LII
GALFRID AND MÉLISANDE’S ruse had not remained secret for long. They stood now at sword and spear point, surrounded by the castle guard as Murdac, shaking with fury, strode before them.
“I see it was a grave error to have granted you the freedom of this castle,” he spat. Behind Murdac, de Montbegon stood grave and silent, watching with a critical eye. He was flanked by a now bemused Philip of Worcester and a body of men-at-arms, and beyond them a rag-tag gathering of those now under the castle’s protection.
“Have you all turned against us now, like your wretched master Gisburne?” Murdac turned, addressing the question not to the captives, but to all those now gathered. There was a murmur; several knew the name of Gisburne. It seemed to Galfrid that rather than stir them to a common cause, Murdac’s words were merely sowing further doubt.
The outcry at the great gate had already attracted a crowd. Some had clearly taken it to mean invasion, and had rushed to the defence of the gate armed with whatever they could find. Most, however, seemed to have come thinking surrender was imminent—and, thought Galfrid, did not appear saddened by this prospect. A few even carried bundles of belongings, which they now sought to conceal from the withering eye of their Constable.
“We did it to save the lives of everyone here,” protested Galfrid. The sword points wavered at his throat. “As even you will see, when your emissaries return to confirm the presence of the King!”
“My emissaries!” laughed Murdac. But the murmur had grown to a buzz. All here knew that if Richard stood at their gates, their cause was lost. Murdac raised his voice. “They’ll be hanged from the gibbet just like all the others!”
“Even the Lionheart respects the white flag of truce!” cried Mélisande.
“They will be hanged precisely because the Lionheart is not there,” roared Murdac. “And they”—he thrust a finger at the gate—“do not wish us to know it!”
“Riders approach!” called a watchman from above. The muttering broke into a din.
“Whose?” shouted de Montbegon. “Theirs?”
“They bear a white flag!”
“Load your crossbows,” ordered Murdac, his eye on Mélisande. De Montbegon frowned at that, and looked to Worcester, but the Constable’s brother remained mute.
“It is Serjeant Rousel,” called a second voice; Galfrid recognised Will Cobbe. “And Sir Fulcher de Grendon.”
Murdac glowered at the news, but Galfrid smiled back at him.
“It’s a trick,” said Murdac. “Ready your weapons.”
“Christ’s balls...” muttered de Montbegon, then stepped forward, addressing the guards directly. “Open the gate!”
Murdac turned on him. “I am Constable here!”
De Montbegon, fixing Murdac’s wild look with his own, took another step towards him. “You dare defy me?” he rumbled, and Murdac faltered. De Montbegon was by no means a hothead, but he was baron of great estates across Lancashire, Yorkshire, Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire, and one of Prince John’s closest supporters. More significantly, the men wearing de Montbegon’s livery outnumbered Murdac’s by three to one.
“Your orders, my lord?” called the porter.
“Open the damned gate!” demanded de Montbegon. “They are our own men!”
The porter and guards looked to Murdac and back again. The Constable, finally realising that the mood had turned against him, simply bowed his head. The gatekeepers, who Galfrid knew held Rousel in high regard, chose to take this as confirmation; the great gate yawned open.
Rousel burst through and into the midst of the scattering crowd, with a panting de Grendon close behind, the gate already closing behind them.
“Tell them,” called Galfrid, before Rousel even had time to dismount.
Rousel looked to the knight at his side—his superior—but de Grendon merely looked about him in confusion and terror, rain coursing down his face.
“Tell them!”
Rousel could no longer contain himself. “It is the King. It is the King himself! I know him of old, and I tell you, I saw him with my own eyes. Sir Fulcher, too.”
De Grendon nodded. “T-true...” he stuttered, glancing nervously at Murdac and his mentor, Philip of Worcester.
The effect was instant. What had been mere willingness turned, in that moment, into action—and, like it or not, Sir Radulph Murdac, Constable of Nottingham Castle and Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, had upon his hands complete and unconditional surrender.
People rushed about, clutching loved ones and belongings to them. Those guarding Galfrid and Mélisande—already reluctant—forgot this duty and abandoned them. The Constable himself stood alone, bereft of purpose, his authority now quite gone. The castle had stood fast, but Murdac’s defences were utterly destroyed.
“He’ll kill us if we give ourselves up,” he protested weakly, to any still listening.
“He’ll kill you if you don’t,” said Galfrid. “Surrender is at least a chance.”
“Fetch white flags!” ordered de Montbegon.
And even the garrison now jumped to his command.