The Rope Dancer (39 page)

Lord William had his own troops well under control and had easily convinced the bailiff of Creklade to allow him to assign and distribute the town’s men among his, with assurances that they would not be used to absorb the first shock of the battle. These men were divided into three parties: One, about fifty men, had gone to the farm with Deri as their guide. They were to assault the palisade to the north. A second party, also of about fifty, had been sent by the river to where the men of Marston village docked their few small boats. They were to come up by the track to the village, take any men they found there, and assault the southern wall. The largest group, dragging the cart that held the ram, came by the main road. That party was mostly Lord William’s men-at-arms, and their business was to burst in the gates and actually take the manor while the other assaults prevented the defenders from concentrating and driving them off.

The attack on the western palisade had been left to Marston’s neighbors, Sir Walter and Sir Harold, knights with small holdings who preferred that the king’s grip not be too firm in the area. Neither wished to be committed wholeheartedly to Robert of Gloucester’s cause either, but the temptations of a day’s fighting near to home without any chance of reprisal, plus the gain of an outlying farm or two, were irresistible when a valid excuse for their actions was so readily available. Lord William had pointed out that no man could be blamed for wishing to avenge the murder of a well-loved and harmless neighbor like Sir Richard by a renegade.

Sir Walter and Sir Harold each saw the point of Lord William’s arguments, especially when finding Sir Richard’s heirs in these troubled times might take years, and each agreed to come with twenty-five men—if their action could be independent. Lord William smiled and asked “Why not?” whereupon both men wished they had not made the suggestion and hurriedly began to discuss the time to begin the assault.

“Dinnertime,” Lord William said. Marston was not important enough to him to lose half a night’s sleep so they could attack at first light.

“Excellent,” Sir Walter agreed.

“Perfect,” Sir Harold said simultaneously.

“You will be out of sight or sound of Marston village, where I will be,” Lord William pointed out. “When you are in position, send a rider down the road. I will then order the assault to begin within half an hour of when your messenger leaves you. Set a man to watch the north of the manor and attack when you see that party come out of the woods.”

These suggestions were also approved with nervous alacrity, and the men began to discuss where and when they should join forces. Lord William did not offer any opinion on that subject, soon leaving them with a smiling and gentle “hope” that they would see each other on the field the next day.

Unfortunately, either the men were so unnerved by Lord William that they did not concentrate properly on what they were saying to each other, or the rain caused some lack of sound and sight. Neither could decide how their forces had missed each other, but both passed the meeting site, going in opposite directions, and only realized it when the second shower eased off, about the time Carys was insisting that she must eat before she could perform. Soaked and furious, Sir Walter and Sir Harold ordered their forces to turn and go back, but when the skies opened a third time, both decided to wait out the rain in what shelter they could find lest they miss the meeting point again.

After that third cloudburst, a rift of blue in the west seemed to widen and the rain stopped, although ominous clouds still rolled in the south. The two parties virtually ran into each other, but both leaders realized with sinking hearts that dinner hour must be over. A messenger was sent out at once, and both knights grouped their men.

Both men alternately stared north toward the little wood they could scarcely see and south toward the rain-filled clouds that seemed to be pushing the band of blue to the west away northward. Rain was unpleasant for both parties in a fight, but it was a greater disadvantage to those who must climb slippery wet ropes and stare upward. Time stretched for the nervous knights, who said nothing but were both imagining Lord William’s fury at his plans being overset.

“If we will be able to see the party to the north attack,” Sir Walter said, “surely they will be able to see us also. I am sure more than half an hour has passed. Perhaps we should attack now.”

He did not say that Lord William might be appeased by such a sign of their eagerness, but Sir Harold, who was imagining that their messenger had gone astray and that it might soon seem that they had failed to come altogether, leapt on this suggestion.

“I agree. And if we should be a little beforehand, that will mean we will draw even more attention away from the main attack. That can do no harm.”

It would mean that they would, for a time, bear the brunt of the fighting, and that could do considerable harm to their small force; however, Sir Walter understood very well what Sir Harold meant. Since they were so late, voluntarily picking up a heavier burden should also help to mitigate Lord William’s wrath.

“Besides,” Sir Walter said, looking south again, “if we do not move in the next few minutes, I fear the rain will come on again just at the height of the fight.”

“True,” Sir Harold agreed, raising a horn to his lips. “If we go now, we may be in a warm, dry hall before it comes down again.” And before either of them could have second thoughts, he blew a blast and signaled his men forward, drawing his sword and riding with them as they ran.

A minute after the horn sounded and the knights’ men started their charge, Deri also raised a horn to his mouth and blew one blast and then two more. He dropped the horn to snatch at a long knotted rope with a grappling hook at the end, which had been lying across the branch on which he sat, and proceeded to scramble down the tree. He had been set to serve as lookout for just such a mix-up as had occurred. The civil war in England had raged intermittently for over six years, and Lord William had considerable experience with both reluctant and overeager allies.

At the farm, Lord William’s captain jumped to his feet at the sound of the three blasts Deri had blown. He spat an oath, but wasted no more time before he ordered one of his men to mount Deri’s horse and ride to Marston village to tell his lord that the attack on the west palisade had been launched. Then he led the rest of his troop at a run through the wood. Deri was more than halfway across the open area, dodging from one bush to another, and the guard, who had been distracted for a few minutes by the attack on the west side of the manor, had just seen him, launched one arrow at him, and shouted for help when the whole troop burst out into the open.

A few of the archers headed for the west wall stopped in their tracks and ran toward the north. They climbed onto the walkway of the palisade, drawing bolts and slipping the cords of their crossbows into the hooks on their belts as they spread out along the wall. Not one of them paid any attention to the small form that angled away from the main body of oncoming men. The two guards that had been posted between the man who called the alarm in the west and the one who shouted for help on the north side divided and ran to help stave off the two major attacks. Deri had been eyeing the palisade as he ran, and he would have laughed if he had had breath enough when he saw the empty stretch of wall. Pausing, he whirled the hook around his head, faster and faster, leaning back to gain an upward angle, and when it seemed the weight would lift him off his feet, he let it fly. It thunked on the wood, but by then there was so much noise, between the shouting of the men on the wall and the yells of the oncoming fighters, that the sound was swallowed. Deri pulled once to be sure the hook was seated, and then went up the knotted rope like an ape.

***

Sometime earlier, within Marston, the cooks had ladled out portions of potage and distributed rounds of coarse bread to the troupe of players as the drizzle following the second rainstorm slowly ended. To show her goodwill, Carys had talked about where her rope could be set up, pointing here and there about the bailey. No one noticed a small hand poised over first one cauldron and then another in which the food simmered. The players lingered in the cookshed where it was dry while they ate, the servants urging them to be quick, the players eating as slowly as they could without being obvious about it. When the sky began to darken and mutters of thunder were heard in the distance a third time, Orin himself came across the bailey and ordered the players to do what they could within the hall so there would be no more delay because of the rain.

He then looked up at the sky, which was growing blacker by the moment, and said to the cooks, “Serve now. If you wait, we will have more water than you intended in the food.”

Carys was so frightened she felt faint. She had been counting on her rope dance to hold everyone’s attention and make up for the poor performance of the others. When the rain had started, she had begun to hope that no performance at all would take place, or only her act, before the attack started. But it was impossible to set up her rope inside the hall, especially when the cooks and their helpers were running back and forth serving food. Orin would expect jugglers and tumblers, and the poor excuses they had for both would bring the wrath of all down on them. Carys knew they were not worth the meal they had eaten.

Desperation inspired her, and she beckoned one of the townsmen, who played the lute reasonably well. “You and the fellow who plays the pipe get your instruments, the drums, and my costume and Ann’s, then tell the other men to disappear. I will dance, and Ann and I will sing. I hope we will be able to content Lord Orin. The others are so bad, they will surely betray us.”

By the time Carys and Ann had changed, the third cloudburst was hammering at the roof and gusting through the windows so that Orin, sitting alone now at the high table, shouted for the shutters to be closed and torches to be lit. Servants pulled the heavy shutters closed; others took torches from stacks against the wall, thrust them into the central fire, and set them into the holders on every other post.

In the flaring and uncertain light Carys looked wildly exotic when she came from the dark area behind the high-table dais. The men yelled and banged their knife hilts on the tables as she whirled round the central fire, the colored skirts flying and her oiled legs gleaming. But she did not signal for lute and pipe, nor did she give them the crudely erotic dance they expected; only the drums rattled and rolled and thumped while she performed a series of acrobatic feats with Ann following her, clumsily aping Carys’s behavior and falling down in a way that drew howls of laughter.

By the time the two girls had circled the hearth thrice, everyone was in a good humor. The food was cooling in the plates though, so there was no protest when the “musicians” sat down to the left of Orin’s table and began to play a lilting tune. Ann and Carys stood hand in hand, catching their breath while food was gobbled. In about a quarter of an hour, the men had finished eating and signs of restlessness acted as a cue. The two men finished the tune they were playing, and Ann and Carys came to the center of the floor. Ann began to sing a sweet, innocent piece to which Carys had added a chorus that gave a totally new, vulgarly comic implication. Surprise held the men silent while Ann’s sweet, childishly high voice piped the first verse, but roars of satisfied laughter erupted after Carys’s stronger contralto voiced the chorus, and each succeeding verse and chorus was eagerly awaited and loudly cheered.

Another short musical interlude followed, after which Ann retreated to a corner and Carys danced alone, twirling and leaping to the sound of the pipe and lute. In the relative silence that followed the shouts and stamping, which indicated the audience’s satisfaction, no thunder or lash of rain could be heard. Orin gestured to one of the men to look outside, and when he reported the rain had ended, Orin ordered the torches doused and the shutters opened. On a signal from Carys, the lute player came forward, bowed, and suggested that if the dancer was allowed a short rest, they would set up the rope so she could perform before it began to rain again.

Most of the men wandered outside to watch. Carys sank down in the shadowed corner to which Ann had retreated and prayed to the Lady. She was sure the attack should have begun before now. Why was it so late? Had Lord William changed his mind because of the rain? One of the two men talking to Orin started to go out, and Orin called after him to let him know when the rope dancer was ready to begin. Under her skirt, Carys’s right hand reached down to fondle the hilt of her knife. If only the other man would go also, she could kill Orin without a sound and Telor would be safe.

She gave Ann a little push and murmured, “Go and hide.”

The two men were intent on their talk, and Ann did not have far to go. She crept out of the hall and walked quickly along the short wall, turning the corner of the long wall that did not face the bailey. There were a number of sheds close under the palisade on that side, and Ann had noticed one that seemed unused, full of odd bits of lumber scattered about. She gasped with fright when she almost ran into a tall, ragged old man, leaning on a long staff, but he did not speak to her, and she darted past him. Before she entered the shed, she cast an anxious look over her shoulder, but the man had his back to her and seemed to be looking out into the bailey.

When she entered the shed and began to look about carefully, Ann was surprised to see a narrow space behind a pile of wood. It was a good place to hide—too good—and it looked as if someone else had been using it. Ann moved to the opposite side of the shed. There was a broken stool there, and she dragged a few bits of board over and leaned them against it. Because she was small, there was room for her to sit in the corner behind this barricade. As she removed her dress and tunic, folded them, and pushed them behind her so the bright colors would not betray her, she thought of that other hiding place. If whoever laired there came back to the shed, he would be aware that a second hiding place had been created. Ann bit her lip but did not move. The other hider had more to fear than she and would not dare draw attention to himself by betraying her.