B00B9BL6TI EBOK (21 page)

John looked on as the regent raised one eyebrow. ‘Demand, Ranulf? You make demands of me?’

The withering look would have intimidated many a lesser man, but Chester was made of sterner stuff. He met the regent glare for glare. ‘Aye. I demand my rights. For if I do not lead the first battalion, I will take my men and leave. You have already dismissed Warenne of Surrey – do you dare do the same to me?’

A collective gasp was quickly suppressed by the other lords, but Chester stood still, his jaw thrust forward pugnaciously.

John Marshal watched his uncle with interest. Knowing him better than most of the other men in the tent, he could glimpse the rapid calculations being carried out behind the flat stare. William Marshal was no fool, and he would know that he couldn’t take the city without Chester and his men. Was the realm about to be riven further? But if the regent backed down, would he lose face before his men? Would they doubt his authority? But not for the first time, John had underestimated both the tactical intelligence of his uncle and his extraordinary personal charm. The future seemed to be hanging by a thread, but he overcame the difficult situation with ease.

‘I did not say
which
battalion I would lead, Ranulf. Of course you will lead the first.’ His tone held exactly the right amount of dismissiveness to avoid any suggestion of a
volte face
. Before anyone could think about it, he moved swiftly on to a self-deprecating humour. ‘I will stir my ancient bones in order to lead the second –’ his wry glance swept them all and lingered a moment on the Earl of Derby, who heartened, ‘William of Salisbury will take the third, and my lord the bishop of Winchester the fourth.’

There was a slight stir at these last words, but John grasped immediately how clever the regent had been. Peter des Roches, the bishop, was a warlike man with a shrewd mind; his leading one battalion would lend the right gravitas to the occasion, convincing the host that God was on their side. Meanwhile the other three sections of the host would be led by the two most powerful men in the kingdom, and a third who, although not supplying as many troops, was the young king’s uncle and so ranked above the others. Thus the order of precedence was set and none of the other earls and lords had been elevated into a potentially resentment-inducing higher place than the others. Everybody was satisfied, and all this with a few simple words and gestures. He marvelled.

The regent continued. ‘Now, as to the order of the march; we will have all the crossbowmen, under Falkes de Breauté, a mile ahead of the main host,’ – John nodded to himself at the sense of this – ‘and the baggage train a mile behind, to keep it out of the way.’

Mention of the baggage train had put John in mind of something else and he drew breath, but then stopped again, unsure as to whether he should bring it up. The regent noticed the sharp movement and bade him speak.

John decided that it was better to declare his thoughts. ‘My lord, our sources inside the castle indicate that the enemy forces outnumber us: they estimate six hundred knights and about a thousand foot. As we approach they’re bound to see us, and they’ll know that we’re small in number. We need to make sure that they don’t sally forth and attack us on open ground, where we would be at a great disadvantage. Might we devise some strategy to make them think that we are more numerous than we are?’

The regent looked interested. ‘What would you suggest?’

‘Well, my lord, it might not be strictly according to the rules of war, but some ruse might be employed. Most of the knights in your host will have two banners: instead of each displaying one and keeping the other stored, why don’t we fly all the extra ones in the baggage train, to make it look like another force of knights? To be sure, it might not fool the enemy for long, but if it stops them attacking long enough for us to approach the castle and enter via the postern, it will help.’

The Earl of Chester seemed about to say something, but the regent cut him off, speaking with authority. ‘I do not think we need to dwell too much on the niceties of chivalry. Anything which gives us an advantage will be needed. We will do this.’ Others nodded as the regent continued. ‘A good strategy, John, you have done well.’

John Marshal basked briefly in the appreciation, but was too scrupulous to take all the credit. ‘Thank you, my lord, but although the idea of the banners was mine, the original plan to make the host look bigger was devised by the man Weaver who was with me in the castle.’

The Earl of Chester grunted. ‘Well, let us hope that he isn’t still there. We must prepare to leave soon, regardless of whether he returns or not.’

The regent acknowledged this. ‘Within the hour. It will take about three hours to march the host to Lincoln from here, so we will need to leave as soon as dawn breaks. That way we should get there round about Prime.’ He slapped one hand into the other. ‘Damn it! I am still not happy with this entering through the postern – it will take too long and they will be able to assail us while we wait to be admitted.’

The Earl of Salisbury spoke. ‘But my lord, we have no time to build siege machinery, and short of battering down the city walls, there is no other choice. Your nephew has already told us that the castle and its garrison are near to breaking point.’

John Marshal stepped back from the table and resumed his pacing. There must be another way. There must! But he was damned if he could think of one. Again he berated himself for leaving the man Weaver to enter the city alone. He should have gone himself. His sense tried to speak to him – it would have been much worse if he hadn’t been able to bring back what news they already had, and Weaver was by far the better of the two of them to go into the city. He spoke English, for a start, which he himself couldn’t do. But his heart overruled him. If something needed to be done he should make sure he did it himself. No good ever came of relying on others.

His thoughts were interrupted by cries from outside the tent and he strode out to see what they signified, hoping rather than expecting that there might be more news. He was greeted by the sight of Gilbert de l’Aigle riding straight through the middle of the camp, ploughing through the surprised men right up to the regent’s tent. He reined in his horse.

‘I am sorry to disturb you thus, my lord, but I thought you might like us to be as swift as possible.’ He turned in his saddle and John Marshal could see another man behind him on the horse. The other man tried to dismount and fell in a heap on the ground, to be assisted to his feet by one of the guards outside the tent. The man stood and faced him. Marshal’s heart jumped several times. It was Weaver. He looked exhausted, breathing heavily, and he was dirty, covered in mud splatters. But as he stepped forward, his smile lit up the night sky.

Alys had stared into the fire until long after it had gone out, the flames dying into glowing embers which in turn had become cold grey ashes. What had she been thinking about? In truth, she couldn’t say. Everything. Nothing. She had simply gazed into the middle distance while the room cooled and the sun came up. As the first rays slanted in through the ill-fitting shutter of the kitchen window, she finally awoke from her trance and shook herself. She was cold. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she rose and began to prepare the room for the day. The familiar tasks increased the sense of unreality at what had happened during the night. She would like to think that Nick’s death had just been a nightmare, but she knew it was true, did not dare go into the shop to see him there again. But she supposed she must; there was always the chance that one of the children would go in there, and she couldn’t bear it if they saw him. And as to the rest of the night’s events, had she really welcomed a stranger into the house, a spy who would help to relieve the suffering of the city? Or had she dreamt it all? And what had happened to him once he left? Had he reached the castle in safety, or would he turn out to be another corpse discovered in an oozing gutter?

She shivered at the thought. As dreamlike as the overnight events had become in her mind, one thing still seemed real: Edwin himself. His honesty, his openness, the feeling that one could trust him; how nice it would be to have a man like that around during these times. She ached for someone to take the responsibility away from her. She wanted to be looked after. But there was nobody. After all the death, she doubted even that Thomas would ever come back. What were the chances that he had somehow survived the ravaging of the countryside around the city? No, it would be up to her to look after the remains of her family. But how could she care for them if the current situation continued? She had a little wood left, so she relit the fire in the hearth to warm the leftover pottage. There would be food for the morning, for the day if she eked it out carefully, but what then? There was nothing in the house, very little in the city, and every day it became more dangerous to venture out of the four walls of the building. If something didn’t happen soon they would all starve.

The first sounds of movement came from upstairs. She went up to fetch the children and brought them down to the kitchen, now warming again, for their meagre meal. She sighed as she thought of the long day ahead. What would she do? How could she keep them occupied and out of trouble?

A knock sounded at the kitchen door and immediately they all stiffened, Randal almost falling off his stool in fright as he looked around for somewhere to hide. Alys stood, unsure whether she should open it, but she was reassured by the voice of Master Pinel calling out that it was only him and that he’d come to see if they were all right. Relieved, she opened the door to him. His ruddy face emanated sense, solidity, something to hold onto. And yet, Alys knew he had been visiting another woman and leaving his wife alone. What else might he be capable of? But she needed to appear normal. As she greeted him, a movement in the back yard caught her eye, and she moved her head just in time to see Aldred slipping away through the back gate. What was he doing here? Had he been hanging around the house all night? He had clearly been doing something since she last saw him, for he had a stained bandage tied around his head, covering one eye. He saw her looking at him and quickly turned his face away as he went through the gate.

Master Pinel turned to follow her gaze. ‘What is it?’ He seemed as jumpy as she was, but then, it would be strange if he wasn’t.

She recollected herself. ‘Nothing. Do come in.’ She moved back to allow him entry, and he stepped inside, wincing as he did so.

Alys was concerned. ‘Are you hurt?’ She put out a hand to steady him.

He grimaced. ‘No more than I am due for a man of my age. Recently I’ve been getting pains in my back, but it’s not serious.’

She apologised that she had no food to offer him, but he waved away her concern, saying he was fine, and besides, the children needed it more. She made an effort to try and dredge up some small talk, but he spoke first and she was immediately wrong-footed by his first question – he thought he had heard screaming coming from the house in the night, had something happened? Hence his concern for them all this morning. He looked at her pleasantly.

Alys floundered, not wanting to mention Nick, not now, not to him, not in front of the children. She came up with a weak excuse about nightmares – although it was probably less feeble than it would normally have been, given what had been happening recently – but was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Mistress Guildersleeve and Gervase, who called out from the yard seeking entry and saying they had brought some bread.

Relieved, Alys went to the door to greet them and asked them in, seeking to cover her confusion in a fuss over the new arrivals, thanking them for their gift and dividing the bread up among the children, who fell upon it without a word.

She bade everyone be seated, but there weren’t enough stools, so Randal moved to stand close to her, one hand clutching her sleeve, and Edric clambered happily up on to Gervase’s knee. He ruffled the boy’s hair as he asked if anyone had heard any further news about the siege.

Alys was spared from speaking by Master Pinel, who immediately launched into a report of a conversation he’d had yesterday with a friend who had told him that he’d heard from someone he knew that the castle couldn’t possibly hold out for much longer. He was interrupted from time to time by Mistress Guildersleeve, who peppered his monologue with remarks on how dreadful everything was and how difficult it was getting to find anything to buy. Between the two of them there was no pause for anyone else to add anything, for which Alys was profoundly glad. As the conversation went on, she slipped into the shop at the front of the house. She stood for a short moment looking down at the beloved face, now more peaceful in everlasting sleep, and covered the body in a swathe of cambric. Then she unbarred the front door in order to peek out into the street. Normally it would be bustling by now, with shops and stalls trading and all the goodwives out to make their purchases. But the street was deathly silent. She guessed that everyone was about the same sort of activity as they were: staying indoors, gathering in small groups, desperately worried about their fates, talking and trying to predict what might happen next, attempting to stay hopeful but knowing that time was running out. She took one more look at the street before moving back inside and barring the door. It was not just the absence of people; the emptiness was suffocating. The city was holding its breath.