My mother’s hair is very soft. When I brush it against my cheek, it feels like a kiss or a warm breath. Comforting. Gentle.
I’m so glad that Isidore gave me this little plait. Now, whenever I wake in the darkest hours of the night, I can hold my mother’s hair close to my mouth and feel it on my skin. I can pretend that my mother is here, though it’s hard. It’s hard because she’s just a blur to me. Navarre never talked about her much. Neither did Gran. I probably learned more from Isidore than I did from them, and even Isidore had very little to say about my mother.
If only I had asked him more. If only I hadn’t been too proud to ask. If I should ever see him again . . . if we should ever meet one day . . .
Please God, make that happen. I am a grievous sinner, Lord, and ignorant, and unworthy, but seeing Father Isidore again—it would make me a better person. I know it would.
Suppose he was with me now, in this room? Suppose he was lying in Maura’s bed, instead of Maura? Sometimes it makes me feel better to imagine such a thing, but sometimes it makes me feel worse. When dawn breaks, and it’s Maura in the bed after all . . . that’s always a bad moment. I have nothing to turn to then, except the hood that he bought me. I have my mother’s hair and Isidore’s hood, and that’s all I have to treasure.
Wait a moment. What’s that noise?
There’s something going on in the bailey. It’s the middle of the night, but there’s something going on. Where are my boots? Where’s my sharp stick? I don’t want to be taken by surprise. I don’t want to be killed in my own bed.
Mind you, it doesn’t sound like a fight, or even a scuffle. I can hear low murmurs, and the clink of metal on stone: no thumps or grunts or heavy breathing. There are people milling around out there, and come to think of it, I was wrong about the time. It’s later than I thought. The touch of moving air on my cheek—the faint sheen in the sky—the distant, sleepy sounds of birds and farm animals . . .
I think it’s near dawn.
‘Shh!’ someone hisses. From the door, it’s easier to see what’s happening. Torches are bobbing about— torches and candles. In their fitful, flickering glow, humble men are shouldering bundles of straw. Knights are donning helmets and adjusting sword-belts.
There’s Loup de Montferrand, in full armour. He’s even wearing mail vambraces.
‘What’s happening?’ I have to know. ‘My lord?’
‘Shh!’ For a moment he doesn’t recognise me; his mind is somewhere else, far beyond the walls of this fortress. But slowly recognition dawns in his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s you.’
‘What are you doing, my lord? Where are you going?’ You’re not leaving us, are you? ‘Please don’t go!’
‘Shh!’ He motions frantically for silence, replying in a whisper as he does so, ‘Have no fear. We’re going out to burn the trebuchet.’
‘Oh!’ But how? ‘Not through the gates, surely?’
‘No. We’ll take another route.’ He beckons to his attendant, who passes him a pot-helmet. It’s a huge, heavy thing, and it transforms Lord Loup into something fearsome; only his eyes and mouth are visible, now that his helmet’s on. ‘Pray for us,’ he says, in a muffled voice.
‘Oh, yes! I will! God be with you, my lord!’
It’s a raid, then. And I have to see it. I have to get upstairs. Not onto the ramparts—if there’s too much activity on the ramparts, the French will be alerted—but into one of the towers. That tower over there, perhaps: it’s closest to the French trebuchet. It’s taken most of the blows.
Lord Loup is heading for another tower entirely. They all are—half a dozen armed men and twice that number of attendants. Is there a door that I haven’t noticed, over in that stretch of wall? A little postern tucked away in a hidden corner, above a steep slope? A tunnel that leads to a copse? They can’t have been digging a tunnel; I would have known about that. Perhaps all the stone that they’ve been bringing up onto the ramparts, lately—perhaps that was stacked across the hidden door, and now it’s been cleared.
I don’t know. All I do know is that Lord Loup is taking a terrible risk. Does he really think that he’ll be able to approach the trebuchet, set fire to it, and return to this citadel without attracting attention? He doesn’t seem to be taking many men with him. Though that might be because they want to move quickly. No doubt they realise that a swift and glancing raid will be their only chance of survival.
Please God they return unharmed.
Chink-chink-chink. One of the armed men has peeled off from the rest; he’s heading back this way, his chain mail softly clinking with every step as he winds himself up in a dark cloak. Behind him scurries a varlet with a torch, and its flaring flame illuminates the shrouded man who’s passing.
Lord Olivier.
I haven’t seen much of him, this last week or so; one fleeting glimpse is enough to show that he’s not worn well. There are bags under his eyes, each big enough to cast a shadow. All the flesh has dropped away from beneath his cheekbones, and his chin has been pared so sharp, you could almost cut wood with it. He looks sterner and grimmer than he ever did before—a walking, talking war-machine.
He disappears into the western tower, and I think that I might follow him. Discreetly. At a distance.
He must be going up there to watch events unfold.
Dear Lord Our Father, please by your mercy bring Loup back unharmed. (I should pray, because I promised.) Please protect his companions, oh Lord, in your infinite compassion, Amen. There are bodies all over the floor in here—snoring, twitching, sighing bodies, most of them fully dressed and ready to be roused. It’s so dark that I’ll have to be careful: I don’t want to tread on anyone.
The stairs are clear, though. They won’t be hard to climb.
‘Sst!’
God save us. That gave me a start! But it’s only Pons de Villeneuve, bringing up the rear.
He doesn’t bother to pick a path through the slumbering garrison, the way I did. He simply kicks them aside, causing them to roll and groan.
‘What are you up to?’ he whispers. ‘Spear-fishing?’
‘What?’ Oh. I see. He’s talking about my sharpened stick. ‘No, my lord.’
‘Been visiting your lover?’
‘No!’
‘I should hope not. Too many bastards in your family as it is.’
Up your arse, pus-face. He swings past me, taking the stairs two at a time as he ties the strings of his hooded cloak. All these dark cloaks—they suggest that some of the knights are afraid of being seen.
They must be heading for the ramparts.
I suppose I’m allowed to go on, am I? Pons didn’t tell me to go back to bed. And here’s some activity, at last— archers in the second-floor guardroom. Filling their quivers and testing their bows. Squabbling in tense and muted voices.
Whoops!
‘Get out of my way!’ snaps the hulking great sergeant who just rounded a turn in the stairs above me. He’s so big, I’ll have to flatten myself against the wall to let him by. I wonder where he’s going in such a hurry? Wherever it is, he’s determined to get there. The look of concentration on his face—it’s the same look that I saw on the faces of those archers.
I shan’t be bothered by these men. They don’t have time to pinch or kiss or grope. I won’t need my sharpened stick this morning.
Aha! And here’s Lord Pagan himself, throwing back a draught of wine at the top of the stairs. Beyond him the highest tower room is packed with people: there’s Lord Pagan’s steward, and his two squires, and Lord Guillaume de Puylaurens, and that fellow with the missing ears, and—
Where’s Olivier?
There he is. Wrapped in his cloak, the hood pulled over his eyes. Seated on a barrel, patiently waiting. For what, I wonder? For a signal? A summons?
Pons de Villeneuve stands near him, pissing into a bucket.
‘What’s that girl doing here?’ somebody whispers. (Curse him.) Olivier looks up. Pons spins around, adjusting his crotch.
‘God’s sweet angels, it’s you again,’ says Pons. Olivier jerks his chin at me, his dark eyes as grave as death.
‘Out,’ he grunts.
No use arguing. But the staircase is suddenly impassable—stuffed full of archers. They’re all heading this way, and they won’t yield to anyone. Their shuffling tread sounds like leaves in a stiff wind.
Somebody pulls me aside. Suddenly it’s so crowded up here that I can hardly breathe.
‘Men.’ Olivier rises. ‘All of you—listen to me.’ His voice is low but commanding. His eyes glitter in the soft light of a nearby oil-lamp. ‘When I give the command, we’re going out onto the ramparts—crawling. I don’t want any heads showing above the battlements. Do you understand?’
Nods all around. Everyone’s forgotten about me. Perhaps, if I edge into this corner, out of the way . . .
‘Try not to make any noise,’ Olivier continues. ‘Do not rise when I rise. I’ll tell you when to rise. Hands and knees, my brave hearts, is that clear?’
More nods. And a hoot.
A hoot?
Followed by a flurry of movement. (That hoot must have been a signal.) Olivier strides to the door ahead of Pons and Pagan and the archers. One by one, they all duck their heads. One by one, they disappear into the dimness of early dawn. And what shall I do now? Depart?
Everyone who’s left—steward and squire, earless or not—clusters around the doorway, peering out. Nobody’s stationed at the arrow-slit. Nobody tries to stop me from sidling up to it.
And I understand why, now. It’s hard to see anything through this narrow opening, especially in such poor light. I can vaguely make out some dim, white shapes that must be tents. And there are pinpoints of flame here and there. And a tree. And smoke . . . is that smoke?
A sudden exclamation from behind me.
‘It’s begun!’ someone hisses. (I don’t know who.) Noises reach my ears from the ramparts, muffled by distance and the intervening stone. A shout. A curse. The crowd by the door presses forward. Part of it spills out into the morning air.
God, if only I could see!
Now the shouts are coming from farther afield— from the French camp, no doubt. It’s a furious uproar, as clear as the toll of a bell in the stillness. But whatever’s happening, it’s happening beyond the range of my restricted outlook. All I can glimpse is a handful of dark figures, disappearing from view.
This is intolerable. I can’t stay here. And I don’t have to any more, because this room is empty. Completely empty. They’ve all headed for the parapet.
I think I’ll follow their example.
‘Ah, no, no!’ someone yells. (That doesn’t sound good.) No one’s bothering to be quiet, up here on the walls; stepping out onto the ramparts, I’m greeted by a torrent of wails and protests, every one of them aimed at the French below. The archers are taking up their positions, one to each crenel; Olivier paces back and forth behind them, stopping every fifth or sixth step to check his targets.
‘Hold,’ he says. ‘Steady . . .’
‘They’re dousing it,’ croaks Pons. ‘They’re dousing the fire.’ He’s leaning out into space, as if he wants to throw himself off the battlements. ‘It’s not taken hold!’
‘Come on,’ Lord Pagan murmurs. ‘Come on, Loup.’
I still can’t see anything except the backs of the men in front of me, and the flushed sky beyond. Something’s gone wrong with the raid—that much I can tell—but what, exactly? Is there a fight? A chase?
‘Come on!’ Lord Pagan yelps, hammering at a stone merlon with his mailed fist. ‘Jesus Christ our Saviour’s blood!’
‘Hold fast!’ Olivier cries sharply, his hand outstretched in a quelling motion as he addresses the archers. ‘Wait for my command!’
‘Look.’ Someone points. ‘Is that him?’
‘It’s him!’ Pons swings around to address Olivier. ‘He’s retreating!’
Who is? Why? I must see. I must see! They’re all so intent on the action, they won’t notice if I join them, will they? Perhaps if I squeeze through over there, near Lord Pons . . .
‘Hurry!’ Guillaume shrieks—but not at anyone up here on the ramparts. Olivier’s voice rings out (‘Covering fire!’ he bellows) and the score of archers move as one. It’s a beautiful thing to see: as beautiful as it is terrible. Twenty arms drag together on twenty bowstrings; the twang of their combined release sets my teeth on edge. ‘Again!’ shouts Lord Pagan, and there’s a space directly ahead of me. If I get down low and dodge Pons de Villeneuve’s dancing feet, I’ll be able to peek over the top of the parapet.
‘No! No!’ he screams. A roar of despair springs from every throat. The bows creak once more, drawn tight at Olivier’s command. What is it? What’s happening? Pons is praying—he’s actually praying aloud—and he has no idea that I’m curled down here at his feet because he’s ready to tear the stone parapet apart with his bare hands; he’s in utter torment, his scars a stark white against his wet, red face.
Another shower of arrows is released (it’s an indescribable sound) and at last I’m here. At last I can raise my head enough to look down, and it’s all so confusing . . . what’s going on?
There’s a lot of smoke over by the trebuchet. A lot of people, too. The first golden beams of sunlight are gilding the treetops, and crows are wheeling overhead.
Close by the foot of the walls, in deep shadow, a knot of tumbling, twisting men is attracting more combatants— they’re running in from all over, waving weapons, shouting, gesturing. The knot itself is very tight, full of vague shapes that could be anyone or anything; it’s hard to distinguish each from the other. But suddenly there’s a rent in the crowd, and somebody falls, rolling, and a dozen blades are raised against him— they come down as he tries to shield himself, making a sound that jabs me in the gut. It’s like hewing wood . . . Oh God. I can’t watch this.
‘Who is it?’ Lord Pagan groans, before his voice is swamped by other voices. ‘I got one! I hit one!’ cries an archer. Guillaume says, ‘The fire’s out.’ Pons is cursing furiously, weeping all the while. But Olivier’s hard, clear tones cut through the commotion like a hot knife through fat. ‘Mark that ballista!’ he instructs. ‘They’re mounting a ballista, look! Keep your heads down!’
It’s hard to keep my head down. I don’t want to look, but something draws my eyes back towards the field of fury below. That poor man (not Loup, please God) is being dragged away from the base of the walls. He’s as limp as loose guts, and soaked red; one of his forearms is dangling on a stringy piece of sinew. Around him his bloody killers skip and hoot, throwing taunts up at us, the fiends, the scum, God curse them!
‘Fire!’ shouts Olivier, and—hah! Now you’re not laughing, are you, my fine friends? Now you’re running aren’t you? With the arrows nipping at your heels!
I wish I had a stone, I could brain that blond.
‘Mark the ballista,’ Olivier warns. ‘Mark it, now—is it out of range?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ comes the reply.
‘Then mark it only. We don’t have long. They’ll get their elevation, soon.’
‘My lord!’ It’s the steward. ‘Look over there!’
Over where? Oh no. No, it can’t be. They’re stringing up bodies. They’re stringing them up in a tree, like meat, but they’re too far away . . . I can’t make out the faces . . .
‘Oh, Christ in Heaven!’ Pagan moans, bowing his head. Pons hurls curses over the parapet as the archers take aim. But the French are retreating to a safe distance—all save those whom the arrows have already found. One or two lie still, down below. Half a dozen are struggling away from us, limping or crawling or draped over their friends.
‘Fire,’ says Olivier, coldly. Twang go the bowstrings. Swish go the arrows.
One of the walking wounded falls.
‘We need our own ballista,’ Lord Pagan croaks. ‘That’s the bishop, way over there, I’m sure it is. We could hit him, with a ballista.’
What did you say? The bishop? Where?
‘Fulk, you mean?’ asks Olivier.
‘There. Look there,’ Lord Pagan’s pointing. At what? The tents? They’re all in shadow—the sun’s not high enough. Damn it to Hell, I can’t see! But what’s this, staggering out of the crowd near the trebuchet? A man. It’s a naked man, white with smudges of black and red. His hands are loose. He’s unsteady on his feet.
Everyone falls silent. Everyone.
Even the French.
He’s stumbling towards La Becede. His face is a mass of blood, but now that he’s closer, it’s clear that his hair is black beneath all the red.
‘It’s Loup,’ Pagan whispers.
No. Oh no, it can’t be. Not Loup. No! He swerves, and a lance pokes at his side, nudging him back onto his original course. Beside me, Pons stiffens.
‘They cut out his eyes,’ says Olivier flatly. He turns to the man next to him. ‘Bring rope,’ he orders. ‘Quick.’
They cut out his eyes. He’s blinded.
I can’t bear it.
‘’Ware that ballista!’ someone exclaims, pointing at the giant crossbow. ‘They’re turning the winch!’
‘Heads down,’ says Olivier. Yes. Heads down. My head is down, shielded by stone, because I can’t look. I can’t even see through all the tears.
But nobody else pays attention to Olivier. They’re standing on tiptoes, shouting with all their might. ‘Loup! This way! Loup!’ They’re trying to guide him.
Lord Pagan gasps, ‘They’ll never let him go! They’ll never wait for him to get to us!’
‘He won’t see the rope,’ Pons adds, his voice cracking. But here’s the rope (it looks like a full league of plaited tow) and a dozen hands reach for it. Though it seems enormous, Pons is right. No blind man could find a dangling rope—or climb it even if he did find it. Especially with that ditch in the way.
WHUMP!
‘Ow!’ What was that? Something sharp hit my cheek. I’m bleeding!
But not much. Just a little.
‘Heads down!’ Olivier roars, and everyone ducks. Of course. I understand. The ballista fired a bolt, and the bolt hit stone. I must have been scraped by a flying stone-chip.
‘Loup is bait,’ says Olivier, breathlessly. (To Lord Pagan?) ‘They’re trying to keep us up here.’ He’s hunkered down so low that I can see his face, and it’s not what I expected. It’s bright—flushed—with eyes keen and sparkling. ‘Bring rocks!’ he hisses. ‘Stay on your knees and roll them over here! Now! No—not you, Bernard. You and your brother wait for my signal.’
Rocks. All right, I’ll bring rocks. Where are they? Oh. I see. Piled up by the door. Someone’s already reached them: the man with no ears. He’s dragging a broken building-block from the top of the pile. Shoving it ahead of him, towards the battlements.
I can do that.
‘What the hell?’ says Pons. He’s staring straight at me with bloodshot eyes. (Now that everyone’s on my level, I was bound to get noticed.) ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I can bring rocks.’ Please—please let me help! ‘I’m strong enough!’
‘Get out.’
‘But—’
‘Go!’
WHUMP! Another bolt hits the wall, fired wide and striking stone harmlessly, a long way below us. It distracts Pons, though; he turns, and grabs one end of the rope as the other end is cast over the parapet. Four other men do the same, without much regard for the French ballista.
Perhaps they know exactly how long it takes to winch back a bolt.
‘A rock to each crenel, quick!’ Olivier rasps, flapping his hand at us while he peers over the edge of the wall. What’s he doing? What’s his plan? He’ll get a bolt in the brain if he’s not careful, waving his head about like that. Lord Pagan, too. Lord Pagan’s silhouette must be clear against the sky.
‘They’re coming!’ Pagan squeaks. ‘Loup will never reach us! They’ll stop him before he gets to the walls!’
‘Let them come,’ Olivier replies.
‘But—’
‘Let them come closer.’
‘Loup!’ Pons bawls. ‘There’s a rope! To your right!’
Oh God. I understand now. The French have sent Loup back to us so that we’ll stay up here, clear targets for their ballista. But Loup’s drawing close, now, and the French are getting uneasy. They’ll advance to retrieve him, and then—
‘Now!’ yells Olivier, heaving.
THUMP! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! Half a dozen rocks hit the ground far below. There’s a terrible shriek. More rocks follow the first barrage. Olivier whirls to address Bernard and his brother. ‘Fire!’ he cries. ‘Quick, while you can!’ The two archers jump to their feet, taking aim. The terrible shrieking continues. WHUMP! Another bolt from the ballista—and someone falls! The steward falls, beside me! ‘Loup!’ Pons wails. ‘We hit Loup, oh God!’ There’s blood spilling onto the ramparts, but Pons doesn’t see. He grabs Olivier’s arm. ‘Loup’s dead!’ Pons cries. ‘We killed him!’
And Olivier says, calmly, ‘It’s good that we did.’
Oh Lord our Saviour, preserve us in your mercy. I can’t be here. I can’t do this.
Isidore, help me. Where are you?
I can’t stand it any more.
