Juliana Garnett (39 page)

“What will you do, lord?” Guy asked when Rolf remained lost in silent thought.

“What would you have me do?” Rolf snapped. “Geoffrey is my brother, and though I will not join him, neither will I betray him.”

Rather stiffly, Guy said, “I never thought you would. But you must know that the king intends to take Rochester from the rebels, and your brother is one of its defenders. We will be called to arms against them.”

“Yea, but I cannot do other than serve where I am called.” Rolf raked a hand through his hair, feeling utterly weary. “I can only pray I do not have to face Geoffrey at the end of my sword.”

In the middle of October the king drew near the gates of Rochester. When they arrived on the banks of the Medway River that separated them from Rochester, the king gave his orders. Sir Guy and a party of men went upriver to fire the bridge from beneath, thus cutting off communications between Rochester and London. Robert FitzWalter and a picked
body of knights and men-at-arms were guarding the bridge and managed to drive off the assailants and extinguish the blaze. But then FitzWalter and his men returned to London, and Rolf led the second attack on the bridge. This effort was successful and the bridge was destroyed, opening the way to Rochester Castle and the assault of the town.

At first town citizens manned the battlements and walls with a great show. But when they saw the king and his men, they fled. John’s forces entered through the gates and chased the citizens through the city toward the bridge so determinedly that all the defending knights were forced into the castle. Now the castle was defended by ninety-five knights and forty-five men-at-arms.

A siege was laid that lasted over a month. No reinforcements came to the aid of the beleaguered men inside Rochester Castle, and every possible mode of attack was attempted by John’s forces. Mining, battery, assaults, and siege engines were plied day and night against the mighty walls. Nothing worked. The brave men barricaded inside the castle walls with little food expected no mercy from the king, nor were they of a mind to yield.

Rolf knew Geoffrey to be inside, but there was nothing he could do. His brother, like himself, had chosen his side.

On November 25 John ordered the justiciar to send him forty fat bacon-pigs. These were used to set fire to the stuff that was bundled together beneath the tower. A blaze was kindled beneath the square tower which destroyed it and rendered vulnerable those inside the castle. Still, they did not surrender until St. Andrew’s Day, five days later.

Gallows were set up, and the king declared that he would hang the defenders, one and all, including Geoffrey. Only the pleas by Rolf and Savaric de Mauléon swayed him, as they pointed out that if the king hanged brave knights such as these, the rebels would surely do the like to any loyalists who might fall into their hands. Then no man would be likely to remain in the king’s service. So the knights were sent to prison, Geoffrey among them, and the men-at-arms were left to be ransomed. John’s only vengeance was the hanging of a crossbowman whom he had had in his service since boyhood.

Now the king’s attention turned in another direction. He
marched through Essex and Surrey into Hampshire and thence proceeded to Windsor. On the twentieth of December he held a council at St. Albans, and this led to the division of his army into two bodies.

Rolf fretted at the king’s actions. Another Christmas season would pass in John’s company, but this year he had not even Annice with him to soften the tension. It would be months before he saw her again, though he wrote her letters almost daily.

News had come about Seabrook, and as Rolf had half expected, the wily earl had sworn homage to the king. That meant that Justin would remain at Stoneham Castle, with his uncle as his guardian unless the king could be persuaded to relent. But with so much turmoil in the kingdom, the private moments with John were rare. Even when he managed to confront the king, John was—as usual—reluctant.

“I see no need to change matters at this time,” John said coolly when Rolf pressed him for a decision. “Really, Dragonwyck, you begin to chafe me with your constant badgering about your son. He is well, and much safer in Seabrook’s keep than he would be ranging the countryside on his way to your keep in Lincolnshire. French mercenaries would be only too glad to have such a valuable pawn in their hands, and then where would we both be? Nay, ’tis too risky, even if I was inclined to grant your request right now.”

It had taken all Rolf’s self-control not to fling the king’s half promises and threats back into his teeth. If not for the knowledge that it would only endanger Justin more, as well as Annice, Rolf might have quit the king in disgust at that moment. He’d left the royal chambers with a heavy heart and heaving stomach.

Then came even worse news. Rolf and Sir Guy were commanded to join the king in his sweep through the northern provinces of England. They were to destroy with fire and sword everything in their path—human, animal, and habitat. Nothing was to be spared.

Sickened, Rolf reluctantly ordered his men forward.

I
t was late spring when word came from the highest battlement that a body of troops had been sighted in the distance. Annice remained outwardly calm, though inside she was aquiver with fear. She had heard the reports coming in from the patrols Gareth had sent out and waited with terrified resignation for either rebel forces or loyalist forces to lay siege to Dragonwyck. All around the countryside, villages had been burned, muddy fields trampled, inhabitants slaughtered.

Rolf’s orders to Gareth had been to send Lady Annice to safety at once if enemy troops came too close. But was the king’s army their enemy? Though she had heard of the destruction of northern provinces by John, she did not know how widespread it was, or how close. No one would tell her. If she chanced upon Gareth or any other knights deep in discussion of the king’s advance, they immediately ceased talking.

Preparations were made, though Gareth explained the preparations for war or possible siege as mere precautions.
Steadily, while trembling serfs in the village attempted to plow muddy spring fields, Dragonwyck men-at-arms gathered pitch, tar, and oil for the walls, stones and leathers and wood for the catapults, and shafts and feathers for arrows. Armor was patched and mended, blacksmiths hammered steel into swords day and night on their anvils, and hides were fashioned into shields and padded gambesons to fit under mail. These detailed preparations boded ill, but no man would admit it to their lady.

Sometimes, Annice thought fretfully, not knowing was worse than knowing the truth.

But when the armed troops approached and the sentries posted in the barbican sent down word that ’twas the Lord of Dragonwyck who drew near, Annice soon discovered that knowledge could be a two-edged sword.

Running down the stairwell toward the entry where they would soon come, she paused on a flat landing to catch her breath. Hope spurred her forward but dread held her back. What if he had come home because he was injured? The country was in such turmoil that ’twas possible no messenger could have got to Dragonwyck with the news. She uttered a short prayer.

The prayer was interrupted by the sound of Rolf’s voice in the hall, and she took a deep breath and gathered her courage. He sounded hale and uninjured, though infinite weariness tinged the usual resonance of his voice. When she rounded the last curve of the winding stairwell, she saw him. He stood sturdily enough, and there was no sign of a wound or bandage.

Relief flooded her, and she moved toward him. He turned as if sensing her approach, and she stopped in shock. It was Rolf, but it was as if he had been carved from a block of stone. The features were the same—firm mouth, straight nose, large eyes beneath dark-blond brows—but there was a carefully tense set to his face that struck her with all the force of a broad plank. It was as if he were afraid to show any sign of life.

“Milord,” she said finally, moving forward when he just stood motionless, “I am relieved to have you home safely.”

“And I am relieved to be here.”

Disquieted by his flat tone, Annice managed a trembling smile of welcome and went to him. She glanced at Sir Guy and received another shock. His face bore the same expression, one of intense suffering and strain. Where there had always been a smile for her, or a jest, there was only a polite murmur of greeting that chilled her more than the winds of winter could do.

Gathering herself, Annice quietly bade servants to fetch wine for their lord and set stools near the fire. Neither Rolf nor Guy made protest but accompanied her to the hearth to be seated. No one spoke, and even after the servants brought wine to them and departed, the silence remained.

At her feet the dog Bordet looked from her to his master and whined. Rolf turned then and put a hand upon the mastiff’s great head. The dog wriggled with joy, and Annice felt a spurt of jealousy that she quickly extinguished. At least Rolf was reacting to something, even if ’twas to the dog instead of to her. Not even Vachel had been able to draw him out, and that was unusual.

Drawing in a deep breath, Annice asked, “Tell me, milord—how goes the king’s struggle?”

Guy muttered something beneath his breath and tilted back his head to drain the wine in his cup, startling her. Rolf said nothing, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the stem of his goblet.

Terrified now that all was lost, Annice could not still the fear in her voice as she pressed, “Are we undone? Has all been lost?”

Rolf gave a harsh laugh. “Lost? That depends on if you consider charred fields, burned keeps, and slaughtered women and babies as necessary chattels of England.”

Confused, Annice looked from one man to the other. Her nerves were stretched tautly, and she bit her lip to silence an outburst. Finally Rolf took another sip of wine and cleared his throat.

“We took Rochester, but I wrote you of that. My brother was there, fighting with the rebels. John imprisoned him, but at least he is still alive.”

He paused, frowning at the goblet he held, and Annice refilled it for him and sat back down. She put her hands in
her lap and waited, sensing that it was not that which so disturbed him. An awful premonition stirred in her, and she fixed her gaze on Rolf’s face as if to lend him strength. He looked up at her, and she smothered a gasp. It was the first time he had made direct eye contact with her since he’d returned, and she was shocked by the haunted, dead eyes that gazed at her.

“I used to enjoy war,” he said in a soft, thoughtful murmur, as if he were speaking to himself. “There was pleasure in storming castle walls, engaging a worthy enemy in combat, and emerging victorious. There was honor in it. A sense of purpose.” His voice changed, becoming harsher. “There is no honor in what the king has set us to do. ’Tis more like shutting horses up in a stable and setting it afire, than warfare.”

Annice shivered with a sudden chill. She looked at Sir Guy, and his gaze was as lifeless; his dark eyes that usually danced with mischief had turned old and dull.

“The entire east has been retaken by the king,” Guy said, his voice strained. The words sounded as if they were pulled from him. “Everywhere you look there are corpses. Piles of them. After Rochester fell, the king commanded that our troops go with him because our men are well trained and have good leaders. I was glad at first to go … glad!” The last word was a mixture of pain and revulsion, and he paused to pour more wine into his goblet. His hand shook, and Annice shivered again.

Turning agonized eyes to her, Sir Guy whispered, “We were ordered to burn everything, kill everyone. Old women and men. Mothers. Babies. We could control our men, but those bloody French mercenaries of the king’s—!” He swallowed heavily. “They enjoyed it. John loosed them on England like ravening wolves, and they devoured all they could. Babies spit on pikes—Holy Mary, but I hope never to see such again.”

Guy’s shudder of horror made Annice’s stomach clench. Rolf was still staring into his goblet of wine, his mouth set in a taut slash of pale color.

“Is this John’s vengeance?” she asked in a faint whisper. “Does he intend to give England over to the mercenaries?”

Rolf stirred. “Nay. Not even John is that mad. If offered
a large enough bribe, he will most gladly spare an enemy. Our troops were bade to defend those who yielded.”

After a moment Annice asked, “Can you not remove your men and come home?” It was a futile request, she knew, but from the look in Rolf’s eyes, she held a faint hope he would agree.

But Rolf laughed bitterly. “Yea, I believe I would do so, oath or no, but I cannot.”

“Why?”

Lifting his eyes to her, he said tonelessly, “My brother Geoffrey is in the king’s hands. If I do not obey his orders, my brother will die. While I might reason that Geoffrey is a man and made his own choice, I must also recall who has my son in his hold. Seabrook is safe, but Thurston is eager to keep the king’s grace after being rumored to traffic with the rebels. He would gladly hand Justin over to John for hostage at the merest suggestion.” He looked down at his wine again and said hoarsely, “I will not risk my son.”