“Very well,” Edmund said at last. “Since you’re so keen on being useful, I think we can find a task for you.”
* * *
“How long until dawn, do you think?” asked Hugh.
His companion peered towards the east. As yet the sky was still pitch black, though a sharp eye might spot a thin band of light on the very edge of the horizon.
“About an hour,” replied Richard Giffard.
They spoke in whispers. Both men lay flat on their bellies in the damp grass. This was the worst time, the very pit of night, when people are at their lowest ebb.
It was also cold. Hugh pulled from the stopper from his flask and took another swig of wine. He winced at the taste. Coarse French muck, but strong, and helped to bolster his courage.
This is sheer folly, he thought. What madness overtook me?
Before them, huge and ghastly in the light of a half-moon, rose the mighty silhouette of Chartley Castle. Hugh gazed fearfully at the monstrous donjon, the squat round towers flanking the gatehouse, the thick curtain walls rising sheer above the quiet woods and fields of Staffordshire. This terrible place was second only to Kenilworth, perhaps one or two of the crusader fortresses he had seen in the Holy Land.
“You’re shivering,” said Richard. “Would you like to borrow my cloak, old man?”
Hugh gave him a sharp look. Richard grinned back at him in the darkness. After a moment they both laughed under their breath.
“You don’t have to be here,” said Hugh. “Friendship has its limits. I wouldn’t ask any man to follow me into a bear-pit.”
“Nonsense. I wanted to come. I swore to follow you to life or death, and the Giffards do not break their oaths.”
Hugh detected the faint note of grievance in the other’s voice. Richard had not appreciated being sent off back to London, though Hugh did his best to explain the reasons why. Since they were reunited at York, shortly after his meeting with Prince Edmund, the young man had stuck to his side like glue.
Regardless, they were both committed now, along with the twenty-five other men spread out beside them. At his own request, Hugh had been placed in charge of the forlorn hope. Their task was to try and storm Chartley ahead of the main assault. Most would die in the attempt.
All, Hugh corrected himself. He was under no illusions. Under his natural fear, part of him was almost relieved. Better to die than continue to live a miserable half-existence, skulking in the shadows, forever tortured by the demons of his past.
He raised himself on his elbows. “There’s the breach,” he whispered, pointing at a section of the curtain wall left of the outer gatehouse.
Chartley had been under siege for over a month. After the defeat of his allies in Yorkshire and Nottingham, Ferrers had abandoned his heartlands in Derbyshire and retreated to Chartley. Here, surrounded by a hand of diehard followers, he dared the royalists to do their worst. With his back to the wall, Ferrers scornfully rejected all demands of surrender.
Three royal armies had converged on Chartley. For weeks their trebuchets and onagers pounded the walls to limited effect. Prince Edmund, in overall command, was reluctant to shed more English blood and refused to order a direct assault. His hawkish lieutenants, Grey and Mortimer, constantly nagged in his ear. They wanted to carry the walls by storm and crush the rebellion once and for all. If that meant high casualties, so be it.
Hugh sympathised with Edmund, but could see the danger of lingering too long. Ferrers still hoped for support from the great earls, Clare and Warenne. Every morning Hugh nervously watched the skyline, fearing the arrival of a relief force from the March or Sussex. The bloody consequences of another pitched battle, with the armies more equally matched, scarcely bore thinking about.
We’re the compromise, he thought grimly. At last, after weeks of wrangling, Edmund shifted his ground a little. The artillery had managed to open a small breach in a part of the castle wall. A party of desperate men, the forlorn hope, would be sent in to force the breach and storm the gatehouse. At the same time a much larger assault party would lie in wait for the gates to be thrown open.
If the forlorn hope succeeded, all well and good. Chartley would be stormed in a single night. If not...no great loss.
Hugh looked around at his companions. Condemned men, most of them, seeking to earn a pardon. Thieves and poachers and soldiers caught in the act of pillaging. One or two former rebels, captured in Yorkshire.
“No time like the present,” muttered Hugh. He closed his eyes a moment and offered up a quick prayer. God had preserved him so far.
One more favour, Lord...
His eyes snapped open. Hugh set off towards the gatehouse at a run, cloak flapping about his calves.
Richard and the others swarmed after him. They went barefoot, and made little sound as they padded across the spongy turf. The looming black walls of the castle swelled overhead. Closer, and closer still.
All was silent as the tomb. Lights flickered along the ramparts, but no challenge was thrown down. The sentries had – as yet – failed to spot the group of hooded and cloaked figures streaming towards the wall. Their attention was most likely fixed on the fires of the royal camp, glittering in the darkness like so many stars. Edmund had ordered them to burn all night as a distraction.
Hugh swallowed hard. His heart fluttered against his ribs. Any moment he expected a crossbow bolt to flash out of the gloom. He could almost feel it tearing into his vitals. Unless he was lucky, death would be slow. He had witnessed plenty of men die of such wounds. They either bled to death by themselves, or died in unspeakable filth and agony as some ham-fisted surgeon made a botch of the operation.
I must be mad. The thought hammered through his skull. Mad, mad, mad…
He reached the edge of the castle ditch and knelt, waiting for his men to come up with a scaling ladder. There was still no stir on the battlements. Earl Ferrers’s sentries dozed at their posts.
Two men carried the ladder, which was placed carefully over the span of the ditch. Hugh was first to crawl over it on hands and knees. He went as fast as he could, mindful of the chasm below. Ferrers had lined the bottom of the ditch with wooden stakes. An image of himself impaled on one of the spikes, jerking feebly in his death-throes like a worm on a hook, flashed through Hugh’s head.
Bathed in cold sweat, he almost hurled himself across the last few rungs. Now he was at the foot of a steep grassy mound that rose to the curtain wall. Hugh looked up to study the breach next to the gatehouse. A lucky shot from a royal trebuchet had smashed a weak point in the masonry, causing the lower part of the wall to subside. This in turn made the rampart above collapse and opened a gap, wide enough for two or three men to squeeze through. The defenders had closed off the gap with timber and piles of earth, but the stonework lay in a crumpled heap.
Richard scrambled up next to Hugh. “Plenty of footholds there,” he panted. “I’ll wager a silver mark I reach the top first.”
“Done,” said Hugh. One mark was over thirteen shillings, more than he earned in three months on royal pay. The hell with it. He would probably be dead soon anyway.
Both men attacked the slope. Richard easily outstripped his master, clambering with the agility of a young ape, while Hugh puffed and laboured. The rest of the forlorn hope followed in busy silence.
“Halt!”
The strangulated cry from above caused Hugh to bite his tongue. Swearing though a mouthful of blood, he hurled himself at the broken masonry. The sentries had seen them at last.
There was no going back. More shouts rippled along the battlements. A horn sounded. Hugh clawed his way up, scraping his wrists and naked feet on sharp bits of rubble.
Richard had already reached the top and leaped onto the walkway. A soldier ran at him from the gatehouse. Swords flashed in the moonlight. Their blades struck together. Blinded by sweat, Hugh briefly lost sight of the duel. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird, the breath sawed in his throat. He was forced to rest, two-thirds of the way up a pile
of shattered stonework, while the war-yells rose around him and the castle flared into life.
It was tempting to stay here and hide in the shadows. Let the younger men win all the glory, or at any rate a glorious death. His anger, the same mindless rage that had compelled him to volunteer for this insane task, wouldn’t allow it. Hugh dashed away the sweat from his eyes, ignored the tearing pain in his muscles, and forced himself to the top.
There was a gap, wider than a spear’s length, between the breach and the walkway connected to the gatehouse. Richard had jumped across it with ease. Hugh paused and gathered himself to make the leap. A black dart zipped inches past his face. Another rebounded off the masonry beside his right leg. The defenders were shooting at him. He was a sitting duck, exposed to their crossbowmen on the opposite wall.
Sheer terror drove him to make the leap. With a cry, he hurled himself over the gap and landed with a jarring thump on the other side. He glanced up, gasping, to see Richard grapple with his opponent. They stumbled back and forth for a moment, clawing at each other’s eyes. Richard drove his knee into the guard’s crotch, seized him by the neck and hurled him off the wall. With a scream, the man tumbled far below and smashed onto the cobbles.
The young man spun about and helped Hugh to his feet. “Come,” he panted. “If we’re quick, we can hold the gatehouse until our friends arrive.”
Together they ran through the archway into the chamber above the gate-passage. Here was the winch that operated the portcullis and a windlass to raise and lower the outer drawbridge. Hugh rushed over to the windlass.
Three of their men staggered into the room. “Help me guard the door!” Richard screamed at them, even as swords and helms glinted in the opposite doorway.
Half a dozen soldiers in Ferrers charged inside. Richard and the others rushed to meet them, while Hugh frantically turned the lever of the windlass. The chains were well-oiled, thank heaven, and the drawbridge lowered smoothly.
“Beware!” Richard’s voice alerted him to danger. He leaped aside in time to avoid a knife in the liver. A man’s shadow fell across him, a crushing weight pinned him against the lever. Warm spittle coursed down the side of his neck.
A knife stabbed at his eye. Hugh got his hand up in time to seize his attacker’s wrist. For a moment they were close as lovers. Hot, stinking breath rolled across Hugh’s face.
“Whoreson,” rasped the other man. Hugh lost his temper and buried his teeth in the soldier’s nose. Hot blood spurted down his chin. His attacker screamed in pain and fell back a little. This gave Hugh space to draw his own knife and thrust it upwards into the soldier’s groin. The high-pitched shriek of agony sounded like a pig being done to death.
Hugh’s opponent buckled to the floor. The tiny chamber was now packed with bodies. Richard had his back to the wall, laying about him with a bloodstained axe. One by one, the outnumbered of the forlorn hope were pulled down and killed. More soldiers rushed in, careless of their lives, desperate to stop the gates being opened.
Something snapped inside Hugh. He gave in to the beast that lurks inside all men. Howling like a mad wolf, he threw himself at the soldiers. There was no room for proper swordplay inside such a constricted space, so he punched with the hilt and stabbed his dagger at exposed faces.
His first victim reeled away, blood and teeth spurting from his mouth. Another tried to fling his arms round Hugh’s waist. He drove his knife under the soldier’s chin, pierced the roof of his mouth into the brain. Two more slashed at him with sword and mace. Hugh had cleared a little more room now, enough to avoid the clumsy blows, just as Sancho had taught him. His sword chopped out the nearest man’s throat. Richard lunged at the other and buried his axe in the man’s neck.
Richard was wounded. Blood flowed from half a dozen wounds to his body, a jagged slash across his cheek, another slice down his thigh. His eyes were wild.
“The windlass!” he roared. “Get the fucking drawbridge down!”
While Richard sold his life dearly, Hugh stumbled back to the lever. This meant he had to expose his back and drop his weapons. There was no help for it. He must rely on others to guard him.
The drawbridge finally came down with a crash. Horns and a faint ripple of cheers sounded from outside.
There remained the portcullis. Hugh lunged at the winch, and had barely got his hands on it before a heavy fist smashed against his jaw. He lost his footing and fell sideways, purple stars wheeling before his eyes.
A man stood over him with a shortened spear, raised to plunge into Hugh’s body. Defenceless, he raised a hand to guard his face.
“Mercy,” he croaked. It was a pathetic, feeble thing to say, but worth a try.
Or not. The spear thrust down at his heart. At the same time Richard leaped onto the soldier’s back. Hugh rolled aside and gasped in silent agony as sharp steel but into his shoulder.
Muffled thunder rolled inside Hugh’s skull as he crawled away. Racing hoofs, or a distant storm. Shadows flickered all around him. Blood-crazed devils hacked and wrestled with each other.
He butted his head against the iron base of the winch. Battered, bleeding and dazed, he was only half-aware of his own actions. He dragged himself upwards and feebly groped at the lever with his right arm. His left dangled uselessly, weighed down by the spear impaled in his flesh.
Hugh managed to turn the lever once, twice. Nobody tried to stop him. The floor of the chamber was littered with bodies. Some lay still, others groaned. Blood smeared and dripped down the walls. From outside came a roar of voices, trumpets, horses, the clash and clatter of arms. It all faded into one meaningless rush of noise, waves pounding on a distant shore.
A few more turns, and he was done. The chains of the portcullis rattled in their grooves.
Something tore inside his body. He bent double over the winch as pain tore through his innards. His vision clouded. The waves grew louder. In his mind the dark forest of his nightmares faded away, replaced by golden sands on the border of a vast blue ocean.
The sun beat down. There was no pain, no danger. He could no longer be hurt or hunted like a wild animal, forever on the run. It was over.
Not quite. Hugh glimpsed a figure in the distance. A woman, tall and slender and graceful, dressed all in red and white. Just as he remembered her. Her long black hair was unbound, and rippled about her shoulders in the gentle breeze.
Hugh knew the woman at first sight. He slowly walked towards her. There was no rush. Her name rose to his bruised and swollen lips.
“Esther.”
Then it was over.
17.
London, 19 August 1274
The streets of the capital were adorned with silks and cloth of gold. In the marketplace of Cheapside, the fountain ran with red and white wine for all to drink. A handful of thirsty citizens, having indulged rather too much, lay comatose under the tap.
Westminster Abbey was full to bursting. A constant stream of people moved through the enormous northern portal, watched by twin files of guardsmen in Angevin livery. Their excited babble filled the grand nave with echoes.
The crossing of the church, before the altar, was filled by a specially constructed wooden stage. It soared above the heads of the crowd, high enough for horsemen to ride underneath. The teeming mass of bodies was forced to part by gorgeously dressed lords and knights who rode their destriers into the church. Their iron-shod hoofs clopped loudly on the coloured flagstones as they took up position in the north and south transepts. For one day only, the great coronation church of England admitted men on horseback.
Westminster blazed with light. Thousands of torches and candles burnt, while monks chanted solemn prayers and swung censers full of sweet-smelling incense.
There was a stir at the entrance. The voice of the crowd suddenly rose to a deafening roar as a tall figure appeared in the archway.
Edward stood on the cusp of a new dawn. He closed his eyes and savoured the moment. The cries of his people, the droning plainchant, the incense, the pal
pable air of excitement and expectation, all combined to make him giddy.
He smiled to himself. Shall I faint at my own coronation? Picture the look on Othon’s face.
Then he strode purposefully inside on his long legs. His entourage, including the royal squires who bore the purple canopy over his head, were forced to jog to keep up.
Edward marched down the avenue of the nave, looking neither right nor left. The front ranks of spectators on either side pressed hard against the steel wall of men-at-arms holding them back. They screamed for the king’s attention, stretched out their hands to touch him.
He mounted the steps to the high wooden platform. At the top waited Robert Kilwardby, the elderly Archbishop of Canterbury, next to Saint Edward’s Chair. The tidal wave of noise in the church rose to ear-shattering levels as Edward turned to face his people.
The noise gradually died away. He looked down at the sea of upturned faces. Nobles and commoners, priests and monks and abbots, squires, barons, knights and great earls. All of them, waiting for him.
Kilwardby cleared his throat. “Is Your Highness willing to take the oath?” he asked in a thin, wavering voice.
“I am willing.” Edward’s firm response carried to all ends of the church.
“Will you promise to work for the peace of the church and people, to prevent rapacity and oppression, and to do justice impartially and mercifully?”
“I do so promise.”
“Will you agree to maintain the laws of your predecessors and preserve the rights of the crown?”
“I do agree.”
A gentle sigh rippled around the church as Edward sat on the high-backed wooden chair. Kilwardby advanced and, his hands trembling slightly, carefully placed the crown on Edward’s head.
The old cleric almost lost his balance as Edward suddenly shot to his feet and tore the heavy golden circlet from his brow. Towering over the people below, he held the crown aloft in both hands
The Hooded Men Page 19