The Iron Castle (Outlaw Chronicles) (34 page)

I could not breathe. I could not even look at Robin. For I knew Philip had offered him all he had ever wanted.

Robin said nothing for a few moments. He was looking at the nails of his left hand, dirty, ragged, the fingers thin and bony from our poor diet, the skin loose. He seemed fascinated by the sight.

‘You must know, Alan, that I do not truly love King John. He is a cruel, cringing, pathetic excuse for a man – and a worse King. He is a disaster as a military leader; and as a lord of lords he is no more than a bad jest.’

I began to move away from Robin; I knew what was coming next and I did not think I could sit still and hear him try to make me understand his decision to sell his loyalty like a bauble to the highest bidder. I would close my ears to him.

‘But the thing is, Alan, I swore an oath to King John. I swore a sacred oath to serve him faithfully, without deceit, for the whole of my life. And when Philip offered me all the riches of the earth, I discovered something odd about myself. Ten years ago I would have taken his offer. Bitten his hand off, probably. But that day eight months ago in Rouen, on that day I found I loved my own honour more than the promise of all the castles of Normandy and all the rich lands the earth has to offer. I turned him down flat.’

I gaped at Robin, speechless.

‘I don’t want to live in Normandy under a French King. I want to live in Yorkshire, at Kirkton, if you want me to be precise, with Marie-Anne and the boys; I want to live on my lands, lands I have earned by loyal service to the crown, and I want to raise my sons as Englishmen. And I want to be able to look Hugh and Miles in the eye and tell them about honour, and explain to them that while wealth and lands are very fine, a man’s honour is the most important of his possessions. To prove that point, I must endure this siege. I must be getting old and stupid but, you see, Alan, I am not your traitor.’

My throat was clogged, my eyes were burning with unshed tears. I could feel my heart beating like a tambour. I looked into Robin’s eyes and said just this to him, ‘If you are lying to me on this matter, my lord, I will most certainly kill you. I swear it.’

Robin looked at me silently and nodded.

For a long time we sat there in silence. Then Robin said, ‘I think we should perhaps not mention the presence of a traitor to anyone just yet. Though I have no doubts now that one is among us. If Philip were prepared to offer me such a rich prize to serve him, I am sure he would have been able to find someone else among our company prepared to sell their honour for silver.’

‘Should we not speak to de Lacy about it?’ I said.

‘Sir Roger may be the traitor. His fine talk about being dragged from the castle by his heels could be a bluff. He has no lands on this side of the channel – perhaps he would be tempted by the offer of a rich Norman fiefdom.’

‘I do not think so,’ I said. It felt strange to be contradicting my lord. But my threat to kill him had subtly changed things between us. I was still his man, but the gulf in status between us had narrowed. We were not equals, by any means, but I was no longer a callow boy whose thoughts and actions could so easily be manipulated by his lord.

‘I do not think it could be de Lacy,’ I repeated. ‘If he wished to serve Philip, he had only to surrender, to open the gates and castle to him and that, I believe, he is firmly resolved not to do. You are right in that he has no lands here in Normandy – but that means his loyalties lie in England. The fortunes of John are his fortunes. I think the King appointed him castellan because he knows can trust him to the end.’

‘You may have a point, Alan. Yes, I think you may be right. I will speak to de Lacy about the matter this morning.’

We still held the Iron Castle and, with some two hundred men-at-arms inside the inner bailey, it was almost as crowded as it had been when the Useless Mouths were among us – God rest their poor souls. The food was nearly all gone: we existed on one cup of ‘unnameable soup’ a day, as we called it, thickened with a few oats or a spoonful of flour. Some of the Wolves contrived to use slingshots to bring down birds – and it became a kind of game, with folk wagering whether the shot would strike the bird (it most often did, for several of the Wolves were experts in this method of killing) and whether it would fall within our reach. When a bird fell into the French-controlled middle bailey, there was a general lamentation; jubilation when it fell into our part of the castle. The stone-killed birds were all surrendered to Sir Benedict Malet – who had become responsible for boiling the daily soup. But there were other more unsavoury elements in the broth: rats, mice, insects, worms, beetles; even some kinds of edible moss, fungus and grasses were boiled up for the little nourishment they could provide. Anything and everything went into that vile soup – which was why it never earned a name. I didn’t like to enquire about its contents, I just gulped it down hot and wished there were more to be had.

There was also an illegal trade in food with the enemy. I cannot condemn it because, occasionally, Robin would provide me and his other lieutenants with a loaf of actual wheat bread or a small piece of smoked meat or cheese to share. We ate this provender greedily and guiltily and asked no questions, but I was aware that French
ribaldi
, the mercantile hangers-on who followed any army, scum who would sell anything to anyone, would occasionally converse with our sentries in the dead of night; deals were made, at exorbitant cost – three shillings for a loaf of bread, was one figure I heard mentioned – and little packages were hoisted up to the battlements in exchange for fat, chinking purses. To be fair, these
ribaldi
risked torture and death if caught by the French army providing food, or even talking, to our men, but they made a handsome profit and I believe every available coin in the inner bailey eventually found its way to them.

We were lean, but we were alive by the end of February, when the French truly set their minds to capturing the inner bailey.

It began as usual with a pounding from the trebuchets and mangonels, which had been moved from Philip’s Hill to an area of lower ground directly east of the entrance to the inner bailey. These engines of war battered away at the gatehouse for nearly a week, denting the masonry a little, but without seriously damaging it – the design of the walls in the rest of the inner bailey, the series of D-shaped bastions, proved very effective against the missiles of the enemy when they missed the gatehouse. After seven days of bombardment, which sawed at our nerves, but did little else, the French changed strategy.

Once again they brought forward the cat.

This time the wheels had been removed and it was lifted and walked forward by the score of men beneath it. It took them most of the afternoon to bring it up to the walls. They walked it parallel to the bridge that linked the gatehouse in the inner bailey to the main gate, now of course occupied by the enemy, stumbling a little as they went down into the deep ditch before our walls. We showered the roof of this diabolical contraption with rocks and arrows and vats of boiling water, once again with almost no apparent effect. A few arrows buried themselves in the ox-hide covering; chunks of masonry boomed against the slanted wooden roof and rolled off harmlessly; the scalding water splashed, cooled and dribbled from the eves; but the cat came on and lodged itself firmly against the base of our walls to the right of the gatehouse. Just as before.

A feeling, not quite of panic, not quite of despair, but of my doom hurrying upon me filled my heart. I could see the future: the cat would gnaw at the foundations of the inner bailey, a deep mine would be set and fired, the bombardment would resume and the walls would tumble. Then the French would be upon us. And they could be expected show us no mercy. The accepted rules of war were clear on this point. A garrison that was surrounded might defy the besiegers for an agreed length of time, to give time for the lord of the beleaguered men to come to their aid – a month was the usual grace period – but if they persisted in their defiance, the defenders could expect no quarter when the citadel was finally breached. If the French broke open our defences every man inside this place – and Tilda, too – would fall under their swords. In Tilda’s case she might even suffer a fate far worse than death – to be used like a whore by an unending line of French men-at-arms.

I doubted she would survive an entire night.

A few days after the fall of the middle bailey, Roger de Lacy sent a servant to summon me to a meeting of the high council. They met on the second floor of the keep, and when I entered the round room, the four men – Roger de Lacy, Father de la Motte, Sir Joscelyn Giffard and Robin – were seated at the far side of a long table draped with white cloth. A flask of well water stood on the table and four cups; it was a sign of our reduced circumstances that it was not wine. There was not a scrap of food to be seen. They did not invite me to sit; instead, I stood like a lackey before them.

‘Locksley tells me you are still convinced there is a traitor among us,’ said de Lacy.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The last time we spoke about this I told you I did not want to hear of it again. I still consider the idea preposterous. Yet your master has persuaded me to listen, and I have agreed. So, speak. And be brief, we have more urgent matters to consider.’

I swallowed, straightened my back and said, ‘The French knew we were coming up river with the food convoys. They lined the banks of the Seine with men during the night, as well as manning the pontoon bridge. We were sworn to secrecy in Rouen. I believe the information about the attack came from within this castle.’

De Lacy said, ‘Sworn to secrecy! Pff. As if that ever sealed the lips of an army.’

Robin said, ‘Allow Sir Alan to speak, my lord.’

I continued: ‘The French also knew the mortar in the outer bailey was moist; this knowledge, I believe, was given to them from inside. When they were before our walls, I heard a French man-at-arms say to another these words: “It’s just as the Sparrow told us. The mortar is as wet as custard in some places.” That exact phrase – “wet as custard” – was spoken to me by someone sitting at this very table. Furthermore, I saw with my own eyes somebody signalling from the south tower of the outer bailey to the French while a celebration was in progress, and a response from our enemies. All four of you were at that celebration. And lastly, but most importantly, somebody left the window of the chapel open, which allowed the French to gain access to the middle bailey – and this was certainly connived in advance. I know this because I saw the French troops in the outer bailey preparing to attack before the enemy got into the House of God. There is a traitor in this castle, he is known to the French as the Sparrow, and I believe it is the man who opened the chapel window after I distinctly told him to ensure that it was shut.’

I stared at Father de la Motte, the accusation unspoken but absolutely clear.

The priest looked back at me with sharp blue eyes, smiling and as far as I could tell utterly unperturbed.

‘My son, if you think that I have been having dealings with the French, you are quite mistaken.’

‘It’s absurd,’ said de Lacy. ‘I cannot believe you have the effrontery to suggest that a man of God—’

‘My lord,’ said Sir Joscelyn, putting a hand on de Lacy’s arm. ‘He has made a solid case for the existence of a traitor – Sir Alan, do you honestly believe the good Father invited the French into the chapel?’

‘I do not know – but I know that somebody did.’

‘When I left the chapel,’ said Father de la Motte in a quiet, measured tone, ‘I left it with the shutters tightly closed and barred and all the candles extinguished – as you specifically asked me to. I will swear to the truth of that on my immortal soul.’

There was a long silence. De Lacy looked baffled and angry. Sir Joscelyn’s brow was deeply furrowed. Father de la Motte was quite serene.

Robin said, ‘Well, now that the high council has been apprised of this, I think you may leave us, Sir Alan. On behalf of the council, I thank you for bringing this grave matter to our attention.’

I bowed and walked to the door, a ballooning silence at my back. At the top of the stairs, I turned and said, ‘My lords, I wish you to know this as well. My squire Kit, a good man, died because of the activities of this person, this Sparrow. He exists. You may or may not believe me, but I know it to be true. And I will find this man and punish him. I give you my solemn word on that.’

And I left.

Under the protection of the cat, the mining began as soon as that devilish machine was in place, and nowhere in the inner bailey was one free from the ominous chinking of metal on stone. To divert my mind from the thought that our walls were slowly being eaten away, I set myself to the task of questioning every man in the castle in the hope of gleaning some knowledge about the Sparrow.

I started with the Wolves, asking each if they had seen anything suspicious over the past few months, anything that struck them as strange or out of the ordinary. Most had nothing to report, but one-eyed Claes told me he had seen a light winking in an arrow slit at the top of the keep a few days ago. ‘I though little of it, sir,’ he said. ‘I just thought it was someone fooling with a lantern for their own amusement.’

Had he spotted a response? ‘No, sir, but I was in the courtyard, and the light was up yonder.’ He pointed to the top storey of the bastion.

I paid a quick visit to the top of the keep and looked out through the arrow slit Claes had indicated. The window looked directly out at the French encampment on Philip’s Hill, but other than that, of course, there was nothing to indicate who might have used the position to signal to the enemy.

When I asked Little Niels if he had seen anything suspicious, he screwed up his little face and said, ‘To be honest, sir, I have noticed a good number of odd folk prowling around outside our walls. Desperate, suspicious, ugly-looking fellows they are, and up to no good, I’ll be bound. I suspect, sir … If I might make so bold. I truly suspect, sir, that they might be Frenchmen!’