‘They’re bloody late!’
Stephen turned, his hooves clattering over the stone cobbles, and trotted on, reining in a little beyond the gatehouse, peering about him. Here he was in the outer ward, a wide area that narrowed to his left. There before him were soaring walls. Inside them, he knew, lay his target, on the left, at the nearer side of the ward, near the great hall in the rooms he had heard called the White Hall. Out here there were still piles of rubble about the place, and areas of wall which had been extensively patched with new stone, and he was surprised that the castle was still being renovated after the siege. That had been forty or fifty years ago, after all. From the look of the place, the catapults had done their work, even if the castle had held. After nine months, the garrison must have been starving.
A man was striding across the court towards him, a moderately tall fellow with clean-shaven face and military haircut. ‘You have food, the porter said?’
Stephen nodded as he sprang lightly from his mount. He saw a black habit behind the man’s shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief, just as the bell began to ring for curfew.
‘Yes, the cart will be here soon.’
‘Too late. It’ll have to return tomorrow.’ Squire Bernard shouted and waved at the sentries at the entranceway.
‘But he’s on the bridge already!’
‘Then he won’t have far to come tomorrow.’
‘Why not let him in now?’ Stephen demanded.
‘We have rules, and as porter of the gates, I will abide by them. He can come back tomorrow.’ He turned and bellowed a command.
The men came in from the gates, and there was a deep rumbling as the gates were closed, a rattling as the drawbridge chains were pulled in on the windlass, and men moved about in a desultory fashion before making their way to the bar to find ale.
‘Well?’ the porter said. ‘What are you waiting for?’
The cart rattled abominably. Father Luke walked alongside, his mind whirling, while the two warriors rode easily behind.
‘Keep your eyes on the road ahead,’ John said with an encouraging chuckle.
His voice made Father Luke’s stomach lurch. The humour and attractiveness he had seen earlier was gone now. This man was nothing more than a killer, he was sure, and the idea that he was here, with the cart loaded full of weapons, was alarming. What on earth was the man intending to do with them?
They passed under a little spinney of young saplings, around a series of strip fields, and then confronted the enormous lake.
‘Dear God!’ Father Luke drew to a halt with his mouth gaping wide.
It was easily the largest lake he had ever seen. Acres were inundated, and it made the priest marvel to see the result of so much labour. Only after he had absorbed the sight did he turn his gaze upward and gasp again. That was indeed a wonderful castle! He wondered how old it was. From an early age he had been dedicated to his studies in the Church, and he had little knowledge or understanding of castles and their history, but Kenilworth was one of those of which even he had heard as a child. It was a fortress extended and strengthened by King John, added to by the local baron. And it had been attacked years ago in a great siege.
The cart continued on, the horse patiently clopping forwards, and the priest hurried to catch up again, studying the walls, the keep, the bridge. They were passing into a little stand of trees when there came, clear in the evening air, the slow clanging of a bell. For an instant he did not realise what it portended, but then he heard Ham swear under his breath.
‘You will have to come to confess that, Ham,’ Father Luke said sternly.
‘Sorry, Father.’
John trotted up, and this time there was no humour in his eyes as he said tersely, ‘Paul, if we don’t hurry we’re going to miss the gates.’
‘I know, but. .’ Paul said nothing more, but it was clear that he was thinking of Luke and Ham.
‘They’ll be all right, won’t you, Father?’ John said. Father Luke nodded, and John continued, ‘You come as quickly as you can, Ham. They may ignore the purveyor, but they won’t ignore me. And if Father Luke can hurry, so much the better: a priest in God’s service? They won’t lock him out. I’ll make sure they keep the gates open until you both arrive!’
And then he and Paul were off, cantering up the road to the causeway.
Father Luke was unhappy. He didn’t understand what was happening. All he wanted to do was get inside the castle and divest himself of Despenser’s gold, but he was anxious about the weapons and what they portended. He didn’t think that the garrison of the castle would need so many more. There were swords, axes, maces, and even a crossbow, he thought — not that he’d had much time to stare. He had caught Paul’s eye on him as he peered over, and looked away hurriedly. Paul was a fearsome man.
Too fearsome to ignore.
The bell was tolling again. Luke sighed and threw a fretful glance back the way he had come. It was tempting to make a run for it.
‘Best keep on,’ Ham grunted.
Luke nodded reluctantly. They could never hope to escape. If they turned, John and Paul would only have to trot to catch them within a mile. They were still some distance from the causeway, and he gave a short ‘Tchah!’ of disgust at his irresolution. His decision was made: night was coming on. He would have to stay in the castle, no matter what the possible danger from John. It was safer in there than out here in the wilds.
‘I’ll run on ahead, Ham. They won’t keep the gates shut if they see me, I’m sure. You hurry on as you may!’
He picked up the skirts of his robe, winked at Ham, and then began to trot up the road. The last days had been tedious, rather than tiring, and he was not tired. Soon he felt his muscles begin to ease, and he could pick up the pace a little, and actually run. It felt marvellous! The air was cool in his lungs, like a draught of clear water, and he felt his legs come alive. At the gates, he could see Paul and John arguing, demanding that the bridge be lowered, and the gates opened. . and then, as he reached the wooden causeway himself, he heard a hideous shriek that turned his blood to ice.
The shriek was followed by shouts of alarm, bellowed orders. . and then he heard the unmistakable clamour of battle: the rattle and clatter of steel on steel, the clash of blade against blade, the whoosh of arrows, like a formation of geese close overhead.
‘No! No!’ he shouted, and forgetting his own safety, he ran all the faster, making his way to the gates.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kenilworth
There was a loud shout from outside the gate as John saw the entrance closing. ‘Hoi! Hoi! Wait for us, you slugs!’
‘Keep back!’ one of the sentries at the gate bellowed.
‘What is going on?’ Squire Bernard the porter demanded. ‘I won’t have that gate kept open any longer than I need to, damn your souls!’ He was staring at the gates, and then, as John and Paul began expostulating from outside, and the porter gesticulated wildly to have the gates shut, Stephen saw the other men from his group. Fifteen of them, all looking to him for guidance. Two up near the main hall, another sidling nearer from the stables, others dotted all about the yard, expectantly watching, waiting for their weapons.
Their weapons that were in the cart.
A second man appeared, clad in a pale cream tunic. ‘Squire, your gate is still open,’ he called. ‘What is the reason for this?’
‘Sir Jevan, these men want to keep it open until their cart is inside.’
‘Do they look like messengers, then? Or spies? Close the gates!’
Stephen met his brother’s eyes, and then, muttering, ‘Oh, God’s ballocks!’ grabbed at his dagger’s hilt, shoving it deep into the squire’s back.