Winter Siege (37 page)

‘But you cannot, my lady, and you will not,’ Alan had told her moments before he left her to join the battle. ‘We are fighting for you and for Kenniford. Put yourself in danger and we’re all lost.’

It had been agony to accept, to watch him leave, and she had begged him to take her with him, but deep down she knew he was right and eventually let him go. Like it or not she
was
their figurehead and if Kenniford was slighted only
she
could negotiate their surrender and save their lives.

‘Sweet Mary, help us!’ she cried, imploring the ceiling as though the Madonna herself were sitting in its rafters. ‘How in God’s name did they get in?’

She sank down on to a chair suddenly dizzy as the waves of an old memory washed over her.

She was a little girl again shivering with cold and fear, standing beside her father outside the Wormhole on that other fateful night.

Will there be traitors, Father?

There are always traitors. Trust nobody.

But it was too late. She had not listened. She
had
trusted her people and, just as he had prophesied, Kenniford had been betrayed.

She stood up, her mouth framing a silent scream, and staggered helplessly towards Milburga, who reached out and folded her into her arms like a child.

Outside the keep another child was screaming, his voice lost too, swallowed up in the noise of battle. Nobody noticed him or, indeed, the figure beside him as they melted into the shadows, slipping as easily as autumn mist through the doorway and into the keep itself.

MILBURGA CLUTCHED HER
mistress to her. ‘Got to be brave now,’ she whispered. ‘Got to be as brave as you’ve ever been.’

It was the call to arms Maud needed. She must do her duty. If there was one thing Sir Robert had drilled into his only daughter it was this.

Her responsibility now was to her men, to the people of Kenniford and to these women standing so anxiously around her. And then, of course, to William, for whom she must send immediately.

She had last seen him earlier that evening. He was angry with her still, had refused to speak to her when she put him to bed, turning his face to the wall as she bent to kiss him goodnight. No doubt he had woken to the sounds of the invasion like everybody else but was either too proud or too angry to come to her. He would be alone now, unprotected and frightened, and he would need her. She must pull herself together and act.

As she started towards the door, Milburga blocked her path.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘To get William,’ she replied, trying to side-step her, but Milburga stood firm.

‘No you don’t. Won’t have you wandering around on a night like this. I’ll fetch him. You’re to stay put. You heard what Alan said.’ The standoff between them was broken only when a calm voice sounded from the corner:

‘I’ll go.’ All eyes turned towards the speaker.

‘Well, makes sense, don’t it?’ Penda shrugged. ‘I can look after myself and he’ll be more likely to come with me.’

Without waiting for a response she got up and walked out of the room. Once outside she took her baldric from its hook above her mattress and strapped it across her chest. She was unlikely to need the poignard it contained – the keep at least was safe for the moment – but it would be a comfort to have it with her just in case.

Milburga appeared in the doorway to hand her a rushlight. ‘Here,’ she said, pressing its metal holder into her hand. ‘Be careful, mind.’

Penda nodded.

William’s chamber was on the opposite side of the keep from the solar, looking out not over the bailey but the river and woods behind the castle. It was little more than an alcove carved into the thick stone wall, providing just enough space for a small hand basin and a bed. Maud had offered him a much larger room when he first arrived, but he had chosen this one especially because, he said, he liked its cosiness and its view towards the river.

It was a good deal quieter on this side of the castle, undisturbed by the everyday bustle and business of the bailey, and tonight, as she rounded the corner, Penda noticed that even the noise of the fighting had receded. It was darker here too; the fires in the bailey which burned so fiercely illuminating all the rooms on the other side of the keep were invisible from here and she was forced to rely entirely on the flickering rushlight to guide her. It was also bloody cold and she was cursing herself for leaving her mantle behind; never mind, she consoled herself, she’d be back for it in a bit when she’d fetched the boy.

The journey seemed to take longer than usual in the dark and on her own, but eventually she reached William’s chamber. Somewhat to her surprise, she found the door already open, yet some instinct made her reluctant to go inside; instead, standing on the threshold, holding the rushlight in front of her, she craned her neck to peer into the darkness.

‘You there, William? It’s me, Penda.’ In the eerie, absent stillness of the room her voice echoed back to her, too loud, too conspicuous, increasing her feeling of unease.

‘
William
,’ she whispered, shrinking back from the doorway. ‘
William!
’

Still nothing. Not a sound. Damn!

She stepped reluctantly into the chamber, her rushlight at arm’s length. He could be hiding somewhere, too frightened to come out, and who would blame him tonight of all nights? And yet, other than an untidy pile of sheets and blankets strewn across the floor, there was no sign of him.

Her heart sank.

There was only one other place he
could
be and to fetch him from there would mean immersing herself even further in the darkness on the long climb up the winding staircase to the turret. She had never set foot there before, never had reason to, thank God, but had heard enough about the place from Maud and Milburga not to relish the prospect. Neither did she welcome an encounter with Kigva, especially not on a night like this.

She had only ever glimpsed the woman scuttling around the castle late at night, to steal, or so it was presumed, water from the font or plants from the kitchen garden, but had heard enough dark mutterings among the servants about scrying and spells and various ‘goings-on’ to convince her that she was indeed a witch.

On the other hand, if the only terror she faced tonight was Kigva, then she would have got off lightly; besides, it would give her something constructive to do, take her mind off Gwil, about whom she’d been worrying herself sick.

He was out there now facing goodness knew what, maybe even wounded, maybe even … She shuddered and crossed herself. It didn’t bear thinking about.

She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath as she formulated a new plan.

She would fetch William as she had promised and deliver him to Maud, but after that she was done. She’d be damned if she was going to sit in the solar twiddling her thumbs with the other women all night waiting for deliverance. No, she had made up her mind. The minute William was safely back in the solar and her duty was fulfilled, she would creep out to join the battle alongside Gwil. It was where she belonged, not up here running stupid errands playing hide and seek with a little boy.

When she reached the foot of the staircase leading to the turret, she stopped and looked up.

The darkness was impenetrable, a dreadful, cloying empty void whose peculiarly malignant stillness was only emphasized by the distant sound of battle. She shuddered and then thought again of Gwil. For him, if for no one else, she would brave whatever horrors the turret held. And so, with the now dwindling rushlight in one hand and the hem of her skirts in the other, she began to climb.

The staircase seemed interminable and became increasingly narrow the higher she climbed, as though the rough, stone-flagged walls were closing in around her, catching at her clothes like wicked hands. Something wet dripped from the ceiling on to her forehead; a spider’s thread tangled itself in her eyelashes; small, invisible creatures scuttled at her feet and from a wall crevice a cat hissed, batting at her skirts with its paw as she passed.

‘Pssst!’ she spat, stamping her foot, and felt a little braver when the creature screeched and ran away. And when, to her great relief, she reached the top she found herself on a dimly lit narrow landing outside a large wooden door.

What she had expected of the infamous turret she didn’t quite know: the odd dragon, maybe, a witch or two, or any of the other unmentionable horrors her imagination had been conjuring up on the way. What she hadn’t expected, though, was silence.

There ought to have been voices, some murmur of life, and yet the darkness of the stairwell was superseded by an equally palpable hush. It smelt strange too – cats’ piss, musk and damp – and something else … some awful, indefinable yet strangely familiar smell evoking a fear so powerful that it threatened to spin her round and send her scurrying back down the stairs.

Damn it! She pinched herself. Ridiculous! She was Penda, the arbalist, the girl who had stared death and its arrows in the face and won. She was made of sterner stuff than this, and yet … and yet … there was something in the air up here which terrified her.

She blew out the rushlight, hoping to vanish into the darkness, and then, as quietly, as deftly as she could though her hands were shaking, lifted her dagger from its sheath and pushed open the door.

In the dim light of the flickering sconces dotted around its walls, she saw an enormous room running almost the entire length and width of the keep and, apparently, empty.

Ashamed at the sense of relief she felt not to have to venture any further in, she was about to turn round and scurry back down the stairs to report William missing, goodness only knew where, when she spotted a small pile of rags in the far corner.

It moved.

‘
William! That you?
’

The bundle stopped moving, but moments later she heard a strange keening cry emitting from it, a sound filled with such pain and anguish that she forgot her own fear and rushed across the room towards it.

William was lying on the floor, half slumped against the wall like a discarded doll, so pale and still that if it hadn’t been for the low, agonizing sound he was making she would have thought he was dead.

She knelt beside him, placing her dagger on the floor as she took his face in her hands. ‘You hurt, darling?’ she asked, turning him towards her.

But there was no response; instead, as she scooped him up into her arms, he lifted a trembling hand to point behind her, across the room. Panda turned her head, following the direction of his finger, and immediately wished that she had not.

On the other side of the room the tattered curtains around a large bed fluttered in the breeze like the fingers of a raven’s wing, and from the window above it a path of moonlight shone across the prostrate figure of a man.

At first glance he looked as though he was asleep, but when she looked again, cursing herself for having done so, she saw a large hole where his belly ought to have been and a glutinous skein of entrails arranged purposefully beside him like a grotesque spider’s web. On the floor beside him lay a woman, naked and bleeding from a wound in her neck so wide and deep that it had partially severed her head.

Penda turned back to William, clutching him tightly to her chest. ‘I’m going to get you out of here,’ she whispered, but as she reached for the knife beside her a figure stepped out of the shadows and pressed the toe of his boot on to her hand.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ it said.

OUTSIDE, THOUGH THE
battle continued, Kenniford was all but defeated, the castle guard driven back to a cramped corner of the inner bailey in a last, desperate attempt to defend the keep. And as the King’s men swarmed in the gatehouse, the portcullis rose and the drawbridge was lowered, the last flames of hope sputtered and died.

Gwil glanced up at the allure where a great phalanx of Stephen’s men stood silhouetted against the night sky, bows raised, arrows tensed against their strings, watching and waiting for the inevitable command to unleash their storm.

Enough. There must be no more bloodshed.

He raised his arm, put his horn to his lips and blew. At its sound the fighting stopped, a hush fell and from somewhere towards the gatehouse a jubilant trumpet blew as William of Ypres and a score of knights galloped across the drawbridge and into the castle.

It was Sir Rollo who broke the news to Maud that Kenniford was lost.

He entered the solar ahead of Alan, Gwil and Sir Bernard, who were carrying Father Nimbus’s body.

‘William of Ypres awaits our surrender, madam. I am so sorry,’ he said.

There was an awful silence as Maud stared into the faces of the men, registering the same look of ashen defeat on each. It was over. She nodded, then turned her attention to the body of the priest. ‘If you would be so kind as to put him on the bed and leave us for a moment,’ she said.

They did as she had asked, lowering him gently on to the bed before filing out of the room; Milburga and Tola followed behind, weeping silently.

Maud watched them go and as soon as they had left knelt beside Father Nimbus’s body, caressed his forehead and gently pressed his hand against her cheek. Then she bent her head on to his shoulder and wept.

A little while later she stood up. Duty dried her tears. There would be time enough to mourn the priest – the rest of her life perhaps – but now she had other lives to save if she could. She walked over to the basin, washed her face, straightened her skirts and went to join the others.

Halfway down the stairs Gwil realized that Penda wasn’t among them.

He grabbed hold of Tola, the nearest person to hand, and swung her round to face him. ‘You seen Pen?’

She shook her head, startled by the urgency of his expression. ‘Not for a bit,’ she stammered, pulling away from him. ‘Went to fetch William for Lady Maud. Ain’t come back yet.’