The Iron Castle (Outlaw Chronicles) (6 page)

I turned in my saddle and addressed the horsemen. ‘Any man here might one day become an officer. If you obey my orders, keep my rules and fight with the valour of lions when the time comes – any one of you might rise to become a vintenar.’

I paused for a heartbeat. ‘Even Little Niels.’

My quip was met with more laughter, genuine as far as I could tell. And for a mile or so Little Niels was subjected to some gentle ribbing from his fellows who called him ‘the captain-general’ and ‘my gracious lord’. They seemed a contented group, to my eyes. Spirited but not lawless. There was no doubt that a few of the Wolves were genuinely bad men – bandits by trade, or murderers on the run from their manors – but most were poor men driven to take up arms to put food in their bellies. I liked them, to be honest, and for the most part they seemed to like me.

The patrol returned to Falaise without event a little before noon, and I had ample time to wash and be dressed by Kit in the best clothes that I possessed: a decent blue silk tunic and grey hose – which were clean but a little saggy at the knee as a result of their advanced age and Kit’s clumsy laundering – good kidskin shoes, and a black felt hat with an eagle’s feather fixed in place with a blue enamel broach. Kit had laboured long and hard over the outfit and, while I was never going to be mistaken for a prince of royal blood, I hoped for his sake and mine that I would not disgrace myself with my apparel.

The meal was a dull one. I was placed far from Hubert de Burgh and his fat nephew Benedict, at the end of the long table – which did not displease me in itself except that it emphasised the point that as a paid warrior I was scarcely respectable; indeed not much better than a servant. There were a dozen other knights at the meal, little wine was served and only a dozen platters of food emerged from the kitchens for the twenty or so guests. There was no music, and the only entertainment was a sad-faced juggler standing in the corner, who did amazing things with three, four and five silver balls that he kept aloft with great skill; although his air of abject misery prevented me from enjoying the performance overmuch. I spoke little and, apart from a chilly nod from de Burgh at the beginning of the repast, I was ignored by the company. Young Benedict refused to recognise me at all – indeed he paid little attention to anyone and seemed determined to eat as much as he possibly could – but I cannot say it grieved me sorely.

I returned to my chamber in the East Tower mid-afternoon, sober and reflecting that I had not impressed my new lord, nor yet made any friends in my new home. So be it, I told myself. I would keep my head down, attend to my duties with the Wolves and wait for Robin’s call to arms.

So the days passed in an uneventful, repetitive parade. I went out with the Wolves three or four days a week, patrolling the countryside south to Maine and west as far as the Brittany border. We spent long chilly nights on the battlements, doing our share of the sentry duties, staring into the empty darkness hour after hour. One night when making my rounds of the sentries, I came across Christophe crouching down behind the parapet. His face was pressed against the wall but he was easily recognisable by the clumps of hair jutting out from under his helmet. I thought at first that he was asleep, a grave crime for a sentry, and a surprising lapse for a soldier as experienced as he. But when I came closer I saw he was on one knee picking with a dirty finger at the mortar between the massive stones of the curtain wall.

‘What are you doing, Christophe?’

‘It’s too dry, sir – look!’ He held out a handful of grey powdery sludge. ‘It hasn’t been mixed right.’

By the light of my pine torch, I peered at the crumbly melange of sand and lime in his big paw.

‘Look at it, sir! It’s a bloody disgrace, sir, and no two ways about it. Too much sand, not enough water. A rush job, I’d say. Done on the cheap by some bandit who is no more a mason than he is a merman. If the Bretons ever got serious about taking this place, we wouldn’t last a week.’

Christophe’s words alarmed me somewhat.

‘Is the whole curtain wall like this?’

‘No, sir, if it were, not a stone would be standing on another. It looks like a repair job. A shoddily done repair job. Just this section here, I reckon.’

‘You think if the Bretons were to bombard us it would fall?’

‘If they knew where to strike, sir. But that’s not the problem. The problem would be the mines. If they knew this mortar here was so weak they’d dig their bloody great mines right under our feet, and then there’d be the Devil to pay.’

I thought about his verdict for a few moments.

‘Well, Christophe, the Bretons aren’t here, are they? They are still in Brittany, as far as we know. And even if they did come and besiege us they wouldn’t be able to tell that this section of wall was weak just by looking at it, would they?’

He looked doubtful. ‘No, sir. Not unless they got close and looked real careful like at the joins. Or if some rascal were to tell them about it.’

‘Well, we’d better hope the Bretons don’t have your sharp eyes. And I think you’d better keep those eyes of yours on the outside of the walls from now on.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I dined infrequently with the lord of Falaise, about once every ten days, but he seldom troubled me with his conversation. I went to Mass in the castle church every day, if my duties allowed, and practised my sword and shield work in the courtyard with Little John – a master of all weapons – as often as I could. I tried to write a tune or two for my vielle and wrote some very poor poetry, which I soon abandoned as unworthy of my voice. I kept to myself, engaging with the other knights of the castle only when duty demanded it and, in my leisure hours, eating, drinking and playing dice with the Wolves, or throwing quoits with Little John.

It might sound as if life was dull – and, in a way, it was. But there was a tension in the castle that made rest difficult. A weight pressing down on us. It was like the feeling before a thunderstorm, an itchy uncomfortable heaviness. Battle loomed, everyone could feel it. You could smell it on the wind.

From time to time we had reports from the east, where King Philip was still knocking away ponderously at the thick screen of castles guarding the marches. The French army would occasionally besiege a small castle, the sort of isolated tower only defended by a couple of knights and two dozen men-at-arms, eventually either taking it or being forced to withdraw when one of King John’s mobile relief forces arrived. But they made little progress. Château Gaillard stood like an iron mountain at the centre of the defences of eastern Normandy, a mighty rock occasionally lapped by the tides of Philip’s armies but never submerged, and as long as King John held that puissant bastion, Philip and his barons could not get a firm grip on the duchy. It was an almost impregnable stronghold – as I knew well, for I had been Château Gaillard’s castellan for a few months some years previously. King Richard had lavished much labour and many riches upon it and, as well as choosing the perfect position high on a crag overlooking the Seine valley, he had designed layer upon layer of defences that would keep even the most determined aggressor at bay. He and Philip had traded words and worse over its construction. The King of France boasted that he could take it, if he so wished, even if its walls were made of iron; King Richard retorted that he could defend it, even if its walls were made of butter. And, it was true, Philip’s army might capture a lonely fort or two along the borderlands, but they did not dare to attack Château Gaillard – the Iron Castle.

I had not realised how far my spirits had been pressed down by the monotony of life in the Falaise garrison until one day in the middle of July. I was waiting in the great hall to report to Lord de Burgh about a routine patrol out to the Brittany border. I had been served a cup of wine and was waiting for the attention of the castellan, who was busy with his bailiff, when there was a flurry of activity as Sir Benedict Malet clattered up the stairs calling shrilly, ‘My lord, my lord!’ He burst into the hall, followed by two burly sergeants hauling on the arms of a terrified fellow in tattered leather armour, who was clearly their prisoner.

‘I have come to report a severe case of insubordination, my lord,’ said Benedict.

‘Yes?’ Lord de Burgh looked up from the parchment he had been poring over.

‘This fellow has been grossly insolent. He insulted me!’

‘How so?’ De Burgh seemed irritated by the interruption.

‘He … he…’ I saw that Benedict was blushing and reluctant to speak.

‘Speak up, Benedict. Don’t waste my time.’

‘He made mock of me in front of his fellow men-at-arms.’

‘What exactly did he say? Come on, spit it out, man.’

‘He called me … he called me “Sir Eats-a-lot” and made noises like a … like a giant pig feeding. I happened to be passing by the barracks when he and his fellows were drinking ale and heard this disgraceful insolence with my own ears. I want him punished, my lord, severely punished. I won’t have my own men laughing at me.’

I was trying not to laugh myself. I took a deep swig of my wine.

‘Well, he is under your command, you have the right to punish him, if you truly think his crime merits it.’

At that moment a loud snort of laughter escaped me that, most unfortunately, might have been interpreted as the noise a hog makes at the trough. Sir Eats-a-lot looked over at me, his eyes murderous, his face flushed a purplish red.

‘You have something to say, sell-sword?’ Benedict stared at me like a madman.

‘Oh no, Sir Benedict, it is just that
this wine
went down the wrong pipe.’

‘The swine? You mock me too!’ He took a step towards me, hand on hilt.

‘Peace, Benedict, peace,’ said de Burgh. ‘Sir Alan meant no insult. Did you?’

‘No, indeed, my lord,’ I said, my face a mask of solemnity.

‘Very well,’ said de Burgh. ‘Benedict, I suggest you give your funny-man his punishment and allow me to return to my labours.’

Benedict was still glaring at me. He half-turned away towards the prisoner.

‘I will teach you to laugh at your betters,’ he said, and I was not entirely sure if he was speaking to me or his wretched man-at-arms. Then he said, curtly, ‘Day after tomorrow. At dawn. Nose slit, tongue cut off, ears cropped, and after his just punishment, he is to be expelled from the garrison without pay. Take him to the cells to think about his insolence – and the reward it has brought him.’

The prisoner gave a moan of absolute horror, before the guards dragged him from the hall, and I heard his desperate shouts echoing up the stairwell long after he and his two captors had disappeared.

‘Benedict,’ I said, crossing the room towards him, ‘come now, man, that was unduly harsh. Surely, it was only a soldier’s crude jest—’

‘
You
do not speak to me about this matter.’ Benedict was still furious. He waved a shaking finger at me then turned on his heel and left the hall.

I turned to Hubert de Burgh. ‘My lord, surely this is grossly unjust.’

But de Burgh was not interested. ‘Sir Alan, this is not your concern. That man served under Sir Benedict, and my nephew has the right to punish him in any way he chooses, save by the taking of his life. I cannot interfere – how would you like it if I oversaw how you disciplined your men? He will be punished for his insolence, and that is an end to it. Now, if it please you, I must get on with my accounts.’

He turned back to his parchments and his waiting bailiff.

I was appalled but there was nothing I could do. Worse, it seemed my own teasing of Benedict had made matters harder for the prisoner.

The next day, summoned for a feast at noon, I was standing by the window in the great hall, looking out over the pretty town of Falaise. My mood was black. I was bored and lonely and I felt guilty about the poor man in the stinking dungeon below my feet. What was I doing in Normandy? The war was a sham. The enemy were far away. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere doing garrison duty in the midst of men who despised me – and whom I despised – and for what? For Westbury? I should beg Robin for another loan to feed my villagers, and go home. I was just pondering some comfort I could bring the wretch below before his sentence was carried out, a kind word, a meal, a drink of wine infused with poppy juice for the coming pain, perhaps, when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘Greetings, Sir Alan, how wonderful to see you again. But what is it? You look awfully grim. Is everything all right?’

I turned and looked into the lovely face of Tilda Giffard, who was smiling up at me with her blue-grey eyes. I felt something turn over in my belly at the sight of her, and, for a moment, it was as if I had no wind in my lungs. Then I beamed, all thoughts of returning home and of the wretch in the dungeon below my feet forgotten. I was so pleased to see her that I was within an inch of throwing my arms around her and hugging her to my chest. But, thank God, I did not. Instead, I said much more formally than I meant, ‘Lady Tilda, what a great pleasure to see you. I didn’t know you were in Normandy. And what brings you to Falaise?’

‘Oh, Daddy has been at the castle at Avranches for months now, keeping the border against the savage Bretons. He recently had fresh news from his scouts…’

Her voice had the same smoky timbre that I remembered well. And her lovely eyes sparkled with mischief. I had thought of her from time to time since our meeting in Nottingham, mostly at night alone in my blankets when my troubles kept me awake, but she had been very far from the forefront of my imagination. Seeing her now was like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud. She looked perfect: her hair black as midnight under a stark white headdress; white skin and blood-red lips; a few delicate locks hanging before the perfect swirl of her ears; a long, slim neck and a hard, determined chin; her body encased in a tight gown of some shimmering white material that emphasised the narrowness of her waist and the inviting swell of her breasts …

I realised I was staring at her chest and lifted my eyes guiltily.

‘…and so we came here to pay our respects to Lord de Burgh, and of course to take council over this news from Brittany.’