Roselynde (63 page)

"Mary help me," Simon groaned softly. "It is harder
to lie stiff and still than to fight all day. Bring the torch here." He
gestured and the prisoner was turned toward him. He shook his head. "He
knows me, but I do not know him. You need not die," he said directly to
the man, "if you will obey me. I am the rightful master here, as you must
know. I do not think anyone will hear you if you shout, but if you raise your
voice, you will die. Very well, Rolf, let go his mouth."

Simon's master-at-arms, garbed somewhat uncomfortably in the
messenger's clothing, relaxed his grip, but his knife hand pricked his captive
in warning.

"Where are Lady Alinor's men?" Simon asked.

"Down below." Far from shouting, the reply was scarcely
more than a whisper. The man's eyes flickered from the blood-clotted garments
to the strange gray waxen expressionlessness of Simon's face. He knew there
were men you could not kill. The strong spirit held the dead body to its task,
and such spirits could make slaves of living men. He was shuddering
convulsively.

"Are they guarded? By how many?" Simon asked.

"No. No guards."

It was probably true. What need for guards when escape was through
a four-inch-thick, iron-bound door opening into a stairwell that led into a
Great Hall filled with enemies.

"The men first," Simon said after a moment's struggle
with himself. Every fiber of him cried out to go to Alinor at once, but he knew
they might need the extra men-at-arms should they be discovered.

The master of the guard whimpered like a sick child. His eyes,
bulging as if they would fall from his head, were fixed upon Simon's mouth,
where the gray flesh around the bluish lips was cracking. Both lips and cheeks
looked rotted, as if they would begin to fall away and expose the grinning jaws
of a skeleton. The man was no coward. He had fought in more than one battle.
But to face the walking dead was more than he could bear.

"Hugo," Simon said to another of the men-at-arms,
"into his clothes. You are close to his size."

The exchange was swiftly made and they bound and gagged the
terrified creature and left him. The torch was doused and the eight men crept
up the outer stair. Hugo stepped into the Great Hall cautiously, turned right
toward the stairwell of the keep as Simon had bid him. Once he stumbled over
the feet of a man asleep on a pallet and was cursed. Hugo replied angrily in a
harsh whisper that he supposed the sleeper never pissed, and was cursed again
but in a sleepy unsuspicious voice. The other men, forewarned, tiptoed
carefully around the extended feet. In the stairwell all stopped to breathe and
wipe the sweat from their brows. After the first turn of the stair shielded
them from the Hall, they paused while Rolf extracted flint and tinder from a
pouch and lighted the torch again.

There was no trouble finding Beorn and his ten men-at-arms or
releasing them from their confinement. Beorn was nearly insane between rage and
shame at having been caught unaware. He began to explain, apologize, and ask
about his mistress all at once, but Simon cut him off.

"No blame to you in a keep where you have been welcomed with
honesty so often, and there is no time for talk now."

Beorn, having come closer, gasped suddenly. "My lord, my
lord, you are sore wounded!" He put out an arm, as if to catch, Simon if
he should fall.

Sir Giles laughed again. "If I lose my keep, I can have
employment as a dresser to traveling players. You, too, my lord. You make a most
excellent corpse."

Simon did not reply. He was too tense to see the joke. He pushed
away Beorn's hand, saying gruffly that nothing ailed him. Until Alinor was safe
in his arms, nothing would amuse or interest Simon. He ordered the men curtly
to arm themselves from the stores in the outer chamber and turned to climb the
stairs again. Sir Giles hurried after him, but Simon said he would go alone.
One man in the women's quarters might be that filthy lecher John; more than one
would raise an outcry. He did not know whether that was true; he simply could
not endure that anyone should see him if harm had come to Alinor, or see their
meeting.

Halfway up the stairs he stopped. If Alinor was not in the chamber
she had been given when he was last at Kingsclere with her and he walked in
upon Lady Grisel— He freed the knife from his belt sheath. That would be a
pleasure.

There was no question, however, of what chamber Alinor was in. A
huge, makeshift bar had been fastened across the outside of one door. Simon
stood there for a moment, so shaken with rage that he could not command his
body. Then it was a torment to inch it up bit by bit so there would be no
sound. The weight startled him. Did they fear that slender child would burst
through the door? The thought brought a vivid picture of Alinor flinging
herself helplessly against the unyielding wood, and Simon had to wait for the
trembling of his body to subside again.

If she bore a bruise, a single bruise, he would take Kingsclere
Keep down stone by stone if needful to get at those within. Slowly he lifted
the latch, slid inside, and closed the door again. In the doorway he needed to
stop to bite back a sob of relief. She slept peacefully, drawing deep, even
breaths. Simon trod swiftly across the room and placed a hand gently over his
wife's lips.

Both of them had cause to thank God that he came armored. Her
knife stroke was so hard, so swift, that the point pierced the mail and left a
long scratch on his throat. An unarmed man would have died in seconds.

"Alinor!" he gasped.

The knife flew from her hand.

"Alinor, do not cry out," Simon whispered and released
her mouth.

Her eyes were screaming, although no sound came from her. Her
hands flew first to his throat, where a drop or two of red welled between the
links of the chain mail, then to his bloody clothing, then to his face from
which they recoiled.

"Wax," Simon whispered. "It is wax. The blood is
not mine. Alinor, by the heart of God, I swear I am not hurt. Never mind why I
look like this. Only come away now and be silent. We must get out before some
mischance wakes the castlefolk."

She rose at once although her eyes were still not sane.
"Beorn? My men?" she whispered.

"Below, awaiting us."

She threw on clothing, not bothering to lace or tie, grabbed a cloak.
"My maids, Simon. I cannot leave them to be the sport of that creature's
troops."

Simon ground his teeth, but Alinor was already gone. To the credit
of her training and their terror of their mistress, the maids were ready in
minutes, unquestioning, frightened but mute and obedient. She did not give them
time to become more frightened by Simon's appearance but drove them before her,
hissing threats of what would befall them if one single sound escaped their
lips. They would be still. They knew their mistress. She did not utter vain
threats and she looked now as if she would kill for amusement.

The door to the stair was still open as Simon had left it. He
closed it gently behind him, felt in his belt pouch, thrust a coin between the
latch and the lifter. What the women did now would not matter. Their screams
probably would not be heard and they could not get out until freed from this
side. He had thought of replacing the bar at Alinor's door so that her escape
would be concealed, but he had been afraid he could not do it silently enough
in the dark. Below him there was a single sob, a sharp hiss, and renewed
silence.

When they reached the forebuilding, they all stopped to breathe.
Simon held Alinor against him, just held her, not speaking, not thinking. They
all knew the worst was yet to come. Ali- nor stood passively within his arms,
realizing they were both very close to death in this moment. If she permitted
herself to return his embrace, to feel anything at all, the mad terror that was
working in her brain would precipitate their destruction.

It was she who said, "Let us go, Simon."

The voice was low and steady. It did not sound like the voice of a
madwoman, but Alinor was very little removed from that. She could endure no
more waiting, no more fear. For over a week she had lived with the vision of
Simon with a dead, gray face in blood-spattered mail. She had been wakened by
her own nightmare; her dead husband stood before her in torn and blood-soaked
garments with gray flesh, stiff and cold as clay. What he had said to her,
except the order for silence, she had not understood; however, dead or alive,
if Simon wanted her she would follow him.

"Give us a count of three hundred," Simon said to Rolf
and Hugo. "Then start your part. Now, Beorn, you know this place best.
Lead on to the stables."

The moon was set, but there was an odd gray light in the sky—false
dawn. Beorn slipped out of the forebuilding and around to the left, keeping
close against the wall. One by one the others followed, Simon, against all
reason, holding Alinor by the hand. There was an open area between the keep and
the stables. Beorn paused. Sir Giles came up to him. Both stared toward the
wall where the dim light occasionally showed a brighter flash as a guard moved.
Neither could determine which way the guard faced. They could only hope he did
his duty and looked outward for enemies rather than looking in to where rest
and warmth lay.

Sir Giles slipped across the open space, his bare sword in his
hand. Another followed, then another. No sound came from the stables beyond the
restless stamping and snorting of the horses. The guard on the wall ignored
them aside from muttering that the devil had got into the beasts this night. He
had called down twice already to ask if something was wrong and had been answered
that it was nothing. The beasts sensed that there was death in the keep.

There certainly was. The guardsman and two stableboys were dead.
The third boy, tightly gagged, was covered with sweat despite the cold. He had
been working at full speed, urged by the bare blade of Simon's man, who had
already killed the others. Twenty horses were already saddled and bridled. The
boy's eyes bulged with additional terror now, but Simon ordered that he be
bound and not killed. With Alinor close under his arm it was easy to be
merciful. Some men-at-arms swiftly saddled the other horses that would be
needed. Others cut every rein and saddle girth they could find. Alinor's maids
were lifted to ride pillion behind the two men-at-arms. Simon placed Alinor on
her own mount, pulled her toward him for a brief kiss.

"As soon as the drawbridge goes down and the portcullis up,
ride over. Ride south, toward Roselynde. You will find a camp with your men and
mine."

"Yes, Simon," she whispered.

They were fortunate. The guard on the wall was so dulled by the
stamping of the horses that nearly half of them were out in the bailey before
the regularity of the sound roused his suspicions and made him turn.

Then he shouted an alarm; his crossbow, hastily snatched up, sent
a bolt crashing among them.

"Oh, my God!" Simon screamed. He wheeled his horse, came
up to Alinor's, snatched her from her saddle into his. "Down," he
urged her, "Keep your head below my shield edge."

Obediently she bent her head. Covered on one side by Simon's
shield and on the other by the bulk of his body, she was safe from any misaimed
shaft. She did not think of that, but clutching his body for stability gave
evidence of his warmth and his strong, easy movement. No dead man could be warm
as that. Not even Simon could move so lithely if he had been rent and torn like
his armor and surcoat.

More cries of alarm sounded. Beorn rode up on one side of Simon,
Sir Giles on the other. More men clattered out of the stable. One snatched up
the loose reins of Alinor's horse. Another crossbow bolt whizzed among them.
They set spurs to their horses, faces grim. If Rolf and Hugh did not accomplish
their purpose, they could not get out. They would all die. A small group of
men, half armed, rushed from the forebuilding to block their path. Beorn roared
an order. Alinor's men-at-arms shrieked with satisfaction and fell upon the men
from the castle, cursing their unfamiliar weapons but glad to redeem a trifle
of their honor.

They won past that group, but other men were now pouring from outbuildings
and a flicker of torchlight could be seen from the Great Hall and the wall
rooms of the keep. A shouting troop charged; a horse screamed and fell; the
man-at-arms mounted on it rolled to his feet, cursing. Two companions surged
forward driving the attackers back while he struggled onto another horse. Simon
roared blasphemies. He had never felt so helpless in his life. He could not
lead his men or fight with them or even properly protect himself while he held
Alinor, yet he would not relinquish her to anyone else.

Suddenly above the tolling alarm bell and the screaming men there
came a crash that shook the whole keep. Simon's troop cried aloud with joy and
spurred forward more eagerly. The drawbridge was down and, from the sound of
it, the chain or wheel had been broken. It would not be lightly lifted again.
Not that their troubles were over. The portcullis still had to be lifted, and
that could not be done by breaking a wheel or chain. That had to be wound up
and the winch guarded until the last man was through.

Sixteen men on horses were no trifle, even when three were
incapacitated by female burdens, particularly when they were filled with
righteous wrath. Slashing and hacking, they made their way to the gate against
increasing opposition. Here they formed a rough semicircle with Sir Giles at
point. Rolf and Hugo at once abandoned the defense of the tower and leapt to
the winch of the portcullis. Simon clutched Alinor to him once convulsively,
bent his head to kiss her. His lips, finally freed of wax, were warm and
tender.