B00B9BL6TI EBOK (18 page)

Now she’d started, there was no sense in holding anything back. She sent up a small prayer for what she was about to say.

‘But he did have information, important information, and before he died he passed it on to me. When I opened the door a few moments ago I was on my way to the castle myself to try and deliver the message. Now you are here you can take it for me – that is, if I’m right about you and you aren’t a French spy who will kill me once you know everything.’

For the first time he smiled. ‘I suppose you have no reason to trust me, but for what it’s worth, I’m not a French spy.’ He leaned forward. ‘Tell me what you know.’

And so she told him. Not just about what her father and others had been doing these past weeks, but also about his death and what had happened since then, the funeral and the danger on the way home, and the terrible events of that evening. Once she started talking she couldn’t stop herself and it all poured out – things she couldn’t have told family and neighbours, but things which it suddenly seemed quite natural to divulge to a complete stranger in the middle of the night. The loneliness, the responsibility for the children, the difficulty of providing for them, the fear at being the holder of such valuable information, the sadness of the funeral, the fright in the street on the way back, the determination to rid the city of the invaders, and the absolute, bone-melting terror of what had happened to her father and Nick. It all rushed out in a reckless flood, words she would surely regret in the cold light of day. But she would never see him again, so what did it matter?

Through it all he listened, never saying a word, never interrupting or asking her to come to the point, never belittling her feelings. Instead he sat attentively, waiting for the most important part. And finally she told him; she relayed the information which might be the saving of them all. It was a very short message, but its significance was colossal. And when he heard it, his smile widened until it illuminated the entire room.

Edwin listened carefully to Alys, but at the same time he ran over the events of the past half an hour or so. He was glad that the light in the kitchen didn’t show his face properly, or she might see how red it was; how humiliating to have been caught off guard without any kind of story to explain his presence. How many other agents of the earl or spies would have been so tongue-tied, so ready to blurt out the real reason for their mission to a complete stranger? And he didn’t even want to think of the mortification of having been bested by a girl … he’d been taken by surprise when he fell through the door and he’d had no time to draw his weapon before being attacked. Of course, with hindsight, he was glad that he hadn’t, but next time he might not be so lucky – and he certainly didn’t intend to tell anyone the exact details of the encounter.

His emotions had ebbed and flowed once they were in the kitchen. He had been wary of removing Sir Reginald’s dagger from his belt, but had realised that this might be the quickest way to gain her confidence. Strangely – for he hadn’t been used to carrying weapons – he felt naked and exposed without it, although he was reasonably certain that she wouldn’t attack him. His thoughts had initially been for his own safety, but once he became aware of the undercurrent of feeling in the room a slow horror came over him at the idea that she might be afraid of him, might consider him capable of violence against her. He was appalled – what must she think of him? He supposed that he shouldn’t really care what some strange girl thought of him – he had his task to accomplish and he would never see her again anyway – but deep down he knew that he did care what she … what anyone might think of him. It made him feel sick to imagine that anyone might suppose him a violent ruffian.

And so he had foundered once again. As there was no question of attempting to beat the answer out of her – something he suspected that John Marshal might advocate – he realised he would have to tell her the truth if there was any chance of getting the information he needed. Surely this couldn’t be too much of a gamble, as the citizens of Lincoln must be eager to end the siege? He risked it. It was a test, and the Lord was with him; he wasn’t punished for his naivety and clumsy tactics. Still, he was embarrassed at his lack of anything resembling a talent for this kind of task, and evidently he wasn’t ruthless enough for the work. If by some miracle he should live through this night, he would summon up the courage to tell the earl so. He would. He really would.

But for now he listened carefully. Sympathy pierced him to the heart as he heard the details of the death of her father, his own emotions still raw. As her tale continued, any pity he might have felt turned to admiration at the way she appeared to have handled everything. She wasn’t the fragile creature he had imagined when he’d first seen her at the market, but his heart bled nonetheless. Would he have coped so well in a similar situation? She’d managed to feed her family and keep them safe, despite the dangers, and had even taken on the burden of her father’s knowledge.

Ah, the information! At last he was about to hear it. Would it be any use? Would he be able to bring glad tidings back to the castle? He listened, and his heart leapt.

Once the news had been given, the weight of responsibility shifted, she fell silent. He looked at her in the flickering half-light, somehow aware, despite not knowing her, that she was happier. He must return to the castle urgently, but he felt himself reluctant to rise. Perhaps it was just tiredness and hunger. He had been on the move for more hours than he cared to remember and was exhausted, and the effect of warmth and rest had induced a feeling of drowsiness and comfort. Yes, that must be it. It couldn’t be anything else.

Something else she had said jerked him awake again. In his excitement over the message he hadn’t taken it in properly the first time.

‘Did you say that your brother has been killed this very night, and that he’s here, in the house?’

She nodded, tears coming to her eyes.

‘Can I – ’ that wasn’t going to sound right. ‘I mean, would you allow me to look at his body?’

She seemed not to think that this was an odd request, and led him back through to the shop. She pointed over towards the hearth, and by the light of the rush in her hand he saw what he hadn’t noticed earlier while he was trying to protect himself against the barrage of kicks – the body of a young boy lying in a nest of cloth. Gingerly he knelt down next to it, as did she. He noticed that her hands went almost instinctively to straighten his clothing and hair, and that her eyes were glassy. She seemed to look through him.

He couldn’t put a name to the emotion, but he recognised it, having felt it himself just a few days ago. He had seen too many bodies recently.

He stretched out a hand and then stopped, unsure what her reaction would be. ‘Do you mind if I touch him? I might be able to …’ he didn’t know how he would end the remark, for he wasn’t sure what he’d be able to do, but something within him was urging him to look at the body to see if he could discover anything.

Again she nodded, so he moved the light nearer and started to examine the boy.

He was very young, perhaps about the age of Adam, the earl’s new squire. He had certainly been the victim of a considerable amount of violence; he had been beaten viciously, and there was blood all over him. A particularly large amount of it seemed to be concentrated over his left hand and arm, and Edwin gently lifted it to get a better look. When he saw the damage he felt queasy: the smallest finger had been hacked off and it had bled profusely. He tried to hide the damage from her, not wanting her to see how much her brother must have suffered. Poor lad, what could have happened to him? But of course he knew the reason: the boy had been aware of the information which he himself now carried, and he had paid the price for it. But had he kept the secret or had the extremes of pain and fear forced him to give it up? That was the question. If the enemy were aware of the information then all might yet be lost. He could say nothing, but looked in silence at Alys. She gazed back at him without speaking.

He continued to stare at her as the silence grew longer and more awkward, aware that he ought to break it and say something. He opened his mouth, but before any words could be said, the tolling of the cathedral bell sounded from afar. The bell! The rope! The importance of his mission flooded back over him. He must get back to the castle now. What was he thinking? He scrambled to his feet, almost falling again in his haste.

She rose, too, and hurried back into the kitchen. He thought at first that she’d become afraid of him again, but she returned almost immediately with his dagger. As she handed it to him their hands touched briefly, and a jolt of feeling ran through him. He tried to disguise it by busying himself attaching it back to his belt. He fumbled and hoped she didn’t notice. Once the dagger was safely fastened he stood facing her. Time to say something. He opened his mouth and was again thwarted by a sound, but this time it was the rather more embarrassing one of his stomach giving a loud rumble. It broke the awkwardness, though, and the blank, dazed expression left her face.

‘What am I thinking of? You’re here to help us and I haven’t even offered you anything to eat.’ She looked around and seemed to become slightly less confident. ‘We have … some bread and a scraping of pottage left – please, take some before you leave.’

His first instinct was to accept with alacrity, but then he looked at her again, noting even in the dim light that she was tired and wan, dark circles under her eyes. How difficult it must be to care for her brothers and sister in these dangerous times, and how much she’d had to cope with this very evening.

He reached one arm out towards her, but stopped before he touched her. ‘No, please, you must keep it for the children.’ He paused, unsure of how much to say. ‘There will be fighting in the city soon – you must keep yourself safe. May the Lord watch over you.’ And with that he turned and walked purposefully back out of the shop and into the street.

Honestly, they were like children, the bloody lot of them.

John Marshal stalked up and down inside the tent, sick of all the squabbling between the nobles. Two nights ago he had been able to pick his way back across the open fields unnoticed by the French, had reached his companions, and had made all speed back to the regent’s camp to inform his uncle of the news, but since then all they’d done was argue about what they should do and who should be in charge of the attack on the city. For God’s sake, why couldn’t they just shut up and get
on
with it? Chester in particular was becoming more and more belligerent, and some of the others weren’t taking it very well. Honestly, who
cared
about who would lead which part of the host? There was a city to be attacked, and all this bickering over rank served them naught. Of course, he was in the minority when it came to caring nothing for rank – as a bastard son he would never rise to an elevated station. He made his living by using his wits and his right arm to serve his uncle, and that fitted him perfectly well. But these others …

He tried to close his mind to the social machinations in the tent and concentrate on the task in hand. He still didn’t like this business of being able to slip only a few men in at a time via the postern, but it was the best that they could do, so why did the earls not just accept it and move on? Action was needed. But no, they continued to wrangle incessantly, and he grew more and more frustrated. He thought of Dame Nicola, an elderly woman, deprived of her son, holding the castle fast while those bloody engineers and their bloody machines went about their business. And yet she was unyielding: she had more steel inside her than all the men in the tent – the regent being the exception, obviously – put together. She knew that action was needed, and if they didn’t get on with it soon then she would be the one to take the consequences. He didn’t want that on his conscience, not after all her efforts.

His one hope was that the man Weaver might come back with news which would aid them in their task, but the chances of that would grow slimmer as the hours passed. Meanwhile all he could do was kill time. His agitation grew as he waited, and his pacing became increasingly urgent, until his uncle was forced to tell him to sit down lest he wear a furrow in the floor of the tent. He threw himself on to a stool and tapped his foot impatiently, unaware that he was doing so. What in God’s name could be happening in Lincoln?