hiding.
Sir Ralph studied him a moment. Then, ‘Wait here with the others, Bernard. I will be back shortly.’
Baldwin had made them ride fairly hard as soon as they were over the river, but he still had reservations about Jack’s riding ability. The boy was sat on his horse like a man with a spear’s shaft stuck in his spine. He didn’t slouch, but instead his manner was one of utter terror as he jolted and lurched. He had fallen twice this morning, and now had a large bruise over his temple that was blueing already. Thomas Redcliffe had muttered to himself at the sight, but the boy’s plight was enough to stir the active sympathy of his wife. She insisted they take a halt to allow Jack to recover himself when he fell the second time, and Baldwin agreed. They had made a temporary camp in this hollow, and set a fire to warm their aching bones.
The sight of the men approaching was initially alarming. The two in front appeared to be wearing armour, which must mean that the Queen’s forces were close, Baldwin thought. These two in particular were professional soldiers, by the way they stopped and looked carefully around them before continuing.
‘Good day,’ he called when the one rider trotted forward.
‘And to you. Friend, you are travelling far?’
‘We ride away from Bristol. We do not wish to be held in a siege.’
‘Neither do we. The Queen’s men are close to encircling the city.’
Baldwin nodded, and now he could see that there were two friars in the other man’s entourage, he felt more comfortable. Friars were rarely involved in fighting. ‘You are welcome to join us, friend.’
‘I have to ride to the ferry,’ Sir Ralph answered.
‘We go there too.’
The knights exchanged a look. ‘I would be grateful for company,’ Baldwin said at last.
Before long, the friars and Sir Ralph were seated with Baldwin near the fire, while Pagan and Alexander saw to their mounts under Bernard’s watchful eye.
Baldwin too kept a careful eye, on the woods themselves, and on the lanes at either side.
But most of all, he kept his eyes on these strangers.
Margaret lay wide awake in their chamber that long, weary night, wishing to Heaven that she was already in the safety of the castle, and not out here in the city, feeling vulnerable.
The sounds of preparation for the siege were all around. Men were hammering on doors, rousing householders and shouting orders, while smiths beat at metal on their anvils. Other men were building obstacles in the streets, taking doors and furniture to block thoroughfares and create killing areas where the invaders could be trapped and slaughtered. There was one shrill scream of agony early in the morning that made Simon stir for a moment and roll over, but apart from that, he slept through it all.
She wished she could do the same. Lying here in the bed, with her husband snoring gently, Perkin whiffling in his little truckle bed, and Hugh grunting and mumbling over by the doorway, she felt restless and exhausted.
In the background was the steady rumbling of heavy machines, the slow, inexorable journey of the enemy’s massive engines of destruction being levered and hauled into position so that they might pound the city into dust. For that was what they wanted, surely: to demolish this city without counting the cost to the people inside.
Yes, she could discern all the sounds of two forces preparing to kill or be killed. The furious effort of one to make defences strong in the few hours that remained; and the ferocious desire in the others outside the walls to get into the city and rob, rape and pillage.
Margaret had no illusions. She knew that if the enemy got inside the city walls, she was certain to be raped. It was not to be borne.
Rising, she fetched her dagger and slipped the thong over her head so that the sheath with the wicked little blade sat between her breasts.
She was not angry or desperate. Instead she felt cold emptiness. All emotions were pointless. No, she knew her position all too well. If any man tried to take her, she would kill him if she could, and in the last instance, she would kill herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
They had reached the river late in the afternoon, and there was no sign of the ferry. It could well have been on the opposite shore, but in the darkness, there was no way to tell; even a large fire could have gone unnoticed.
When he returned to Redcliffe and his wife, he found that Sir Ralph and the others had begun to make camp as best they could. There was no shelter to be had, other than that of a few trees. Jack had been given the task of carefully feeding the fire and making sure it didn’t go out. He had succeeded in keeping it smoking gently until Pagan pushed him out of the way and began to tease a full, hot flame from the glowing embers.
Baldwin made himself a bed of branches laid cross-ways over each other. They would be soggy, but better than nothing in this weather. He eyed Sir Ralph’s simple tent with a jealous eye, but resignedly told himself that in his youth he had been happy enough with a simple mattress of branches and the sky as his ceiling. Not that it convinced him. He had been younger then.
It was not only Sir Ralph who had a tent. Roisea and Thomas Redcliffe had a heavy strip of canvas which they spread out over a bent limb, and used some pegs of sharpened sticks to stab the corners into the ground. It made a simple tunnel, in which the two could sleep. Baldwin eyed his own bed without enthusiasm, and decided that he would see what protection he could achieve from hooking his riding cloak to a bush and draping it over his upper body. At least that way his face would remain drier.
It was a relief when dawn broke and he could rise, rubbing his hips. There was no doubt that he was not the fit and healthy, nor the young man he once had been. The branches felt as though they had moulded his very bones to fit them, and the ridges in his flesh felt permanent. His blanket was a soaked mass of wool, and he experimentally twisted it in his hands. Water ran from it in a stream, to his disgust. That explained why he felt so wet and miserable.
He went to the fire, and set about adding some tinder to the warmer part of the grey ashes, and to his surprise, it caught. Working swiftly with small twigs and some more tinder, he soon had a little fire burning, and he prodded Jack until the boy was awake, ordering him to fetch more sticks while he kept the fire going. Before full light they had a good fire blazing, and a pot of water already boiling, with wine warming beside it.
Sir Ralph appeared soon after Jack had supplied a second load of logs, and the man looked as refreshed and contented as a cat after a bowl of cream.
‘The ferry should be over here before long,’ he said.
‘Where will you go then?’ Baldwin asked.
‘The King should be at Cardiff by now. I will ride to him.’
‘I too,’ Baldwin said. He sighed.
‘You are upset?’
‘I do not wish to see the kingdom at war, but I would not break my oath.’
Sir Ralph stared at the fire morosely. ‘We have the duty of service.’
Baldwin would have said something in reply, but before he could speak, he peered over Sir Ralph’s shoulder. ‘Troops!’
The enemy had not seen the fire or the encampment yet. There were only four men, all on horseback, with cheap helms on their heads and for the most part wearing only boiled leather armour without insignia – and no
