Insurrection (35 page)

Helena wore a navy gown that was pulled in tight at her waist by a plaited belt, before falling in abundant folds to the ground. In that dark robe, with her lean figure, she looked almost boyish, but Robert knew the malleable softness beneath those clothes was anything but masculine. She smiled, but didn’t speak. Their meetings so far hadn’t been about words. Robert was comfortable with that. Here in this musty bolt-hole, behind the grain sacks, there was only one goal. A goal he had so far been thwarted in, which he aimed for more ardently each afternoon.

As they came together, Robert clasped Helena’s face, his palms tingling against the marble of her cheeks as he moved his mouth over hers. He smelled the now familiar scent of olive oil, she had told him from the soap she used, shipped from Spain. Her lips were warm, her breath hot, mingling with his as they exhaled into one another with every changing circle of their lips. Her hands pushed tentatively up to his neck, fingers coiling in his dark hair, while his left her face and slid over her shoulders, down her spine. As his hands travelled lower, edging over that supple curve where her taut body became so surprisingly soft and full, Helena pulled back with an intake of breath. Robert tensed, frustration struggling within him, threatening to overpower his sense of decorum. This was it. The point when the challenge began. They would be here for a while now, him moving his hands back to the base of her spine, her yielding again, the passion building, his hands shifting once more, perhaps trailing a little further before she pulled away and the whole contest began again.

Robert had just found his place, some time later, his hands confidently positioned, when the door of the chamber opened. At the sound of voices and footsteps, Robert and Helena jerked from one another. Catching glimpses of movement through the gap in the sacks, Robert drew her back. She stared past him large-eyed, her cheeks aflame. His heart was thudding and he fancied he could feel hers, echoed in that rapid pulse of blood. Beyond the sacks, two men were speaking.

‘This should do for your men, sir. You can take the chamber above. I’m afraid we’re a little unprepared. The king wasn’t expecting you for a while. We’ll have the rest of those sacks moved immediately.’

‘See that you do. My knights are weary.’

Robert frowned, hearing that rasping voice with its sharp accent. The recognition struck him. It was the old Earl of Pembroke, William de Valence.

‘Certainly, sir.’

The footsteps receded and the door banged shut. Robert waited for a moment, listening to the fading voices, then turned to Helena. ‘We’ll leave separately. I’ll go first and make sure it’s clear.’

As he went to move, Helena gripped his arm. ‘Where will we meet now, Sir Robert?’ she whispered.

‘I’ll find us somewhere.’ Robert bent to kiss her, tenderly now, before pushing through the sacks, Helena following behind. He listened at the door, shoulder pressed against the wood. Hearing nothing, he opened it a crack. The stairwell beyond was empty. Turning to smile reassuringly at Helena, he headed out, leaving the door ajar for her. He was making his way up the stairs, thanking God for those sheltering sacks, when he heard two sets of footsteps coming down. He went to turn back, but there was no time and he had to give Helena a chance to leave. If she heard voices, she would know to head down rather than up.

The first figure’s boots appeared, grey with dust. A blue and white striped surcoat, stained with mud and decorated with tiny red birds, flapped over them as they descended. For a moment, as he caught sight of the arms, Robert thought it was Pembroke himself, then, as the hard, angular face appeared, he realised it was his son.

Aymer de Valence halted at the sight of him. His jaw was dark with stubble and there was a jagged wound on his cheek that had been recently stitched. Behind him was a squire, a sack bag slung over his shoulder and a bundle of clothes in his arms, stained with blood. There was more of it on Aymer’s surcoat, great smears of it obscuring the red birds. ‘I was told these were our lodgings,’ Aymer said harshly, looking back at his squire.

‘That is right, sir,’ answered the man, staring uncertainly at Robert.

There was a recess a few steps up, where an arrow slit looked out over the estuary. Robert made his way to it and stood aside. ‘Go ahead,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the knight.

Aymer paused a moment longer, then carried on down the steps, the sour smell of blood following him, along with the squire. Robert continued, not looking back, until he was pushing through the door and out into the wind that stung his hot face.

31

Back in his room, Robert washed his hands in the basin by the window. He bent to splash his face, then planted his palms on the wooden stand, staring out across the battlements.

It was almost dark, low clouds skimming the castle turrets. The chamber, with its straw-filled mattress, was in shadow apart from the single stub of a candle. Below, Robert could hear the voices of his brother and the rest of his men as they shared a meal. Firelight glowed in the gaps in the floorboards. Edward was telling some story, his voice lifting above the others’ laughter. Robert usually joined them, but he didn’t feel like company now.

There was a knock at the door. Crossing the chamber, Robert opened it to see Humphrey before him, his face half lit by the pallid glow of the candle. He was unsmiling.

‘What is it?’ Robert asked, thinking by his comrade’s grave face that word had come from the scouts on the enemy’s location.

‘Get your sword.’

The instruction seemed to confirm Robert’s guess, but there was something about Humphrey’s grim manner that gave him pause for doubt. Still, he went for his broadsword. ‘Has the enemy been sighted?’ he asked, looping the belt the scabbard was attached to around his waist. ‘Are we under attack?’

As Robert reached for his gambeson, Humphrey motioned to him. ‘Not that,’ he said flatly, ‘just your sword.’ He moved into the passage as if expecting Robert to follow.

Robert did after a moment. ‘What’s wrong, Humphrey?’

Humphrey didn’t respond, but led the way up several steps to a door that opened on to the battlements.

Robert grimaced as he headed into the perishing air. He was only wearing his black hose and a white linen shirt, open at the neck. A mist of rain in the frozen wind dampened his face. As Humphrey led the way towards the north-eastern towers, Robert searched for signs of imminent attack, but the castle was quiet, torches flickering down in the courtyards, illuminating groups of guards. Beyond the walls, the streets of Conwy were in darkness. After a few moments, Humphrey marching ahead in silence, he’d had enough.

Humphrey turned as Robert halted. ‘Come on.’

‘Not until you tell me where we’re going. You don’t even have a sword yourself.’

Humphrey’s rigid face flooded with anger. He strode to Robert, coming right up in his face. ‘Why did you do it? I warned you not to!’

‘Do what?’ Robert demanded, his own anger building with the confusion.

‘Helena.’

Robert went silent, the shock of the name hanging between them. ‘How did you know?’ His voice had thickened.

‘Aymer,’ said Humphrey caustically. ‘He saw her leaving the tower.’

‘She told him?’ murmured Robert disbelievingly. Helena stood to be in almost as much trouble as him if caught.

‘Aymer guessed something having seen you both. He made her confirm it for him.’

‘Made her?’ Robert said sharply.

‘He threatened to go to her father if she didn’t tell him the truth. Was it some reckless game, Robert, like the ones your brother plays? Is this how things are done in your family? In Scotland?’

Robert stared at him. In all the months he had known Humphrey he had never caught anything in his tone that disparaged his homeland, unlike some of the others. It pricked him through the shock.

Humphrey seemed to realise he had gone too far, for his voice lost some of its vehemence. ‘Didn’t you think you might get caught?’

‘Did Aymer tell her father?’ Now the initial blow had faded, reality was settling coldly in Robert. The Earl of Warwick had the king’s ear. He might well have jeopardised his place here, having only just secured it through his induction into the order. The concern wasn’t new; he’d had it since the first feverish moment with Helena, but after his initiation he had been feeling somewhat invincible and had convinced himself no one would discover his secret. It was true then, what poets and priests said: a woman could destroy a man better than any blade. He thought of Eve with her apple and he thought of his father, marrying his mother without the king’s permission – passion had almost lost him his lands.

‘No,’ answered Humphrey, quietly now. ‘He told her brother.’

With the sword’s solid weight against his leg, Robert realised what Humphrey was leading him to.

‘I couldn’t stop it,’ said Humphrey, reading his changing face. ‘I tried, but the others . . .’ He drew a breath. ‘Guy has been a part of our circle for four years and his father is a member of the Round Table. He demanded justice that wouldn’t ruin his sister in the process. It was agreed it should be served.’

Robert felt a tightening sensation in his chest, but he wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, determination lengthening his stride. This was his doing, yes. But he wouldn’t pay for it with his life. Not willingly.

Humphrey led the way down through the corner tower and out into the gardens that were set on a terrace between the castle’s inner and outer walls, the latter rising above the rocks over the river. Passing four guards, one of whom nodded discreetly to Humphrey, they headed out through the gate on to the stone ramp that curved around the rocks to the wooden pier. For a moment, Robert thought Humphrey meant for them to board a boat, but as they turned a pillar of rock he saw torchlight on the pier illuminating a group of men. One, in their centre, was swinging a sword back and forth. Robert glanced over his shoulder, realising that apart from the four guards at the gatehouse and a small section of the walkway far above, the pier was hidden from view. This wasn’t the way duels were usually fought, without arbiter, without judgement.

The wind chased white peaks across the surface of the river. Robert blew into his hands, trying to breathe warmth into his rigid fingers. Guy would have had time to loosen up already, but his own muscles were stiff. Humphrey led the way on to the pier, the sound of his boots moving from stone to wood loud on the expectant quiet, broken only by the water sloshing around the rocks. At the end an empty boat swung to and fro, grating against the boards. The men turned to look at them. Guy stopped swinging his sword and stood still, his hair, red like his sister’s, burnished by the light of the torches that lit the pier. The knight’s gaze was hooded, his anger pent up, ready to be released in the fight. Thomas and Henry were there, along with Ralph and the others. Robert’s eyes came to rest on Aymer de Valence. Loathing flooded him at the sight of the knight’s hard face. Aymer looked eager, as if he were hungry for this.

Humphrey moved in front, breaking his view. ‘Sir Guy, are you ready?’

Guy nodded once, his gaze not leaving Robert’s. He was dressed in a black shirt that came down to his thighs, beneath which he wore woollen hose and hide boots criss-crossed with thongs of leather to hold the soft material in place. His sword belt, studded with silver, was double-looped around his waist and he wore leather gloves.

Humphrey looked between the two men. ‘You will fight until first blood.’ He spoke loudly, so all the group could hear. ‘The victor will then decide the terms of his opponent’s surrender.’ Pulling off his gloves, he lowered his voice. ‘Here,’ he said, handing them to Robert, ‘these should help.’

The royal knight Robert Clifford came forward, bearing two bucklers as Robert drew on the gloves, warm from Humphrey’s hands, the leather wrinkled. He took one of the small shields Clifford passed to him, grasping the handle in the centre of the disc, the front of which was bowl-shaped. Robert hadn’t used a buckler since his training days with Yothre. In comparison to the large, tapering shield he bore when mounted it felt incredibly small, leaving most of his body exposed to a strike. He remembered Yothre barking at him on Turnberry beach after he’d been knocked flat on his back, the buckler on the sand beside him and the pugnacious man shouting that one of his sisters would hold the shield better. How many times had his instructor punched in through his defences? Robert forced away the thought as he faced Guy. The mist of rain had grown heavier, darkening their clothes. Drops of water sputtered and hissed as they hit the torch flames.

Robert drew his broadsword. The blade’s length was balanced by a ball-shaped pommel of bronze, stained turquoise with use, and the grip, of bound leather wrapped around bone, was worn. The weapon had been presented to him at his knighting by his grandfather, who had carried it into battle in the Holy Land. The steel was from Damascus, the strongest in the world and the sword, his grandfather told him, had been christened with the blood of Saracens. Guy’s sword looked newer, the blade longer, the teardrop pommel larger to compensate. His grip was bound in red and yellow cord, the colours of the Beauchamp arms. The weapon looked comfortable in his right hand, the buckler covering his left. Robert gave his sword a few turns, using his thumb as a lever, spinning it first this way then that, keeping his wrist loose. He lunged a couple of times, finding his footing on the pier boards and stretching the taut muscles in his thighs. Then he moved back and was still, his eyes fixed on Guy.