Authors: Roberta Gellis
Telor was more relieved than startled when Ann almost ran into him. After he had been wakened by what he thought was Carys’s voice, he had rubbed some life back into his aching arms, and watching carefully for any who might pass the shed and look in, he hefted, struck with, and whirled his quarterstaff to warm away the stiffness in his muscles. When he heard the summons to dinner, he withdrew into the shadows while the armed men and most of the servants crowded into the hall. After the cooks and their helpers had carried in the food, Telor came to the entrance of the shed again and leaned there, waiting tensely for the first alarm to sound. He did not know how he would get to Orin in the press of men who would rush out when the call to arms came, but if he were close, God might favor him with space and time to strike.
But no call to arms came, and the heavens opened for a third time. Telor waited; with the windows shuttered, he could hear nothing from within the hall. The rain ended, and still no one stirred. That seemed odd; Telor would have thought that Orin would seize on the dry period to get some work out of his men. Not having much to think about—except dying, which was not a favorite subject—Telor occupied his mind with speculation about this puzzle until he suddenly remembered that male voice saying they would
enjoy
themselves better when they were not soaked.
The blood around Telor’s heart congealed.
Enjoy
was not a word that applied to training. A performance! Carys’s voice! He stood for one moment, paralyzed by the emotional impact of terror, fury, and love, and then came out of the shed in a leap, only to check himself, knowing he must not increase her danger by bursting into the hall and acting like a madman. He stopped just in time, a few feet back from the corner, as Orin’s men began to come out of the hall on the heels of the musicians. The lute and drums identified the players, and as Telor realized he had never seen either of them before, the pressure in his chest eased. He grew tense again when he saw one of the musicians pointing to a projecting beam of the stable and another man, carrying a rope, looking up.
It was because Telor was looking up too that he did not see the dwarf girl come around the corner and became aware of her only when he heard her sharply indrawn breath. She was gone before he could speak, but she left relief behind. Telor had seen Ann only briefly on the night he had arrived in Lechlade, and many more important things had overlaid her image—even her existence—in his mind. Thus her face was only vaguely familiar, and Telor thought he must have seen her at some fair or in some town. Carys could not be involved, he decided. Even if a troupe had come into Lechlade, there was no way she could have convinced them to play in a manor like Marston. They would have laughed at her with Creklade so close and so much more profitable. Their presence must be an accident owing to their need to find shelter from the rain.
The conclusion made way for a more important idea. Orin’s men had come out of the hall, but Orin had not. Telor drew a long breath. Orin must be alone or with only a few men. Telor straightened the slouched posture he had worn as part of his disguise and stepped forward—just as, from the west wall, a guard bellowed, “Ware! Ware! Take arms! We are beset! Ware! Arms!”
The bailey erupted into action, group leaders shouting for men to go to the west wall, yelling at those who had not been wearing hauberks or gambesons for training to put on their fighting gear and take weapons. Three men rushed into the hall as Orin’s voice bellowed from the doorway for his captains and his armor. Orin’s voice was retreating even as the last words were spoken, and Telor started forward, his heart pounding with excitement. There could not be many in the hall, perhaps as few as five or six. Not the best odds, but better than a whole bailey full of armed and aroused men. And there were walls in the hall to put his back against, and tables, stools, and benches to overturn. Besides, Telor thought desperately, it would be his only chance now. He could not hope to get at Orin once he was fighting on the palisade.
Telor charged around the corner only to collide forcefully with the shoulder of a man bursting out of the door. Both fell back, Telor so hard that the breath was knocked out of him. The other, pushed into the door frame, roared with rage and drew his sword, but he did no more than swipe ill-temperedly at Telor, who deflected the blow with his staff. Orin’s henchman did not strike again but ran off across the bailey, having more important things to think about than a clumsy serf.
***
Once Ann was safe outside, Carys moved quietly along the wall toward the two men, who were still talking. She moved slowly but not surreptitiously, her head bent as if she were looking at the ground for any small thing of value that might have been dropped during the excitement over her dance. This behavior was too typical of players to arouse suspicion. She drew close, still unnoticed, wondering if she dared go on behind Orin. There had been no tables there. The man with Orin nodded and started to get up. Carys froze, her hand tightening on her knife, but before she could move, a voice cried “Ware! Ware!”
Carys did not listen for the rest as Orin leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over, thrusting the table out of his way, and rushing toward the door yelling. She jumped for the nearest post and scrambled up it. The man who had been talking with Orin rushed to the screened-off area behind the dais and came out carrying Orin’s mail and sword. Tears rose in Carys’s eyes. Her knife would be useless against the armor. Then three more men rushed into the chamber. While Orin struggled into his hauberk, he ordered two to lead their men to the west palisade, and then, as a new shout of alarm was heard, told only one man to go. That one rushed out. Another ran back toward the screened area while Orin belted on his sword. He glanced back but did not wait, walking quickly toward the doorway with the other two following him.
As Orin stepped outside, the man came out from behind the screen. Carys crouched on the beam, watching, wondering where Telor was. She had assumed that he must be hiding, but surely the sound of the attack would draw him out. As if in answer to the thought, a clamor broke out just beyond the doorway and a voice she could not mistake for any other cried, “For Eurion!”
Carys did not turn her head. Drawing breath with a hiss, she pulled out her knife and stood upright, prepared to run along the beam and launch herself onto the back of Orin’s man when he passed under her. She would kill him. That would make one less for Telor to fight.
The man, who was holding a helmet in one hand and a large shield in the other, seemed at first to be walking more slowly than the situation demanded, but at Telor’s shout he started to run. Carys crouched a little and leaned forward, ready to jump—but he never passed under the beam. A step or two back, he uttered a strangled cry, doubled over, and began to vomit violently. For a heartbeat, Carys teetered, staring at him in incomprehension. Then her eyes widened, and she tucked the knife back into its sheath. Ann! When had that little devil poisoned the food? She had seen Ann eating everything they did, and she would not herself eat poison. But this was no time to think of that; under the tension and loathing of preparing to kill, a terrible fear was writhing into life in Carys. Although she tried not to know it, she was aware that she had heard Telor’s voice only once.
She ran across to the nearer post and climbed down, intending to take at least one man out of the battle against Telor, but the victim was struggling upright from his hands and knees, getting one foot under him and preparing to rise. Carys clicked her tongue in irritation. Ann had not poisoned them, only made them sick. Catching at a stool as she ran, she hit him with all her strength. He fell forward, and Carys stood poised to strike again, but he lay still.
Telor, who thought his arms would fail as he blocked the sword blow directed at him, was just struggling to his knees when Orin himself stepped out of the doorway with two men on his heels—one man wearing a helmet and the other bareheaded with red hair. The sight of Eurion’s murderer caused a burst of rage that wiped away all Telor’s sense of pain and fear and indecision. He was on his feet without knowing how and swung his staff forward to push away the red-haired man, who was nearest him. Telor did not see that man as a danger to him; he was aware of him only as an obstruction separating him from Eurion’s killer. He thrust away that obstruction with such force that the man fell back into the doorway.
Before he could strike again with it Telor had to pull the staff back, and in that moment both Orin and the helmeted man had drawn their swords, but Telor saw nothing but Orin. Being closer, Orin lashed out—carelessly, contemptuously, amazed and annoyed at being attacked by an unarmed, ragged old man and confident that a single sword stroke would cut him down. But Telor had leapt back and the blade slid by him, so close that the point plucked at a fold of his tunic. Telor was indifferent to the threat; he had not retreated out of fear but because there was a certain distance at which the crushing power of the quarterstaff was greatest. The distance achieved, Telor raised the staff to strike, baring his body to Orin’s backswing.
“For Eurion!” he bellowed.
Surprise stiffened Orin, checking his step forward and the backswing of his sword. In that brief instant, Telor’s iron-shod staff came down on the side of his head. Through all the noise in the bailey, Telor heard—or believed he heard—the crack of bone. He saw the staff sink deep into Orin’s head, popping an eye out of its socket, mashing ear, cheek, and temple into red ruin. There was for Telor a single moment of soaring triumph, of a release as intense and exquisite as a sexual orgasm, a moment infinitely long for the soul in which Telor tasted his freedom, all debts paid, before he returned to real time in which, in the very next moment,
his
life might be forfeit.
In real time, Orin did not cry out, nor did his sword arm stop its motion. Fortunately he was falling away from Telor under the impetus of the blow that had crushed his head. Orin had died as he struck, and his hand had lost its control so that the blade turned. Had the edge stayed true, the sword would have sheared through Telor’s ribs. As it was, the blow that struck Telor was strong enough to thrust him sideways. It hurt, but it saved him from the helmeted man’s swing.
Gasping with pain, Telor brought his staff across his body, but the return stroke he had feared missed entirely. Orin had fallen between them, catching at the henchman’s feet so that for a moment he could not leap forward. The helmeted man could leap back, however, and Telor’s counterstroke also fell short. Meanwhile, the red-haired man Telor had pushed aside to strike at Orin had recovered, drawn his sword, and leapt toward Telor, shouting for help. The helmeted man was yelling with rage and moving left to circle around Orin’s body so he could take Telor from behind as the redhead attacked from the front. Telor retreated warily to keep them both in sight, knowing that if he did not get his back to a wall, very soon he would be dead. Unfortunately he had already been pushed beyond the corner of the hall, which meant he would have to turn right and move sideways before he could retreat to the side of the building. And that would soon be impossible because the redhead was rapidly coming between him and the wall.
Desperately, Telor took a quick step toward the man in the helmet, striking out viciously with the staff. He knew the blow would be parried because his opponent could guess easily what he would do and was ready, but he hoped to drive him back a little. Even as Telor swung, he was glancing to the left at the red-haired attacker. He felt the shock of the parry and strained to lift against it, both to drive the sword farther from him and to free his staff to swing in the other direction. Despite the desperate move, he had to retreat another step farther from the wall, and still he knew he was not out of reach of the man in the helmet and would be hit if he could not get his staff loose. Telor gasped in anticipation of pain, but the staff came free with surprising ease, and he was able to raise it just enough to keep the redhead’s sword from cleaving his shoulder. He was touched; there was a sense of burning, but he had no breath to cry out. Still, someone groaned as Telor drew the staff toward him a little so he could thrust sideways.
Miraculously, it seemed to Telor, he caught the redhead in the chest and pushed him away. He could not understand how that had happened, but did not question his good fortune, turning to strike again at the attacker in the helmet. The man was poised for a blow, but the sword wavered uncertainly in his hand, and his other hand was pressed against his belly. He managed to strike Telor’s staff down and away, but barely, and he could not deflect the staff far enough from him to expose Telor, who drew and thrust at him, catching him below the breastbone.
Telor knew there was not strength enough in the prod he had delivered to do much harm. He could only pray that there had been enough force behind it to drive the breath out of his attacker. He backed again, knowing each step was taking him farther and farther from the tiny measure of safety he would gain with his back to a wall, but before his foot touched the ground, a wild yell to his right jerked his head in that direction. He had one brief glimpse of the smallest man-at-arms he had ever seen flying through the air and smashing the helmeted man flat. At the same moment, Telor was struck by a huge weight and fell backward. There was a blinding pain in his head, and then nothing.
***
Just about the time Sir Walter and Sir Harold launched their attack on the west palisade, their messenger was bowing to Lord William and explaining the unfortunate circumstances that had made them late in arriving in position. Before he had finished his apologies, to which Lord William listened with indifference, a horse was heard pounding down the road at a full gallop. Lord William waved the messenger away and lifted to his lips the goblet of wine from the small table.
Although he pretended not to notice, Lord William was aware of how the messenger’s eyes had started when he saw that table, spread with white linen and holding the remains of an elaborate, if cold, dinner. It had always puzzled William mildly that nearly everyone displayed shock when he insisted on the elegancies just as firmly before going into action as when he was dining in one of his own keeps. Not that he intended to take any personal part in the recapture of Marston, but even if he did, why should he not eat at all or crouch on the ground like an animal, gnawing at a half-burned bone? He had hardly worked through the familiar thoughts when the second messenger was gasping out the news of the premature attack and the fact that Lord William’s man was launching his own assault in support from the farm.
Lord William’s lips thinned. “Harry, get that ram on the road,” he said to the mailed man standing on his right. “Send a messenger to Roger to start his attack on the south palisade as quickly as he can. Tell Guy to take my troops to the manor. They need not attack unless the other assaults have already been beaten back so badly that all Orin’s people can concentrate on destroying the ram. If there is still fighting, Guy is to form the men up—out of arrow shot, of course—but close enough that it is clear they intend to assault the gate at any moment.” He shrugged. “That may draw enough men away from the west and north to permit those assaults to remain a diversion.”
He waved off his captain and turned to the squire on his right, whose eyes were gleaming with eagerness and excitement. “Stephen, tell someone to bring my horse. I suppose I must go and watch this disaster from close by. You ride down to the river—” At the expression that crossed the young man’s face, his lips twitched. “You would not be engaged in any event, Stephen. This type of assault is no place for a mailed knight. You may come up to the manor and watch if you wish, but first you must ride to the river and see that the men I have watching are in place and alert. We must have warning if even one boat loaded with men comes ashore. Send Philip to see that the road to Creklade is being watched, and Martin is to ride out toward Lechlade and alert those men.”
“You think this is a trap, my lord?” the squire asked, frowning.
Lord William smiled. “I think everything is a trap, dear Stephen, which is why I do not fall into them, unlike my
beloved
brother Philip.”
“You suspect the minstrel?” Stephen asked, looking troubled. “I thought—”
“Do not trust innocent faces, especially when a trained voice goes with them,” Lord William said, smiling coldly. “However,” he added, “I agree with you so far that I do not believe Telor deliberately took part in any plot. I have reason to know his love for Eurion was genuine, and love is the greatest weakness a man can have. No, Telor’s reason for coming to me was to avenge Eurion—and perhaps to save something he values. But where did a minstrel come by four horses, armor and swords, and gold enough to spend freely without chaffering? Did he go to someone for help, and did that someone send him on to me?”
The squire looked appalled. “But we could be surrounded by a much larger force and—”
“Dear boy,” Lord William purred, “that is why I bade you make sure the guards at the river and on the roads are alert—so we will have good warning and can retreat if an army tries to advance upon us.” The young man turned to go, as if he was in a hurry, and Lord William called after him, “Stephen.” The squire stopped. “My horse.”
When the beautifully caparisoned horse came, however, Lord William did not mount immediately. He nibbled a bit of this and that, looking contemplatively at the horse—a magnificent animal, although it was chosen for speed and smoothness of gait rather than fighting ability. The shouts of orders and the sound of men marching disappeared, but Lord William did not move. He felt no need to be at the scene of battle, at least not before the ram could be put to use. That he wished to see with his own eyes. If the gate opened within a few blows, it would be evidence that the minstrel had done his part.
A little while later, he rode to the gates of Marston and had that evidence. The ram hit, and at once there was a sound of splintering. The second blow burst the gates open altogether, and the men who had been working the ram under the shelter of ox hides stretched over a framework grabbed their shields and weapons and ran to push the gates wider. Shouting encouragement, the rest of Lord William’s troops charged forward, but no crush of men rushed out to oppose the few who were pushing the gate, nor did the gates resist as if men behind them were trying to keep them shut.
At a safe distance, Lord William watched, his eyes growing harder and his lips thinner. Agreed that Marston was no keep and did not have the defenses of even a small motte and bailey fort; still, this was too easy. The men with the ram had hardly needed the ox-hide shield. A few ill-directed arrows had been shot at them, and a few stones had been heaved over the wall, but this pretense of a defense was ridiculous. If Orin did not intend to fight, why not cry for quarter and yield?
Was this stupid action meant to convince him that he had won something and soothe him into carelessness? Did someone who knew of his interest in Sir Richard’s library expect he would stay in the defenseless manor for at least a few days and be caught there? If so, he would be safe enough, since he intended to stay no longer than it would take to load the books and scrolls into a cart. Or would it be unwise to enter the place at all? Of course, it would be very interesting to find out who had laid this trap. Doubtless the minstrel would tell him…one way or another.
Lord William was planning with some satisfaction various ways of inducing Telor to speak if he seemed reluctant to do so when Sir Harry came riding back, laughing so hard that his horse curvetted in response to the unsteady rein. He tried twice to speak, but whooped instead so infectiously that Lord William began to smile.
“You are not usually made
this
merry by a victory,” he said. “Come, let me share the jest. I do not like to laugh before I know whether I or another is the jester.”
“I do not yet know who the jester is,” Harry said, wiping his eyes, “but I went in that gate expecting to be fallen on by ten times the number we were told would be within. I thought that weak defense was designed to draw us into a trap.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Lord William asked, “And it was not?”
Sir Harry laughed again. “No! Every man in there, except those of our own people who went in as players, is lying about spewing out his guts. If you arranged that, my lord, I wish you had told me so I would not have had my heart in my throat.”
“Spewing—” Lord William echoed, looking amazed. Then he frowned. “Do not be a fool! This is no work of mine, but had it been, you should rather curse me for telling you than complain that I did not. Would it be better for you to go in expecting no resistance and find that my trick did not work and you were unprepared for a strong attack?”
“No, my lord,” Harry muttered, knowing Lord William was right and rather ashamed of not seeing it.
But Lord William was looking past him at Marston, and his frown grew blacker. “Are many dead?” he asked, and opened his eyes wide as Harry began to roar with laughter once more.
“Only,” Harry gasped, “only…only all the leaders in the place. There was no one to tell the men-at-arms to stop fighting.”
“I have seen men-at-arms yield without being told to stop fighting,” Lord William said suspiciously, but his frown was more puzzled than angry.
Sir Harry became more sober, although he was still smiling. “They were afraid, my lord. They knew of no threat to them except from the burghers of Creklade. They thought the townsfolk and the bailiff had come to hang the rest of them, as those caught while attacking the town had been hanged. When they saw me—those who could lift up their heads—they wept with joy and begged for quarter as one fighting man to another, pleading with me not to give them to the burghers of Creklade.”