By Right of Arms Page 2

  Aurélie looked at Sir Guillaume. “The English bastard is confident,” he growled.

  “He can well afford his confidence, Guillaume,” she replied somewhat sadly. “Let us see what he demands.”

  The distance from the tower to the courtyard was great and Aurélie arrived just as the gate was opening for her messenger. She was satisfied to see that Guillaume had sent one of their strongest archers and not a boy who might, in fear, have garbled the message. The man fell to one knee before Sir Guillaume and Aurélie. She braced herself for the news.

  “The Sire de Pourvre has fallen, my lady,” he reported. “Dead by the English blade. ’Tis Sir Hyatt Laidley, knight of Edward, who claims De la Noye by right of arms.”

  Aurélie felt her stomach jump up to swallow her heart and a dull gray began to envelop her. She swayed slightly against Guillaume, but would not let herself swoon. In her soul she screamed—Giles! My Giles, my husband! My beloved friend. But she straightened and lifted her chin, holding back the painful tears she wished to shed.

  “Are there survivors?” she asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

  “Some, madame. They travel toward us under English guard. There are more of the English than those. This army is only his advance. This knight, Laidley, will hold his troops until you are given word of your husband’s death. He says it is his intention to offer you decent retirement for yourself and …” He paused a moment and then, looking down, continued, “Yourself and your heirs, if you will surrender the hall and lands.”

  Aurélie’s pain was like the point of a dagger; her eyes brightened with tears. “Did you tell the English bastard that the lady of this hall is barren and has no heir?” she asked bitterly.

  The messenger did not bother to answer but simply looked to the dirt at his feet. Aurélie had asked the question knowing full well that none of her people would speak personally of her, most especially to a conquering force. “My lady, I pray you beware; he carries the bend sinister on his shield. He is a bastard true.”

  Aurélie gave a short, bitter laugh and turned her watering eyes to Sir Guillaume. “Mother of Christ, there are so many bastards born.” Her knees threatened to give way and spill her to the ground. She felt Guillaume’s hand move to her waist to hold her. He feared that she was becoming distraught. What matter her absence of children when her life and all the lives within her walls faced desperate peril?

  “Fetch Perrine,” Guillaume commanded over his shoulder, holding Aurélie upright, trying to give strength. The command from the seneschal was sobering. She knew Guillaume called for her woman to have her taken away and tended, and however grieving her heart, she meant to command her walls until they were hers no longer.

  “Why does this bastard knight delay his attack?” she asked the messenger.

  “He says his armies are well paid and he does not wish to break down his own walls to have his booty. He stabbed the ground with his sword and promised that if the gate does not open to him when the shadow cast by his sword is gone, he will take the castle. He bade me hurry the message that the choice of life or death is yours, my lady.”

  “Guillaume …”

  “By God’s bones, I would rather die on the English blade than abide his chains,” the seneschal growled.

  “How many would you sacrifice?” she asked him in a whisper.

  “How do we know the vermin will allow us life if we lay down our arms and bid him welcome?” the knight retorted hotly.

  Aurélie loved Guillaume well and had known and trusted him for over a decade. He was a wise and noble man who would not lightly abuse the men entrusted to him. But he was proud as well and could not easily give over this domain.

  In truth, Guillaume was more the knight of the old Sire and had suffered in trying to serve the young, religious heir. He had never before faced a choice such as this.

  “You saw for yourself, Sir Guillaume. They have a greater force than we. And ours are dead or captured.”

  “Do we believe him then, my lady?” he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Do you see our men-at-arms?” she countered.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Aurélie could not find reason in the knight’s eyes and he could not find the power for war in the soft blue of hers. Yet, of all the people housed in De la Noye, these two were by far the bravest. Guillaume had served here for over thirty years, ever since he was a young and hot-tempered warrior. Aurélie, having come to this place as a child bride, had learned to be the strong ruler her sensitive and cowardly husband was not. Although she had a gentle tongue and graceful step, she moved quickly through this massive keep to see her quietest command followed or her punishment meted out.

  Aurélie turned to the messenger. “Go again to the English swine and ask him for the full measure of his shadow, so that the Sire de Pourvre’s widow might hear a mass for her husband’s soul. Tell him I request this above any civil retirement he offers. If he has not the honor to allow me this brief mercy, let him attack and win De la Noye at the cost of some of his men.” And in a quieter voice, she added, “If Giles is dead, the wall is mine.”

  The man nodded and mounted his horse again. Aurélie raised her arm to the guard, giving her consent to open the doors again.

  “My lady, I know your grief is deep, but a mass for Sir Giles could …”

  “Sir Guillaume, my lord husband might wish a mass and my mourning in lieu of every other thing, but we cannot oblige him this time. Come and let us quickly ready the hall. Our time is short and I will not see that English snake slither about my halls in my husband’s linen. We must burn his accounts and clothes and hide what little money there is. Give your men their orders to hold the gate against the Englishman until we are ready.”

  “And you will bid him enter, lady?”

  “You will forgive me one day, dear Guillaume. I cannot waste more life in a futile battle that will only reduce our beloved De la Noye to ashes. The Black Prince has left naught but rubble and death in his path and he will not cease. Yea, I will invite the devil in, but I do not surrender yet. If but one of us is left alive, he will find his new conquest more a burden than a prize.”

  * * *

  The castlefolk somberly moved through the tasks that were assigned to them. There had been deprivation, sorrow, and fear within the halls of De la Noye, for the fighting had been close and Sir Giles had clung to his estate by the weakest rule since his father’s death. The threat from England had worsened, for Edward had a foothold in Guienne and Gascony and sympathy from Flanders. Indeed, much of Flanders wore the English wool on their backs and the English drank good French wine. King Edward had made it clear he wanted complete sovereignty, a right he boasted through his mother. He was attempting to control the Channel and the Bay of Biscay and had many victories to his credit. The de Pourvre army was weak and weary. In a mood of resignation, the servants and soldiers saw the beginning of the great change of command that had been coming for a long time. Some hid their relief at not having to fight behind the sadness and mourning that came with the loss of De la Noye to an Englishman. Aurélie knew that not many would mourn Giles.

  There was a cautious and watchful surprise throughout as the English knight held back his army for the full course of two hours.

  Aurélie unlocked her husband’s bedchamber. In the anteroom he kept his accounts and a box of money. The hearths in the hall and cookrooms burned bright as the Sire de Pourvre’s records, letters, and clothing fed them. The portion of Giles’s belongings that Aurélie most vehemently wished destroyed was the monk’s habits that her husband often wore. She wouldn’t share with this English foe Giles’s peculiar obsession with his faith. The small amount of silver that was stored in Giles’s coffer was distributed in seven different hiding places, none of which were close to the lord and lady’s chambers.

  Madame de Pourvre walked through her own chambers in a numbness that worried her woman, Lady Perrine. The young widow touched each piece of furniture sh
e passed with an affection one would show a child or favored pet. She quietly asked her maids to fill her coffers with her clothing and sentimental items. She would beg the English conqueror to allow her retirement to her father’s demesne in Flanders. She dressed herself in the black she had worn for the mourning of Giles’s father and pulled her hair away from her face to be hidden under a black shawl. All jewelry but the ring bearing the de Pourvre crest was packed away.

  Perrine watched her mistress with pain and doubt. Guillaume was Perrine’s husband, and the two had been close at hand since the marriage of Giles and Aurélie, through the death of the old lord and during the ensuing hard times. They cared for the young couple as though they were their own children. At the news that Giles was slain, Perrine had cried her helpless tears, but Aurélie did not give in. Her stoic mien and slow, agonized movements, with an army camped on her stoop, confused Perrine. She had begun to fear her mistress was losing her sanity.

  There was no conversation between the women. The chores Aurélie ordered were swiftly and silently done while outside the lady’s chamber the fires destroyed Sir Giles’s personal effects. Finally Perrine answered a light tapping at the chamber door and admitted her sadly beaten husband, Guillaume.

  “I fear our time is come, my lady.”

  Aurélie looked at her seneschal with clear blue eyes. She was more than aware of Perrine’s suspicious glances and chose to disregard them. Many, she supposed, considered her mad with grief. Her love for Giles was assumed by all who knew them, for she had served her husband well and faithfully, despite his shortcomings. Madness was not her malady, however. Her head was clear and her intention strong. “Sir Guillaume, you know my purpose is to let the Englishman enter this castle. You are my most valuable vassal. I give you leave to flee, if you will. If you stay, you must obey me until my rule here is over. Guillaume?”

  “I would not leave your side, my lady.”

  “If he does not kill you, he will chain you,” she said evenly.

  “Do you know what he may do to you, lady?” Guillaume asked.

  “I know. I have lived this last hour knowing.”

  The knight gave a nod toward the door and they moved together through the long corridors and down the stairs until the ground level was reached and the courtyard lay just outside the hall. Here Aurélie paused and questioned Guillaume. “Have you told our people we will surrender the hall?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “Will they obey?”

  “They have seen the number of English knights, lady. Many think you are wise to surrender.”

  “And you, Guillaume?”

  “I gave my oath to fight for this hall to my death, lady. It is all I know. And by your order, my death would come easy.”

  She touched his arm in affection and then gestured toward the door. They passed beyond the inner bailey and through another wall into the courtyard of the outer bailey. There was room here for a thousand horsed knights … but there were none. She surveyed the wall and parapets and saw that her men were ready with bows should the foreigners attack. She drew in her breath and tried to still any fears that threatened to rise. Then her voice came softly. “Give them the order, Sir Guillaume, and meet the bastard at my side.”

  As she watched the opening of the doors and lowering of the bridge, she willed her eyes to dry and gather all the blue from the clear afternoon sky. She allowed no outward sign of weakness or grief. Her pale ivory skin was touched by the red of a rose and her lips were bright as if in fever. The black she wore did not enhance her beauty, but her fairness was too bold to be concealed. She let her eyes lightly close and tried to form pictures in her mind of the good days with Giles. They read and sang and rode together. They shared secrets and experiments. Inseparable as children, fond companions as young adults, theirs was an easy camaraderie all the years of their union. She knew nothing of passion in her marriage and the only romance she had known came from listening to traveling troubadours’ songs. But there had been so much else she had loved because of Giles. She loved De la Noye and her people. She had learned to be content with this. She knew life would never be the same for her.

  She held her chin high and posture proud, as Giles would have expected. He had always admired her strength and courage. She would show her scorn, but never let them know the infirmity of her fear.

  As the English drew into her courtyard her strength was more difficult to maintain. Their size and number pitifully dwarfed her own soldiers. They were clearly ready for war; only destriers entered and no knight rode his palfrey. The war-horse was used only in battle and never ridden on any travel or errand.

  The huge beasts bore their fully armored knights gracefully. Shields and swords were brightly brandished and their livery was red and black, making it difficult to see the stain of blood. The English entered in pairs and separated to line the walls, their eyes casting about furtively for the slightest sign that arms would be raised against them.

  Along the ground and wall, as well as in the parapets, Aurélie judged her men to be still and acquiescent to the conquest. Some of her younger archers showed their awe of the invading army by their gaping mouths. She knew her decision, however cowardly, had been the only one. The brutish strength that circled her would have wiped out her people in little time. Even the thickness of De la Noye’s outer wall would have crumbled under this force of arms. The survivors of such a battle would have suffered far worse than these unresisting few.

  Fifty men soon lined her inner walls. They held their tense bodies still, watching; silently waiting. Aurélie sensed their number and immediately knew the clever battle tactics of this invader. Half of their army remained outside the outer wall, prepared for any trickery on the part of the inhabitants. Long, quiet moments passed and even the destriers were motionless. Then the sound of a single war-horse crossing the bridge could be heard.

  Into the center of the courtyard, protected on all sides by the army, a lone knight rode. Aurélie assumed him to be the leader. He was massive in size; larger than any man Aurélie had ever seen. He would be called a giant in fairs and festivals and was easily four hands higher than she. His livery, too, was black and red and she strained to see the blazon on his shield, but he held it away. His face was covered by his helm and only a glitter from his eyes within gave proof that he was human. His voice rang out in clear, beautiful French. “Where is the lady of this hall?”

  Aurélie paused a moment and then took one small step forward. She felt Guillaume, stiff and ready, join her. The conqueror bent his shielded gaze toward her for a moment before he dismounted. He looked around once more before pulling off his helm. The face that bore down on her was the face of the devil. His eyes were of slate, his skin was scarred and deeply bronzed, and his black hair fell errantly over his brow. He smiled an evil smile and his eyes glittered. Several teeth were missing and his lips were thick and swollen. Aurélie knew a mixture of fear and hate so intense that she could not find one emotion without colliding with the other.

  He strode toward her, still smiling, then bowed. “Madame de Pourvre. Your mass was a long one.” He looked skyward. “The incense you burned filled the sky.”

  She narrowed her eyes, for she knew the knight taunted her. When he saw her frown, he laughed loudly.

  “Madame, is this man your servant?” he asked, indicating Guillaume.

  “Sir Guillaume, the seneschal,” she replied.

  The knight inclined his head toward one of his warriors. The man dismounted and dropped his shield. A second knight followed the first and they approached Guillaume.

  “Does this man command your army?” the conqueror asked.

  Aurélie nodded her head.

  “Command him,” the knight demanded.

  Aurélie looked toward Guillaume and spoke in her gentlest voice. “You are to be the example, beloved Guillaume. Let them take you.” She saw the pain in his eyes. He was no match for the giant who stood before them, but he could surely cause a few bruises to these
lesser knights. The will to fight was strong in him; yielding to bondage such as this destroyed the greatest part of him. She nearly wept in pity. “Forgive me,” she quietly pleaded.

  She imagined she could hear hearts breaking all around her as her people watched Guillaume, so brave and strong, allow these English to restrain him. Her hatred for the bastard blossomed and grew as Guillaume was pulled away from her side.

  She turned on the huge knight with renewed fury. “Will you bind them all, Lucifer?” she asked, her voice heavy with ire.

  He smiled tolerantly. “If they make it necessary, madame.”

  “And how will you bind me?”

  “While you obey, your hands will be free.”

  “You killed my husband,” she gritted out through her teeth.

  His eyes took on a feral gleam. “ ’Twas my sword and no other,” he said, full of pomposity.

  Aurélie spat at him. The spittle struck his face and the insult brought four men from their steeds, banners and shields falling abruptly to the ground. Only two were required to stay Guillaume, but in the instant it took to spit in the face of her conqueror, Aurélie found herself seized by four large, armor-clad men. Guillaume strained against his ropes and guards, but it was futile.

  “You court death, demoiselle,” he growled.

  “Ha! Do you expect me to weep? My blood should blend on your foul blade with the blood of the Sire de Pourvre!”

  “But I do not wish it so, demoiselle,” he said, his voice low and mocking. “One so lovely as you should not die … so soon.”

  “I will await the moment; I will pray for it.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, a patient smile growing on his lips. “For each time you spit at me, one of your villeins will die. We will begin with him,” he said, nodding his head over his shoulder toward Guillaume.

  A broadsword slid out of its sheath the moment the words were spoken. Aurélie gasped in disbelief. She could not fathom their power. The men responded to their leader as if he sent them silent messages from his mind. “Mercy, sir knight,” she pleaded. “It is my crime, not his.”