III

 

 

THE OAR DIPPED silently in the icy black water as the punt slid unseen beneath the new walls of the outer ward. Directly ahead, a ship sat moored to the Tower’s jetty – so close, he could already hear the muffled voices of the shadowy figures moving between it and the jetty’s gatehouse. With a twist of the oar, he guided his small vessel to port, towards the yawning gap of the second inlet that cut into the bank between him and the mooring. Like its cousin further upriver, this had been an attempted moat, marking the original extent of the castle’s outer walls. Longchamp’s new fortifications had now stretched far beyond it, encircling and containing the ineffectual intrusion of this huge ditch – yet they were not complete. Here, at the point where the water pierced the land, there was also a break in the new curtain wall where the old moat passed through – a broad, unguarded opening which would surely one day be closed by stone when that particular engineering challenge was overcome, but which for now was open to the air.

The gap almost made it possible to sail a boat from the river straight into the midst of the outer ward, entirely bypassing the gatehouse at either the main entrance or the jetty. But temporary measures had been taken – a cluster of huge, sharpened wooden stakes driven into the mud and grit of the river bed all about the inlet. So closely packed and tangled was the forest of spikes that not even the narrowest boat or punt could hope to negotiate it, and the banks on either side were so narrow and so steep that it was assumed – quite rightly – that nothing could cling to them. But, tonight, at the inlet’s edges, the still water about the stakes was frozen. It creaked in the swell of the water, extending a few feet from the bank, its edges glassy and frail. But, here and there, immediately beneath the mossy guard tower and the wall lining the inlet, it was just thick enough to support the weight of a man.

Crouched like a crab, he reached up from the punt as it drifted in close, grasping the green, slimy trunk of the nearest stake and using it to haul the craft forward. Slowly, he moved from one stake to the next. The rows of tiny spikes on the palms of his gauntlets gave extra grip, but his clumsy, leather-clad fingers dislodged icicles as he went. He winced as some clattered noisily into the body of the boat, others dangling on threads of green weed. He forged ahead nonetheless. Even if they heard him now, he doubted they would be able to see him. Guiding the punt steadily towards the corner of the bank, he finally felt the bow crunch against ice and shudder to a halt. Hastily, he lashed the craft to the nearest stake, slung the coiled rope and grapple over his right shoulder, uncovered the crossbow and heaved it upright. It was more than half his height, and suddenly, now weight was a more immediate issue, seemed far heavier than he remembered. But there was no time to question it now. He slung it across his back and stood up at the punt’s blunt bow, feeling the tiny spikes that also lined the soles of his boots bite into the wooden hull. With his left arm wrapped around the slippery, stinking post, he placed his right foot tentatively upon the ice.

The ice creaked and gave. He stretched as far as he could, knowing that the ice closest to shore, immediately beneath the guard tower, would be thickest, if he could only make it that far. If he did not, he would not survive the river. He would sink like a stone, the cold water forcing the air out of him as he was sucked by his own weight into the freezing black. Before he could think further, he launched himself forward, grabbing for the next post. The ice dipped and bounced sickeningly, great cracks crazing its surface. He threw his arms about the awkwardly angled timber, feeling his spiked feet skid and almost slip from under him – then righted himself. He clung for a moment, his nostrils filled with the stench of river mud and dead fish, then slowly slackened his grip, allowing the frozen surface once again to take his full weight. There was a creak – but the ice held.

He could use the ice shelf to make his way undetected along the edge of the inlet, following the line of the old walls all the way into the outer ward. But there was something else to be done first. Turning back towards the river, he divested himself of crossbow and rope, and laid them carefully down on the frozen surface. Then, staying close to the bank, steadying himself on the frozen stonework of the guard tower, he inched gingerly around the delicate fringe of ice at its foot. It thinned dramatically closer to the flow of the river; he could already feel it splinter and groan beneath him. But he was within sight of the ship now. If it only held for seconds longer, it would be enough. Peering around the curve of the tower, he reached into the leather bag at his side and pulled out an almost spherical earthenware bottle, wrapped in sacking and sealed with wax. He threw off the sacking and weighed the bottle carefully in his hand, eyeing up the distance between him and the ship. He drew his arm back, and hurled it as hard as he could.

He did not see its flight through the air. But he heard its crash upon the the ship’s port side, saw a great eruption of yellow flame that near blinded him, lighting up the mast and throwing the spidery rigging into sharp silhouette. There were cries of alarm, but he saw that his aim had been poor. Another earthenware globe was already in his hand, and this time the target was plain to see. The dark ball sailed through the air and burst against the mast, showering the deck with flame and instantly igniting the furled sail. He hurried back toward the dark of the inlet, one foot momentarily dipping into freezing water as he misjudged his footing and a slab of ice gave way. He didn’t stop to think, but snatched up the rope and crossbow and ran across the bouncing surface of the ice, as if the fire on the ship had also ignited something in his blood. He vaulted a dark gap in the ice – a privy outlet in the wall, he supposed – almost losing his footing on the other side (if he fell now, would he crash through?), but already the ice was thicker, its surface here thickly layered with crunchy, frozen snow. He threw himself forward. Within moments, he was off the ice, clambering up the snow-covered, mud bank, and – black hood pulled about his ears – stepping unchallenged into the castle’s outer ward.

Already, figures were dashing about: numerous guards, singly and in groups, armed with crossbows or spears; a fat, red-faced old woman hauling up her skirts to avoid the horse dung; a single knight, in a full coat of mail with sword drawn, striding purposefully towards the gatehouse; a bemused mason, covered head-to-toe in white dust and literally not knowing which way to turn; a gaggle of squires, some half-dressed or in the process of dressing, all engaged in what seemed a violent argument. None took the slightest notice of him.

On one side, immediately ahead and to his right, the west wall of the keep towered over him like a great white cliff, the toothed battlements flickering weirdly as they reflected the fire-ship’s flames. Cutting across the hectic courtyard, he did not pause to look back at the entrance to the inner ward giving access to the keep’s main door – about which, he had no doubt, a formidable band of armed men were now clustered.

Heading away from it, his head low and his back turned to the distant blaze, he pressed on against the prevailing flow of scurrying humanity towards the White Tower’s northwest corner, a dark space from which no figure issued – a place he knew no one else would be going, and no one would be looking: the ward immediately beneath the Tower’s north wall.

With his strange, black-cowled cloak, coiled rope and huge crossbow slung across his back, he cut an outlandish figure, even among the diverse residents of the citadel. But they looked through him and past him – all eyes straining towards the river, its leaping flames, and the deadly and immediate threat that must be close behind it. Control the battlefield. That’s what his old mentor had taught him. That was the principle that had dictated his daring plan. All was now unfolding exactly as anticipated – but the greatest challenge was that which lay immediately ahead. Even with his hooded face so resolutely averted from this heaped mountain of stone, he could feel its daunting presence, the blank windows staring from that cold, monstrous face like the dead eyes of its maker. This was the closest he had ever been to the White Tower. Its walls now seemed more forbidding than ever.

He passed unnoticed between a long, low stone building and the corner of the keep, and was swallowed up by the blackness beyond. The darkness here was total. No lights burned. The cold light of the moon did not penetrate, nor the glow of the distant flames. He was in the Tower’s cold shadow.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the inky black, he began to make out shapes over by the outer wall: a couple of wagons, a heap of rubble, a jumble of upended wooden planking – evidently for the use of the masons and labourers working on the new fortifications. This was, for the most part, a forgotten place. A dumping ground. Beneath his feet, the iron-hard ground was uneven, the ruts dotted here and there with brittle, icy puddles and dusted with undisturbed snow. The ground was also higher here than at any other point about the keep’s walls. It was this fact that brought him here.

Upon reaching the halfway point of the keep’s wall, he set his back hard against the stone, walked a carefully measured number of paces from it, then stopped and turned. He heaved the crossbow off his shoulder and slid the rope carefully off his arm, placing both upon the frozen ground. With the outer rampart to his back, and the White Tower’s north wall filling the view before him, he finally straightened and allowed his eyes to wander over the soaring stonework, all the way up to the battlements. The air around him was still; the shouts and curses outside the quiet enclave seemed far distant. From somewhere wafted the dank smell of human waste. High above and to his left, he could now see a dim light in one of the upper windows. Now, so close to his goal, the seeming impossibility of the task struck him full force. Suddenly, he was painfully aware of every physical limitation: the cold sweat beneath his arms, the stiffness in his left shoulder, the smallness of his body before this unending slab of stone. He flexed his muscles and stretched his arms, as if pushing the thoughts from him. He could not let doubt get in the way of action. Not now. This was the lowest section of the keep’s walls. The equipment was built for the task. He had prepared and tested everything a dozen times, and nothing now was any different from every one of those successful attempts in the forest. He need only keep a clear head, and repeat everything as he had done before.

Taking a deep breath of the cold, clammy air, he stooped, raised the crossbow on its end, and began to turn the windlass, leaning into it with all his weight as the bow reached its limit and the rhythmic, dull clicks of wood against metal slowed to a stop.

“Hey!”

At the sudden cry, he almost dropped the weapon. To his right, silhouetted against the feeble light from the courtyard, stood a figure of a man. By his outline, a tower guard, a conical helm upon his head, a crossbow across one arm.

“What’re you doing here in the dark?” came the voice. It was jovial rather than challenging; even now, even here, he had aroused little more than bemused curiosity. He might have only moments before it coalesced into suspicion. A wave of something like regret, or even sadness passed through him as he laid the primed weapon gently upon the ground and turned towards the guard. The man before him had no idea what he faced, or what was coming. As he strolled towards him, he heard the man actually laugh, as if expecting to share a joke – or perhaps it was because the man had finally taken in his oddly macabre appearance. Then, as he neared, he could discern the man’s features clearly enough to make out a frown just seconds before he smashed his forehead into the guard’s face. The guard collapsed heavily, his helm bowling across the hard ground, a sound of laboured, sticky breathing coming from him as he slumped.

There was no time for internal debate now. Crouching on one knee, he hastily arranged the coiled rope to ensure there were no snags, then loaded the shaft of the metal hook into the crossbow. He set one end of the weapon on the ground, his right foot behind it, and raised it until the angle satisfied him. This was the critical moment: too high and it would fall short of the battlement. Too low and it would glance off the stone. At ninety feet, this was at the very limit of even this weapon’s effective range; the projectile was heavy, the drag of the trailing rope severe. The rope had been made as thin as possible to reduce weight, but that also made it more likely to catch in the wind, or to become tangled in itself as it unfurled. If either happened, it would fail; and there would be no second chances. He held his breath.

The guard groaned and shifted where he lay. He would come to in minutes. But by that time, his quarry would be long gone.

Still not daring to breathe, he released the trigger. The crossbow thudded, recoiling violently against his foot. The bolt flew, the slender rope whipping freely into the air in its wake. For a moment he lost sight of it completely, and was gripped by panic. Then he heard a dull impact far above – the sound of metal against stone, muffled by leather. He pulled upon the rope. It gave, slackened suddenly, stopped again – then held. He pulled it taut, able now to pick out its curved line snaking up to the battlement high above and slightly to his left. Going hand over hand, he kept the strain on the rope as he hurried to the wall, then, in the moment of truth, put one foot upon the stonework, pressed the spikes in the palms of his gauntlets firmly into the rope’s fibres, and allowed it to take his whole weight. He felt it stretch – but it did not give.

Slowly, he began to climb.