By Right of Arms (2 page)

She looked over the vast de Pourvre demesne, the lush green hills of spring. The wind at the high citadel tore at her hair and gown, and tears glistened in her eyes. Guillaume held her elbow, more out of affection than assistance. “How is the wall manned?” she asked softly.

“Archers, madame,” he returned, his voice low and coarse. “We have no other means.”

“They carry the English banner of Edward,” she stated flatly. She turned and looked up at the seneschal’s hard gray eyes. “They come to fight and they number one hundred or more. Guillaume, are we already fallen?”

“We are not so well fixed as they, but we have the bridge and wall and we have not endured days of battle, as I suspect they have.”

Aurélie turned her gaze back to the sight of the army, already topping the farthest knoll and moving cautiously toward De la Noye. The banner was carried ahead of them and the troops were positioned in a large arrowhead shape, the shields of the horsed knights fixed toward the outside to protect the inside of the V, where their leader rode. Marching archers banked the riding knights and behind the troop they pulled mangonels on wheels, for hurling large stones or burning missiles. Foot soldiers pulled weapons and battering rams on carts at the rear. The slow convergence at midmorning did not speak of weariness, but of astute battle-consciousness. Had they been less than completely confident, they would have charged the wall in the dark of night or have used some other method of surprise.

“Send someone to meet them,” she instructed.

“My lady?” Guillaume questioned.

“Let us learn their intention before they reach our door, Guillaume. If they kill my messenger, we will cover the walls and parapets and fight, though all of us will die before the day is out. But since their approach is so brazen, perhaps there is another way. Send a rider at once. I will wait here.”

Her eyes did not move from the English forces and she held her hands clasped tightly before her. Guillaume hesitated but a moment before doing her bidding, and then he moved quickly from her side to find a messenger.

As Aurélie watched the advance her heart threatened to break with their every step. She had prayed hard for Giles when he rode to battle, for he was not as soldier-wise as his father had been. The old Sire de Pourvre had been powerful with his lance and sword; a fearsome and well-known knight. He had been dead now ten years. Giles, his only son, was more scholar than soldier, his religion being his consuming passion and his knightly skills lacking. He was weak in battle. Two things had saved them this long: the money that King Philip had accepted in lieu of arms when he was still alive, and the stout army that the old Sire had left behind. Giles would not have taken up arms even yet, but King John II had commanded the gathering of forces just after Christmas. Giles had to fight or allow his family estate to be confiscated. Sadly, Aurélie knew it had not been for France or De la Noye that Giles went to war, but because he had no choice. “I may die upon the field or be executed as a traitor,” he had said to her upon leaving.

She tried to believe that Giles was safe and would arrive soon, but the dagger of fear penetrated her mind. To lose Giles and De la Noye in one thrust of a lance seemed more than any mortal woman could bear. Yet this dreadful possibility had loomed on their horizon for a long time. England wanted Guienne, their Aquitaine. Edward had launched total war upon the land, chevachie, the tactic of winning the king through the people by so depleting the countryside of booty, life, stock, and land, that there was no further source of revenue with which to raise armies. Calais had fallen nine years before and it was said that the English left nothing living or standing there. De la Noye was already weak from debts and deaths, for Giles had spent too much money buying freedom from war and benefices to assure his own eternal peace.

Giles should have been born to another family; he would have been happier as a monk or priest. His Church spending allowed no extra money to fortify their men-at-arms.

Aurélie had been delivered to this manse as a nine-year-old chaperoned bride with a heavy dower purse from her Flemish father. The marriage took place and the dowry was given to the Sire de Pourvre, the vows to be consummated when Aurélie and Giles reached maturity. Two years later the old Sire had died and Aurélie had grown up with her husband. It was all she knew and held dear. Giles suffered the ridicule of many, but he was the only man to whom she had ever been close.

She heard the sound of the bridge as it was lowered before she could see any change in the scenery. Within moments a single rider carrying the de Pourvre banner rode alone toward the advancing army and the English slowed to a stop. As she watched, she prayed, not for victory, for that was impossible. “Holy Mother of God, let us live.”

Guillaume came up beside her and again took her elbow in his large, strong hand. She did not look at him, for if she saw fear on his face, she too would weaken. She licked her wind-dried lips and held her jaw tight, waiting.

The rider stopped ahead of the army and the knights separated to let their leader advance. Only a few words could have been exchanged when Aurélie saw the English leader draw out and raise his broadsword. The metal flashed in the sunlight. She gasped in sudden terror. She expected to see her messenger’s head roll upon the turf, but instead she saw the English knight dismount and plunge his broadsword into the ground. The messenger turned and began riding back to the castle, while the English army held fast behind their leader.

Aurélie looked at Sir Guillaume. “The English bastard is confident,” he growled.

“He can well afford his confidence, Guillaume,” she replied somewhat sadly. “Let us see what he demands.”

The distance from the tower to the courtyard was great and Aurélie arrived just as the gate was opening for her messenger. She was satisfied to see that Guillaume had sent one of their strongest archers and not a boy who might, in fear, have garbled the message. The man fell to one knee before Sir Guillaume and Aurélie. She braced herself for the news.

“The Sire de Pourvre has fallen, my lady,” he reported. “Dead by the English blade. ’Tis Sir Hyatt Laidley, knight of Edward, who claims De la Noye by right of arms.”

Aurélie felt her stomach jump up to swallow her heart and a dull gray began to envelop her. She swayed slightly against Guillaume, but would not let herself swoon. In her soul she screamed—
Giles! My Giles, my husband! My beloved friend.
But she straightened and lifted her chin, holding back the painful tears she wished to shed.

“Are there survivors?” she asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

“Some, madame. They travel toward us under English guard. There are more of the English than those. This army is only his advance. This knight, Laidley, will hold his troops until you are given word of your husband’s death. He says it is his intention to offer you decent retirement for yourself and …” He paused a moment and then, looking down, continued, “Yourself and your heirs, if you will surrender the hall and lands.”

Aurélie’s pain was like the point of a dagger; her eyes brightened with tears. “Did you tell the English bastard that the lady of this hall is barren and has no heir?” she asked bitterly.

The messenger did not bother to answer but simply looked to the dirt at his feet. Aurélie had asked the question knowing full well that none of her people would speak personally of her, most especially to a conquering force. “My lady, I pray you beware; he carries the bend sinister on his shield. He is a bastard true.”

Aurélie gave a short, bitter laugh and turned her watering eyes to Sir Guillaume. “Mother of Christ, there are so many bastards born.” Her knees threatened to give way and spill her to the ground. She felt Guillaume’s hand move to her waist to hold her. He feared that she was becoming distraught. What matter her absence of children when her life and all the lives within her walls faced desperate peril?

“Fetch Perrine,” Guillaume commanded over his shoulder, holding Aurélie upright, trying to give strength. The command from the seneschal was sobering. She knew Guillaume called for her woman to have her taken away and tended, and however grieving her heart, she meant to command her walls until they were hers no longer.

“Why does this bastard knight delay his attack?” she asked the messenger.

“He says his armies are well paid and he does not wish to break down his own walls to have his booty. He stabbed the ground with his sword and promised that if the gate does not open to him when the shadow cast by his sword is gone, he will take the castle. He bade me hurry the message that the choice of life or death is yours, my lady.”

“Guillaume …”

“By God’s bones, I would rather die on the English blade than abide his chains,” the seneschal growled.

“How many would you sacrifice?” she asked him in a whisper.

“How do we know the vermin will allow us life if we lay down our arms and bid him welcome?” the knight retorted hotly.

Aurélie loved Guillaume well and had known and trusted him for over a decade. He was a wise and noble man who would not lightly abuse the men entrusted to him. But he was proud as well and could not easily give over this domain.

In truth, Guillaume was more the knight of the old Sire and had suffered in trying to serve the young, religious heir. He had never before faced a choice such as this.

“You saw for yourself, Sir Guillaume. They have a greater force than we. And ours are dead or captured.”

“Do we believe him then, my lady?” he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Do you see our men-at-arms?” she countered.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Aurélie could not find reason in the knight’s eyes and he could not find the power for war in the soft blue of hers. Yet, of all the people housed in De la Noye, these two were by far the bravest. Guillaume had served here for over thirty years, ever since he was a young and hot-tempered warrior. Aurélie, having come to this place as a child bride, had learned to be the strong ruler her sensitive and cowardly husband was not. Although she had a gentle tongue and graceful step, she moved quickly through this massive keep to see her quietest command followed or her punishment meted out.

Aurélie turned to the messenger. “Go again to the English swine and ask him for the full measure of his shadow, so that the Sire de Pourvre’s widow might hear a mass for her husband’s soul. Tell him I request this above any civil retirement he offers. If he has not the honor to allow me this brief mercy, let him attack and win De la Noye at the cost of some of his men.” And in a quieter voice, she added, “If Giles is dead, the wall is
mine.”

The man nodded and mounted his horse again. Aurélie raised her arm to the guard, giving her consent to open the doors again.

“My lady, I know your grief is deep, but a mass for Sir Giles could …”

“Sir Guillaume, my lord husband might wish a mass and my mourning in lieu of every other thing, but we cannot oblige him this time. Come and let us quickly ready the hall. Our time is short and I will not see that English snake slither about my halls in my husband’s linen. We must burn his accounts and clothes and hide what little money there is. Give your men their orders to hold the gate against the Englishman until we are ready.”

“And you will bid him enter, lady?”

“You will forgive me one day, dear Guillaume. I cannot waste more life in a futile battle that will only reduce our beloved De la Noye to ashes. The Black Prince has left naught but rubble and death in his path and he will not cease. Yea, I will invite the devil in, but I do not surrender yet. If but one of us is left alive, he will find his new conquest more a burden than a prize.”

* * *

The castlefolk somberly moved through the tasks that were assigned to them. There had been deprivation, sorrow, and fear within the halls of De la Noye, for the fighting had been close and Sir Giles had clung to his estate by the weakest rule since his father’s death. The threat from England had worsened, for Edward had a foothold in Guienne and Gascony and sympathy from Flanders. Indeed, much of Flanders wore the English wool on their backs and the English drank good French wine. King Edward had made it clear he wanted complete sovereignty, a right he boasted through his mother. He was attempting to control the Channel and the Bay of Biscay and had many victories to his credit. The de Pourvre army was weak and weary. In a mood of resignation, the servants and soldiers saw the beginning of the great change of command that had been coming for a long time. Some hid their relief at not having to fight behind the sadness and mourning that came with the loss of De la Noye to an Englishman. Aurélie knew that not many would mourn Giles.

There was a cautious and watchful surprise throughout as the English knight held back his army for the full course of two hours.

Aurélie unlocked her husband’s bedchamber. In the anteroom he kept his accounts and a box of money. The hearths in the hall and cookrooms burned bright as the Sire de Pourvre’s records, letters, and clothing fed them. The portion of Giles’s belongings that Aurélie most vehemently wished destroyed was the monk’s habits that her husband often wore. She wouldn’t share with this English foe Giles’s peculiar obsession with his faith. The small amount of silver that was stored in Giles’s coffer was distributed in seven different hiding places, none of which were close to the lord and lady’s chambers.

Madame de Pourvre walked through her own chambers in a numbness that worried her woman, Lady Perrine. The young widow touched each piece of furniture she passed with an affection one would show a child or favored pet. She quietly asked her maids to fill her coffers with her clothing and sentimental items. She would beg the English conqueror to allow her retirement to her father’s demesne in Flanders. She dressed herself in the black she had worn for the mourning of Giles’s father and pulled her hair away from her face to be hidden under a black shawl. All jewelry but the ring bearing the de Pourvre crest was packed away.

Perrine watched her mistress with pain and doubt. Guillaume was Perrine’s husband, and the two had been close at hand since the marriage of Giles and Aurélie, through the death of the old lord and during the ensuing hard times. They cared for the young couple as though they were their own children. At the news that Giles was slain, Perrine had cried her helpless tears, but Aurélie did not give in. Her stoic mien and slow, agonized movements, with an army camped on her stoop, confused Perrine. She had begun to fear her mistress was losing her sanity.