Winter Siege (34 page)

Penda shook her head.

‘God and His saints!’ Milburga said to no one in particular as her eyes cast anxiously around the bailey. ‘Lady Maud wants un and ’e’s nowhere to be seen
again
!’

They watched amused as she picked up her skirts and hurried off in a brisk waddle towards the gatehouse.

Ben hadn’t seen him either. ‘Ain’t been through here,’ he told her, shaking his head solemnly. ‘More’n me life’s worth to let ’im an’ all. Lady Maud says on no account ’e gets through ’ere less’n ’e’s got company.’

Ever since the first siege, when he had been taken hostage, it was considered too dangerous to allow William to roam outside the castle any more; an edict which was unlikely ever to be lifted.

‘He’ll wish he was more’n missing when I’ve done with ’im,’ Milburga growled through gritted teeth as she set off back whence she had come to break the news of the boy’s latest disappearance to her mistress.

Maud, however, wasn’t thinking about William just for the moment; instead she was sitting beside Sir Bernard, who was doing his best to quell an excitable rabble in the hall packed to the rafters for the monthly manorial court.

On the dais beside them a hen squawked raucously, flapping its wings in panic and sending clouds of feathers into the air as an elderly man tried to encourage it to jump on to a stool.

‘What, pray, is that man doing to that bird?’ Maud whispered to Sir Bernard, who was watching the spectacle with interest.

‘It’s a tithe hen, madam,’ Sir Bernard replied solemnly without taking his eyes off the bird. ‘I say it’s sickly but he says it is not. I say if it has the strength and wherewithal to jump on that stool – as any healthy bird should – then I will accept it, if not I won’t.’

Eventually, harried almost to death, the hen half jumped, half scrambled on to the stool where it slumped to the accompaniment of a great cheer from the crowd. Sir Bernard looked disappointed.

‘Oyez! Oyez!’ he shouted to no avail, trying to make himself heard above the clamour. But it wasn’t until he rose from his stool and slammed the side of his fist on to the table that the room fell silent at last.

Glaring into the crowd of Kenniford’s villeins and squinting menacingly at anyone who met his eye, he took a deep breath and announced: ‘Let the court of Kenniford commence and let every soul tell the truth as it stands in the fear of God.’

‘And any bugger who speaks out of turn gets hanged,’ Maud muttered for her own amusement and to no one in particular.

‘Rents!’ called Sir Bernard, heralding the next item of business. A long litany of rents and debts to be collected was read out as Sir Bernard ran his finger down the notches of his tally and each person stepped forward to slap their coins on the table in front of him. When all dues had been received the business moved on.

‘Appeals!’ he shouted but this time nobody moved. ‘Be quick,’ he insisted. Still no one came forward.

The siege had introduced a certain solidarity among the people of Kenniford and nobody, or so it would appear, had offended anybody since the last court. Nobody’s animals had broken a hedge or trampled a neighbour’s crops and nobody had been assaulted.

Maud looked around the room, a sceptical eyebrow raised; it wouldn’t do for her people to think she could have the wool pulled over her eyes even if, deep down, she was relieved not to have to sit in judgement on them today. After all, they had probably suffered enough for the time being.

Sir Bernard, however, was disappointed. Maud had long suspected that he rather enjoyed playing Solomon. ‘Boons!’ he called out, moving with obvious reluctance to the next item on the agenda.

Once again there was no response and nobody came forward.

Out of the corner of her eye Maud could see, by the way he bristled and shifted on his stool, that her steward was becoming irritable. He scratched his head, took a deep breath and bent forward to consult his ledger again. Such was the hiatus that the crowd grew restless and before long the hall began to fill with the sounds of shuffling feet, low murmurs and ostentatious coughing.

Maud leaped up from her stool. ‘Silence!’ she shouted.

A hush fell. Sir Bernard looked up at last, surveyed the room with abject disappointment and reluctantly dismissed the court, at which point the hubbub resumed as a hundred people gathered their things and prepared to leave.

‘Madam!’ a voice called out to her from the other side of the hall and Maud looked up to see Milburga advancing on her in full cry, complaining bitterly about William’s latest vanishing.

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I was hoping to see him this morning. There is something I must tell him. Not with his father, I suppose?’

Milburga shook her head.

‘Penda?’

She shook her head again.

‘Where in God’s name does he get to?’

Wal the cowherd knew.

He happened to be sitting by the riverbank, not far from where William was fishing, enjoying the spring sunshine. Wal was watching over his cattle, up to their hocks in rich pasture, chomping on the grass and giving suck to their calves, while his own son, a couple of years younger than the boy, ran along the balks scaring away the devouring corn buntings.

‘Caught anything yet, Master William?’ he called out as he always did when he saw him.

‘Not yet,’ the lad called back. ‘But I will.’

Wal was one of the few people who could be trusted not to haul him back to the castle and get him into trouble with Milburga.

‘Mind how you go then,’ Wal said, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. William grinned.

Besides his father, fishing was what William loved best, even if he did have to suffer the agonies of the damned every time he crept out of the castle to do it. As young as he was, he had a natural aversion to lying; the fact that he did so was testament not only to his passion for the sport but also the pleasure it gave him to present a fish or two to his ailing father for his breakfast.

And yet, despite his conscience, he found a rare peace among the reeds, screened from the world by the sentries of willow trees, listening to the birds; left to his own devices he could happily stay there all day. Indeed, the only time he remembered being happier was in the days before Sir John’s illness, when they would come to the river together to sit in companionable silence watching the water flow by.

It seemed such a long time ago …

The sun was unusually warm for so early in spring; too warm for the clothes he was wearing and he took off his shoes and stockings to dig his toes into the soft, cool mud at the water’s edge.

A moment later a heron landed gloomily on the opposite bank and William sat up abruptly, flapping his arms at it until, eventually, it made a cumbersome retreat; then he cast his line, just as his father had taught him, and settled back on his elbows to wait for the fish.

The heat made him drowsy, time passed and the next thing he knew, Wal and his cows were mere specks in the distance on the other side of the meadow, and the sun, much too warm for comfort now, was directly overhead.

Midday!

Milburga was bound to have missed him by now. He would have to hurry back.

He packed up his things in a hurry, disappointed not to have caught anything, but the river was flowing too quickly today and, despite the occasional glimpse of a trout or two flicking languidly through its depths, had refused to offer him anything at all. Oh well.

He stood up, visible once more above the rushes, brushing at his mantle to remove the tell-tale signs of the riverbank detritus clinging to its threads, and was about to set off when he heard someone call his name.

Damn! It would be terribly bad luck to get caught now … If he could just manage to disappear before whoever it was got to him …

He scurried up the bank, hardly daring to breathe, bent as low to the ground as possible. If he could only get to the meadow he’d be able to disappear into the long grass and run home before they reached him …

He had almost made it too, when the voice came again.

Too late!

He stopped, stood up straight and looked around, and this time saw a skiff bobbing along the river bend bearing a figure in dark robes who was waving at him enthusiastically.

His heart sank. Whoever it was was still too far away to make out clearly but it looked suspiciously like Father Nimbus on his way back from one of his Godstow trips.
He
was bound to tell Milburga where he had found him, which meant – as she was so fond of threatening – there would be ‘hell to pay’. Oh well … He stamped the toe of his boot truculently into the muddy bank with a heavy sigh. Nothing for it now but to wait politely for the old man to reach him.

‘You naughty, naughty little bugger!’ The moment she spotted William, Milburga’s voice cut through the din of the busy kitchen like a knife; even Gorbag flinched.

During his sojourn on the riverbank he had missed both breakfast and dinner and was hungry by the time he got back to the castle. Hoping to find something to eat, he had made immediately for the kitchen only to find Milburga lying in wait for him. If she didn’t yet know how he made his way in and out of the castle – although it was a mystery she was working on – she was at least familiar with the tyranny of a growing boy’s stomach and where that would lead him.

It was even worse than he’d imagined.

‘Been chasing round looking for you all bloody morning,’ she shouted, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and swinging him round to face her. ‘Disappear like that one more time and I’m warning you …’ She was wagging her finger furiously. ‘Worried sick I was and so was Lady Maud. Wants to see you too and sharpish.’ And, with her talons still locked tightly around his throat, she marched him off to the keep.

‘Oh William,’ Maud sighed as Milburga shoved him in front of her. ‘You’ll have to stop this, you really will. It’s very bad for Milburga’s nerves … not to mention mine! Now sit down, there’s a good boy,’ she said, gesturing towards a stool in the corner of the room. ‘I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.’ She looked unusually serious. William felt his heart thump.

‘The thing is …’ she began. ‘Well … the thing is,’ she repeated, ‘it’s time you left Kenniford … Now it’s not that we don’t want you here because you know how we do and how terribly we’ll miss you, darling, but you’re getting big now and it’s time you started your training.’

She watched his eyes swell, saw his bottom lip quiver. She hadn’t expected him to relish the news exactly but wasn’t prepared for quite such misery either.

‘I’m sorry about it, darling, really I am. But, apart from anything else, it’s what your father would want for you.’ At the mention of Sir John a silent tear began a slow progression from the corner of his eye down his cheek.

Maud knelt beside him and took his hands in hers but he brushed her off and turned his face away. She got up again reluctantly and walked over to the window to look at anything but the stricken boy.

‘So,’ she said after a long silence, ‘I have arranged for you to go to Sir Robert Halesowen’s household near Bristol.’ She turned to look at him but he was staring at the floor, his head bowed. ‘And this afternoon he is sending some delegates to meet you and take you back there.’

Another plump tear rolled down William’s chin and splashed on to his knee. Still he made no sound, but in the awful stillness of the room Maud thought she could hear her own heart breaking.

‘Oh darling, please don’t cry. You can come back to visit us … It’s for your own good, really it is.’ She looked desperately at Milburga, but saw, to her dismay, that she was crying too. ‘Oh, bugger!’ she said.

SIR ROBERT HALESOWEN
’
S
men did indeed arrive that afternoon. At the sound of the trumpet Maud set off to the gatehouse to meet them.

As she made her way through the outer bailey in the blazing sunshine three tired, sweat-lathered horses were led past her by a groom.

She was surprised to see three horses, having assumed Sir Robert would send only two men; however, a third was, of course, more than welcome; another pair of eyes, after all, to keep William safe on the journey back to Bristol.

Ben looked pleased with himself as he admitted her to the gatehouse. ‘Think they’re the gentlemen you been expecting, my lady,’ he said, making a great show of unlocking the door with care. ‘Got the password right anyways.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘My, my, security has improved!’

He beamed with pride. ‘One of ’em’s a friend anyhow,’ he added, which Maud found baffling until he opened the door.

Alan of Ghent made a very low bow: ‘At your service, madam,’ he said.

At that very moment Maud realized she had never been more pleased to see anyone in her life. She felt her face light up and noted with relief the corresponding look of delight on his. For a moment or two neither spoke; it wasn’t necessary.

The truth was that since he had left she’d thought of little else. She’d known that it was unlikely they would ever meet again, but had nevertheless amused herself in her quieter moments by imagining her reaction to him if they ever did.

At first she had been angry with herself for allowing him to kiss her and, worse still, to steal her heart like that and gallop off with it and the Empress. Had he turned up any earlier she might have punished him for the pain he had caused her; she might well have greeted him then with an attitude of haughty
froideur
to show him how little she cared, or was hurt, to make it quite clear that his existence barely even crossed her mind. But then the hours had turned into days, the days into weeks and her longing for him grew like ivy.

And now here he was, standing there smiling like that, as delighted to be in her company as she was in his; so that any pretence at ambivalence was futile. Instead she found herself fighting the urge to run to him, throw her arms around his neck and beg him never to leave again.

However, many generations of good breeding and a natural reserve – though neither haughty nor
froid
– prevailed, so instead she offered him her hand, which he in turn took and kissed with such tenderness that once again she felt that strange, unstable sensation around her knees and feared she might sink to them in front of everybody.