B00B9BL6TI EBOK (19 page)

The night was chill after the warm comfort of the house, and Edwin shivered as he paused outside the door. The past hour had seemed somehow unreal, a combination of the horror of looking at the boy’s body and the contrasting haven of almost familial warmth he had felt as he sat and talked with Alys in the cosy kitchen. But now he was back in the real world and he needed to concentrate on returning to the castle unharmed, so that he could deliver the all-important tidings. He shivered as he remembered the fate of the boy he’d just seen, and of the father who was already buried. His heart ached for Alys, left alone and fatherless, and he vowed once again that he would find out who had committed such foul deeds. It could not possibly have been a coincidence: somebody out there knew they’d tried to pass a message on to the castle, and they had paid the ultimate price. Either one of the French invaders had found out about it, or there were traitors in the city, ready to give their fellow citizens up to death.

He must stop thinking about this. The thing to concentrate on now was trying to stay alive long enough to pass the message on. He would be no help to Alys if he was dead.

He stayed in the shadow of the doorway for a few more moments, scanning the street before deciding that it was empty. He slipped out and began to pick his way up the hill, keeping to the edge as much as possible. The silence in the city was eerie. He reached the top of the Drapery without incident and paused before starting his ascent up the steep hill. Had he heard something? Was there another patrol of French soldiers in the vicinity? He strained his ears, wishing simultaneously that the moonlight was brighter so that he could see better and that it was darker so that he could hide himself more effectively. The sound, if there had really been one, had gone. He was imagining things. Just concentrate. Breathe. It’s not that far and soon you’ll be back behind the stout walls of the castle. All will be well.

The hill beckoned, lined with houses on either side, each with an alley that might serve as a hiding place if he needed one, but which also might harbour enemies. As he passed each dwelling he looked into the dark gap, his mind imagining every kind of horror emerging from them. Occasionally he heard a small sound emanating from one of them, but in each case it was just an animal. Or so he sought to convince himself.

No, this time it was definitely a patrol. As he reached the top of the hill he ducked into the final alley, his heart racing, as a group of soldiers passed. Perhaps they weren’t on watch: it was clear they’d been drinking, and some of them were staggering, being supported by their colleagues. He felt relief that they didn’t seem to be searching for him, but he still waited until the last trace of sound from them had disappeared before emerging from his bolt-hole. He was concentrating so much on that particular group of soldiers that he never noticed the figure which appeared from another alley and followed him as he continued on his way.

Dame Nicola strode up and down, knowing she should attempt to appear more calm, but she was unable to help herself. She looked up as de Serland entered the room. ‘Anything?’

‘Not yet, my lady. But we will try again at Lauds.’

She nodded as he left, before resuming her pacing. More men had died that evening, and the ones who were left were so weak and exhausted that they wouldn’t be much use in the forthcoming fight. What they needed was some tactical advantage, something which would offset the fact that the French and their allies had superior numbers and that their men were in better condition. But for that they would need to hope both that the townsfolk – not exactly hardened warriors – had been able to do something useful, and that they could find out about it.

No. It was time to assume that the man wouldn’t return; that she would need to come up with another stratagem. It would be more difficult, but that couldn’t be helped. She would not surrender. She hadn’t given up twenty-six years ago when they’d been besieged and she wasn’t about to do so now, by God. She might have lost her husband and son since that time, but she could stand without them. She would rather die and see every last man of the garrison lying in his own blood than hand over her birthright. The shame of it would be unbearable. Despite the fact that she had spent decades succeeding, despite the fact that others might have surrendered in the past, she, as a woman, would be held up to ridicule as the female who could not keep her castle safe, the example of how the weaker sex could not be left in charge of anything as they were unsuited to it. Damn it, that would not happen. Would. Not.

She stopped her pacing and picked up a knife from the table. She might never have learned how to use a sword properly, but she swore that the first man who dared to come over those walls would be met with sharp steel. She imagined the satisfaction of spilling the blood of the enemy and, better still, that accursed chief engineer who laughed every time he heard screams of agony from inside the castle. But if the walls fell, he would certainly be nowhere near them, the common coward. If the walls fell …

She hurled the knife across the room and lashed out at a stool which got in her way. If the walls fell they were all dead, and she would be remembered as a failure. But the regent’s host was on the way, and she supposed there was still hope of other news.

Her frustration grew. Where was the man? What had happened to him? And how in the Lord’s name were they all going to get out of this with their lives intact?

Edwin had passed the cathedral and was inching his way into the part of town where the houses had been destroyed. As he came nearer to his goal, the tension within him increased, his head feeling stretched to breaking point. Was it really possible that he was going to succeed in his quest? That he could deliver the message to the castle and survive the night? Earlier he hadn’t thought it achievable, but as the moments and the yards passed in an agony of slowness, hope resurfaced. He was going to do it. He was actually going to do it!

It was the tiny sound behind him which saved his life, giving him a moment’s warning. He whirled faster than he would have thought possible, drawing his dagger as the figure leapt at him in the darkness. He saw the pale outline of the blade streaking towards him and managed to swerve out of the way just in time, the knife slicing through his tunic but not his flesh. His assailant seemed bigger than he was, and was no doubt more experienced, but he had lost the advantage of surprise, and may have been taken aback by the speed with which Edwin drew his own weapon. The two of them grappled desperately in the darkness, each seeking to stop the blade of the other. Edwin was starting to panic – just as he had been so close to his goal! – and he fought to keep his head. He strained against the force of the other man, feeling the blade draw closer to him. The struggle continued for a few moments in a strange silence, each unwilling to risk alerting potential allies of the other, but Edwin knew he would eventually lose out to the stronger man. He started to kick out frantically with his feet, and more by luck than by judgement was rewarded when the other backed against a pile of rubble and was momentarily distracted. Edwin managed to jerk his arm free and lashed out with his dagger. He heard a cry – whether of pain or of surprise he couldn’t tell – and used the moment to shove his attacker away and run, unsure of how much he might have disabled the other man. The sound of footsteps behind him told him that he hadn’t caused as much damage as he might have hoped.

He fled through the darkness, sobbing, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He’d been so close! But was there yet still hope? How long had it been since he had last heard the bell of the cathedral? Had it rung again yet? Could it be that the rope might be waiting for him when he reached the castle? In his headlong rush he tripped on a loose stone and stumbled before regaining his balance and sprinting on. His shoes were slippery, he wasn’t used to running. His breath came in laboured gasps. He could hear the other man and tried not to look behind. He was nearly at the castle. The open space beckoned. He would have to dash across it. Was he close enough to shout for help, or would he merely be giving his position away to other attackers lurking in the darkness? He was almost there. He opened his mouth, and it was then that he heard the blessed, blessed sound of the cathedral bell.

Hope giving him new strength, desperation making him careless, he flew across the open space with no regard for stealth, shrieking out to those inside the castle as he did so. As he hit the wall he heard voices above him, and he clutched frantically in search of the rope. His attacker had followed him close behind and was even now grasping at him. Edwin flailed around again with the dagger which was still in his right hand, seeking the rope with his left as he did so. Shouts came from above, but no arrows came hissing down. His attacker seized him by the belt and tried to pull him away from the wall, away from the safety of the rope. He was succeeding, and Edwin felt himself starting to move even as he dug his heels into the ground.

And then the miracle happened. Edwin wasn’t quite sure that he wasn’t imagining things, but a third figure appeared out of the darkness, threw his arms around Edwin’s assailant and dragged him bodily away. The brief respite allowed Edwin’s questing left hand to find the rope, and he wrapped it once around his wrist, grasped with his hand, and shouted with all his might to those above to pull. His arm was nearly jerked out of its socket as he felt his feet leave the ground. The figure in the darkness made one last attempt but was held back by the third man long enough for Edwin to get too high for him. Then the third man escaped back into the shadows, and the assailant finally gave up and retreated, fleeing back across the open space. Edwin shoved the dagger into his belt and gripped the rope with both hands as he was hauled upwards to safety.

Dame Nicola heard the shouts as she was walking in the ward, and ran towards the tower as quickly as age and dignity would allow. When she reached the top of the steps she was rewarded by the sight of the spy, dishevelled but apparently unharmed, being untangled from a rope by two men. De Serland and an archer were both leaning out over the wall to look into the darkness, the archer loosing a hopeful arrow, although he could surely have no visible target at which to aim. She helped the spy – what was his name again? It didn’t matter – to his feet and let him draw breath before assailing him with questions. What had happened? Had he met the contact? Was there any news? As he recovered himself he gasped that he had an important message; urged on by her questioning he seemed about to spill the words there and then, but she gathered her wits and told him crisply to wait until they had reached her council chamber. Jerking her head at de Serland to indicate that he should follow, she led the spy down the steps.

Once in the chamber, with the door safely closed, she could contain herself no longer and demanded the news even as she shoved him towards a stool. The man raised his face to her and her heart began to lift – was there a chance that they were all going to get out of this alive?

He spoke. His message was very simple, but the import was profound.