Marriage Under Siege (27 page)

Mansell spent the next hour
in considerable discussion and activity, deliberately but unsuccessfully
attempting to shut out the stark memory of his wife's stricken expression.

At his most urbane, he
thanked Sergeant Drew for his enquiries after his health and proclaimed himself
fully recovered. He embarked on a detailed conversation with Foxton as if the
events of the past twenty-four hours had never happened. The Steward drew in a
deep breath of relief, but was careful not to meet the speculative glint in
Mansell's cold eyes.

Within the hour the Lord of
Brampton Percy had taken close inspection of the situation and had begun to
make plans.

In the early hours of the
morning, before the first glimmer of dawn when it was deemed the Royalist
sentries would be least likely to be on their guard, two messengers were sent
out from the rear postern, with brief and explicit orders, to ride to Wigmore
with some very specific instructions for Priam Davies, with particular
reference to careful and exact timing.

With dawn, as expected,
came the renewed pounding of the mortars. There was little that Mansell could
do about the onslaught as yet. It was merely a matter of withstanding the shock
of noise and blast and trying to limit the damage.

But the immediate danger
was the tower of the church of St Barnabas. Every inhabitant of the castle, if
setting a careless foot outside the shelter of buildings, or treading an unwary
path across the inner courtyard, was dangerously vulnerable. The Royalist
marksmen, comfortably ensconced and shielded from any obvious retaliation,
took up their assault with daybreak when they could pinpoint their target.

'They have us at a grave
disadvantage, my lord.' Sergeant Drew's assessment produced murmurs of
agreement.

'Then we must put a stop to
them.' Mansell brushed stone dust and mortar from his shoulders and arms. He
had already that morning had a close brush with a mortar hit on the kitchen
outbuildings.

'I do not see how, my lord.
Our fowlers are good shots, but they can't get a good sighting. Yet
they
can see
us
—and
can keep us penned in.'

'We must try the old
cannon.' Mansell frowned at the ancient piece of ordnance where it stood
against the wall—where it had probably stood for at least the last century—and
tightened his lips against the risky plan. 'This is what we'll do.' He took his
sergeant's arm and began to point out his intentions. 'We will set up some
covering fire to keep their heads down for a little time—put some musketeers on
the parapet of that tower to the left of the gatehouse. That will give us the
chance to manoeuvre the cannon into position in the courtyard—over there in
direct line with the tower. We can drag the supply wagon beside it to give us
some cover. And then we'll see what we can do.'

'You would fire on the
church tower, my lord?' The disbelief in Drew's voice was very evident.

'Yes. I would. We will
destroy it so that it cannot be used against us.'

The statement was met with
silence. Mansell looked at Drew and Foxton. 'I know it is the house of God—and
in my own gift—but it is being used as an instrument of war. The Royalists have
no compunction about using it. I will bring it down. If we do not, we will be
picked off like crows on a fence.'

Which effectively robbed
any alternative argument of weight.

Orders were rapidly issued.
Musketeers, carefully positioned by Sergeant Drew, began a sustained assault on
the parapet of the church, effectively silencing the Royalist marksmen. The
cannon was dragged into position with the wagon to give some limited cover. The
cannon was loaded, primed, made ready to fire, all with speedy efficiency.

Mansell and Sergeant Drew
crouched behind the wagon.

'I don't like the look of
it, my lord. It has not been fired since the
Mortimers
ruled the Marches, to my knowledge. It could split at the first charge and
cause untold damage.'

'I thought we had agreed
here that we had no alternative. We have to risk it. Keep your head down,
Sergeant. I will light the first charge.'

'But, my lord—'

'Tell everyone to take
cover.' Mansell gave his reluctant sergeant-at-arms a sharp push towards the
living accommodation. 'If it explodes, there will be debris all over. I'll use
a long fuse to give me time to get out of the way. And tell the musketeers to
keep up their good work. I have no wish to be taken out by a Royalist bullet
before the cannon splatters me against the wall!'

Drew grunted at the
sardonic humour and vanished to pass the word.

*
             
*
             
*

Honoria watched all her
lord's preparations from the window of the solar.

She saw the plan unfold and
understood the intent even though she could hear none of the planning. All she
knew was that the cannon could kill Francis as effectively as the bullet of one
of the marksmen on the tower. More effectively, in fact, if the aged metal was
too brittle to tolerate the charge of gunpowder. Just as she knew that he would
insist on carrying it out himself, sending Drew safely out of harm's reach. She
felt nauseous, her stomach churning in spite of her lack of breakfast, but
forced herself to watch, in penance for her sins.

With a close eye for any
Royalist marksman who would risk exposure, Mansell made a rudimentary attempt
to guess the range and aim the cannon. There was a flash of fire as the fuse
was lit. Mansell took refuge behind the wagon, flattening himself to the
ground. A moment of tension, broken only once by the crash of stones from the
distant mortar. Then a blast of flame from the gaping mouth of the cannon and a
harsh stink of gunpowder. And a cannon-ball smacked into the corner of the
church tower, some distance below the parapet, but accurate enough to dislodge
some of the edging stonework.

Honoria forced herself to
stand and watch every moment of the assault, her eyes fixed on her lord. If his
blood was shed, soaking into the mud of the courtyard, she would witness it. If
he was wounded, she would suffer with him. If he died, blown to pieces on the
cobbles, the blame would be hers and she would live with it until the end of
her days. And so she stood, a silent witness. It was a harsh penalty, but one
which she would not shrink from. If Francis had led the siege, it might never
have come to this.

Then, when she could bear
to watch no more, Honoria allowed herself to sink to the floor below the level
of the window, her back against the wall, her head on her knees, her face
hidden. And her hot tears soaked into her dusty skirts.

Sergeant Drew, returned
from his well-timed errand, grinned. 'Still in working order, my lord. I would
not have wagered on it'.

'No. Neither would I.'
Mansell returned the grin. 'I am grateful to be alive to admire the medieval
workmanship of the
Mortimers
' armourer. But it might
split at any time, so we must make good use of it while we can and keep our
heads down.' He squinted through the morning sun at the height of the tower
with its protective parapet. 'Let us see if we can get the range and flush the
Royalist scavengers out of their eyrie.'

By the end of the day the
courtyard was a haze of rank and bitter smoke, and the inhabitants of the
castle deafened by the constant explosions in such a confined space. But the
cannon had held together. Mansell and Sergeant Drew, filthy, tired, covered
with dust and grease, faces smeared and clothes singed, decided that they had
done all they could. In the kitchens, where she had taken on Mistress
Brierly's
duties for the short term, and where she could
not see the ongoing duel with death, Honoria's nerves were in rags. Every
explosion of gunpowder frayed her nerves with images of instant and bloody
death.

But Mansell's plan, against
all the odds, had succeeded. The top portion of the once-proud tower of
Brampton Percy's church of St Barnabas, with its decorative battlemented
parapet, was now in total ruin. The remains of the spiral staircase was open to
the sky, the jagged steps leading into nothingness. Around its base, the grey
stonework of the house of God lay tumbled and shattered.

'What are you doing?'

Francis stood in the
kitchen doorway, surveying his wife, hands fisted on hips. Honoria saw the
grime and exhaustion of the long day. She also recognised the uncompromising
stance and the barely controlled temper. She stiffened her own spine against
it and continued to apply herself to the task in hand, hiding the intolerable
strains of the past hours behind a screen of activity and a calm demeanour. As
if her stomach were not raw, her head pounding.

'Our supplies of flour are
low, my lord. But we have grain in the cellars. We have to use the hand mill,
but we shall have sufficient bread for all.'

It was heavy, tedious work
and she had organised that the kitchen maids should take turns along with their
other duties. Deciding some minutes before that Mol, the youngest of the
kitchen maids and hardly more than a child, was almost dead on her feet,
Honoria had pushed her into a less onerous task of folding linen and had taken
up the milling herself. So Francis had found her, sleeves rolled up, an apron
covering her gown, grimacing as her muscles in arms and shoulders complained at
their harsh and unaccustomed treatment.

As Mansell clearly had no
intention of retreating from his position by the door, she beckoned one of the
maids to take over from her.

'But why are
you
doing this?' He remained where he stood and frowned
at her, brows knit in a threatening bar.

'I am needed here.'

'But why? Have we not
sufficient serving girls to follow orders? Do you have to grind the grain
yourself?'

'Perhaps not. But Mistress
Brierly was killed yesterday—by a musket ball.'

She saw the surprise, the
shock at her terse explanation, register on his face for an instant. Of course.
In the heat of the events, the attack on the church tower, no one had thought
to mention it to him—probably presuming that he was aware. His reaction was
quickly masked.

'I did not know. I am
sorry.' He pressed his lips together into a thin line. A life snuffed out, one
of his own people, and he had not been told. It stoked his anger further
against the dire situation in general and Honoria, who had not informed him,
in particular.

'Yes. It was the first
shot—before we realised that the Royalists had taken possession of the tower.
We were standing in the courtyard—and Mistress Brierly was hit. There was
nothing that Dr Wright could do for her.' Honoria stripped off the apron and
edged past to proceed him out of the kitchen and away from the interested
audience who would be quick to pick up the glacial divide between lord and
lady. The fewer people aware of her guilt and misery the better. She
concentrated on managing not to meet his eyes and preserving some dignity.

Mansell, to his disgust,
found his anger begin to drain away. He would have liked to have held on to it
for a little time. But how could it compete with the searing realisation that
it might have been his wife now lying dead from a Royalist musket ball? He
could not think of that now. Nor could he worry over his wife's loyalties, her
inexplicable actions. The fear ripped at his gut, but he deliberately pushed
it aside.

'Tomorrow at dawn we attack
the mortars. The men will need to be fed early—before daylight. And Dr Wright
needs to be prepared. There may—probably will be—casualties.'

'Very well.'

He looked at her, his
expression unreadable. And then, when he might have spoken, turned on his heel.

'Francis...'

He stopped, but kept his
back, his rigid shoulders turned against her.

'Francis. I am so sorry.'

'We will talk about it when
we get out of this mess.' There was no softening or understanding in his voice.

'Very well.'

He steeled his heart
against the slightest catch in her voice.

'If you can ensure bread
and ale for the morrow...'

'Of course.' She made no
further attempt to prolong the conversation. He heard her steps retreat back
into the kitchens where she could turn her mind to the needs of the moment. Far
safer than dwelling on the unbridgeable divide between them. If Francis was to
lead an attack, there were things that she and her maids could accomplish to
draw the fire of the besieging army and force them to keep their distance, to
distract them from her lord's plan. Honoria decided that she had a need to
speak with Master Sollers in the stables about the building of a large fire.

Anger and frustration
warred within him. And the sharp image of Honoria pushing the hand mill, hair
damp and untidy around her face—at some time she had pushed it back with a
floury hand that left its trace along her cheek. The closed look that had
descended when she saw him in the doorway, after the initial flash of recognition,
of relief and sorrow. He had thought, at that moment, that she was as much in
torment as he. A need gripped him to grasp her shoulders and shake her for what
she had done. To lash out with harsh words to cause her pain—as she had sliced
at him with her treachery. Or to drag her into his arms and hold her, safe and
close against his heart.