B00B9BL6TI EBOK (7 page)

Eventually the moment came. The knight slipped on the turf and his concentration wavered for a fraction of a moment. Edwin sensed his advantage and lashed out with his dagger. Sir Reginald was still too quick for him, however, bringing his right arm around to parry the blow. Unfortunately for him, Edwin’s inexperienced attack did not arrive in the perfect arc he had expected, and his timing was slightly off: the dagger struck him not on his blade but on his broken right hand.

Edwin stepped back in confusion as the knight cursed loudly and dropped his weapon, clasping his injured hand. He began to apologise profusely and stepped forward to ensure that the other was not badly hurt. Sir Reginald managed to regain control of himself – albeit still gripping his hand – and spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Good, Edwin, well done. This teaches us two things: firstly, that luck can play a part in any combat. If fortune is on your side, don’t hesitate to use it. And secondly, that you must exploit any weakness which your opponent shows. If you’re fighting a wounded man, strive to use his injury against him. Here you struck me only a blow to the hand, but the result was that you might easily have killed me. Remember this and use it.’ He let go of his hand and shook the glove off. It appeared to have prevented the blade cutting him; it was the force of the blow alone which had jarred the broken bones. That at least was of some comfort.

‘I think that’s probably enough now.’ Unnoticed by either combatant, Sir Gilbert had approached and was looking on, his face unreadable to Edwin. ‘Edwin is starting to look tired, and he’ll need all his strength for the task ahead. He needs to rest. And as for you, my friend, you need to look to that hand lest it stop you from taking part in the battle. Come to the tent and I’ll have Richard look at it for you.’

Sir Reginald nodded, looking slightly sheepish now, like a boy caught out in a prank. Then he grinned at Edwin. ‘You still have a long way to go, but it’s a start. We’ll continue with your lesson after all this,’ – he gestured at the camp – ‘is over.’

Edwin nodded, secretly glad of the rest, though nothing would have induced him to say so. He sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t have to use a weapon in earnest combat in the days to come; although he had slightly more of an idea than he had before, he would still be hopelessly inadequate against anyone who really knew how to fight. He sighed, turned the dagger round and offered it hilt-first back to the knight.

Sir Reginald looked down at it. ‘Keep it.’ Edwin started to protest but was cut off. ‘Keep it, at least for now. You’ll need something to take with you into the city, and you appear to have no other weapon. You can return it afterwards if you so wish.’ He picked up a scabbard and handed it to Edwin, showing him the loops to arrange it on his belt. Then he looked at the other weapons on the floor and grimaced. ‘Come, help me carry these, and we’ll try to find something to eat while Gilbert’s man looks at my hand.’

Dame Nicola de la Haye, hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle, looked with some distaste at the dry, maggot-infested piece of bread before her. Still, she was lucky to have anything at all: the garrison was rapidly running out of provisions and they would soon be in such dire straits that they must consider surrender as an alternative to starvation. Things were even worse than they had been during the siege twenty-five years ago, when in the absence of her husband, God rest him, she had defended the castle for forty days and nights. That had almost been a good time: they had been young, it was before their son was b– … she stopped and screwed up her eyes against the sudden wet heat. Now was not the moment to think of that.

She picked up the bread, tapped it on the table to dislodge the vermin, and raised it to her mouth as she paced over to the narrow window. She was in the western tower, which looked out not over the town but over the surrounding countryside. Every day she had stood here, scanning the land around to watch for any sign of an approaching force, but every day she had been disappointed. Time was growing short. The French and the rebels had used their siege engines to pound the south side of the castle, and the curtain wall was weakening; it would not last much longer. They had cleared a large open space to the north-east of the castle as well, and she felt that it was only a matter of time before that was also assailed. Thank the Lord for the very narrow gap between the castle’s north wall and the walls of the houses still standing on that side. The channel there was so slender that the enemy dare not enter it for they were easily within range of the castle walls and would leave themselves open to attack by archers or by men pouring boiling water or sand on them. In any case the alley led only to the city’s western gate, which had been blocked by falling masonry and debris during the initial siege of the town, so it was impassable. Still, although of no use to them, it did at least give them one side on which they didn’t face constant attack. Her garrison was thinly spread, and she couldn’t afford to cover all the walls at all times; an occasional patrol sufficed on that side.

There was a knock at the door, and at her call it opened to admit Geoffrey de Serland, the knight who commanded the garrison. He looked haggard, as well he might.

She didn’t waste any time. ‘Well?’

He shook his head. ‘Still no word from the city. We’ve been expecting a message this past week, but nothing, not since …’ He tailed off.

She frowned. One of their hopes had been that the beleaguered city might have been able to mount some sort of resistance against the invaders, and earlier information had suggested that this was indeed the case – a man of the garrison had managed to contact his brother outside. However, the brother was now dead and they had received no further word of anything which might have been going on to their advantage in the city. She thumped the wall in frustration. Still, she should have known not to rely on the citizens, for they were only commoners, with no training or organisation – it was no surprise that the city had fallen so quickly, with only the burgesses to back up the small military garrison. They’d had to fall back to the castle and leave the rest of the city to its fate, in order to save the stronghold in the king’s name.

And there was another thing. What was the king, or more correctly the regent, going to do? Surely he wouldn’t let such an important castle fall into enemy hands? Surely he would send a relieving force? Her frustration at the lack of information rose to the surface again. They must hold out until reinforcements came, but how were they to do so? Within a few days the curtain wall would come crashing down, and her exhausted and starving garrison would have little heart for the battle against the invaders, who had superior numbers and the resources of the city behind them.

She moved again to the window and scanned the countryside as it baked in the afternoon sun. There should be men out there, working in the fields to ensure that crops were growing, but it was empty and barren. Folk were too frightened to leave their homes and who could blame them? She had seen the smoke rising from distant villages and farmsteads as the invaders had plundered in their search for provisions, fodder, and wood to build their accursed siege engines. Those whose homes had survived intact were staying in them and keeping their heads down.

Once more she looked out in vain. Somewhere out in the land there must be a relieving force, but if it didn’t arrive within the next three days then she would have to consider the ignominy of surrender. If they came to terms, it was possible some of them might survive; if the castle were to be taken by force, there would be no mercy. Her eyes watered from the effort of trying to look further and further into the distance. Where were they? Where were they?

Edwin stirred restlessly. Since his combat lesson he’d been lying on a mat in Sir Gilbert’s tent trying to doze, or at least to get some rest ahead of what he knew would be another sleepless night, but he couldn’t. He was twisting and turning, his mind was wide awake and racing and all he was achieving was a headache. He sat up.

On another mat nearby lay Sir Reginald, fast asleep as though he didn’t have a care about what was to come later that day, but past him Edwin could see that Sir Gilbert was also awake. The knight rose from his cot and gestured for Edwin to follow him outside. Once there he spoke in a low tone.

‘Sometimes I envy him. I often find that rest doesn’t come easily during a campaign, but he sleeps like a child. You’re thinking about our tasks later today?’

Edwin confessed that he was and that it was preying on his mind. At this moment, it didn’t seem so much like an admission of weakness.

Sir Gilbert continued, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘It must be difficult for you – your first campaign, an important task to carry out for your lord, the uncertainty about what you’ll have to face …’ he looked at the younger man in some sympathy. ‘It probably won’t be much comfort to you to know that it doesn’t get any easier. Even after many years, the thoughts and doubts are still there. Is today the day I will die? If so, will I die cleanly, or will I receive an agonising wound which will fester and cause a slow death? Will my death have any purpose?’

The words escaped Edwin’s mouth before he could stop them. ‘But I thought …’ He tried to bite them back, but it was too late. He may as well carry on now, although he was bound to make a fool of himself. ‘I am sorry, Sir Gilbert, I didn’t mean to be ill-mannered. But … you’re a
knight
. Surely knights are destined for combat, and they relish it? Knights are … that’s what their purpose is.’

Sir Gilbert smiled, something Edwin didn’t think he’d seen before now. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that all knights are the same, Edwin. If you say “all knights are like this” then you may as well say that “all men who are not knights are like that”, when you well know that men come in many different guises. Some are weak, some strong, some wise, some foolish. Knights …’ he paused for a moment, ‘as knights, yes, we train from our earliest years for combat, for we must keep the peace. But knights are different. Take Reginald and me – although I’m not one of the great men of the kingdom, I own a number of lands, and I have a responsibility for them and to the people who live there. Although I serve my king and my lord when I’m needed, much of my time is spent being an administrator. Others might not have those duties; Reginald is a younger son, and unless something happens to his brother, he won’t inherit large lands or properties. In his case this suits him well.’

They both turned and looked through the open mouth of the tent to watch the sleeping figure, happily oblivious to the world around him. Sir Gilbert spoke fondly. ‘Look at him. He has no worries about the day ahead, for he lives to fight. Since he was a little boy he’s had nothing in his head but arms and combat, and he’s never happier than when giving battle or preparing for it. He has no fear of death, for he thinks only of the contest, of pitting his skill against another’s to see who will emerge the victor.’ His tone turned more rueful. ‘I, on the other hand, think about what would become of my lands, of my people, if I were to die tomorrow, and this prevents me from giving myself up entirely to the combat. I’m not married, have no children, and my death would mean a new lord for my people.’

Edwin was beginning to understand that much of what he thought he knew was wrong. He looked again at the sleeping Sir Reginald. It must be a fine thing to know that you were exactly fitted for your allotted place in life. The knight wished to spend his life fighting; so he fought. But Edwin wasn’t sure who or what he was, and where he might be going – he felt that he was drifting, powerless, waiting to see where the tide would take him. Were others in the same situation? Perhaps there were as many knights who wished not to fight as there were others who wished they could.

Edwin realised he’d spoken out loud and Sir Gilbert was looking at him, his face serious. Edwin was about to try and apologise, but the knight only said, ‘Yes, that may well be the case. But each of us has been allotted our place by God and we must make the best of it, for that is how the worth of a man may be judged. Knights who don’t wish to fight have a choice: the cowardly among them seek to avoid combat, while the rest know their duty and strive to fulfil it. A man of whatever station who doesn’t do his duty is no man at all.’

They remained in silence until a messenger came to summon them to a council with John Marshal.