The Dragon of Handale (31 page)

Aware of the cold steel pressed at his throat, Morcar made no effort to struggle.

The soldiers froze where they were.

Hamo dropped down from the beam but stood ready to swing up again. He, too, drew out a long, sharp-bladed knife.

Ulf prodded his sword into the chest of the nearest attacker. “Throw your weapons down!” he growled.

While there was a hiatus as the soldiers made up their minds what to do next, Hildegard grabbed hold of Isabella by the arm and pulled her towards the open door. At once seeing the means to escape, the girl fled down the steps, with Hildegard at her heels.

From behind them came several thumps as swords were thrown to the floor. Matt and Hamo appeared at the top of the tower steps, closely followed by Ulf. The door slammed behind them, trapping Morcar and his men inside the chamber.

Glancing over her shoulder, Hildegard saw Ulf turn the big key in the lock and stuff it in his belt. “Get the hell out!” he shouted down to them.

Nobody needed to be told. With the fleet-footed girl in front, they descended the stairs at a run.

Just coming up at that moment, no doubt to find out what the noise was about, was the steward who had insulted Hildegard earlier. He had to flatten himself against the wall or be swept back down the steps as they raced past. His eyes darted from left to right as first one, then another went by. His jaw sagged.

Before he could protest, Ulf grabbed him by the front of his surcoat, lifting him off his feet before bringing his face up close to his own. “If you value your health, get along to the feast hall, keep your mouth shut, and don’t come back until daybreak. Get it?”

The man stuttered an assent. With Ulf’s encouragement, he stumbled backwards down the steps, then turned and followed the others. Ulf was right behind him. Glancing back, the steward set off at a shambling run across the yard, heading towards the feast hall, exactly as Ulf had recommended.

The others were by now streaking across the snow-covered court towards the inner gatehouse. Hildegard pushed ahead of the barefoot girl they had rescued and poked her head through the door into the guardroom. “All well, gentlemen?”

There were cheers at her appearance.

“Can’t stop. We’re playing catch with Morcar’s men. Whatever you do, don’t let them follow us!”

More cheers were aroused, with promises to keep the bastards penned where they belonged, and one of the guards staggered to the doorway, grabbing a pike as he did so. “They’ll get this if they try, mistress. Trust us!” He gripped the doorpost to hold himself up. “Are you coming back to see us after?”

“Soon, handsome, very soon.”

By now, the others had reached the shadows at the foot of the curtain wall opposite the common hall. Sounds of feasting and general merriment were issuing forth. Ulf joined the others as Hildegard followed close behind.

“Where to now?” he demanded.

“Let’s get out of the courtyard, in case they manage to put their shoulders to their prison door and get out past those drunks in the guardhouse,” Hildegard suggested. She looked round for somewhere safe where the runaway girl could be hidden.

“They won’t open that door in a hurry. It opens inwards.” Ulf twirled the key.

“We might not be noticed up top.” Hamo pointed to the battlements. “The guards are only on duty on the landward side.”

It was true. Where the battlements overlooked the ravine on two sides, nobody bothered to keep watch. Only on the causeway side of the castle was there a strong detail of guards and lookouts.

“Let’s get up there without being noticed, then. Slowly and casually,” murmured Hildegard. There were vaults supporting several arches along the walls, where the sentries could take shelter, and they could climb up and make use of one of those.

It was still snowing. It helped conceal them and kept most people indoors. They hurried across the yard to the nearest set of steps. The girl was shivering with cold, teeth chattering audibly by now. The thin linen shift she had been sleeping in was no protection against the cold.

Ulf noticed and removed his thick woollen riding cloak. “Take this, my lady.” He draped it round her fragile body.

She was no more than sixteen, slim and pale, with a pretty face and long fair hair caught up in a silver crispinette, an expression of dazed joy on her face as it slowly sank in that she had been freed from the molestations of Earl Morcar. “You may call me Isabella,” she smiled round at them, clearly not quite believing in the sudden turn of events.

“She needs something on her feet,” Hildegard pointed out, preparing to take off her own boots.

The two masons muttered something to each other; then Matt made a small bow to the girl. “My lady, trust us. Hamo and I will make a chair of our hands and carry you until we find shelter.”

Half-collapsing with cold, the girl could only agree, and in this way she was carried up the steps to the battlements and was hurried along to the nearest recess under the stone groin halfway along the wall, where the snow had not penetrated.

Hildegard happened to glance out between the crenellations as they ran along. Towards the high moors that stretched on that side of the castle, something was moving. She gave an exclamation of surprise and stopped.

“Look, everybody, what is that?”

She had to say it twice to make them turn and look.

Through the driving snow appeared a chain of tiny lights moving along the horizon at a steady pace towards the castle.

“Hundreds of flaming bloody torches!” exclaimed Matt in stupefaction.

“It’s a ferkin great cavalcade!” Hamo gripped the stone embrasure. “Is it this earl they’re prating about?”

Hildegard peered through the driving snow. “It’s the king of the north!” she exclaimed. “At last!”

C
HAPTER
28

The vanguard of the earl of Northumberland’s retinue had just started out onto the peninsula leading towards the castle. The cavalcade snaked back onto the ridge of moorland in the snow-driven night, stretching back as far as the eye could see onto the bleak track across the treeless barrens.

Hundred upon hundreds of blazing torches lit the way, jetting stars off the caparisons of the horses, glittering from the gold banners, and gilding the helmets of the earl’s private bodyguard. As the numbers of those setting out across the narrow ridge towards Kilton swelled, in the rear the baggage trains hove into view. One after another, they rolled out of the blizzard, torchlight glimmering on the myriad body servants, pages, horsemen, kitcheners, bottlers, bakers, butchers, and no doubt candlestick makers of the earl’s household. The blizzard drove against them, but they drove harder through it.

Soon the shout from the sentinel in his lookout above the gatehouse rang out in response to a command to open the portcullis. With a rumbling of winches, the huge metal gate was lifted to allow the earl to enter.

He was visible now, in full armour, balanced on the footboard of a gleaming char with gilded leather hood, his standard fluttering above him, bright in the driving snow. The first horsemen began to clatter over the drawbridge, the char rumbled after them, and the earl entered between the echoing walls of the bailey to the fanfare of trumpets.

The group on the battlements watched for some time as the procession roared in under the gatehouse. The shouts of the newcomers doubled in volume within the confines of the walls.

Ulf and the masons turned their attention back to the abducted Isabella long before the last straggler hurried in as the drawbridge started to lift and the portcullis crashed shut.

Driven into shelter by the blizzard, they huddled in the lee of the wall near an unmanned sentry tower.

“Thanks be to Saint Benet. The earl has arrived. It’s obvious what we must do.” Hildegard said. “We must put Lady Isabella’s predicament before Northumberland.” She turned to her. “You must trust him. Throw yourself on his mercy.”

Countless sumpter wagons encircled the bailey. The luckier members of the earl’s household poured out of the nooks and crannies where they had been able to get a ride. Others began to unwrap the sacking from their feet, shake out their cloaks, and rub frostbitten fingers.

A cart containing nothing but kindling was unloaded; logs were tossed from another one into the open space between the walls. Fires were started. Cooking pots filled with already prepared pottage were positioned over the flames and the alemaster directed the manhandling of the barrels before ordering the spigots opened.

The snow-blasted travellers began to hang out whatever they could to dry on makeshift lines over the fires. Lastly, the provisions were unloaded and carried off into the castle kitchens.

Most of the household would be bedding down under the wagons tonight, despite the snow, and there was a lot of hurrying about to claim the best places.

In the middle of all this, descending from his gold-covered char, appeared the earl, to be greeted by his chamberlain, already wielding his white stick of office and moving forth in a cloud of servants.

“Ordered chaos,” remarked Ulf as he stood with the others on the wall and looked down. “And in all this there should be young Harry Summers, the earl’s secretary.”

Turning to Isabella, Hildegard said, “With Harry’s help, it should be easier to get an audience. We believe Northumberland’s here for important matters of state, but if anyone can persuade him to take time to consider your predicament, Harry can.”

“I’m afraid I’ll be sent back to Morcar,” Isabella said, burying herself even deeper into Ulf’s thick cloak.

“Did you make a legal promise to him?” asked Hildegard.

Isabella shook her head. “I met him only when I woke up here. After I was abducted, they kept me drugged. I was slipping in and out of nightmares all the time. I think they kept me in a tower somewhere deep in a wood, but I have only the most hazy memory of what happened. My warder was a stranger, a rough fellow, though he tried to put on airs. He had food sent up to me. I’d find it on the floor beside my mattress whenever the drug wore off.”

“Did you ever see who brought it?”

“A girl brought it sometimes, but she seemed too frightened to come into the chamber and used to leave it outside the door. I caught sight of her once or twice as she scurried back down the stairs. I found it too much to go up and down the stairs. I felt so weak all the time. I doubt whether the girl ever saw me. Sometimes,” she added, “the rough fellow brought food. Mostly, it simply appeared while I was sleeping.”

Hildegard turned to Ulf. “Was the girl Alys?”

He nodded. “She told me she was ordered to go into the woods on errands, leaving bread and cheese for the men, she was told, although she said she hardly ever saw anybody. It was only when the scare over the dragon occurred that she was told not to go anymore. It was Fulke who always sent her.”

“Thank heavens for the dragon, then.” Hildegard gave a quick glance at the masons, but their faces gave nothing away. “Would they have abducted her as well, in time?”

“She’s not a pawn in the game between the barons. This manor in dispute is unimportant in the greater battle for power. She was probably going to a different sort of buyer, like other novices who have passed through Handale.”

The two masons were listening intently but added nothing. Hildegard felt they were holding something back.

Before she could say anything, Ulf turned to Isabella. “When did Morcar come into the picture, my lady?”

“I don’t know. One day I was in the tower; the next I woke up here. Was that yesterday? I’m not sure. All I know is that filthy fellow was leering over me, touching me, and I scratched his face and then”—she frowned—“I’m not sure what happened next. I felt drowsy again and”—her frown deepened—“I feel bruised all over, as if—” She dipped her face out of sight inside the cloak and her shoulders began to shake.

Hildegard and Ulf exchanged glances.

“He’ll pay,” muttered Ulf through tight lips.

Northumberland had decided it was time to make his entrance by the time they descended from the battlements. The herald blew a fanfarade on his horn. The earl climbed down with great ceremony from his gleaming char. Snow was cleared to make a path through the crowd. Guards stood on both sides, holding aloft lighted torches, and, down this avenue of fire, the king of the north made his stately entrance into the inner court.

His men followed in order of precedence. It was somewhere in this crowd that Hildegard spotted Harry Summers.

Smarter than when she had last seen him—pulled from a game of skittles to answer to Mr. Medford, head of the king’s Signet Office—it had been a year ago in the earl’s London mansion. Harry had been the innocent key to unravelling a murder.

Now here he was, wrapped in a red cloak, his fair hair hanging in damp ringlets, his merry glance taking everything in with evident good humour.

Ulf waded through the throng, brushing aside one of the guards wielding a smoky torch, and gripped Harry by the arm.

Not so innocent these days, judged Hildegard when she saw the young man’s hand go swiftly to his dagger.

As soon as he realised it was Ulf at his side, he threw his arms round him with a yell of delight.

“You old devil, Sir Ulf, of all people. Are you here with Earl Roger de Hutton?”

She saw Ulf shake his head and mutter something, and Harry clapped him on the back and gave him several rib-shaking thumps. “Lord of the manor of Langbrough and well deserved,” he shouted. “And is your lady present?” He looked round, caught sight of Hildegard, did a double take, recognised her despite the absence of her white Cistercian habit, and exclaimed with further expressions of delight before going through the whole rigmarole of greeting again, although this time with less thumping and more close hugging.

As they began to drift towards the inner court with the rest of the household, Ulf told Harry about the boon they wanted to ask and the best way of going about it.

He turned to reach out for Isabella, who had been ushered along by the masons and now stood half-hidden under her cloak behind him. As he stepped aside to reveal her, her hood fell back. Hildegard was close enough to observe Harry’s change of colour. Isabella simply stood in the falling snow, staring at him, without speaking.