King of the Middle March (17 page)

I
WAS SO DAZED, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER GETTING BACK
to our camp. But I did, and the only person there was Sir William.

“What do you think this is, Arthur?” he demanded. “A birthday celebration? It's a crusade. The only mincemeat and jelly here will be human flesh and blood.”

“A little boy!” I said. “Only eight or nine.”

Sir William sniffed. “It'll wake the Zarans up,” he said. “The sooner they see sense, the better for everyone.”

“But there must be…well, a code. A code, isn't there?”

“What do you mean?”

“Rules.”

Sir William snorted. “Rules!” he exclaimed. He stepped towards me, and punched me on the shoulder. “You'll soon get used to it.”

I don't want to get used to it. Used to the killing of children. Sir Lancelot said war is to protect children and women and other innocent people. I know we're going to fight and I'm ready to fight. Well, I thought I was. But not if it means killing children and attacking defenseless old men. There's no honor in that.

That boy's mother. His father. They must know by now.

Giff and Wido and Godard are vile. I hate them. I hate myself for not being able to stop them.

I'm going to talk to Milon. He is an honorable man. I know he'll be angry. Very angry…

Then Rhys told me my moping was troubling everyone, and even if I was no use to other men, I could be of use to my beast, and I should exercise him.

That's what I did, and I was glad of Bonamy's spirit and strength and large damson eyes and warm neck. Riding him away from Zara, I could still hear shouts and banging and jeering. I pushed my forefingers into my ears and buried my face in Bonamy's mane.

Bonamy and I have been friends since the day I brought him back to Holt. My hoof-weaver! My trailblazer! I think he must have sensed how upset and angry I was. First he kept whisking his tail, then he kicked his back hooves and snorted.

“Steady!” I said. “Steady!”

But Bonamy writhed and shrugged; he started to buck; and then he galloped as if he were being goaded by an invisible enemy.

“Steady!” I yelled. “Bonamy!”

Bonamy dug in his hooves. He shuddered and reared up, neighing wildly. I tried to stay in the saddle, but he threw me.

I could hear all the bones in my body crunching. Stars burst! I saw them bursting inside my head.

The next thing I knew, I was wandering around in the almostdark, wondering where I was and what had happened. My neck and shoulders ached; my arms ached; my legs ached; my eyes ached.

Without my hearing him, Bonamy came up behind me and gently butted me.

“Bonamy,” I groaned. “You've never done that before.”

He licked my chin with his rough tongue, and I yelped. I stared at my raw elbows, my oozing knees. I thought of everything that had happened, and of how desperate and useless I felt, and I groaned again.

“I've never hurt like this before,” I whispered.

A
KNIGHT NEEDS TO KNOW WHAT LIFE IS LIKE FOR HIS
people,” Lord Stephen said. “For the men and women and children living on his manor.”

“Sir William doesn't care,” I said.

“I do,” Lord Stephen replied. “Sir John does. So does Sir Walter de Verdon. And so will you. Have you been biting your nails?”

“No, sir. Only this thumb.”

“Don't!” said Lord Stephen sharply. “Now it's just the same here as at home. We need to understand warfare for all it is.”

“Killing children,” I said bitterly.

“I don't condone that for one moment,” Lord Stephen said. “What they did was utterly wrong. Depraved. That's not what we're here for. But warfare isn't glorious, Arthur. It's not only parading on horseback and listening to trumpets. No, it is grim and ugly and vile. Someday you'll lead others, and may have to make difficult decisions, so it's essential you know the truth about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It's not easy, I know. Not for me either. But we must face up to whatever happens.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I want you to go over with the miners and help them begin to dig the trenches. Milon agrees. You and Bertie can go together. I
know it's not a knight's work, and not a squire's work either, but we must understand.”

There were fourteen of us. Bertie and I and twelve diggers from Provins. Their foreman was Chrétien.

“First things first,” said Chrétien. “These hides and stakes. The tin sheet. All the stuff for the shelter. The sledgehammers. You two, Sir Arthur and Bertie, you link your shields, and hold them over you like a roof. Head for that crucifix hanging on the wall there!” Chrétien clapped his hands. “Come on, then! What are you waiting for?”

The Zarans saw us as we lumbered past the Land Gate and under the high walls. But Wido and Giff and Godard provided us with cover.

I could see they were only hurling head-sized stones, but the moment I heard their torsion rope howling, I felt ill and began to shake.

“Seen a ghost?” yelled Chrétien. “For Christ's sake, sir, get a move on!”

We hammered the stakes into the hard ground; we stretched the hides over them, and the tin sheet.

“Right!” shouted Chrétien. “Back for the picks and axes and spades. You, Bertie! You and Sir Arthur bring over one of the props. Ready?”

We all made a run for it, but this time the Zarans were waiting for us. They pushed lumps of rock over the wall, and one smacked into the tin sheet. We all got away unscathed, though.

While we were digging a trench at the foot of the wall, Wido and Giff and Godard kept their mangonel busy, but that didn't stop
the Zarans from tipping all kinds of stuff onto us. Stones. Buckets of dung. Bones.

One of the mangonel's cup-loads fell short. I heard it spitting and cracking against the wall, and then the hide right above me was pierced by the silver-tipped crucifix. Jesus's nailed feet were dangling beside my right ear.

Chrétien opened his eyes wide and crossed himself, but another man guffawed. “Near thing, sir!” he exclaimed. “Nearly skewered by our Savior!”

I know now what a rabbit trapped in its burrow feels like. Quivering. Helpless. Overhead are humans, shouting and stamping, and stinking ferrets. In a siege like this, there's no chivalry, no courtesy.

“This'll take us days,” said Bertie. “The ground's so hard and dry.”

“Get a move on, then!” Chrétien snapped.

“Have we got to dig right under this wall?” Bertie said.

“And then up again?” I asked.

“Not up again!” said Chrétien. “Just far enough to bring the whole thing down.”

“What? On us?” Bertie exclaimed.

“That's the trick, boy,” said another miner. “That's what the props are for.”

“The wall starts to move,” said Chrétien. “It sags a bit. It sinks.”

“And you put the props in,” Bertie said.

“Got it!” said Chrétien. “Then you dig a bit more. That's what the Angevins are doing down there. And beyond them, the Gascons.”

“And then what?” I asked.

“Fire!” Chrétien said. “We build a fire beside the props and scarper. You'll see.”

The men showed us little respect. They told Bertie and me we were lily-livered and scrawny chickens and they complained we kept getting in their way. But all the same, they were quite friendly.

When it was quiet overhead, Chrétien told two men, Gaston and Giscard, to remove some of the rocks and bones and stuff from the sagging hides.

No sooner had they started than Giscard was hit on the head by a huge block of dressed stone. We hauled him back under our shelter, feet first, but the top of his skull was completely crushed. One moment he was alive, the next dead. Stone dead.

Four of the miners picked him up and, leaving our picks and axes and spades behind, we hurried back to the other side of the channel. We laid out Giscard's body beside the mangonel.

“Poor sod!” said Chrétien. “Who's going to dig the grave?”

No one replied, and Chrétien nodded at Bertie and me.

“Where?” asked Bertie.

“Holy ground,” I said.

“Wherever Giscard lies will be holy ground,” Chrétien growled. “Any man who falls in a siege will find a place in heaven.” He stared at Giscard's mangled skull and scuffed the ground. “Poor sod!” he said again. “If we'd had that cat…”

“What's that?” Bertie asked.

“A shelter,” said Chrétien. “On wheels. It creeps up to the walls, and it's got a roof with a steep pitch so nothing can lie on it. The Normans are building them but they took too long. If we'd had that cat…”

“Did you know Giscard before?” I asked.

“All my life,” said Chrétien. “And his wife. Six children, and another in the oven.”

Five days have passed since I wrote about Giscard and digging under the wall, and each day Lord Stephen and Milon have given Bertie and me new duties. One day I helped the Norman carpenters build the cats—they call them sows—but Bertie actually had to help saw lengths of wood; one day we rowed round to the western side of Zara, and Bertie had to take an oar, and we both helped the Venetian sailors stretch long ladders from the docked ships onto the city walls while the Zarans hooted and tried to stop us by pouring hot oil and steaming water over us; and one day I had to work with Turold, checking all the nails in our armor, and polishing it, but Bertie's job was worse: He had to pull out all the stinking fustian pads and clean the inside of each piece.

This afternoon, the same three Zaran councillors who came to see the Doge on the day we disembarked rode out through the Land Gate again. They were unarmed, and each was holding up a large crucifix.

They rode straight to the Doge's camp and offered to surrender the city and everything in it on exactly the same terms as before.

“Well,” said Lord Stephen, “he can scarcely do less than spare their lives.”

“He can,” said Sir William.

Lord Stephen's mouth twitched. “Not with any honor,” he said.

“You shall not leave any creature alive,” Sir William rasped. “You shall annihilate them. The Book of Deuteronomy.”

“The Zarans are Christians, and sparing life is the least the Doge can do,” Lord Stephen insisted. “Otherwise the Pope will never forgive him.”

“If that's all they're asking, they've got no bargaining power.”

“Couldn't they provide men for the crusade?” I asked.

“They will!” replied Sir William. “The Doge will see to that.”

“So what have the Zarans got out of all this?” Lord Stephen asked.

“They're in deep water,” Sir William said darkly. “The Doge is extremely angry. They've held out against him for twenty years.”

“What did I say?” Lord Stephen asked.

“You always know best!” Sir William barked.

Lord Stephen drew himself up like an offended peacock, but the top of his head still only comes up just above my shoulders.

“I said Count Simon's—”

“Treachery!” barked Sir William.

“…Count Simon's action would not have the effect he supposed. He wanted to stop Christians from fighting Christians. But look what has happened!”

Sir William sniffed.

Lord Stephen wagged his right forefinger. “They've caused exactly what they tried to prevent,” he said.

W
HY ARE YOU ALL ARMED?” ASKS SIR LANCELOT
.

“Each of us woke from his own dream,” Sir Bors replies, “and in each of our dreams you were in danger of your life.”

Sir Lancelot gazes at his nephew, and at all the others. Twenty-two faces white in the candlelight.

“Now I know who are my friends and who is against me,” he says.

“Lancelot, we will do as you do.” One by one, they all swear it.

“But what am I to do?” Sir Lancelot asks. “What if the king sentences Guinevere to death?”

“If that's her sentence, it's because of you.”

“And so you must rescue her.”

“If the king can lay his hands on you, he'll have you burned as well.”

“Or hanged and drawn and quartered.”

Sir Lancelot listens to his friends' advice. The candles tremble.

“But if I rescue her,” he says, “there will be more bloodshed. In all the confusion, I may kill more of my own friends. And where would I take her?”

“That's the least of your problems,” Sir Bors replies. “Ride her to Joyous Gard, your own castle.”

“You must rescue her.”

“We will do as you do.”

“We'll ride beside you.”

Now Sir Mordred is kneeling to King Arthur. His father.

“Blood!” the king exclaims. “You're caked in it.”

“We trapped him in the queen's chamber,” Mordred tells him. “He was unarmed. But he slew Sir Colgrevaunce and put on his armor. He killed thirteen of us.”

“Thirteen!” King Arthur cries.

“Knights of the Round Table,” Mordred says, very deliberately. “Only I escaped.”

Arthur-in-the-stone holds his head in his hands. He groans.

Mordred backs away into the shadows, into the deep darkness, and Sir Gawain steps into my stone.

“Lancelot was found in the queen's chamber,” the king says. “The queen is guilty of treason. Guinevere must burn.”

“Sire,” Sir Gawain says, “be wise and wait.” He looks so grave. So troubled.

“Lancelot has killed thirteen knights.”

“My king,” Sir Gawain says, “you don't know why Lancelot went to the queen's chamber. I don't know. We only know what other people say. Lancelot has fought for her; he has saved her life. For all we know, she summoned him so she could reward him in secret.”

King Arthur stares at Sir Gawain. “Is that possible?” he asks.

“So as to avoid gossip,” Sir Gawain continues. “And maybe that was unwise. But we often do things we believe for the best, and then they turn out to be for the worst. I trust Queen Guinevere. She is
honorable. And I know Lancelot will take on anyone who openly accuses him.”

“He may be stronger than any other knight,” King Arthur replies, “but that doesn't mean he's innocent.”

“Or guilty,” says Sir Gawain. “We must be knights of the heart as well as the body. That's what Lancelot says.”

“Damn Lancelot!” shouts the king. “Guinevere will burn and he'll never fight for her again.”

Sir Gawain shakes his head.

“How can you?” cries the king. “He has killed Agravain, your own brother. He has killed your two sons, Florence and Lovel.”

Sir Gawain lowers his eyes and three times he crosses himself. “I warned them,” he says quietly. “My brother. My own dear sons. I mourn them and I always will, but they've caused their own deaths.”

“Gawain,” says the king, “put on your best armor. Tell your young brothers, Gaheris and Gareth, to do the same. In one hour go to the queen's chamber and bring her to the fire.”

“Never!” says Sir Gawain. “Guinevere is good and true. I cannot bear to see her die. My heart would burst.”

“Instruct your brothers, then,” the king says hoarsely.

“They'll feel the same as I do,” Gawain replies, “but they're so young, they will not dare refuse you. They've no quarrel with Lancelot. I will tell them to come unarmed.”

Sir Gawain's eyes are brimming with tears. My seeing stone is brimming with his tears. Like black ice thawing, the whole world of it is weeping.

I can see her.

She is tied to a stake, wearing a simple white smock. Heaped all around her are branches, dead branches that were once alive, reaching arms of beech and oak that lived and breathed in the greenwood.

And around the pyre stand lords and knights and ladies, hundreds of them, weeping, clenching their fists. But not one of them raises a hand to save the queen.

Now King Arthur nods, and his hooded executioner thrusts a flaming brand under the branches.…

Smoke. Smoke in my stone.

Now there's a thrumming, a thunder of hooves. Horsemen crowd into the courtyard and whirl their swords. Heaven help all those unable to avoid them.

In the drifting smoke, Sir Lancelot jabs and lunges and beats and lashes and thrashes his way through the crowd to the pyre.

Without knowing whom he is striking, he kills his own knight, Sir Gareth.

He kills Sir Gaheris.

They are buried beneath Sir Griflet and Sir Tor, Sir Gauter, Sir Gilmere, Sir Driant, Sir Priamus…a pile of his own friends.

Sir Lancelot spurs his horse right into the licking flames. With his dagger, he cuts the queen loose. He throws his cloak round her, and she grasps his hands and clambers up behind him. She puts her bare arms around his waist.

Now Sir Lancelot wheels round. He shouts to high heaven.

Across the courtyard, across the width of this middle-earth,
King Arthur and his knight of knights gaze for all time at one another.

So proud. So desolate.

Away they gallop! Away they stream, out and away, Sir Lancelot and Guinevere and all their followers, leaving in their wake the quick and the dead.