WITH TIME TO mull things over as they jogged along the woodland track to Castle Hutton, Hildegard dreaded what they might discover when they arrived. A picture of Melisen with her throat cut swam before her, but it was really Avice at risk, she reminded herself. She’s the one who stands in the way of William’s ambitions. Melisen is the stepping stone. Even so, she couldn’t imagine Melisen being talked into exchanging Roger, for all his faults, for a fiend like William. But then who had tried to poison Roger, if not Melisen? She must be the key to the mystery.
The day was grey to match her thoughts. Leafless branches arched overhead. A sea roke was fingering inland from the coast, making its way up the narrow dales of the North Riding. They were far from the flat marshlands of Sir William’s Holderness domain.
One event had almost been forgotten, the fact that it was now the feast of St Martin. The monks had been at their prayers for the saint right through the night, and along the route they now saw the shrines, candles alight, a priest or other cleric in attendance, the penitents murmuring with bowed heads. Out of respect the wagons slowed to a walk at each stage so that everyone could throw down what alms they had.
As they went deeper into the north they were reminded that it was also the feast of St Willibrod and the beginning of Samhain to boot. The stocks and whipping posts, built by edict of the old king in every place wanting the status of village, were decorated with symbols of the ancient faith, wreaths of ash, rowan and mistletoe, gewgaws and manikins hanging from the branches. Pyres had been erected on every green. To remain unlit until nightfall, they made ominous shapes, effigies in lifelike postures balanced in rough cages on top of the faggots. Some said that human victims were once burned alive to ensure plenty for the next harvest. Hildegard shivered. It was too barbaric to contemplate.
Swarms of villeins, chanting songs in their own dialect, were gathering from all the scattered manors round about. The lanes and thoroughfares were filled with the sound of drumming and the skirl of bagpipes. As the cavalcade of wagons approached with its escort of armed men, silence fell. There was a threat in this sudden lull, as if it would take just one word to unleash a terrible bloodletting. It’s as if they’re expecting a sign, thought Hildegard, or waiting for a leader to acclaim the white hart. But Wat Tyler, John Ball and their supporters were dead. No one new had appeared.
‘They’ll be as drunk as judges by nightfall,’ remarked Philippa, rousing herself for a moment. She sounded as if, rather than being afraid, she envied them. Perhaps she knows that her father’s private allegiance keeps his household safe, Hildegard told herself. Despite this, she could not shake off a feeling of impending dread.
By the time they found themselves rattling and bumping up the lane to the castle it was late afternoon and the day was drawing in. Lord Roger and his men had arrived some time before and were encamped in a meadow facing the south gate. Roger was sitting outside a field tent. He had his men-at-arms round him and Ulf was at his shoulder. It appeared to be a council of war. The stragglers from Meaux climbed down from the wagons and walked over.
‘Has anyone arrived from Rievaulx yet?’
‘Where’s Ralph?’
‘Why are you all sitting out here?’
‘Stay! I can’t answer ten questions at once.’ Roger was irascible.
In fact Hildegard’s question had been addressed to Ulf and he shrugged helplessly, nodding towards the castle as if that might give her a clue as to why they were out rather than in.
Roger turned an unctuous smile on Philippa. ‘Daughter, my dear daughter, come here.’ He still seemed to be smarting from her rejection of him earlier, and now he opened his arms. She, however, maintained a stiff demeanour and, at a distance, repeated her question in clipped tones.
‘No one has yet come from Rievaulx, my dear little one, but they will. I know they will. Now, what about some refreshment for you after your tedious journey all this way home?’
‘Stop it! I hate you. I’ll never forgive you.’ Philippa stalked off to the victualling tent and demanded a flask of wine.
‘I don’t see Ralph,’ said Sibilla pointedly. ‘Where is he?’
Roger was frosty. ‘I thought he’d gone to Watton with Avice?’
‘They never arrived.’ Sibilla blanched. ‘How many guards did he have? What if they were set upon by outlaws? What if—?’ Her glance took in Roger’s hostile demeanour. One hand went to her throat. ‘Oh no! Not your own brother?’
Roger’s glance was icy. ‘Ralph can take care of himself. He’s the best swordsman in the county. After me, that is. Now…’ He dismissed her and her unvoiced suspicion and gestured to his men to come closer to look at something he’d drawn.
It was a rough plan of the castle. He had sketched it out with a piece of chalk on the back of somebody’s shield. ‘I’m locked out of my own home,’ he commented when Hildegard bent over with the others to have a look at it. ‘Can you credit it? If Master Schockwynde hadn’t made such a good job of the new fortifications I’d have been in there as slippy as an eel. But he’s contrived such a devilish defence we’re stumped as to how to get round it.’
Ulf nudged Hildegard and whispered, ‘He’s certainly moderated his language since you ladies turned up.’
‘Who’s inside the castle keeping you out, Roger?’
‘Who d’you think? That he-devil with my wife. If he’s touched her I’ll personally open his guts and wrap them round his…head,’ he finished lamely.
Ulf nudged her. ‘That’s nothing to what he was going to do before you arrived.’
The men huddled over the plan of the castle and Hildegard looked across the meadow to where the real thing lay. It certainly looked impregnable. Schockwynde had seen fit to model the new defences on a French idea some fellows returning from the wars had told him about. He had explained this to her at some length one very long afternoon at Swyne.
The point of entry was defended by fortified bridge heads at the moat side and as well as the drawbridge leading into the barbican there was a system of not one but two portcullises, the second one, as far as she knew, hardly ever used. Now it was down, as could be plainly seen. Behind it was a strong oak door. On either side of the barbican were turrets, machicolated, the corbelling well forward so that the garrison could pour boiling oil on to the heads of the besiegers through holes in the floor without being exposed to attack themselves. It was fiendishly clever. As far as she knew this had never been put to the test either. The Scots, against whom it was mainly intended as a protection, hadn’t been down this way since the pestilence.
‘There’s simply no way into the damned place.’ Roger scratched his head.
‘How many men does William have in there?’ asked Hildegard, puzzled that he had been able to muster a force so quickly in territory that didn’t even belong to him.
‘We have no idea. There must be dozens. He’d never have the temerity to try to hold it without a strong force.’
‘Have you tried calling him out and talking to him?’ asked Hildegard. ‘Maybe you can trick him into letting you inside. Once in you can probably rout any of the forces he has in there.’ Hildegard couldn’t see anybody on the battlements and thought that surely if there was much of a force somebody would at least have been on lookout.
‘You expect me to stand outside my own castle shouting up to be let in? I’d rather burn the place to the ground before I did a thing like that.’ Roger looked at her as if she were mad.
‘Well, that won’t get you anywhere,’ she said impatiently. ‘Can’t Ulf go and attract his attention?’
‘Willingly.’ He was on his way already.
‘Tell him he’s a dead man!’ shouted Roger after his retreating steward.
‘That’s hardly likely to encourage him to come out.’ Hildegard sighed. ‘Does he know it’s you down here?’ she asked.
‘He nearly dropped dead when he clapped eyes on me. Must’ve thought he was looking at a ghost.’ He rocked with laughter. ‘I should have played it up. The sot wit!’
They all watched and waited while Ulf strode long-limbed and determined through the short winter grass of the south meadow. When he reached the drawbridge he stopped and, cupping both hands round his mouth, gave a yell. A head appeared on the battlement just above him. Despite the conical helmet the man wore, which was pulled well down, the nose-guard concealing most of his face, there was no mistaking the badge emblazoned on his surcoat when he came fully into view. It was the blue marsh dragon and proclaimed by its gold border that the wearer was Sir William of Holderness himself. And when he lifted his hands encased in their steel gauntlets and roared out an oath of defiance, they knew for sure.
‘Where’s the blackguard’s guards?’ muttered Roger.
‘Hear this!’ Ulf roared back. ‘Surrender, or know the worst!’
Hildegard, with another sigh, picked up her skirts and set off at a run down the meadow to where Ulf was waiting for a reply in the attitude of one fully expecting the armed man in the fortified castle to come meekly down to the gates and invite him in. ‘Ulf,’ she panted when she got within hailing distance, ‘Ask him if Melisen is all right. And if he says she is, ask him why he’s captured her. Then, when we know what he’s after, we can start to talk.’
‘He won’t think we’re soft, will he?’
‘What if he does? We know we’re not. It might even be good tactics to let him think we’re easy meat. Put him off his guard. But for heaven’s sake, find out about Melisen.’
Ulf cupped his hands again and bellowed, ‘Where is the Lady Melisen?’
‘She’s here!’ came back the reply. William’s voice bounced around the moat. When the echoes eventually subsided he added, ‘She’s my hostage. He can have her back if he gives me what I want.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Ulf without prompting.
‘Not to have to abjure the realm for killing that yeoman. And some drained land.’
‘Is that all?’ The note of surprise in Ulf’s voice was obvious.
‘And a share in his wool trade.’
This was obviously an afterthought. Ulf trudged back up the meadow to where Roger was pacing back and forth, wearing a little path in the grass. He gave his steward an eager glance. ‘What did the bastard say?’
‘Melisen’s safe, by the sound of it. She’s his hostage, he says. And he says he wants no comeback from killing that yeoman, and some land, drained – oh, and he says he wants a share in your wool deals.’
‘With those Lombards? How did he know about that?’ Roger frowned but then his expression lightened. ‘At least Melisen’s safe. Unless he’s lying through his back teeth. Will he come down, then, so we can talk?’
‘I’ll go and ask him.’ Ulf trudged back down the meadow.
Hildegard sighed. It was going to be the usual charade. Roger hadn’t changed. Seven years had made little difference to his shambolic use of power. He liked nothing better than to frighten people with what he could do if he chose, then surprise them by his magnanimity. The trouble was there was nothing to restrain him. He had no need to take anything seriously – except for the family fortunes, of course – not even, it seemed, his wife’s safety. If there was trouble he would buy his way out of it – even buy another wife if this one didn’t please.
Looking at him now, smiling in that devilish way and stroking his beard, it was clear that he was enjoying the charade of being kept out of his own castle, knowing that eventually – inevitably – he would get back in. No doubt he would have his minstrels turn it into a topic for a song, and his wiliness would be sung up and down the country in one castle after another, and his fame would increase. She watched him now, playing the part of the injured husband. It was a sure thing that if Melisen proved unfit for the position bestowed on her, then, as Ulf had so succinctly phrased it, she would be out on her ear. And Roger, she was convinced, would shed few tears.
As it was, William’s agreement to discuss the finer details was obtained with difficulty. Clearly he was as obstinate as his brother-in-law. The afternoon was already drawing in with mist and November chill before they achieved anything. Ulf had worn a path between the drawbridge and Roger’s encampment, just like the one Roger had worn as he paced between his war cabinet and the victualling tent. But at last William agreed to talk. When the men heard this they began to kick out their campfires and gather up their equipment ready to get back inside their barracks and put their feet up.
‘It may be a trap,’ warned Ulf. ‘We should only enter fully armed.’
‘I would never dream of doing anything else.’ Roger commanded his attendants to lift his hauberk from its wooden stand on one of the carts. They heaved it over and helped him struggle into it. Then he pulled on his surcoat emblazoned with the de Hutton coat of arms and finally, buckling on his scabbard, he ran his sword up and down inside it, making it rattle, clearly keen to put it to use.
Ulf wore a gambeson and Hildegard inspected that too. ‘Is that all you’re going to wear? I don’t call that “fully armed”. It won’t be any protection if you get into a skirmish.’ She picked at the neck where the quilting that held the wool padding in place was coming loose. ‘I could get the point of a small dagger in there. Then where would you be?’
‘You can fire an arrow at this, close range, and not break skin,’ he protested.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He grinned. ‘You’re getting like my mother.’ Even so, he went to the cart and dragged his hauberk down. She could understand his reluctance to don chain mail when there was no obvious need. But who could tell how many men were lying in wait within the castle?
Soon everyone was ready but there was no sign that the drawbridge was going to be let down and the portcullis hadn’t moved at all. They milled about on the edge of the moat and cast impatient glances to the other side.
Hildegard wondered what kind of game William was playing. Why the delay? His agreement to parley had made it simple. Maybe now he had begun to suspect that once Roger was inside his own castle nothing would make him give an inch. Rumour said that William gloried in bloodshed and maybe that meant he was as simple as barbarous men often were. But now, perhaps, he was having second thoughts about Roger’s agreement to his terms. Whatever the case, the defences remained in place.
They made their way down through the meadow and came to an expectant halt beneath the walls. In the hiatus that followed, it suddenly occurred to Hildegard that Ralph was still missing. Sibilla had looked quite shaken as she went through the possible fate that had delayed him. But she had bitten off the words when she had exclaimed that second ‘what if—?’, as if the thought was too horrible to say out loud. What if–? Her expression clearly betrayed what she feared: what if Roger had ordered his men to ambush his brother in the forest and deal him a traitor’s fate? He had been in a fury when he discovered the trick his brother was trying to pull. Hildecard glanced across at Roger. He was banging his mailed fists together with impatience.
‘Command him to open up, and fast,’ she heard him growl.
Ulf did as he was asked, but nothing happened.
‘If he’s harming her,’ snarled Roger, ‘I’ll deal with him personally.’ He stepped forward and shouted up, making his voice roll around the high, dank walls like thunder. It brought William’s face to one of the loopholes at the top of the barbican.
‘I can’t get the damned mechanism to work,’ he yelled down.
‘He’s locked himself in,’ said one of the men-at-arms. There were guffaws as this comment passed round the men. Roger, of course, couldn’t suppress a smile. He stabbed the point of his sword into the ground and looked round for ideas.
‘Ask him to let the gatekeeper and his men have a go. It’s their job,’ suggested Hildegard.
‘He’s probably killed them all,’ somebody suggested. There were a few sniggers of amusement but in a more minor key as this likelihood sank in.
Ulf shouted up to William to release the gatekeeper at once. William disappeared again.
Just then, there was a flurry of activity on the fringes of the crowd and two figures appeared from out of the darkening woods. One of them was sitting side-saddle on a large black horse while the other trailed along on foot leading a disconsolate-looking grey mare. The rider was Lady Avice, the one on foot, Sir Ralph. When he came closer Hildegard could see that his riding boots were worn through, his cloak was flung over the saddle of the mare, as if it were too hot to wear it, his shirt was undone, and his hair awry.
‘I’m utterly sick and tired,’ he complained as soon as Sibilla rushed up to him. ‘She’s lamed my horse for me. And I’ve had to walk nearly all the way. He threw a bitter glance at Avice.
Sibilla folded him in her arms. ‘My poor warrior!’ she exclaimed, before giving an embarrassed glance to see whether anybody had overheard. One or two hid smiles behind their mailed fists. Taking Ralph by the elbow, Sibilla walked with him for a couple of paces, and announced in a voice that everyone could hear: ‘You’ll be shocked and overjoyed to learn that your dear brother Roger is not dead after all.’
Ralph gave a hunted glance right and left but, even if he had wanted to attempt an escape, he would have had less chance than a sprung rabbit. At that point Roger burst magnificently from the midst of his retainers. ‘So, brother, greetings!’ He extended one magnanimous fist. After he and Ralph had touched gauntlets he hissed, ‘Were you serious?’
‘Were you?’ replied Ralph with commendable spirit. ‘You’re no more dead than I am.’
‘You reprobate,’ Roger said. ‘I’ll deal with you later. Meanwhile, there’s another problem to be solved.’ He gestured towards the battlements. ‘William has locked himself in my castle with my wife and we can’t prise him out. I’ve tried every blessed trick I can think of.’
‘I can prise him out.’ It was Lady Avice. She beckoned to a couple of men to help her down from Ralph’s charger. She shook out her skirts as soon as her feet touched the ground and came over to them all. ‘I’ll go in and have words with him.’ There was no way of guessing whether this was a threat or a promise. Her expression was neutral. She shaded her eyes and gazed up at the castle as if able to see through its walls.
On her finger a ring flashed and her cross, larger and more costly than any Hildegard would consider wearing, swung between her breasts as she turned. Roger’s glance was caught by it and he shrugged and growled, ‘He’s your man. Go ahead. Bring him to heel.’
‘What can she do?’ murmured Philippa. Hildegard was staring hard at the ring.
‘I don’t know but I fear what William might do to her,’ she replied.
Just then there was a sudden yell from one of the men. They all turned to see the portcullis beginning to inch open. The men cheered. It took a good time for the defences to be opened, first portcullis number one, then the drawbridge, then portcullis number two, and finally the porter’s small gate set within the great oak doors, although these last remained as firmly closed as before.
The men drew their swords and arranged themselves in formation. Then, with Lord Roger at their head, followed by Ulf and Sir Ralph jostling for second place, they tramped across the wooden bridge. When they were massed on the other side William’s voice rang out.
‘Stop right there! I’m not going to parley with a host. Send a deputation. But not you, Roger. You’re too slippery. Just stay out of it. You can send your steward instead.’
‘Oh, thanks very much,’ muttered Ulf.
‘Of course I’m damn well coming in. It’s my wife we’re discussing here,’ Roger roared back.
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘Let me go in.’ Avice, who had crossed over with the women, pushed her way from the back. ‘William! I’m here! Parley with me.’
‘I’m coming with you.’ Hildegard forced a path through the ranks of men. Avice gave her a glance when she reached her side but, when she saw the determination on the nun’s face, she gave a thin smile.
‘Suit yourself, sister. I won’t waste time offering advice to the contrary as I know it won’t be taken.’
The porter’s gate was opened. Only wide enough for one person at a time to enter, anyone of normal height had to bend double. When Hildegard squeezed through after Avice she turned when she felt someone right behind her. ‘I’m in this as well,’ said Ulf.
‘That’s enough of you!’ shouted William. He didn’t sound at all cowed. ‘I’m not holding a leet court in here.’ But Ralph had slipped through before the one guard standing there could stop him. It was one of Roger’s trusties on the gate and, with his hands bound with kitchen twine, he gave a shrug as if to say it was literally out of his hands.
Immediately within was the gatehouse and this was defended in much the same way as the barbican. There was a cunning staircase inside, with very narrow and easily defended doors, so that if Roger and his men had managed to penetrate so far the defenders could retreat to the upper floors and shoot at them through the murder-holes in the vault. Then, even though they might get as far as the inner court, they could still be shot at from all sides.
William was nowhere to be seen. Nor was there any sign of a squad of men to defend him. Edging forward, eyes darting from one side of the battlements to the other, they moved further in until they were standing in the middle of the bailey. Hildegard knew they were vulnerable in such an open space, aware that at any moment William and his men could come pouring out to hack them to death. She kept an eye on Avice, praying for her safety, should her suspicions about William prove true.
Ulf, as Roger’s steward, elected himself spokesman. ‘Bring forth the Lady Melisen!’ he demanded to the echoing walls.
A sound of steel from somewhere high up made them lift their heads. From a window in the solar on the first floor William leaned out. He seemed to have spent most of the afternoon running from one aperture to the next. ‘She’s here but I want proof that Roger will accept my demands.’
‘You should have let him come in with us, then,’ replied Ulf. ‘You could have had his promise from his own lips.’
‘I’d sooner trust a friar.’
‘Your choice. Just show us she’s alive then we can discuss what guarantees you want. Then I’ll go and tell him.’
William was just launching into an argument when Avice broke free of the group and ran like a hare across the bailey towards the stairs that led up to the private apartments.
‘Wait, Avice!’ shouted Hildegard. ‘He desires your death!’ She kilted her skirt and began to run after her. She could hear Ulf pounding along in her wake and possibly Ralph too but she didn’t pause to check. She simply had to get to William before Avice did. The woman would not understand the danger she was in.
The first floor was reached by a circular staircase in one of the towers. Avice disappeared inside and her footsteps could be heard in a dwindling echo as she ascended. Hildegard followed, taking the stairs two at a time and reaching the top just as Avice pushed the door ahead and ran on into the solar. Hildegard’s blood went cold when she heard her shriek one word, ‘William!’ and a deathly silence follow.
Breathing hard, she threw herself through the door then came to a skidding halt. Instead of plunging a knife into his wife’s heart, William was simply staring at her as if she were an apparition. Avice, meanwhile, had thrown her arms round his neck and was looking up at him as adoringly as a young maid in the first flush of love, her fingers lacing though his beard as she whispered endearments to him.
Astounded, Hildegard could only stand and stare. Her suspicions about William’s ill-intentions were wrong after all. He looked confused, not murderous. She stepped forward. ‘Sir William,’ she began in a conciliatory tone, ‘are you now willing to release Lady Melisen from captivity?’
William lifted his dark head and gave her a startled glance. ‘Never!’ he roared with something of his usual vigour, thrusting Avice to one side.
Avice was unperturbed. ‘But where are you hiding her, my sweeting?’ she purred, trying to take him in her arms again.
‘Melisen is locked in the upper solar and that’s where she’s going to stay until Roger accepts my demands!’ he snarled.
Before either Avice or Hildegard could remonstrate with him there was a commotion in the doorway. Ulf and Sir Ralph appeared. Ralph drew his sword with an ominous hiss of steel. His face was deathly pale.
‘This is your day of reckoning, William. I’ve had enough of you trying to oust me from my position. If Roger is going to bestow lands on anybody it’s going to be me!’ He advanced like a dancer, sword outstretched.
William gave a vengeful laugh and unsheathed his own massive weapon. ‘So be it, brother-in-law! Your wish is my command! To the death!’
Then there was the clash of steel on steel as the two men engaged.
Out of the corner of her eye Hildegard noticed Avice slip from the chamber. With the sound of battle ringing in her ears, Hildegard followed. She was in time to catch sight of the hem of Avice’s grey gown as she turned a corner and when she chased in pursuit she saw her hurrying along the corridor towards the stair that led up to the next floor. The grey shape vanished round the first spiral but by then Hildegard was close behind. She reached the top in time to see Avice turn a key and fling herself through the door into the room beyond.
By the time she reached the door herself, Avice was walking towards Melisen with her arms outstretched. Hildegard was puzzled. Then she noticed her fingers and on one of them the ring. It was large, with a jewelled boss that would open and close. Suddenly she remembered where she had seen such a ring before. It was like one that had belonged to Philippa, the one that had gone missing. And at the same moment she recalled what the apothecary had told her about the pope’s poison. One touch, he had said, that’s all it takes.
These thoughts passed in a flash through her mind. Even so, Avice was almost within reach of Melisen. The girl had been sitting on the sill looking down through the loophole at the little stream that wound round the castle far below and flowed off down the dale. Bedraggled, tear-stained, and half dead through lack of sleep, though still beautiful of course, she now lifted her head. She could have had no idea that an army of men had been encamped in the meadow on the other side of the castle. She must have believed until this very moment that she was quite alone with William.
She rose to her feet. ‘Avice? You?’ Her glance flew in confusion to Hildegard. ‘Sister?
Hildegard slipped her knife from inside her sleeve. ‘Don’t take another step, Avice!’ Her hand shook.
Avice jerked to a stop at once and turned her head. ‘It’s you, is it, nun? I should have guessed you’d follow. Too late now, though!’ She turned back to Melisen. ‘My poor, dear child. What has that brute been doing to you? Come to me!’
‘Don’t go near her!’ shouted Hildegard, flinging herself after Avice. Melisen looked startled and drew back. Catching Avice by the shoulders, Hildegard pulled her to a stop and the two women grappled for a moment until Hildegard was able to twist Avice’s arm behind her back and hold her still. ‘I know your game, Avice,’ she said. ‘Don’t move or you’ll regret it!’ The knife gleamed in her right hand.
Melisen gathered her wits with alacrity and ran over. ‘Will someone explain?’
Tightening her hold on her struggling captive and panting a little with the exertion, Hildegard said, ‘When William abducted you, Avice feared he had transferred his affections, so she decided to get rid of you. The ring she wears she stole from Philippa. The boss is hollow. It contains a deadly poison. One touch and you’ll breathe your last.’
‘Heaven forfend!’ exclaimed Melisen. Then, thinking quickly, she said, ‘I’ll get the ring, Hildegard, and then I’ll bind her wrists.’ So saying, she produced a kerchief, prised the ring from Avice’s grasp without touching it, and let it drop into the cloth. Then she took a long braid of plaited yellow silk from inside one of her sleeves. Deftly, she tied Avice’s wrists together.
Avice struggled in a fury but there was nothing she could do against the two of them. ‘You think you’ve won! But you won’t get away with this!’ she hissed into Hildegard’s face. Her own was contorted with rage at being foiled.
From the lower floor came the continuing clash of steel. Hildegard pushed Avice down on to the window seat where Melisen had been sitting. ‘We’d better hurry or William and Ralph will kill each other—’ she urged, turning to the girl.
Without waiting for further explanations, Melisen took the key from the lock and when they were in the corridor she turned it on their prisoner despite her shouts of protest. Then she led the way rapidly along the maze of corridors towards the gallery overlooking the hall. She knew the route like the back of her hand. When they arrived they peered over the parapet.
Ralph had fought William into a corner. His swordsmanship was stylish and swift, a blur of flashing steel. He was, as Roger had observed, well able to take care of himself. Ulf was standing on the sidelines, in rapt admiration.
William, however, was the bigger man. He was wily too. And he was determined not to be beaten. His lands, his life and his honour – such as it was – depended upon winning. They heard him give a great roar of rage and watched as he threw himself bodily at Ralph, who, taken aback by his brutal technique, faltered, allowing William time to snatch something off a nearby chest. He waved what looked like a fur tippet above his head. ‘Hold!’ he commanded.
Ralph gaped and lowered his blade. ‘That’s Master Jacques! How the devil did he get in?’
William pointed the tip of his sword at the animal and gave Ralph a baleful glance. ‘Well? Are you going to yield and save your cat? Or do you want him dead?’
Apparently unconcerned by his imminent fate, Jacques yawned, revealing tiny predatory teeth, then he stretched his legs in a token attempt to wriggle free. William tightened his grasp.
Ralph looked on helplessly. ‘Let him go, you brute!’
‘Put up your sword, then,’ replied William. He waved the cat above his head. Master Jacques seemed quite content to make the best of things, especially when William wedged him in the crook of one arm the better to wield his sword.
‘Master Jacques…’ Ralph whispered.
At the sound of his name Jacques was transformed. In the twinkling of an eye he became a raging beast, all fangs and snarls, and, leaping upwards, he landed with four barbed paws on William’s face. William dropped his sword in astonishment. Ralph at once sprang forward and pushed the steel tip against his brother-in-law’s throat. ‘Now will you yield? Or will you die?’
With his weapon clattering under his feet as he stumbled blindly about with the cat nailed to his face, William had no choice in the matter. ‘Get this thing off me!’ he roared. Blood was beginning to course down his cheeks. ‘My eyes! Help! I’m being blinded! Get it off!’
‘Let me hear the words,’ said the implacable Ralph, slicing his sword through William’s sleeve so that it flapped as he struggled.
‘I yield, Sir Ralph.’
Ralph put up his sword. ‘Jacques! That’s enough.’
The cat tried to disentangle his claws from his prey but William’s beard, left too long, was coarse and curly.
‘Somebody’s going to have to help him,’ said Ralph, with a nonchalant shrug. He took out a cloth and ran it deftly over his blade with the air of a man who has done a good job and doesn’t mind who knows it. Ulf went over and shook him heartily by the hand.
While everyone’s attention was engaged a rabble of armed men wearing the de Hutton blazon appeared in the doorway. Sizing up the situation, they grabbed William by both arms. One of them picked up his sword and hefted it admiringly before Ulf took charge of it. Master Jacques was persuaded to disentangle his paws and was restored, at arm’s length, to his owner.
From the gallery came the sound of applause. Melisen turned to Hildegard. ‘That was excellent!’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘If only Roger were alive to see it.’
Hildegard took the girl by the hand. ‘Melisen, there is something you should know.’
Just then there was a commotion from outside. With a great shout of jubilation Roger himself came storming through the door into the hall. ‘I missed it, damn it! What a fight! The men are going wild!’ Indeed the windows on to the bailey were thick with faces.
A cry from the gallery made him lift his head. Melisen was leaning over the parapet. As her eyes met her husband’s, she gave another cry and dropped down in a dead faint at Hildegard’s feet. The nun knelt beside her. The girl’s face was as white as snow.