The baron’s household had fallen under the spell of Dario Gabrieli, the noble troubadour from Milan. There was nothing about the man that did not fascinate, from his accent to his clothes, his manner of carrying himself to his raucous sense of humor. At least three of Adeline’s ladies declared themselves to be in love with him, but none of them had the courage to admit it to the man himself. They parsed his every word, imitated his mode of speech, and argued over who would bring him spiced wine and sweets in the evening after his performances. Adeline alone held herself apart from Gabrieli. She listened attentively when he sang and praised him without reserve, but she never sought him out during the day, nor did she ask him to go riding in the afternoon with her ladies.
Cecily enjoyed the troubadour’s company more than she expected. She adored his songs, but was more taken with his stories of life in Milan. Everything there sounded exotic, from the art to the music, and she wished she could travel to see it herself. It was only when Gabrieli began to praise her nobility and told her that in his heart he was never away from her that she realized he was attempting a flirtation, following the manner of Andreas Capellanus, whose treatise The Art of Courtly Love had for centuries guided those in search of romance. She reacted so strongly against his advances—heeding none of the advice given by Capellanus, preferring instead to rely on Christine de Pizan, who insisted in no uncertain terms that a lady must never allow herself to be seduced in such a way—that she feared Gabrieli would flee Sussex altogether. If he did, she might have to explain to Adeline what had happened.
Her fears were unjustified, born from youth and lack of experience. Dario Gabrieli would not be so easily discouraged. He recognized that he had chosen the wrong object for his affections, but there were other ladies in the castle. Two days after she had rebuffed his advances, Lord Esterby called Cecily to his parlor. Frightened that he believed she had encouraged the Italian, she silently recited a simple prayer as she stood before him. His broad face, normally bright and quick to smile, bore a grave expression, and Cecily feared the worst.
“Word has come from France,” he said. “The fighting has begun.”
* * *
It surprised no one that the French rejected King Henry’s offer of peace.
The English cleared the land around the city, making way for their guns and trebuchets. They built defensive screens and dug deep trenches. The sound of the cannons and the acrid smell of the thick smoke they spewed as they shot their enormous stones made the earth seem like hell itself. Miners from Wales excavated beneath Harfleur’s walls at an inhuman pace, their goal to cause the collapse of the city’s defenses. Many soldiers died in those mines, when the French, digging as well, broke through and attacked their attackers.
This hand-to-hand fighting in the mines, a part of every siege, was always the most dangerous combat—claustrophobic spaces, men relying on their poleaxes and battle hammers, swords and knives. It was dark and dirty, the air close and hot, the ground slick with blood. Those who succeeded in besting their opponents earned reputations for being the bravest and most skilled of all knights. Even those who were vanquished were lauded for their feats.
Though he was no miner, William dug every day, listening for any sound that might suggest the French were nearby, just on the other side of the dirt, digging a tunnel of their own. When it came, first the soft scratching of axes, then shouts as the enemies knew they were about to clash, William pushed his way toward the front, ordering archers to prepare a line of defense. They might stop the first men through the break in the tunnel, but eventually they would be overwhelmed. And when they were, William and the other men-at-arms were ready.
The bite of arrows striking armor and blades clanging against each other echoed, sounding more like the death blows of mythical beasts than the work of mortal men, and the scant light provided by flickering torches made it difficult to distinguish friend from enemy. William raised his sword, brought it crashing down hard on the helmet of a man running toward him, and then used his ballock to stab through the man’s visor as he fell. He took a glancing blow to his arm, but hardly felt it and charged ahead, cutting down anyone who stood in his way. He tasted blood and felt it running warm down his face, but he continued moving forward until there was no one left to fight.
Both sides retreated. There was no real victory to be had, but every man who fought in the mines had made himself worthier than he had been the day before. William had proved his mettle. And now, all he wanted was to fight more.