Longsword

by David Pilling

  Robert paid her frequent visits. She had not been installed for an hour before she heard him tramping up the stairs.

  She retreated to the far end of the room. Heavy iron keys rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Robert stood in the doorway, huge and intimidating in his mail. His face had an unhealthy pallor, and the dark smudges under his bloodshot eyes hinted at a chronic lack of sleep.

  For a moment she thought he had come to murder her. He took an uncertain step into the room, slammed the door shut, and went down on one knee.

  “You see?” he said, glaring up at her, “I debase myself before you. A Christian knight kneels before a Jewess.”

  Esther was at a loss. “I don’t understand,” she said with perfect sinceirty. “I don’t know why you have brought me here, or what you want of me.”

  An angry red flush appeared on his cheeks and forehead. “It was for your sake that I abandoned my brother and my cause. It was for your sake that I humble myself and betray Christ.”

  Esther thought he had gone mad. “It is beyond my power to make you do anything. The idea is ridiculous.”

  He rose and took a turn about the room, running a hand through his tight-cropped brown hair. Esther kept her back against the wall and waited, helpless, biting her lip.

  Robert stopped to look out of one of the arrow-slit windows. “Even here, I can’t speak freely,” he muttered. “Here, on my own turf. My courage fails.”

  He turned to look at Esther. “I am in love with you,” he said, his voice harsh and grating. “I have prayed long and hard for the strength to deny the fact. To no avail.”

  His mouth worked, and he smashed his fist against the wall. “This is against all sense and reason!” he exclaimed. “My brother would kill me for it.”

  He marched out without saying another word. Esther was left alone with her terrible thoughts and fears until morning, when an elderly serving-man came in with breakfast. Shortly afterwards Robert returned, though he looked more drained than ever.

  “I kept my vigil in the chapel all night,” he said. “The first time since my knighting ceremony. God spoke to me in the small hours.”

  Esther was sitting by the fire when he came in. He advanced on her, holding a crucifix in front of him like a shield. She stood up and backed away.

  “You will marry me,” he said. “God has absolved me. I am free to love you, despite your impure blood.”

  Esther was appalled. “Your brother sent a ransom note to my kin at York,” she cried. “They must have received it by now. Please, Sir Robert, you are not in your right mind. The ransom will be paid, I promise, and you can put the money to good use.”

  Inspiration struck her. “It can help feed and clothe your soldiers,” she added, “buy arms, horses, and supplies, whatever you need.”

  His red-rimmed eyes bulged at her. “I’m not interested in your money,” he shouted. “Do you think I brought you here for that, to extract a ransom from your cursed relatives?”

  He knelt and placed the crucifix on the wooden floor between them. “I won’t kneel before you again,” he said, his voice calm, “but ask you a plain question. Will you put aside your false religion, accept the truth of Christ, and be my wife?”

  “You must be insane,” Esther exclaimed. “How can you ask such a thing?”

  Sheer outrage consumed her. She advanced on Robert, pressed her hands against his chest and tried to shove him away. Her strength was just enough to make him retreat a few steps.

  “You Normans always take what you want,” she hissed. “I have read your histories. No realm in the world is safe from you.. France and England fell under your heel, as did Apulia and Sicily. Jerusalem and Antioch were drowned in the blood of the people you slaughtered there in the name of Christ. Hell itself must tremble at the thought of your armies coming to smash down its gates!”

  He tried to speak, but fell silent as she placed a gentle finger against his lips.

  “You cannot have me,” she said firmly. “Not in this world or any other. Never would I put aside my faith and agree to be your wife. You sicken me. The sight of you, the sound of you, the smell of you, makes me want to vomit. You are, to use the language of your priests, anathema to me.”

  Robert’s hand shot out and gripped Esther by the throat. He lifted her clean off her feet and pinned her up against the wall. She started to choke, but he dropped her again just as quickly. He shuddered and made a visible effort to control himself.

  “I could force you,” he panted. “Force you to do anything I wanted. Treat you like a dog. Like a whore.”

  He stopped, passed a hand across his face, made a visible effort to master himself.

  “I am proud, I know,” he went on slowly. “I didn’t mean to insult you. All my life I was taught to think of Jews as usurers and unbelievers. Unclean, betrayers of Christ. We breathe in hatred of your race from the cradle. Do you wish to carry that burden all your life? I am trying to offer you a way out.”

  Esther’s rage had ebbed the moment he used his strength on her. The reality of her situation flooded back: she was friendless and alone, miles from civilisation, and entirely in this man’s power. Even so, his arrogance made her angry again.

  “You regard me as inferior,” she croaked, massaging her throat, “and seek to raise me up to your level. I suppose there is some generosity of spirit in that, which does you credit. But we could never be an equal partnership. Shall I tell you why?”

  He looked baffled, so she slipped him the knife. “Because my people were princes of Judea, while yours were still grubbing about in pagan darkness. The thought of being your wife is laughable. I would rather lie with an African ape.”

  She expected him to strike her, and braced herself for the blow. It never fell.

  “I see you also have your pride,” he said. “What about that man you ran away from Ely with? Did he disgust you as well?”

  “No. He tried to help me. Thanks to you, he is probably dead by now.”

  Esther decided a gesture was called for. She stepped back and picked up the crucifix. “Remember the teaching of your Saviour,” she said, handing it to him, “and have mercy.”

  Robert nodded grimly and turned to go, his shoulders slumped. Esther decided to take a risk and press her advantage.

  “Your family still owes me,” she said. “Your brother was heavily in debt to my late husband, to the amount of a hundred and eighty-nine marks. I inherited his business, and the debt is now owed to me. Added to that is the cost of the damage your men did to my property in Lincoln.”

  He froze. “You have nothing to bargain with,” he said, “the deeds in the Archa were burned, as was your house and everything inside it.”

  “Parchment burns, yet the debts still stand.”

  He looked at her wonderingly, and she could tell he was groping for words. “I have nothing more to say to you on this,” he managed, “or any other matter.”

  Marshalling his dignity, he walked out with his head held high. When he had gone, Esther sagged in relief onto the bed, and allowed the tears to come.

  At some point her weeping faded into a deep, dreamless sleep. She woke to the sound of wind howling through the draughty corridors of the castle. It was morning. Pale yellow light lanced through the arrow-slit windows and shone on her face, forcing her eyes open.

  Another day of lonely captivity beckoned, though at some point Robert would no doubt return for another tilt at her virtue. She almost laughed aloud as she recalled his words of the previous evening. The man was insufferable. In his ignorance and pride, he had actually imagined he was doing Esther a favour by asking her to marry him.

  Her pulse quickened as she remembered her own furious response, and her demand that he make good on his brother’s debts. Had she really said that? What if she had made him angry? There was a spark of decency in Robert, but he was still a Norman bully, used to getting his own way and responding violently to anyone who denied his will.

  Esther had barely dressed b
efore she heard footsteps outside, voices mutter, keys in the lock. A stab of fear passed through her. Robert had come back. He had brought others with him. Perhaps he meant to force her to marry him at swordpoint.

  She rolled off the bed and looked around wildly for anything she could use as a weapon. On herself, if necessary. Drowning in her own blood was preferable to being forced into matrimony with a Gentile.

  The door creaked open and Shakelock stepped through, his smile as crooked as ever. Behind him loomed the giant figure of Jean le Petit.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Shakelock said cheerfully, touching a finger to his forelock. “I hope to find you well. We’ve been sent to fetch you.”

  Esther was still in the jerkin and hose that she had been captured in, and hurriedly belted a robe about her. “Fetch me? What do you mean? Is Sir Robert with you?”

  “No, and you aren’t likely to see him either. He’s shut himself up in a room above the gatehouse. You are to come down with us into the bailey.”

  There was no hint of threat in Shakelock’s voice. Esther briefly considered refusing to go, but had a vision of being dragged down the stairs or carried over Jean’s massive shoulder.

  “I will come,” she said.

  The bailey in the upper ward was deserted, save for a covered litter with two pairs of horses in the traces.

  “Climb aboard, my lady,” said Shakelock. “We’ve done our best to make the litter comfortable. Rough comfort, I’m afraid.”

  Esther stopped. “I don’t understand,” she said, “is this a trick?”

  “Not that I’m aware. Please get into the litter before our lord changes his mind. You are being set free.”

  Ether glanced at Jean. The big man wore a frown on his rugged features. His thick fingers drummed on the hilt of his sword as he watched the empty battlements. A shiver ran through Esther that had nothing to do with the cold. Without further argument she climbed nimbly into the back of the litter.

  It was cool and dark under the canvas awning, and some thoughtful person had spread a thick layer of clean straw over the floor. There was a small wooden chest in one corner. Esther shuffled over to the chest on her knees, carefully turned the key and lifted the lid.

  It was full of silver pennies. Wondering, she dipped her hand into the pile of money.

  “There’s a hundred shillings in there, or thereabouts,” said Shakelock, poking his head inside. “About five pounds. My lord asked me to tell you that he hopes it will go some way to compensating your recent losses. He would have given more, but that was all he had in his strong-box.”

  Esther closed the lid and leaned back against the side of the litter. “So he is letting me go free? It’s that easy?”

  Shakelock winked at her. “I told you he is an honourable man, if a trifle stern. He ordered me and Jean to take you to your family in York, or anywhere else you wish to go.”

  Esther searched the ex-housebreaker’s lean face for any sign of deceit. Her only option was to roll the dice and see where they landed.

  “York, then,” she said, settling back to sleep in the comfort of the straw. “Don’t wake me without due cause, or until we reach the city gates.”

  Shakelock grinned and vanished. Esther heard him shouting at Jean to get the horses moving. The litter creaked into life.

  She closed her eyes and let the world wash over her.

  28.

  Kenilworth

  An hour past midnight, and three men crept like thieves over the plain facing the north-east wall of the castle. Occasionally they stumbled over some piece of abandoned gear or the rotting corpse of a soldier. They reached the line of mantlets and stopped to crouch behind one of the big wooden shields. There was no more cover. From here on they would have to cross twenty feet or so of open ground before reaching the ditch, in full sight of the sentries on the walls.

  Hugh wiped the back of his arm across his face. He was sweating despite the chill night air. His supper kept threatening to rise again.

  “Ready?” he whispered at Godberd, who had his back to the timber frame of the mantlet. The outlaw nodded.

  The third man was Thomas de Reymes, one of Godberd’s followers. He was a quiet, serious type, an ex-farmer like his chief, and the only man to put his hand up when Godberd asked for volunteers. Reymes also had the advantage of being one of those whom Godberd had led out of Kenilworth months before. His face was known to the garrison.

  “It is best there are three of you,” Master John had said. “That will lend truth to your story when you get inside the castle. Just two men, one of those a stranger, might cause suspicion.”

  Now the trio crouched in darkness. “This is a heavy price to pay for the king’s forgiveness,” muttered Godberd. “Perhaps I should have offered money instead.”

  “Go back, if you wish,” said Hugh. “I cannot.”

  “Remember our comrades,” added Reymes. “The king has them in his custody. If we fail tonight, they all hang.”

  Hugh sat on his haunches and peered up at the castle. “I see no-one on the walls. Come!”

  They emerged from cover and ran at full pelt for the ditch. Hugh gritted his teeth and kept his head down. He expected to hear a challenge from the walls at any moment, followed by the cold kiss of an arrow in his flesh.

  His heart lurched as the challenge came. Godberd answered it.

  “Deo ac Veritati! Deo ac Veritati!” he cried. “Don’t shoot! We’re friends!”

  Deo ac Veritati - For God and For Truth – was the secret password among the Kenilworth garrison when Godberd left the castle. The rebels had probably created a new password since, but hopefully would still recognise the old. Master John thought it worth the risk.

  The password met with silence, and then the lip of the ditch was right in front of them. Hugh hurled himself down the muddy bank, rolled, tumbled head-first into icy black water. Godberd and Reymes plunged in just behind him. The three men swam clumsily to the opposite bank, trying to avoid the glistening turds that floated on the surface like a fleet of miniature warships. Hugh knew the garderobes in the northern gatehouse emptied directly into the ditch. Being forewarned didn’t make the reality any more pleasant.

  Hugh reached the other side first. He dragged himself out, spitting water and filth, painfully aware of how exposed he was to the sentries above.

  In place of rocks, they threw down a length of knotted rope. “Tie it around your waists,” one called down, “and we’ll haul you up.”

  Hugh was the last to be winched up the wall. As he was pulled over onto the walkway, someone threw him onto his back and pressed a knife against his throat.

  “What have we here?” a man hissed, his face lost in darkness. Raindrops bounced off the rim of his helmet and fell into Hugh’s eyes.

  “A friend,” said Godberd. “Let him be. His name’s Hugh Longsword. He’s one of us.”

  “Take the blade from my throat,” Hugh said amiably, “or I’ll break your fingers.”

  That seemed to convince the guard, who sheathed his knife and helped Hugh to his feet.

  He looked around. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now. The enormous space of the outer bailey below him was lit by torches hung on brackets inside the walls and rows of tall iron flambeaux. More light blazed from the upper windows of the keep.To the south was the royalist camp. Long lines of picket and camp fires twinkled in the gloom, like so many stars.

  And about as unreachable, thought Hugh.

  “It’s good to see you, Roger,” said a tall, blue-cloaked soldier who seemed to be in charge. “Where are the rest of your men?”

  “All dead, John, save us,” replied Godberd. “The royalists are winning everywhere, which is why we came back. Kenilworth is the last refuge.”

  John appeared to swallow the lie. “I’d best take you to Hastings,” he said. “Be careful what you say to him. He’s a bitter man.”

  The reasons for Hastings’ bitterness soon became obvious when the captain led them towards the keep.
Hugh grimaced as he detected a strong odour of rotting flesh. He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

  “Where’s that foul stench coming from?” he demanded.

  “Corpses,” replied the captain without breaking step. “We’ve been under siege for over four months. Nothing gets in or out. Where do you think we bury our dead?”

  He pointed to the western end of the bailey. There Hugh saw a number of rough mounds, covered over with earth and grass.

  “We’ve burned a few of the more common sort,” the other man said wearily, “but Hastings insists on Christian burials for the rest. The smell is not quite as bad as it was in the summer. You get used to it. Now we just have to worry about freezing or starving to death.”