B00B9BL6TI EBOK (22 page)

They were on the march. Their plans had been remade and now they were on their way to do battle. Edwin could hardly believe it. Things had been such a blur since he’d arrived back in the camp.

He had been exhausted, falling off Sir Gilbert’s horse – he really must stop doing that, especially in front of noblemen – and virtually into the arms of John Marshal, who had dragged him inside the tent to tell his story. He had left out most of it, of course, such as the details of his conversation with Alys and the fact that he’d been attacked on the way back to the castle, but he’d conveyed the essentials. When all was said and done, the message had been only six words, but they might hold the key to the whole siege, even the future of the kingdom:
the western gate is not blocked
.

Even with his lack of military experience, Edwin could see that this was hugely important. John Marshal had been concerned at only being able to send a few men in at a time through the postern, meaning that precious hours would be wasted and the French might have time to attack; now they would be able to flood the city with troops very quickly. It turned out that the townsfolk, in whom the nobles in the castle had so little confidence, had organised a resistance and had spent many nights painstakingly moving the rubble while still making it
appear
that the gate was blocked. This must have been an incredibly dangerous thing to do – well, of course it was; he knew of at least three people involved who had been murdered – but the citizens had been willing to risk their lives to help save their town.

He’d had no need to explain all of this to the leaders of the host; the mere knowledge of the gate being unblocked had stirred them into immediate action. He’d been rewarded by a thump on the back from John Marshal which made him wince, and something he could never have dreamt, not in his most fevered imaginings – courteous thanks from the regent of all England. Then he’d been permitted to remain at the back of the tent while the plans were laid, listening in numb exhaustion as it all washed past him.

He was surprised now to find how much of it he recalled: his mind must have been less deadened than he’d thought. They were to leave Torksey at dawn, to march towards Lincoln. Apparently a strategy for the host to be split had already been made, and this plan was to remain intact: they would be divided into four battles, or some similar word, plus the crossbowmen and the baggage train. When they reached Lincoln, the host would divide into three parts. One group, led by the Earl of Chester, would move to the north gate and would strike the first blow, hoping that most of the French would run up that way to defend it. The crossbowmen and some foot soldiers under someone with the strange name of Falkes somebody would be sent in via the postern, in order to sally forth from the castle and cause a further diversion, while a few men, Edwin among them, would slip out to open the all-important west gate. The remaining three battalions – yes, that was the word – would enter via the opened gate, and then they would all join forces, sweep the French down through the streets and out of the southern end of the city, over the river. At least that was the theory. Edwin had thought that it all sounded clear and easy when it was being confidently explained by the regent, but he had no doubt that things would be much more difficult in real life.

Finally he’d been dismissed so that he could catch an hour’s rest and eat a huge meal before he was to start the march back to Lincoln again. He’d been glad of Sir Gilbert, who had instructed his own men to feed him, otherwise he would be hungry still.

Now he rode again with the host on its way back to the city. It was strange: had he ever thought of himself in an army, he would have imagined trudging with the footsoldiers, as was his place in life, but now his position seemed to have changed. In some ways he was glad of it – riding might be somewhat painful but it was better than walking – but in other ways it was disturbing. He’d been fairly sure that he’d be dismissed once he’d given his message, but John Marshal had said he needed him to come back. He was the only one who’d been in the city, and there must be no delay or mistake in finding the all-important west gate. So here he was. He had too much time to think about what was to come, and now he was wishing that he hadn’t eaten quite so much breakfast.

His companions noticed his grim silence and sought to distract him. Sir Gilbert chaffed Sir Reginald amiably about his single-handed attack on the men who had pursued Edwin, but the younger knight sought to play down his deeds, asking instead about Edwin’s experiences in the city. He grinned knowingly when Edwin told him of his meeting with Alys, and Edwin was uncomfortably aware that his heart beat faster at the thought, and that his face was becoming hot and red while the knight teased him. He thought of her again. How would she fare once fighting took place in the city? Would she be safe? Would the fighting pass near to her home? He couldn’t bear to think of her being frightened, and trying to protect the little ones against armed men. Perhaps he might have the chance to warn her once he was in the city? But that would mean that he would have to bypass the fighting in order to get to her. Perhaps once the gate was open there might be the possibility of slipping away through the streets to reach her house. He wasn’t going to be much use in the battle, after all, and she would need protecting. Plus she would be facing other dangers. Someone, somewhere in the city, had murdered her father and brother, presumably in order to get the very information which she had passed to him. Her life was now in danger because of that, as well as the siege. But how could he help? He must try and think through everything she’d told him, to try and work out who had done such a foul thing. Then if he could only manage to reach her once he was in the city, he might be able to help. He concentrated, closing his eyes against the world, looking inside himself as he tried to remember every word she’d said, every place and time and person she’d mentioned, but somehow he was distracted by the remembrance of her face in the firelight …

His thoughts were interrupted by Sir Gilbert asking about his return to the castle. How had he managed it? He was interested, having had no time to question Edwin on the way a few hours ago as they made all speed back to the camp. Edwin told them of his journey through the darkened city, and was gratified when they both drew breath sharply at the mention of his attacker. Their motives were different, though: Sir Reginald wanted a blow-by-blow description of the fight, which Edwin was not sure he was qualified to give (unless the knight wanted to hear that he’d been frightened out of his wits and then lucky), but Sir Gilbert had a deeper purpose.

‘If someone attacked you as you made your way back to the castle, it’s possible that this person knew that you carried a message and sought to stop you delivering it.’ Edwin agreed, thinking of the body and particularly the beaten face and missing finger: what had the boy given away under such pain?

The knight continued. ‘But what if this person didn’t simply know that you carried a message, but also knew the content of it? If that’s the case, then it’s possible that he’s already informed the French of it and they might be aware of our plans.’ Edwin hadn’t considered this and felt a jolt to his heart as he looked at the knight, grim-faced now. ‘This is important – I must warn the lords. If we’re attacked out on the open ground then all will be lost.’ Sir Gilbert nudged his horse and cantered forward to where John Marshal rode at the head of their section of the host. Sir Reginald returned to his pastime of baiting Edwin about ‘his girl’, and Edwin’s face grew red once more.

It was the hour of Prime, and the knight Robert Fitzwalter was standing on the walls of the city, looking out over the countryside to the west. Behind him, the mangonels and petraries under the command of the chief engineer were continuing their deadly work, sending huge stones hurtling into the castle. He was so used to it by now that he barely noticed when another huge crash sounded – at least this one hadn’t been followed by a shriek of agony. There was something almost cowardly about standing around here letting the common engineers break down the castle walls bit by bit. There were noblemen in there who deserved better than being crushed to death by rock. He had come here to fight, damn it, and he chafed at the inaction. Still, it didn’t look as if the walls would be able to hold much longer, and once a breach had been made he would be one of the first into it; then there would be fighting aplenty, proper man-to-man combat with sword or lance.

He sighed as he scanned the countryside again, wondering how he’d ended up here, an Englishman in England, under the command of a French noble. It all went back to King John, and his refusal to … but what was that? Over there on the ridge to the north-west?

He looked again more carefully and realised that his first instinct had been correct: it was indeed a column of armed men advancing towards the city. They were nowhere near within bowshot range yet, but he shouted for a party of archers to come up anyway, while he ran for his superior.

Saer de Quincy, the Earl of Winchester, didn’t particularly appreciate being hauled away from his breakfast, but as soon as he heard the news he jumped up and shouted for a man to saddle his horse. Then he and Fitzwalter rode with all haste out of the city on to the plain to reconnoitre the new force.

‘Who are they, my lord?’ Fitzwalter was sure he knew the answer, but he had to ask just to break the silence as they cantered over the ground. He felt very exposed being outside the walls, but the approaching men were still some distance away, so there was no danger.

‘It can only be a relief force,’ replied the earl, ‘for we aren’t expecting any of our French allies to arrive from the south.’

Fitzwalter winced again at hearing the words ‘French’ and ‘allies’ in the same sentence, but he had made his bed and now he must lie on it.

The earl continued. ‘I can’t see properly, for the sunlight is glinting off their armour. Your eyes are younger than mine – can you make out the banners?’

Fitzwalter strained his eyes. The banners were hanging limply at the moment, but as he watched a slight breeze came upon them and they floated out so that he could see the devices. His blood ran cold. He had known who it must be, but the stark sight of the emblems reminded him of how deep his trouble might turn out to be. Arrayed against him were the forces of the regent and the king.

De Quincy took the news calmly, saying only that it was to be expected, and bidding Fitzwalter ride back to summon their overall commander, the comte de Perche. ‘It doesn’t look as though they are overly large in number. We’ll probably be able to attack them out on the open ground and cut them to pieces before they get anywhere near the city. But the comte will no doubt want to see for himself. Go now.’ Fitzwalter urged his horse into action.

Edwin tried in vain to calm himself. The attack on the city was about to go ahead. He had seen two men ride out from inside and examine the host, before being joined by a third man, and there had been much pointing and waving of arms. Had the ruse worked? Had they been deceived as to the size of the host, enough to put them off attacking over the open ground? The tension grew and grew within him. If they were going to be assailed, when would it happen? Now? In a few heartbeats’ time? He couldn’t stand the waiting, the apprehension. He needed to scream and run, but he couldn’t. He had to stay, for those were his orders; he couldn’t run home and hide until all this was over. How would he face his lord?

He had dismounted, and watched as the Earl of Chester and his men peeled off from the rest of the host, ready to go around to the north side of the city in order to assail the gate there. The sound of combat emanating from that quarter would be their signal for a mixed group of men to move forward and enter the castle via the postern. Then some of them would sally out into the streets to create a diversion, aided by the crossbowmen who would stay inside the castle and shoot down from the walls, while a small group comprising Edwin himself and a few others would slip around to the city’s western gate and open it. Yes, that is what will happen.