The Stone Rose (36 page)

The Duke tightened his warhorse’s girth. ‘No, you can take him, le Bret. I know you enjoy riding him. Brian here can take your mount.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Alan tossed his own mount’s reins to the Master of the Horse, switched his gear to Firebrand and mounted him swiftly, lest the Duke changed his mind. He nudged the shining chestnut flanks with his heels and trotted briskly towards his men.

***

The larks that were carolling over the fields to the east could be heard clear over Kermaria marsh. But the larks were the first creatures to waken and as their song was the only sign of life, it went largely unheard. Dawn was an hour away. The whispering sedge and rushes, which a sharp frost had coated with a delicate film of ice, stood dumb, unmoved by wind or wildfowl. The coots and moorhens, snug in nests in the reeds, slept on. The stillness was absolute. It radiated from the marsh – a web of silence spun so large it cloaked not only mere and reeds but also the bridge, the peasants’ cots, the stables, and all of St Clair’s tower right up to the sentry who sat behind a merlon with his red head nodding over his spear. Everything was snared, gently, but firmly, in that web.

The disturbance was small at first. Hardly more than a shiver in the chill, dusky air, an imperceptible ripple of movement which shook the strands of the web and then faded. The silence seemed to grow heavier. Then the movement came again, only this time it was stronger. There was an insignificant sucking noise, as though someone had been marching through the marsh and had inadvertently put their foot into a boggy patch, and was pulling it free.

‘Hell!’ A harsh whisper rattled the reeds. A lantern flap opened a crack, and as a yellow wedge of light streamed forth, it lit up a fenland bristling with men who stood taller than the fresh willow shoots pushing their way to the sky. The men’s spears were more pointed than the frost-tipped reeds, and in the light of the lantern they flashed more brightly.

The big man holding the lantern clenched his fist and controlled an urge to strike the fool who had broken the silence. ‘Quiet, dog,’ Otto Malait mouthed.

‘Damn sedge,’ the trooper muttered, licking blood from his palm. He displayed a vivid slash running across his hand. ‘Edge is sharper than my sword.’

Otto’s hand rose as he delivered a swingeing clout to the fellow’s ears. ‘Be silent,’ he hissed. Flicking the lantern cover, he extinguished the light.

A sedge warbler gave a warning cry as Otto pushed forwards. The web of silence trembled. A moorhen shot out from under his boots, echoing the warbler’s note of alarm. Resigned that the silence was lost, Otto ploughed on. He had his orders. His men must cover as much ground as possible if they were going to be in position before the sun melted the frost on the reeds.

Count de Roncier planned to lead his attack from the north, while Otto had been commanded to direct his men via the marsh to the village. From there they were to force their way into the courtyard. Otto wondered if de Roncier was in position. If this raid was to be effective, they must strike before first light.

***

Katarin’s whimpering disturbed Gwenn. ‘What is it, little one?’ She yawned, turning in bed so she could embrace her sister.

‘Thunder,’ Katarin muttered, burying her head in Gwenn’s shoulder. ‘Katarin doesn’t like thunder.’

Gwenn listened. ‘But that’s not thunder, Katarin. That sounds like someone trying to get in.’ She pushed her sister’s clinging hands to one side and strained her ears. ‘No, it most certainly is not thunder. Someone’s forcing the–’ Gwenn broke off. This was no casual visitor seeking shelter.

Wondering what had happened to the guard and why the alarm bell was not ringing, Gwenn swung out of bed and groped for an unlit candle stub. ‘Stay there, Katarin. Watch Philippe. Papa! Papa!’ she called, running to the solar hearth and shoving the wick of the candle into the faintly glowing embers. The candle sputtered reluctantly into life and, belatedly, the tocsin began to peal.

Jean emerged from his bedchamber half clothed and buckling on his sword. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. Snatching up his shield, he dived for the twisting stairs. ‘Keep Katarin and Philippe up here. If necessary, don’t hesitate to bar this door.’

‘Aye, Papa.’ Barring the door would be a last, hopeless measure, for it would mean that all her father’s men were... Fear tied a knot in Gwenn’s belly, and her mind shied away from the gruesome images her imagination conjured up. Her father could not have meant that. Gwenn wondered what he had meant, and how she was to judge when locking the door was necessary. A thousand other questions milled round in her sleep-dazed mind, but they too must go unanswered.

Holding her candle high, Gwenn’s gaze swept the solar. The glazed eyes of half a dozen women blinked up at her. There was no sign of panic yet, only confusion. The thundering assault on the hall door had settled into a rhythm so regular it was almost soothing.

‘You heard my father,’ Gwenn said, pleased her voice was steady. She did not want to set them screeching. ‘We must get dressed. Mary, light the candles, if you please. And Johanna, I’d be grateful if you could come and see to Philippe.’ Candle aloft, she led Johanna back to her niche, trying to remember if there were any weapons up here. They all had their eating knives, naturally, and there was a dagger at the bottom of Izabel’s ancient chest.

A tearing crack, which could be nothing else but a solid oak door being hewed apart, made her miss a step. A roar from below, and she felt herself grow pale. She heard the clash of steel on steel. A man howled like a wolf and fell silent, and the silence was worse than the howl. Hot wax spilled on her hand, burned her. She gasped.

‘Mistress?’ Johanna’s dark eyes were watchful.

The wet nurse was commendably cool. Gwenn found this surprising, but had no time to ponder on the vagaries of Johanna’s character. Directing her mind to the seemingly impossible task of keeping her candle steady, Gwenn went to rouse her sister. ‘Come on, Katarin,’ she said brightly. It was a miracle her tongue worked at all, for her throat was dry as dust. ‘We’re rising early today.’

Katarin had her thumb in her mouth. She removed it long enough to ask, ‘Why?’

Gwenn wrenched her lips into a smile. ‘We are going to pray.’ The thumb came out again and Gwenn’s heart lurched. Please God, she prayed, don’t let Katarin start asking questions, not now.

‘What’s all that crashing, Gwenn?’

‘The men are practising,’ Gwenn answered briskly. It was a feeble answer, for Katarin was no idiot child and she knew well enough that the men never practised in the small hours. But it was the only explanation her beleaguered mind tossed up, and if Gwenn answered her firmly enough, perhaps Katarin might believe her. ‘Come along, Katarin. Prayers.’

The thumb went in, and obediently Katarin climbed from the bed. Blood-curdling noises were being channelled up the stairwell. Gwenn shut her ears and found her sister’s clothes. The child was old enough to dress unaided, so, having handed her sister her dress, she rooted in the coffer for the dagger. Digging it out, she looked disparagingly at it. It wasn’t much of a dagger. The blade was dull, the whalebone haft yellow and cracked with age. It couldn’t have seen a whetstone in years. She ran a finger down one edge, and grimaced, it was blunt. However, it looked stronger than her eating knife...

She shook her head. What use was one dagger when it appeared they’d been invaded by an army?

The solar brightened. Mary was holding a couple of reed dips to the cressets. Klara whimpered. Bella the dairymaid began to sob. Gwenn clenched her teeth. Like frightened sheep, the other women clustered round Bella, making sympathetic noises. Gwenn stalked to the centre of the chamber. ‘Think of the child, Bella,’ she said, sternly.

‘But, mistress–’

‘Will someone lead us in prayer?’ Gwenn asked. She noticed that Mary wore a calmer face than the rest of them. ‘Mary?’

‘Aye, mistress. As you will.’

As Gwenn waved the women into place round the Virgin, the flaring cresset light fell on a mason’s hammer and chisel that had been kicked into a cobwebby corner. A week ago her father had set a mason to work on a new privy, and the man must have left his tools out, handy for finishing his work.

‘Hail Mary,’ Mary began to intone.

Gwenn shivered, and was for an instant whirled back to Lady Day two years earlier. She was in St Peter’s Cathedral, listening to the Black Monk preaching. She could see two mercenaries leaning against the cathedral porch. She was fleeing them, running, running...

‘...Full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst women...’

Gwenn took a grip on herself. It was Mary taking the prayers, not Father Jerome. And the two mercenaries were no longer callous strangers, but Ned Fletcher, her friend, and Alan le Bret, who, while he was no friend, had saved her life. Dragging her mind to the present, she marched to the corner where the mason’s tools lay. They might make weapons.

‘...Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...’ Mary dropped to her knees and the other women followed her lead.

The hammer was old, its handle worn, but it was solid. The chisel needed sharpening, but – Gwenn’s mouth twisted – it was no blunter than her dagger. She’d hate to have to use them, but if she must... She flexed her shoulders. They had three possible weapons between them. Three weapons, seven women, and two children. She shot a furtive glance at the door. Exactly what were they up against? Women and children would be safe, wouldn’t they?

A chilling screech rang in their ears. Klara moaned. ‘Enough of that,’ Gwenn said, tightly. Klara ignored her, rocking to and fro as she knelt. Her moaning rose, became a wail.

Mary chanted more loudly. ‘Save us now and at the hour of our death.’

Katarin had emerged from their sleeping alcove and looked at them with a child’s wide-eyed curiosity. Gwenn dredged up a smile and held out her hand. ‘Good girl, you’re dressed. Come here, sweetheart.’ Wrapping her sister’s cold hand securely in hers, she knelt to pray.

W
aldin St Clair, champion-at-arms, was in his element. Glad to be in harness again after his recent life of ease, his sword whirled before him, clearing a route directly to the centre of the maelstrom in the hall. Surrounded by his brother’s enemies and cutting them down as though they were no more than stalks of corn and his sword was a reaper’s scythe, he was outnumbered, but undaunted. He bared his teeth in a fierce grin and welcomed the frantic pounding of his heart. The blood rushed invigoratingly through his veins. He felt alive as he hadn’t for weeks.

The clamour was deafening. It was like the mêlée in a tournament, with one notable difference. In the mêlée, Waldin’s inbuilt sense of chivalry made him temper the blows he had delivered. Chivalry did not shackle his hands today. There was no need for him to take care to avoid giving a death-dealing blow or a crippling strike. These lousy assassins had crept up on Kermaria like thieves in the night, they deserved as bad a death as he could give them. They were allied with a lord whose quarrel with Jean ranked them lower than the meanest outlaw. In Waldin’s eyes, they had signed their own death warrants.

François de Roncier was fighting by the great fire, and though well mailed and helmeted so his shock of copper hair was concealed, his round, ruddy visage was plain for anyone to see. He had stepped outside the law in loosing his cutthroats on Kermaria. Barely a month ago, Waldin’s brother had taken his claim to the de Wirce lands to court. The judgement had not been given, and it might well be made in the Count’s favour, for his family had held the land for years and possession was nine tenths of the law. If the court found in favour of de Roncier, this slaughter would be for nothing.

And it was slaughter. One keen, professional glance told Waldin that the couple of dozen men who guarded his brother’s manor were outnumbered four to one. Though Waldin’s own dexterity and the tactics he had passed on to Jean’s guard tipped the scales a little in Kermaria’s favour, his brother’s men would probably meet their maker before the sun rose. Against so large a force, they did not have a chance. Waldin was not afraid to die – not this way. For this would be a glorious death. He would go with his sword in his hand. He would go cleanly, fighting a just cause.

The last winter had brought him the odd twinge of rheumatism, his first. It had been a depressing warning of what was in store. Reluctantly, Waldin had resigned himself to a slow diminishing of that vitality by which he had lived. If his fate was to grow old slowly and painfully, growing less mobile and more feeble with each passing season, then so be it. He had managed to convince himself that he was resigned to his fate. But now, with his blood running hot and fierce, he acknowledged he had been deluding himself. He had not wanted to die a slow, lingering death with his faculties diminishing year by year. And all at once he was presented with the opportunity to go the way he would have chosen – the warrior’s way. And for his brother’s sake, Waldin vowed to give a good account of himself before his soul was hewn from his body.

Waldin saw Jean’s squire, young Roger de Herion, go down squealing, a spear through his belly, and winced. He repaid the man who’d skewered Roger with a clean thrust. ‘More than you deserve,’ he muttered, pulling his sword clear. There was no time to wipe his sword clean on his victim’s leather breeches before another of the Count’s men stood before him. Buoyed up, exhilarated, Waldin parried thrust after thrust. Another de Roncier heathen threw down the gage. Waldin ran him through with cold efficiency, but instantly another sprang up to take his place. The odds were stacked against them, and knowing that his end must come soon, Waldin’s mind worked feverishly, as though it could squeeze several years’ thinking into one minute. Jean, Waldin recalled, scorned his own love of glory. Jean would not appreciate the honour in dying outnumbered. Jean would not want his lifeblood to drain to away on the floor of his hall. He scanned the room for his brother. Jean had engaged de Roncier himself and, like most of the St Clair men, he had not had time to don his hauberk.

‘You won’t get away with this,’ Jean gasped, making a pass at the Count.