Squire Bernard span on his heel and stared at Stephen, his hand scrabbling for his own dagger, then reaching up to scratch at Stephen’s eyes. Stephen stabbed again, twisting the dagger in the porter’s breast, the man’s blood running freely, hot and revolting on his hand, along his wrist to the elbow. He pulled the blade free and stabbed twice more, remembering the old lesson: Never let a man loose, who could still have life and strength to attack you.
His brother Thomas Dunheved smiled. ‘I am glad to see you. We wondered whether you would be here in time.’
And then there was a shout, the bell began to ring in earnest, and arrows began to slam into the ground all about them.
Luke saw the drawbridge fall, and he could make out figures struggling in the courtyard beyond in a hideous scene of slaughter.
John and Paul were hacking with their swords, trying to enter, but a lance was thrust out, and Paul gave a hoarse cry, all but toppling from his horse. John went to him, but then he too roared in pain, put his hand to his flank, and moved away, stabbing down with his sword. Another man appeared with a bill, and swung it at John, who only just managed to evade it, before he and Paul wheeled and began to ride away. As they passed Luke, he saw that Paul had a great spreading rose of blood on the front of his tunic beneath his throat, and his eyes were already half-closed. He was dying. John had his hand at his side, and there was more blood there, and then they were past him, and Luke felt sick. He stopped, fighting for breath, as another man staggered towards him on the bridge, his mouth wide in a soundless scream, and fell to his knees as though in supplication.
Luke heard that hideous bird’s feather flight, and saw the two barbed heads spring from the man’s breast. Two arrows, each a good yard long, and the man’s mouth closed slowly as blood trickled from the corners, and he fell to his side even as Luke ran forward to give him the viaticum and hear his final confession, if he were able.
Behind him, Luke heard the cart approach, and he turned and gestured wildly. ‘No, Ham — get away, you fool! Get away!’
Stephen gave a grunt of pain. The arrow had glanced off his belt, by a miracle, but then slid in under his skin at his hip and remained there, quivering.
The two were in the narrow gap between a storeroom and the outer curtain wall of the castle, a nasty, piss-ridden little space that had only one benefit: it was hard for the guards to see them to shoot them. It was the merest bad fortune that had led the arrow to strike Stephen here.
Thomas saw his brother’s pain and darted to his side, breaking off the fletchings, and tugging the arrow through quickly. He glanced at the wound. ‘You’ll live,’ he grinned.
Stephen gritted his teeth and tried to smile in return, but the suddenness of the attack had made his belly roil. He hadn’t expected this. ‘Our first battle together, eh, little brother?’
‘Let us hope it will not be our last, Stephen.’
‘Shit!’ Arrows were hissing through the air and clattering on the cobbles of the ward. ‘Thomas, this is madness. We cannot hope to make it to the hall’s doors, let alone inside.’
‘I will not leave without my lord.’
‘What good will it do him to see you slain?’
Thomas turned to him. ‘Do not jest. Brother, I have served him for many years, and I will not see him kept gaoled like a common felon.’
Stephen gave a harsh laugh as he clapped a hand to his wound, which was stinging badly. ‘You think that this is a common gaol?’
‘Enough! We must storm the hall,’ the friar said. He had a sword in his hand already, and the desperate look in his eye reminded Stephen of the days when they used to poach venison from the game park.
They had been born at Dunchurch, a small manor fifteen or twenty miles from here. It had been a good life. John, their father, as was a stolid, hard-working yeoman, and his reputation ensured that his sons were favoured.
First Stephen was taken into the household of a baron and taught how to fight and ride; then Thomas demonstrated his quick intelligence, and was soon learning his letters and advancing himself. Now he was a papal chaplain. It still struck Stephen as odd to think that his little brother could have risen so far, so swiftly. Of their two other brothers, John was often in trouble, guilty even of rape and murder, and had been declared an outlaw. Only Oliver was likely to die in comfort in his own bed.
Stephen seriously doubted that the same would be true for him and Thomas.
‘Ballocks to this,’ he grated. ‘We have to get out of here, Tom.’
‘I will not leave without. .’
‘. . seeing us both dead. Not I, little brother. Nay, you remain here if you want, but I am riding away while I can. The others are not here. It is only you, me, and some peasants over there who dare not run over the ward to reach us. What is the point of our dying here? Eh? We must escape while we may.’
Thomas shook his head grimly. His fist clenched about the sword hilt, and he rose on the balls of his feet, a hand steadying him on the storeroom’s wall, and then he glanced back at his brother, his lower lip held between his teeth. ‘Are you coming?’
Stephen shook his head.
‘Don’t blame you. I’d be mad to try it!’ Thomas said with black humour as he, turned and squeezed past Stephen to get to the farther side of the little building.
It was tight here, a shrinking channel between the curtain wall and the hut, and at the end only one man could stand and peer out, shoulders sideways.
The clink and rattle of arrows hitting stone was slowing a little as Thomas poked his head out. He withdrew to the safety of the corridor. ‘It’s not too bad. Twenty yards to the gate, and the gate is still open.’
‘Our horses?’
‘I am a friar. I don’t hurry on horseback,’ Thomas said loftily. ‘But I can run like a greyhound if I feel an arrow behind me,’ he added.
Stephen took a deep breath. He stared ahead at the gateway, so temptingly open, so temptingly close.
‘Oh, ballocks, brother. Let’s dodge a clothyard.’17
In the White Hall he had heard the shouting, roared orders, the tolling of the bell and doors slamming shut, their bolts rammed home, and in his chamber, Sir Edward of Caernarfon leaped to his feet, staring about him wildly.
His guards had been removed when he renounced his crown, months ago. He was no longer considered a threat to those who ruled his kingdom, he had thought. But now he realised his foolishness: it meant there was no one to protect him!
So: this was how his life would end, with an assassin’s attack. Just as Piers Gaveston had been waylaid by Sir Edward’s enemies, so he would in his turn fall to a murderer’s blade, here, inside one of the strongest castles in the land.
It was what he had expected, yesterday afternoon. When he heard the door open, and turned to see the stranger standing there, he had thought that his hour had come. But no assassin would have bent his knee. And, as Edward had stood there, frozen, awaiting a blow, the messenger had produced that astonishing letter from the Bardi.
Edward had read the parchment with incredulity. It had not occurred to him that he had loyal subjects so committed to helping him even now, in these desperate straits. It was heartening to learn that, although he had been dragged down, others were still honourable supporters of his cause.
The parchment he had given back to Dolwyn, for fear that it could be discovered, but its contents had filled him with renewed hope. With luck, he could be freed!
There was more shouting, a shrill scream, and he swore aloud, ‘I’ll not die here like a coward!’
He drew his sword, the blade’s point unwavering, and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction: they could take his crown, his throne, his realm, but they would not make him cower like a dog.
There was a bellow outside his door, and he stepped away as the latch was opened. Three men rushed in, and he lifted his sword, ready to fall upon them, until he realised that the three had no interest in him. Two pulled the door shut behind them and shoved the bolts over to lock it, while the third darted from one window to another, peering out into the court and cursing volubly.