Winter Siege (13 page)

‘Whoo-hoo, lads, here come the Pharisees.’ She tossed her long red hair off her shoulders before turning her back and waggling her backside, her voice echoing around the walls. ‘Kiss my arse, gentlemen?’

The sheriff’s chamberlain, who was seeing the party off, was outraged. ‘I hope this is not what we may expect from you players tonight. We are entertaining the King,
the King
, you understand …’

It was to be a royal performance. Having endured the chamberlain’s lecture, Pan and Wan were for once cross with the girl. ‘In the name of God, Waterlily …’

She was unrepentant. ‘We-e-ll … did you see that sour-faced bugger riding the bay? Looked at me like he wanted to kill me. They’re all bloody hypocrites, them clergy.’ It was said with feeling. ‘Fuck you soon as look at you, then pray for you –
you
, not them – to be forgiven.’

The presence of Stephen, his son and heir, Prince Eustace, and a considerable force of knights, was straining the castle’s resources, which, perhaps, was why the clerics had departed from it.

The only space left for the entertainers to prepare and dress was in the sheriff’s dungeons, or rather just
one
of his dungeons, the others being full of malefactors awaiting trial. The stink emitted by the crammed cells was enhanced in theirs by the presence of Ursus, the dancing bear, who had a stomach upset, and by Harold, the fool, going into the contortions that forced air out of his anus in tuneful notes. In the face of protest, he said with dignity that he’d performed successfully for King Stephen before, had now composed a special
lai
for him, and needed to practise.

Before they left for the cleaner air upstairs, Waterlily insisted on hand-springing back and forth along the row of cells, bangles jangling, ‘to cheer the poor buggers up’. Which, to judge from the prisoners’ howls of delight and repeated requests for an encore, it did.

Gwil and Penda, who wanted to see the King, watched the first part of the performance crouched between the bars of the musicians’ gallery, which, being over the entrance to the hall, had a view of the top table.

Penda’s expectations of what a monarch should look like were fulfilled. ‘He’s real king-like,’ she said with awe.

Stephen’s hair was more grizzled than the last time Gwil had seen him, but its silver streaks complemented the gold of his circlet. The face was handsome, the manner amiable; he was putting his host and fellow diners at ease.

For Gwil, though, there’d always been a suggestion of playacting: is this what a king should do? Have I the right air, the proper gravitas, the charm, for this occasion or that?

At Lincoln Stephen had assumed a lofty courage that, in the event, had been bravado. His eyes had lifted to a higher plane than anyone else’s and he’d become stubborn, ignoring the pleas of William of Ypres to wait for reinforcements. ‘We attack right away.’

As the order went through the ranks, Gwil’s fellow arbalist, Odo, had thrown his cap on the ground and stamped on it. ‘That bugger’ll get us all killed. And you know why? Because his pa was a fucking coward.’

Everybody knew it. While on crusade, the late Stephen of Blois had abandoned the siege of Antioch and returned home, earning himself the reputation of a deserter. The fact that he was later shamed into returning to Outremer and getting himself killed did nothing to lift a dishonour resting so heavily on his son’s shoulders that, ready or not, every challenge to battle had to be accepted.

Odo had been among the prophets; he’d been cut down in the first wave of the assault, along with too many other good men.

All because you wanted glory, you ‘kingy’ bastard. And
you
… Gwil turned his attention to the young man sitting a few places along from Stephen … What sort of commander will
you
make if you inherit?

Eustace was eating with adolescent energy, but there was a set to his chin that suggested the boy had none of his father’s uncertainties, and that if, as was now being quietly suggested, the solution to conflict was to put the Empress’s son Henry on the throne after Stephen died, this particular young prince wouldn’t take kindly to being passed over. Which meant that the war would go on until it had devoured an entire nation.

Well, he, Gwil, would take no part in it. Somehow he had to find a patch of this world in which Penda could grow up in a peace that would assuage the torment in her soul.

There was a burst of laughter from the hall; during his dance, Ursus had squatted to give way to one of his stomach upsets, causing high amusement in everybody except the servants who had to clear up the result before the next act.

Penda disapproved of Eustace banging his drinking cup on the table in his transports. She didn’t think royalty should give way to immoderate laughter like a commoner. ‘That’s not very princey.’

They extricated themselves from under the musicians’ feet and went down the spiral staircase to take their place outside the hall doors, ready for their appearance after the next act.

Their performance, now honed to perfection, was received with exuberance. They were called to the top table to receive the compliments and coins the King scattered in their direction and were on their way out with them when they were called back.

The chamberlain was looking uncomfortable. ‘Prince Eustace demands that he be allowed to display his own prowess with the bow.’

‘I do, I do.’ The boy had drunk as copiously as he’d eaten. ‘I can do that. I’m a sup’lative archer. Brought down a buck yest’day, right in the eye. Put the lad against the target again and
I’ll
shoot his damn cap off.’

There was always one; they were used to it by now, though they’d never had to cope with a prince of the blood.

The Sheriff of Bedfordshire looked anxiously towards his king; he’d already had bear shit on his floor, he didn’t want a dead boy as well.

Gwil approached the top table and bowed to the king. ‘My lord,’ he said in what he hoped was a Bohemian accent, carefully rehearsed, ‘nobody doubts Prince Eustace’s skill, but my assistant and I have dedicated ourselves and our performance to our patron saint, St Sebastian, who takes particular care of us. Last time a gentleman raised his bow at my assistant, he was struck down with a seizure before he could loose the arrow.’

St Sebastian had proved useful in these situations, yet why he was the patron saint of archers was problematic. True, because of his Christian faith, pagan Rome had sentenced Sebastian to be executed with arrows, but those hadn’t killed him. In the end he’d been beaten to death and thrown into a privy. Over the years, Gwil had earned money betting on how St Sebastian died.

Stephen was kind. He winked at Gwil before addressing Eustace. ‘We must not offend St Sebastian, my son, must we? You are too valuable to us.’ He gestured to the chamberlain. ‘Let them go.’

‘And now, my lords, ladies, messieurs, mesdames …’ The chamberlain’s voice overrode Eustace’s disgruntled protests as the two archers, bowing, started to leave the hall.

Usually, they had to side-step as the Sons and Daughter of the Great Chan bounded through the doorway. But not this time; Wan stood alone in the screened passage outside looking anxious.

‘Can’t find Waterlily,’ he said. ‘Pan’s gone looking for her.’

The chamberlain came out, flustered. ‘What are you acrobats doing?’ he said. ‘I’ve just announced you.’

‘Ain’t ready,’ Wan told him.

‘God’s saints, I’m
paying
you for this.’ He gestured at a page. ‘Find the fool, tell him he’s on.’ He went back into the hall to explain a change of programme.

‘Where’d she go?’ Gwil asked.

‘Said something about being summoned by Prince Eustace.’

‘When was that?’

‘Two hours ago, three.’

‘Can’t have been Eustace.’ The entertainment had lasted at least two and a half hours and in all that time, while Gwil and Penda had been watching from the musicians’ gallery, the Prince had not left the hall.

‘Don’t understand it, then.’ Wan shifted from foot to foot with worry.

‘Maybe she’s waiting for him somewhere.’

‘That being her way,’ Penda said spitefully.

‘No.’ Wan was firm on this. ‘She was dressed for the act. She’d have come back on time; she ain’t never missed a performance before. She’s a professional, is our Waterlily.’

They split up to search the castle, asking fellow performers if they’d seen the girl, irritating overburdened cooks with their questions, peering into attics, cellars, guardhouses, stables, bumping into scurrying servants and each other.

‘She ain’t here.’

‘Wouldn’t have gone outside the gates, would she?’

They hurried to the barbican.

Yes, the gatekeeper had seen her. ‘Some time back. Going down to the village she was. Daring little devil, ain’t she? Pretty, too.’

The gatekeeper, having witnessed Waterlily’s baiting of the clergy, had conceived a fondness for her.

‘Did she say why?’

‘Anybody with her?’

But the gate had been continually busy with supplies being brought in for the feast, servants, squires and royal messengers going back and forth, petitioners to the King demanding admittance, beggars … The gatekeeper hadn’t been able to keep track of the comings and goings, let alone find time to chat to Waterlily or notice if she’d been accompanied.

By this time, it was dark. ‘She won’t have gone far outside,’ Pan said, ‘she’s scared of the dark.’

Gwil heard Penda sniff. ‘She would’ve if she thought Prince Eustace was waiting for her.’

It was deeply concerning; the sympathetic gatekeeper not only provided them with resined torches but sent his son to show them the paths.

A breeze had come up, carrying a cold drizzle of rain with it so that the brands they carried hissed and flamed horizontally back and forth, sometimes casting their elongated shadows on the stone of the walls, sometimes on the ground, and somewhere in the distance a wolf howled.

‘She wouldn’t be out here,’ Pan said. But they carried on, splitting up to extend the circle, shouting Waterlily’s name, stumbling over strip fields, encountering hedges and having to find the gates that led through them, pheasants squawking as they flapped away from their feet, their own cries becoming distant from each other, more shrill and more desperate.

Gwil glimpsed a wet, pale face. ‘That you, Pen?’

‘It’s me, an’ I’m cold. Can we go back now? We missed her. She’s still in the castle somewheres: I’d put a wager on it.’

Gwil looked around for the other torches and saw two wavering in the distance as their holders ran about. The third, a bit nearer, wasn’t moving. He watched it for a moment. Still it didn’t move.

Jesus Christ, please no.

‘You go on back, then,’ he said. ‘Get to bed. I’ll gather the lads and be along in a minute.’

She protested half-heartedly that she’d stay to help, but he insisted. He watched her progress until her figure, going in, was outlined against the flares of the gatehouse, then he headed for the stationary light. The other two torches began to converge towards the same point.

It was the porter’s son, looking into the open doorway of a hut. As Gwil came up, he began stepping backwards, making regular, barely audible little grunts in his throat.

Gwil pushed past the boy, lowering his torch to see what was inside.

It was the sort of rough wooden shack shepherds built for themselves in the lambing season. It still smelled of sheep, and at first he didn’t see what lay among the straw on its dirt floor.

She was on her back, arms splayed, her bright clothes strewn around her, the long red hair tumbled, eyes staring upwards towards the roof.

Light brightened as Pan and Wan joined him, so that the greeny-whiteness of the small body was intensified, reddening her hair, and showing up the blood that had issued from the vagina and the purple imprints round the throat.

She’d been tortured as well as raped. Three fingers of one hand had been broken at the middle joint so that the ends stood upwards away from the palm like snapped twigs.

They heard the porter’s son running to fetch help and crying on his God. Nobody else moved. Pan and Wan might have been stone.

After a while, Gwil knelt and closed Waterlily’s eyes.

It was then that he smelled the asafoetida on her skin.

He went outside and rested his hands and forehead against the hut wall. The breeze carried a burst of laughter from the castle before taking it away again.

Her red hair had killed her. The monk had assumed she was Pen, thought she knew where the quill case was.

The gatekeeper came, distressed, bringing with him a sack to contain the body. Gwil grabbed the man to stop him going in. He shook him. ‘Who was here? There was a monk here.’

‘What?’ The gatekeeper’s eyes were dodging towards the scene in the hut.

Gwil shook him again. ‘Who came to the castle today?
Was there a monk?
’

‘Monk? What you talking about a monk for?’ He tried to free himself, but the sight of Gwil’s face gave him pause. ‘Think a monk done for her? Never. Only clericals been near the castle today was that lot as came to get the King to sign something for ’em.’ He focused. ‘You saw ’em going out as you was coming in. Remember as she …? Oh Jesus, save us.’ He’d glimpsed what lay beyond the door.

Gwil let him go.

No, he hadn’t seen the clerics, not to register them in his mind; his attention had been on Waterlily and her antics. But one of them had noticed
him
, and the flowing red hair of the girl with him.

What had she said? Something about a sour-faced bugger riding a bay?
Looked at me like he wanted to kill me.

He’d come back to do it. He’d wanted the quill case, wanted it so desperately he’d risked returning to Bedford Castle to find it.

Vaguely, as if from another world, Gwil became aware of a change up at the castle. The tabor that had been tapping for the entertainment was combining with other drums in a call to arms.

They’re mobilizing the military, he thought. We can catch him.

But it wasn’t that. One of Stephen’s spies had brought wonderful news. The Empress was not too far away. At Oxford, and only a small force with her. Quick, quick, the tattoo blared, at last we can trap the bitch. Gather the army and ride. Ride. Now we have her.