Ghosts of Engines Past (27 page)

Angela stood up. “Then take them and go, and take my blessing too. I shall make the arrangements for your departure.”

Baron Raimond was roused an hour before dawn, and Alren was shown into his tent. The Moor had a pack on his back, and was dressed as a pedaler.

“I expected you earlier,” said Raimond.

“I had to secure her books,” replied the Moor. “It was not easy.”

Raimond watched as Alren unpacked Angela's life's work. He flicked through the pages by lamplight.

“It is as I remember,” said Raimond. “More than enough to send the bishops reaching for the brushwood and firebrands.”

“I am glad to be away from her,” sighed Alren. “For a year I have been in her confidence. I have been her friend, welcomed every time I visited the Tower of Winds to study her writings. The strain of deception has been heavy upon my conscience.”

“And I am grateful for your trouble, my loyal and faithful conspirator.”

The throwing arm of the trebuchet stood almost vertical, towering over Raimond's camp as Wat inspected it in the cool morning air. Satisfied, he nodded to the trebuchet captain who gave an order.

A dozen men pushed at the levers of the trebuchet's windlass. The ratchet clacked rapidly at first, but as the arm began to depart further from the vertical the work became harder. After ten minutes the heavy box of stones that was the counterweight had risen several feet, and the throwing arm was horizontal. Wat paced around the huge, wooden machine again.

“No cracks, no warping,” the captain declared proudly.

“There had better not be,” Wat replied.

“Where is the baron? I had thought that he would want to command this engine himself.”

“The baron is busy elsewhere, there is more to breaching a castle than smashing the walls. You have been named to carry out his instructions.”

The team continued to wind. Within another ten minutes the throwing arm's head was nearly touching the ground. A sling containing one of the stone balls was hooked to the arm, then a rope was tied to the release catch. This rope was handed to the captain as trumpets blared a fanfare. The captain gave the rope to a team of peasants.

“Clear the surrounds,” ordered Wat.

The men of the windlass team hurried to one side. Everyone else was already clear.

“At your word,” said Wat to the captain.

“Have the trumpets sound a warning.”

The trumpets brayed another brief fanfare. The captain raised his hand, then brought it down sharply. The team of peasants hauled at the rope attached to the release pin. The pin clinked free, releasing the throwing arm. The box containing twelve tons of rocks descended, hauling the throwing arm around with a mighty creaking of joints and axles. The whole trebuchet rolled forward as the box came down, then back as its centre of gravity passed behind the axle, then forward as it returned again. The sling was whipped around, flinging the sandstone ball in a great arc and releasing it. The three hundred pound ball hissed through the air, rising high and dark against the blue sky, then thudded into the rich turf twenty years to the left of the outer wall of the Tower of Wings, and a yard short of the abandoned cart. Those in Raimond's camp cheered.

“A miss!” shouted the tower's seneschal, and the men at arms with him cheered.

“He aims at the cart!” retorted Lady Angela impatiently. “Had he been aiming at the outer walls he would have struck true the very first time.”

They were standing at the top of the Tower of Wings, and had a better panoramic view of proceedings than anyone else. Already the arm of the trebuchet was being wound down again by the windlass team.

“So, he means this just as a warning?” said the seneschal.

“Yes, and if I do not heed his warning he will soon bring that thing to bear on the walls. See that long, light ramp behind it? He must mean to use it to span the moat. This is the end.”

“There is always hope while—”

“Get two servants, carry my trunk up here.”

“My lady, you cannot mean to do this!” exclaimed the seneschal.

“Need I repeat my order, Stephen?”

“No, my lady.”

The trebuchet took twenty minutes to wind down again. A maidservant was buckling Lady Angela into her harness as the distant trumpets sounded, and they all turned to the south. The mighty machine's arm swung up as the box dropped, and the trebuchet rolled forward as a second stone ball was flung into the sky. It rose in a smooth arc, almost like a feather lofted by a strong wind, then descended. There was a heavy thud as the cart was splashed apart into a cloud of fragments and splinters. Again the English besiegers cheered.

“That was only his second cast,” said the seneschal. “Why with such accuracy he could choose which individual stone he wanted to hit in the curtain wall.”

“Or put a rock through my bedchamber window,” muttered Lady Angela.

“They are winding the arm down for a third cast,” said the senschal.

“The baron has issued his warning,” said Angela grimly as she climbed up between the crenelations at the edge of the tower. “The next cast will be to show what he can do against stone walls. Secure the cords to my harness, and tie good knots. After that, hold out the plunge cape to either side of me, hold it high, spread out over the edge of the tower on pikes.”

Beside the trebuchet the captain was shouting for the attention of his cheering, dancing crewmen.

“Back to work, ye buggers! Shoulders to the windlass!”

Wat put a hand on the captain's shoulder and gestured to the ramp.

“That proves it holds together and casts true. Now we'll we use the master's special missile. I'll uncover it and fasten the tether.”

They stood ready, Lady Angela crouched between the crenelations while her people held the plunge cape spread above her like a huge, green awning. In the distance they could see men tending something on the ramp that had been built behind the trebuchet. It was a red thing, luridly bright red. In the summer heat it seemed to shimmer like flames.

“I do believe they mean to cast a fire missile next,” said the seneschal.

“A burning oxhide filled with oil,” cried Lady Angela. “It will burst in a carpet of fire, it will kill dozens.”

“No, the trebuchet is still aimed wide. He means to smear fire all over the fields before us, to frighten us into surrendering.”

“Well then, after I jump surrender the tower. Not a single one of those fire missiles must come over the walls.”

The trumpets blared again. Lady Angela whispered a brief prayer and clenched her fists. The arm of the trebuchet swung up, the machine rolled forward—and something huge and red was drawn up the ramp, something far wider than the trebuchet, something with vast, red wings that rose up into the clear air more steeply than the heavy stone balls. The tether slipped free and the flight engine continued to ascend in a steep, impossible trajectory. Lady Angela very nearly fell from the wall in sheer surprise. From below and behind her came cries of amazement, while cheers echoed across the fields from Raimond's camp. The device had shot straight out of the pages of her book on flight.

Strapped into the wicker cradle of the flight engine, Baron Raimond was aware of no cheers, only of the air buffeting his face, hissing through his hair and roaring in his ears while the horizon tilted and rocked before his eyes. Off to the right and below was the Tower of Wings, suddenly presented from a totally alien perspective. He was within bowshot, in spite of his speed and height. Lady Angela had ordered that no archer of hers should ever shoot at anything flying, yet did that order extend to him?

The ground was a patchwork of greens; he had never realised that the countryside looked like a quilt until now. Everything seemed to be moving slowly, yet it was only because the ground was so far away. Even on the fastest horse that he had ever ridden, the air had never moved past so rapidly.
When I come down I will still be moving as fast,
passed through Raimond's mind. His heart was hammering, his mouth was dry. This was the heady thrill of battle, the intense fright of charging another knight in a tourney, this was knowing that death was at his shoulder, kept from claiming him by no more than some red silk and wicker. The flight engine was not hard to control, it practically flew itself. A warhorse was more difficult to ride, yet a warhorse was slower and closer to the ground. The world seemed so far away that no sounds reached him but the wind in his ears, yet everything that he saw was quite stark and lurid. This was his third flight, yet he had not noticed the effect before.
A bird needs eyes more than ears while in flight, perhaps our ears become dormant while we fly,
he thought.

Suddenly realising that he was past the Tower of Wings and descending, Raimond pushed back against the right control cord with his foot, raising a flap at the right wingtip. The flight engine began curving around, circling the Tower of Wings. At its summit were several figures holding a large, green awning over the side, just as Alren had warned. Fields, trees and hedgerows passed below. Newly shorn sheep, intensely white against the green fields, scattered as the monstrous shadow passed over them. He was only twice the height of the tower's summit by the time he had turned back upon his initial path, and in the distance was the trebuchet, the mighty siege engine whose twelve tons of counterweight had given his flight engine its speed and flung it into the sky. He continued to turn, circling the tower again. The green awning was still there but was now just draped over the edge, and the figures were watching and pointing. Other tiny, dark figures swarmed about the walls, barbican and bailey, like ants disturbed by a boot on their nest. The flight engine was still performing well, but there was the matter of landing to attend.

Raimond was still high and fast enough to return to his camp, but that was not his intention. He caught sight of a clearing ringed with trees that he had scouted days earlier, then reached under his wicker cradle and tugged at a cord, spilling sand from a sack fastened beneath him. Very quickly the prow of the flight engine tilted up, and it began to lose speed and drop. He descended below the level of the tree tops.

Angela watched the flight engine vanish from view, the harness of the plunge cape now discarded at her feet.

“The flight engine turns purposefully, as if being guided,” she whispered to herself. “Someone must be riding upon it.”

Pushing his feet against the cords controlling to the wing flaps, Baron Raimond straightened his frail craft, glanced at the grassy ground rising up to meet him with familiar but terrifying swiftness, then felt the wickerwork skid scrape turf, bouncing the flight engine back into the air before it came down more gently and slid to a stop. It tilted over onto its right wing as Alren came running over to unfasten the buckles that had held the baron secure during the flight. Raimond was drenched in perspiration.

“Must return,” he stammered as the Moor helped him to his feet.

“Excellent lordship, your horse is behind those hawthorne bushes. Are you sure you can ride?”

“Ride yes, walk no. If you please, help me to my mount.”

The baron set off at once, leaving Alren to guard the clearing and flight engine. As he reached the trebuchet, the news arrived that the Tower of Wings had surrendered. The drawbridge was being lowered.

“You have your tower sire, undamaged,” Raimond said to Edward.

“Yes, they have capitulated!” exclaimed Edward. “Why?”

“Because Angela is a lady of great scholarship, and I flattered her by building that device. There is now, ah, the matter of...”

“Yes, yes, I shall deal with the bishops.”

With that Raimond reeled, nearly fell, then dropped to his knees and vomited at the feet of his king. Edward helped him back to his feet.

“Raimond, you are soaked with sweat, pale and exhausted, and trembling like a new-born foal even though there has been no fighting,” said Edward. “You flew on that thing, did you not? You hid within the long wicker basket and flew.”

“Between us alone, sire, yes,” said Raimond hoarsely.

“What was it like?” asked the king eagerly.

“Death's hand rested upon my shoulder while I was aloft, I felt the chill of his fingers like knives of ice.”

“I would like to know the feeling, Raimond.”

“No you would not, sire.”

By the time Lady Angela rode across the drawbridge Baron Raimond was waiting to greet her. Dismissing their escorts they rode away together, alone, and initially in silence.

“You brought my theories to life,” Angela remarked guardedly as they reached the trees. “You are indeed remarkable.”

“Not so, my lady. My friend Alren the Moor studied your work and helped me render your designs into silk, pine and wicker.”

“Alren!” exclaimed Angela.

“Given the circumstances, we decided it was not wise to reveal just why he was studying in the Tower of Wings.”

“Understandable,” replied Angela frostily, her eyes narrowing.

“I provided the gold to build the devices, and—Ah, and here is the engine itself, with Alren standing guard.”

Alren was standing beside the flight engine, but he avoided Angela's eyes as she dismounted. She put her hand out to grasp a wing, but being lighter than she realised, the flight engine swayed alarmingly. She drew back, thinking she might have damaged something.

“By trial and error we learned to build much lighter and stronger than your drawings specified,” explained Alren. “And we used flexible wicker joints so that the wings would bend instead of being torn off during the launch.”

“At first we launched it weighted only with sandbags,” added Raimond. “There were crashes, but presently the engine flew straight and gently.”

“But today the flight engine was being controlled!” said Angela firmly. “Somebody was lying within the wicker cradle. Alren, it was you? It must have been you.”

“Ah ha ha, but I have no courage for such feats and adventures, excellent lady. It was Baron Raimond who flew both trial flights, then again today.”

“Raimond, two flights?” echoed Lady Angela, staring at the baron.