to his feet, put one arm over Parkyn’s shoulders, the other over Barnabas’s, and limped away.

  It was two days before Ursula could manage to come upon Benedict alone. At last she found him dozing in the garden, with an open book lying on the bench beside him. He was walking with a stick now, and got to his feet when she arrived, in order to bow. There was a blank expression on his face which should have warned her that he would not welcome a tête-à-tête.

  She said, ‘You have been avoiding me. Did you not hear me say I would be in the garden this morning? Yet you came not.’

  ‘I went to help Sir Henry, down in the town. The last of the dead were buried this morning. Tomorrow we are to christen a baby which was born during the siege; also Barnabas. Your grandfather has agreed to stand sponsor to Barnabas, along with me.’

  ‘You were avoiding me. You have been avoiding me ever since Hugo was taken. You know that Aylmer will be here tomorrow, and my aunt.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Both Sir Henry and I will breathe a sigh of relief, when we hand Hugo over to Aylmer.’

  ‘You are wilfully misunderstanding me! You know what I wish to say, Benedict.’

  ‘Perhaps I do not wish to hear … whatever it is that you wish to say.’ His manner was still distant, but he smiled, more to himself than to her.

  She stared at him. There was something different about him today. An air of quiet confidence? He looked, he acted, as if he were a much older man than before. He was not hanging on her words as he had done once.

  He said, ‘May I sit down? My leg …’ He tapped it, and sat, without awaiting permission. He picked up his book and turned it over in his hands. ‘My old tutor lent this to me. Will you see that it is returned to him for me?’

  ‘Why should you not return it yourself? You will be travelling back to Aylmer’s court with us, surely.’

  ‘No, I think not.’

  She sat beside him and put her hand on his arm. ‘Benedict, help me …’

  He moved away, as if he had not seen her hand. He said, ‘I can hardly help myself. So let us not set ourselves in the way of temptation, shall we?’

  ‘Aylmer would understand if …’

  ‘He would not!’ Suddenly his voice was harsh.

  But she was of fighting stock and would not accept defeat.

  ‘If you went to him, and said …’

  ‘I will not go to him, and I will say nothing.’

  ‘You do not think of me!’

  ‘You are only a child, but you will learn. We will do what is right.’

  ‘But I love you!’

  He started. ‘No, do not say it. It is much better not to say anything, Ursula. Think of the future …’

  ‘I am thinking of it! Do you think I wanted any of this to happen? Do you think I have not fought against it? I admire Aylmer, and I am grateful to him, but you are part of me in a way he can never be.’

  ‘Enough!’ He got off the bench and reached for his stick. ‘I did not hear that. You did not say it.’

  She caught his arm and hung on it. ‘At least tell me, just once, that you love me. If it is impossible—which I do not admit—but if it is, at least you can tell me you love me. Look, we are standing beneath the honeysuckle. Your flower. My flower. Can you look on it unmoved?’

  ‘The honeysuckle is over.’

  ‘It is not. It will bloom again, and then … oh, then you will remember, will you not? Say that you will remember. Give me some comfort, Benedict. Give me something to live on.’

  Benedict closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and looked around. He said, in conversational tone, ‘Barnabas, send for an axe, and some salt. A deal of salt, Barnabas.’

  Barnabas, who had been curled up in a sunny place behind the bench, slid away. Ursula stepped back, biting her lip. She had not realised they might be overheard. Still … she threw up her chin … let all the world hear. Let Aylmer
hear. She cared not.

  A workman came running up with an axe. Benedict took it from him with a word of thanks, and the workman went off, grinning. Everyone was happy to do Benedict’s bidding about the castle, nowadays.

  Benedict lifted the axe, whirled it round his head and brought it down on the roots of the honeysuckle.

  Ursula gave a cry, and put her hands over her ears, closing her eyes. Yet still she felt every blow, as if it were on her own body.

  The axe rent the tough old roots apart. Benedict pulled the tangle of greenery down. He cast it aside. He chopped away at the roots, till chips of wood and earth flew wide about him. Still he continued with his work. The rosebush nearby went … and another, a sickly thing that had never bloomed well. Then the bench, his book skittering along the grass, to be trampled under foot.

  He was breathing hard. He rested, leaning on his axe.

  Barnabas came up with a crock of salt. Ursula turned away, hands over her face. She could not bear to watch, and yet she could not leave until he had completed his act of destruction. He seeded the earth with salt where the honeysuckle had once flourished. Nothing would grow in ground that had been treated with salt.

  He rubbed his hands clean and sent Barnabas to pick up his book and stick.

  She looked at what he had done. She thought he had destroyed more than just the garden. The pain was so intense she thought she would faint.

  Then it was as if someone else was standing there in her shoes. Someone to whom the garden and Benedict meant nothing. Someone who had lost the power to feel. She walked past Benedict, looking neither to left nor right, and went up into the keep.

  When Aylmer and his train of servants came riding into the castle, it was this new Ursula who swept down to greet him. She had left her girlhood behind her and become a woman. She saw that Benedict had prevented her from committing a terrible sin, but she did not think she would ever recover from the blow he had dealt her. She thought that Aylmer must surely read in her eyes that she was mortally wounded.

  Aylmer came. But, instead of the big brown creature she had been holding in her memory, she found him turned into a man with an anxious, lined face, and grey in his hair. As he took her hand and tried to make light of the fact the he had not yet thrown off the effects of his fall, she saw that he still loved her. And something moved within her, bringing tears to her eyes.

  Aylmer needed her. She felt a rush of gratitude, and of something that was almost, but not quite, love.

  She went into his arms and kissed his cheek, saying, ‘Oh, Aylmer! I ought never to have left you!’

  The castle seemed very quiet, when Aylmer and his bride had gone. The Lady Editha had ridden back with the newly-married pair, saying that she deserved a little gaiety after having been shut up in Salwarpe for so long. Hugo de Frett had also ridden away in Aylmer’s train, under guard.

  Sir Henry sought for Benedict, and found him leaning on his stick, in the devastated area which had once been a garden. Sir Henry signed to his valet to set down the stool he had been carrying and seated himself with care.

  ‘This place reminds me of a graveyard,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Why don’t you take a seat too, my boy?’

  Parkyn, who had been hovering nearby, darted away and came back with a stool, and a cloak for his master. The wind was growing chill, though the sun was out.

  ‘They plant yews in churchyards,’ said Benedict. His thoughts were plainly elsewhere.

  Sir Henry patted his back curls. ‘My face feels as if it were going to crack, with all that smiling.’

  Benedict gave a hoot of laughter. He looked around him. ‘Sir Henry, I have spoiled your garden for you.’

  ‘And saved my honour. I know. Do you want to speak of it?’

  Benedict shook his head, resting his chin on his fist.

  ‘My boy, I have a boon to ask of you, and here is a better place to ask it than anywhere else. And yet … I find that I am grown a little afraid of you … like Ursula.’

  Benedict smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Oh yes, now that you are fully come to man’s estate, you are indeed a formidable person. Reynold noticed it. He said to me last night … but that is beside the point. My boy, you must rouse yourself. Your old way of life is finished. Will you go to the wars again? You know that Reynold wishes to go, next year?’

  ‘I … had not thought. Probably not.’

  ‘You can go no more to Aylmer’s court. Like me, one part of your life is finished. Yes, I am in the same position as you. I had built my life round my granddaughter, and now she is gone, and I do not like the look of the years ahead. You should say that at my age I should be thinking of making my peace with God. Well, perhaps so. But before I do that I would like to see something of the world.

  ‘You remember that book of tales from Ancient Rome? The one about the gods? They say there are many antique statues being dug up in Italy. And in Bruges they are making good books. In France they build cathedrals. Shall we go to see these things for ourselves?’

  Benedict gave Sir Henry his full attention, but did not speak.

  ‘Of course, there is Christmas to get over first,’ said Sir Henry. ‘And Hugo’s trial. Perhaps you will invite me to your house on the Downs for Christmas? And we have some rebuilding to do here. But in the spring, we could be off on our travels. Couldn’t we?’

  Still there was no reply. But at least Benedict was listening.

  ‘We have good men to oversee our estates, if we go travelling. We could see what there is to see, buy some books, inspect some statues, make love to a few ladies, perhaps …’ He paused, but still Benedict did not react.

  ‘And then, when we come home in eighteen months’ or two years’ time, I will arrange another match for you.’

  Benedict studied his hands and Sir Henry studied Benedict. Did the lad not realise that Aylmer’s days were numbered? That grey, worn look … the tremor in his voice … one hard winter, and Ursula would be a rich young widow of nineteen. Add one year for mourning. Yes, if Sir Henry could only keep Benedict occupied and out of the way of other women for a while …

  ‘I would like to see Rome,’ said Benedict. ‘But as to marrying again, I think I have made her hate me.’

  Sir Henry patted his widowed granddaughter’s hand. ‘You are looking well, my dear; though I do not think that black becomes you.’ He removed the thick black mantle in which she had travelled home to Salwarpe, and stood back to look at her.

  She submitted to his scrutiny with a smile. Her figure was a trifle more robust than it had been when she was eighteen, yet her close-fitting gown showed it off well. Her hair was just as clear in colour though it was now coiled up at the back of her head under a filmy veil.

  She said, ‘Travel seems to have suited you, too.’ She slipped her arm within his and stood close, letting him know that she was glad to be back.

  Sir Henry stroked his hair. At some point in their travels, Benedict had persuaded Sir Henry that he would appear more distinguished if he allowed his hair to revert to its natural silver. But his coiffure was as elaborate as ever, and his tunic a marvel of Italian damask

  He pinched her cheek. ‘You will not remain a widow long, I swear.’

  Her face hardened. ‘Not you, too. Have I not had enough of that to bear from my aunt? How many times must I say that I loved my husband, and have no wish to remarry? If only we had had a child …’

  ‘But you did not. Now, my dear, you have mourned Aylmer for a whole year. You have been on pilgrimages for his soul, you have fasted and made retreats, just as you should. Everyone praises your conduct. You have vacated your husband’s castle and returned to Salwarpe. All very right, proper and dutiful. And so now I have another match to propose for you.’

  She disengaged her arm from his. ‘A widow need not remarry. That is the law. Besides, Aylmer divided his estates between me and his. … his ward, so I do not have to take any of the needy knights who have been flocking around me these last few months.’

 
; ‘The man I have in mind is already wealthy. The size of your dowry will not weigh with him.’

  ‘And no doubt he is also the most handsome, the most noble …’

  ‘No. He is not even straight. As you very well know.’

  Not a muscle moved in Ursula’s face. She went to the window and looked out. ‘I see the stabling has been rebuilt. And the gate-towers. You would think nothing had ever happened here. Perhaps nothing did.’

  Sir Henry put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Do you hate him, Ursula? He was afraid that you might.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. It all happened so long ago. I was only a child, and foolish. Let us talk of something else.’

  ‘Very well. Let us go and walk in the garden, shall we?’

  For the first time colour came into her cheeks. ‘There is no garden in Salwarpe.’

  ‘If stabling and gate-towers can be rebuilt, why not a garden? We were walking about in Rome one day, and observed men at work, creating a new pleasaunce. He gave that little nod of the head, as he always does when he’s solved a difficult problem—do you remember? And he said we should commission some Italian workmen to remake the garden here.’

  She put her hand to her throat, and now she was as pale as she had been red before. ‘But there was salt strewn in the earth …’

  ‘The poor soil has been carted away, and good earth brought in to take its place. Come and see.’

  ‘No!’ She put her hands over her face. ‘I am not well.’

  He put his arm around her. ‘I promise he will not come to you until you are ready to receive him.’

  ‘He is here in Salwarpe? Oh, no!’

  ‘Where else would he be?’ said Sir Henry, meaning, Behave yourself, child!

  ‘On his estates,’ she said, in a breathless voice. ‘He is rich and powerful now. He despises me. I thought he loved me once, but then he changed …’

  ‘He did what he had to do. There could have been nothing but misery and shame for you, Ursula, if you had thrown Aylmer aside. He saw that more clearly than you.’