Ghosts of Engines Past (26 page)

“The engine now has much of the shape of a weapon,” observed Edward Longshanks as he and Raimond circled it.

“All the other parts are complete, including yonder counterweight box,” replied the baron. “By the end of this day its assembly will be at an end.”

“Does this mean I may see a stone cast, should I stay a day longer?”

“Sire, should you stay a day longer you will see the tower surrender, undamaged.”

The king beamed with delight, then frowned. “Undamaged?” he asked suspiciously.

“Observe that long, inclined ramp behind the trebuchet. That is for my new and clever missile.”

“Ah yes, a huge and fearsome missile that your Moorish friend Alren has built for you.”

“You know of it, sire?”

“You have often sent Alren to spy within the Tower of Wings, and I have often sent my own spies to observe your own works and loyalty.”

“I trust they spoke well of me, sire.”

“In truth, they did not understand much of what they saw but they were satisfied that you are loyal. I shall wait for another day. Where is your Moor's wondrous missile?”

“Behind the ramp, beneath tentcloth, sire. Does our agreement still hold firm?”

“When the Tower of Wings is delivered into my hands, you may do as you will with the strange, haughty and irreverent Lady Angela. As for Alren, however... I am uneasy with trusting the work of a Moor.”

“We have great need of his skills, experience and mathematical learning, sire. Does the faith within his heart really matter if the castle is thrown open to you?”

“I suppose not.”

From a window in the tower Lady Angela saw newcomers arrive. There were at least two dozen riders and six pack horses. Presently the seneschal arrived, panting from his long dash up the steps of the tower.

“Sir Philip of Nottingham has arrived to fight in your name, my lady,” he announced.

“Fight? Two dozen against three thousand?”

“Fight, as in trial by combat. Sir Phillip challenges on your behalf, and Baron Raimond has accepted the challenge. A messenger from the baron asks if they may have a truce to fight before the tower.”

“Tell Raimond's messenger that my answer will arrive presently, then send him back.”

Baron Raimond had only just spoken to the messenger when Wat cried out and pointed to the tower. A large bird, with wings the span of an eagle's, had left the top of the tower and was flying in their direction. They all watched as it approached, slowly descending in the calm, warm air. It was bright green, and he soon realised that it was little more than a stick between wings.

“Bring it down!” barked Raimond to the archers nearby, and half a dozen arrows streaked skyward. Two struck the silk and wicker bird and it tumbled to the ground, landing only feet from Baron Raimond and Sir Philip. It was just a pole between two silk and wicker wings, with a fan of feathers tied to one end.

“That thing flew further than an archer can shoot,” whispered the disguised king to Sir Philip as they watched the baron stride over to the device.

“It has the look of a broomstick with wings,” observed the somewhat unsettled Philip.

“Do witches fly on broomsticks, then?” asked the king.

The baron examined the broken model, then stood up and held a scrap of parchment high for Philip and Edward to see.

“It seems we are welcome to fight within Lady Angela's view,” called Raimond.

“Do you truly believe her innocent after seeing
that?”
Edward asked Philip.

“Oh no, but I truly believe her to deserve mercy,” replied Sir Philip firmly. “My victory in trial by combat will show that God's will is that she should be spared and put into my custody.”

“To become your bride?”

“Each day, each hour, I pray as much.”

Work on the trebuchet went ahead without interruption while preparations for the trial by combat were made. Baron Raimond and Sir Philip confessed themselves to a priest, heard mass, and began to get into their armour. This consisted of a full suit of mail over a heavily padded aketon, an iron pot helm, and one of the new breastplates that were becoming increasingly common. All of this was covered by a brightly coloured surcoat. At either end of a measured stretch of level ground they mounted their warhorses, and were handed their shields and lances.

“Most worthy lordship, I must again advise against the use of this strange African wood,” said Wat quietly as he stood waiting with Raimond's lance. “It weighs too heavily, yet may shatter more readily than English timbers.”

“I shall be the judge of my own weapons,” replied Raimond from within the confines of his helm.

To Wat's trained eye the weight of the lance in Raimond's hand stood out like a bright pennant on a battlefield, and the eyes of those watching from Sir Philip's party were no less well trained. Wat watched them conferring, probably speculating about the nature of the weight of his master's lance and the way it might be deflected. At last both combatants were ready. Both glanced to the windows of the tower as the trumpets sounded a fanfare.

Lady Angela gazed down at the distant spectacle, carefully stitching red silk over a piece of wicker the length of a quarterstaff. Beside her, a maidservant was forcing a heavy needle through the leather straps of a harness, under instruction from Alren.

“To support my weight in the most ideal of modes, two additional straps should go between my legs,” said Angela without looking away from the distant combatants.

“My lady, that would be most gross and unseemly,” protested the woman, shocked at the mere suggestion.

“I could wear trousers, such as men do.”

“You would be condemned as a wanton.”

“Is that worse than being condemned as a witch?”

The woman frowned down at her work.

“Excellent lady, I feel as if we are preparing your funeral shroud,” said Alren.

“You have little faith in my former suitor, Sir Philip. He has a strong sword arm.”

“He would have made a fine and valiant husband. Why did you spurn his advances?”

“Have you ever met him?”

“No, but—” he began, but Angela held a finger to her lips.

“Hush! Raimond's trumpets announce my fate.”

Both riders leveled their lances, hunched behind their shields and urged their mounts into motion. Cheers and the drumming of hooves reached the Tower of Wings. Lady Angela stopped sewing and held her breath. The stallions closed, there was a sharp, splintering crash. Fragments and fittings flew through the air as Sir Philip was knocked from his saddle. He fell heavily to the ground, rolled and tumbled, but then got to his feet. A great cheer went up from the baron's men. As the baron came around in a circle Philip tried to draw his sword. The baron dropped his broken lance and dismounted. He stood ready, sword and shield raised. Philip tried to draw his sword again, but was unable to. Now Lady Angela realised that Philip's sword arm had been broken in the fall.

It was soon obvious that Sir Philip could fight no more that day. He was put on a litter and carried away to the tents of Baron Raimond's camp. Raimond walked across to speak with his marshal.

“Raimond is victorious,” said Angela as she returned to her sewing.

“Such a brave and valiant effort,” said the maidservant, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Were one tenth of the effort put into jousting to be put instead into the study of birds and wings, why within a hundred years we would be flying in preference to riding horses.”

“My lady, how can you say such a thing? Sir Philip risked his life to save yours.”

“Sir Philip risked
his
life? For
me?
Merciful God, does nobody ever stop to ask what I want? Whether
I
would like to risk
my
life?”

“You already risk your life, my lady, studying dark and disturbing arts as you do.”

“Enough!” barked Angela, standing and pointing to the door. “Get out!”

When the maidservant had gone Alren picked up the harness and began forcing the needle through the leather.

“She was right, excellent lady,” he said as he worked. “You risk being tied to a stake and set a-fire.”

“There are other risks, exhilarating risks. Imagine this, imagine fifty spirited horses in a single team, thundering down a long, straight beach at low tide. They are pulling a cart, and on that cart is a flight engine, not merely a yard from wingtip to wingtip but
fifteen
yards. Upon the back of the giant flight engine is strapped my very self.”

“A grand scheme, most excellent lady,” said Alren, looking up but seemingly not surprised.

“As the speed increases the flight engine rises high into the air. I work a lever and drop the tether rope, I fly free, working the attitude of the wingtips with cords attached to my feet. I soar out over the water, I fly back over the land. I fly in circles, then I come gently down to the wet sand, sliding to a stop on a skid of springy wickerwork.”

“Armen Firman has already proved that such flight is possible, excellent lady.”

“Indeed, but inefficiently, with mere wings. Fifty years ago a colleague of the great Friar Bacon postulated a flight
chariot,
with flapping wings. He even built one, and tested it from a high cliff.”

“Did it fly?”

“Not quite.”

Alren said “Ah,” then looked back to his sewing.

“I have studied all aspects of flight, Alren. Humans
can
fly and live to tell of it, Armen Firman and Elmer of Malmesbury proved that. Humans are too weak to flap wings as birds do, however. Friar Bacon's friend died proving that.”

“So did al-Djawhari of Nisabur, three hundred years ago.”

“Yet birds may soar by merely holding their wings in a shallow v-shape, and my silk and wicker models fly equally well,” insisted Angela, blazing with enthusiasm. “Models prove that machines can fly. Friar Bacon's colleague was almost right. A flight chariot can be built to soar like a bird with its wings held in a v-shape. Just consider, a man cannot ride a goat because he is too heavy—”

“But a man can ride in a cart pulled by a goat,” said Alren, closing his eyes and wearily putting a hand to his forehead. “A man cannot wear wings big enough to support his weight, but he can fly within a flight
engine,
that has sufficiently big wings.”

Angela stared at the Moor, her eyes shining.

“That is from my book,” she commented.

“That is where I read it. Your reasoning is without fault. Dangerous perhaps, but without fault.”

Angela gestured to her own sewing. “I have been slowly building just such a flight engine for a month past. What I am sewing just now is the left wingtip, ah, but I shall have to abandon it now. In a year it would have been finished, then fly I most certainly would have.”

“And died, perhaps.”

“Sir Philip and Baron Raimond ventured into the borderlands of death when they jousted, but nevertheless returned.”

“Have you no gratitude to Philip?” admonished Alren.

“No more than his late wife had.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sir Philip believes that pain drives out evil. He has himself whipped every day by a well muscled young squire. He used to whip his wife before he went a-bed with her, so that the evils of lust and passion would be driven out of her before the holy act of procreation. One night he purged the evil from her rather too enthusiastically. She died, yet the church praised Philip as a pious and holy man, and did not punish him. You can imagine what would happen to me if I were to become his wife.”

Alren shook her head.

“Had Sir Philip won, you might have felt differently.”

“Had he won I would have kept the drawbridge up. Wherever I turn, death awaits me.”

“What of Raimond?”

“Raimond is brave and clever, but misguided. When he courted me, he tried to impress me with martial victories, not comprehending that a short, scholarly tract on the nature of feathers would impress me more. The man wastes himself on wars and tournaments—and sieges. Alren, Alren, tomorrow I shall die and there is nothing more certain. As soon as the first stone ball from Baron Raimond's trebuchet smashes into my tower's walls, I shall order the gates open, the barbican's drawbridge lowered, and all arms laid down. Then I shall leap from the top of the Tower of Wings wearing my plunge cape. It is but a poor substitute for a full sized flight engine, but it is all that I have.”

“It may not work, excellent lady.”

“In that case, death by falling from a great height is a great deal quicker and less painful than death by fire. Before that I shall burn my books before the bishops get the chance.”

“Why, excellent lady?”

“Sheer spite.”

“Excellent lady, I wish I could help.”

Quite suddenly Angela knelt down, put a hand beneath his chin and kissed him upon the lips. Alren gasped and pulled away, dropping the almost completed harness.

“Excellent lady, this is not seemly!” he exclaimed. “Your honour would be tarnished.”

Angela sat back and hung her head, staring at the rug on the floor.

“Of all the men in my life, why is it that only an elderly, dying friar and a pious but heathen Moor have been able to win my regard?”

Alren clasped his hands and shook his head miserably.

“I cannot say.”

“Alren, tomorrow I shall die. Should you wish it that I not die a virgin, you alone may visit my bedchamber tonight.”

“I—I wish it, excellent lady, but honour forbids it.”

Angela sighed, rested her elbows on her knees and her chin on her clasped hands. A tear ran down one cheek.

“Is there indeed anything I can do for you? Being a Moor, you may be treated badly when the tower falls, but you can escape tonight. My people can get you over the walls and across the moat. After that the villagers will hide you.”

“It is you who should flee, excellent lady.”

“No. If I escaped, the English would begin to slaughter those in the tower until I returned.” She sniffled, tears now on both cheeks. “Nobody will know about you.”

“Excellent lady, may I take your books?”

“My books?” she asked, looking up.

“Raimond and the bishops will surely use them against you, then burn them anyway. I shall take them back to Spain so that at least Moorish scholars may remember you.”