B00B9BL6TI EBOK (4 page)

Edwin began to listen more carefully to the talk of the nobles. They were looking at a map, and the discussion seemed to centre on the route they would take to Lincoln. Edwin had no idea at all of the relative situation of the towns they mentioned, or how far away they were, but the consensus seemed to be that they should avoid taking the direct road to Lincoln, which would bring them to the side of the town on which the French were encamped. Well, that sounded fairly sensible, even to him. Instead they were to travel via a different route, which would mean camping overnight at somewhere called Torksey, and then moving on to Lincoln to approach from the west, the side where the castle was situated. There might then be some possibility of communicating with the besieged men in the castle. Men? Edwin’s ears caught a new name, and he was amazed to discover that the stronghold was apparently being held by a woman, Dame Nicola of something.

While he was considering this startling piece of information, the conversation turned to the number of men that each lord had brought with him. Each was giving the regent a figure of knights and crossbowmen; nobody seemed particularly interested in foot sergeants or servants, but surely they’d be important as well, wouldn’t they? Edwin didn’t dare open his mouth to say anything out loud, so instead he watched as a harried-looking clerk wrote all the numbers down.

The numbers kept coming. Edwin had no idea whether all of this constituted a large host or not or whether there would be enough of them to raise the siege, but he listened with interest. The great men, the earls, each had many knights in their retinues; some of the lesser lords had fewer knights but more crossbowmen. Once the final lord had given his figures – William d’Aubigny supplying ten knights and thirty crossbowmen – Edwin turned without thinking to Sir Hugh and whispered, ‘Four hundred and six knights, and three hundred and seventeen crossbowmen. Will that be enough?’

‘Who said that?’

The regent might have been old, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing: pausing in the very act of asking the clerk to reckon the final tally, he had whirled and snapped out the question. His eyes swept the tent.

Edwin found himself standing in the middle of a growing space as men melted away from him. He stood exposed and petrified, his face burning, breathless, knees trembling, wishing the ground would open so he could sink into the earth and hide. He had interrupted the council of lords! What punishment was to be his? He couldn’t speak and dared not meet the eyes of his lord, whose temper was legendary.

The regent was addressing him. ‘You there.’ Edwin forced himself to look up and meet the gaze, quaking. He was face-to-face with William Marshal. Oh dear Lord. How had his life come to this? He cowered and awaited his fate.

The regent noticed the badge on Edwin’s tunic and raised an eyebrow. ‘One of yours, Warenne?’ The earl nodded without speaking, and Edwin winced at the thought of the conversation they would probably have once this meeting was over. The regent spoke again, but thank the Lord he sounded more interested than angry. ‘How did you reckon so quickly?’ Without waiting for an answer, which was good, as Edwin didn’t have one, he turned to the clerk. ‘Is he correct?’ The clerk was still frantically scribbling on his list. ‘Hurry up, man!’ After a few moments of pained silence broken only by the scratching of a pen, he finished writing, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked up.

‘Yes, my lord. Four hundred and six knights, and three hundred and seventeen crossbowmen, as
he
stated.’ He looked spitefully at Edwin, obviously feeling that he had been made to look a fool.

Edwin shivered as the regent looked over him appraisingly, but all he said was, ‘Well done. It is good to have men around us with quick wits. Warenne, I compliment you.’ He moved back to the table.

It was over. Edwin’s legs had turned to water and he wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground, but he could not, would not, while he was still in here. The feeling of being hot carried on as the glances of other men fell on him, but at least he was no longer the centre of attention as the discussion at the table continued.

He didn’t take in much of the rest of the conversation – something about scouting and being able to speak with those inside the besieged castle – so concerned was he with his determination to stay on his feet, but soon enough he was following Sir Hugh out of the tent and into the cool night air. The freshness, after the heat and humidity inside, revived him and he began to look around him again. The knight, after several quips from others, nudged him. ‘Well, well, coming to the attention of the regent himself, eh? We’d all better look out for our positions!’ Horrified, Edwin started to deny any intent, but Sir Hugh merely chuckled into his beard. ‘Have no fear, boy, I’m jesting with you.’ He slapped Edwin on the back.

The knight set off back to their part of the camp. Edwin followed him and then asked whether they should wait for the earl, who had not yet issued forth from the tent. Sir Hugh looked more serious. ‘No. Didn’t you hear? The lord regent wished to speak with him alone. I don’t think this bodes well at all.’

They were both sombre as they returned to the camp.

It was deep into the night when Edwin was awakened by Adam. He groaned as the boy shook him, trying to rid himself of the fog of sleep, but eventually he threw off his blanket and stood, stretching his muscles after they had stiffened even more on the hard ground. In a daze he followed the squire towards the earl’s tent, unsure of why he had been summoned but certain that it was not to hear any good news.

As he entered the tent the first thing he saw in the dancing light was the shadow of the earl as he paced up and down, muttering furiously to himself. The shadow stopped as he turned, and, seeing them enter, made a physical effort to calm himself.

The earl spoke first to Adam. ‘You look dead on your feet. Go now, and sleep – I won’t need you again tonight.’ Adam bowed gratefully and moved around to one of the curtained-off parts of the tent. Edwin heard him thump down on to a straw palliasse, and then there was silence.

The earl turned to Edwin and ran his hands through his hair, which was already tousled. He too looked exhausted, his eyes hollow with troubles, but Edwin didn’t dare say so. He waited respectfully for his orders, but the earl resumed his pacing again for a few moments, his movements tight and controlled. Eventually he stopped and splashed some wine from a flagon into a cup, which he drained in a single gulp before replacing it on the table. He filled it again, and then, to Edwin’s astonishment, filled another and handed it abruptly to him, so that some of the red liquid slopped over the side on to his hand, dripping like blood. ‘Drink this.’

Edwin was so amazed that he barely heard the earl’s next words, spoken under his breath as he sat on the one fine chair and motioned towards a low stool for Edwin to do likewise. ‘I think you’re going to need it.’

It was even deeper into the night, the first glimmerings of a pre-dawn light showing on the horizon, and Edwin couldn’t sleep. He sat wrapped in his blanket, staring at the embers of a fire, going over and over in his mind the conversation he’d had with the earl. What was he going to do? He had no choice but to obey, but he could see very little chance of coming out of this alive.

The sick man groaned and stirred in his sleep. Alys dipped the rag once more into cool water and applied it to his forehead, hoping to soothe him a little, but she knew that it would be of no avail. Since her father had been found three days ago, lying in the street with the back of his head crushed, the world had been a different place. Master Pinel and the other neighbours had managed to get him home – for miraculously he was still alive – but there was nothing she could do for his injury, and he had developed a fever on the brain. Father Eustace had come when he could to offer comfort, but with so many others in the town in need his time was scarce, so there was nothing to do but try to ease her father’s pain and wait for him to die. And if she ever managed to take her mind off him for a moment, the torment over her missing brothers took over. Thoughts of what might have happened to them sickened her. It was as though she had a stone in her belly, a stone which became heavier with each new worry. And in the meantime the children were hungry and she had very little to offer them. They huddled in the corner, huge-eyed, looking fearfully at the stranger in the bed, the father who no longer knew them.

Eventually Alys realised that it was late into the evening, and they’d had nothing to eat. She called her sister to her, and Margery extricated herself from her sleepy brothers and crept over.

‘Margery, I want you to go down to the kitchen. There’s still some bread left, so take the boys in there and share it with them. If you can find any other food there, you can have that as well.’

Margery nodded and hauled Edric and Randal to their feet before leading them by the hand out of the room to the staircase. Alys sighed, looking after them. That she should have to rely on a ten-year-old to help her to mother the others was unfair; the strain was too much, and Margery had been growing paler and paler as time went on. She had barely spoken since their father’s accident, and was becoming ever more withdrawn. The boys were not yet at that stage, but being younger their minds were more concerned with filling their empty bellies. She tried to think. What was she going to do? Papa would die, that was for certain, so the task of keeping the family alive would fall to her, at least until either of her brothers came home. Fortunately there was still some of the hoard of pennies left – even before his accident, Papa had known that something might befall him, so he’d shown her where he’d hidden the money to keep it safe. Before the siege the cloth business had been good, and by living carefully he had managed to save a good deal against the possibility of an uncertain future. She gave thanks every day for his foresight, but although she still had some money, it was no use if there was nothing to buy, and food supplies were short in Lincoln. What was she to do? She sighed and turned back to her father. While he was alive, she must care for him to ease his passage into the Lord’s grace.

He stirred and mumbled something incomprehensible. Occasionally this had happened – he’d seemed almost on the verge of regaining consciousness, but then he’d either murmured or even raved for a few moments without waking, before subsiding back into the dark world he now inhabited. She dipped the rag and tried to cool him again.

As she turned towards him, she started as she realised that his eyes were wide open and staring at her.

‘Papa?’ She reached out to him gently, but he didn’t respond.

He continued to stare silently, but after a few moments a hoarse whisper came from his lips. ‘Edith?’

Her mother’s name. Alys’s eyes filled with hot tears. ‘No, Papa, it’s me, Alys.’

She had little hope that he would understand her, but to her surprise he seemed to focus on her coherently. ‘Alys.’ He twitched his hand and she took it, holding the gaunt pale fingers in her own. He continued to whisper, his wits somehow returning. ‘You brought me home?’ She nodded. ‘Proud of you. Proved yourself.’ His hand was so cold. She held it to her face, and he moved his fingers to touch her cheek. His voice was hoarse. ‘You must do something for me.’

She thought she knew what was coming. ‘I’ve looked after the little ones, Papa, I’ll make sure no harm comes to them.’

He tried to move his head and whimpered. It was a moment before he could speak again. ‘Yes … but … something else you have to do. Someone you must talk to.’

He was raving again, surely.

‘Come closer, child, and I will tell you. You must do this, for all of us …’ She bent her head closer and listened to the rasping whisper. So that was what he’d been doing! She sat back in shock.

His strength was failing, the words slow, laboured. He gripped her hand. ‘You must … promise me.’

She couldn’t stop the tears. ‘I promise.’

‘Good …’ the whisper tailed away in a rattle, and he breathed no more.