Page 32 of Hers To Command
His resolve even stronger, his expression grim, he started toward the barracks again. He owed it to Mathilde to help her defeat Roald. He owed it to her to kill the bastard.
He ran up the stairs leading to the large chamber above the stables full of rope beds and stools and wooden boxes for the soldiers’ belongings. He threw open the door, and as the men scrambled to their feet, he put his hands on his hips and shouted, “All right, you lazy curs, your days of leisure are done. I’m in command now, and by God, you’re going to wish I wasn’t.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HOW MANY MORE CARTS?”Mathilde asked as she watched the alewife’s son unload the casks of ale into the buttery seven days later.
Around them other villagers and servants bustled, toting, moving and carrying bundles and baskets of food and provisions, wooden chests of clothing and household goods in preparation for a possible siege.
Voices rose and fell in discussion and argument, and above them all, keeping an eye on the surrounding countryside, were the sentries on the wall walk, their weapons newly forged and sharp, their mail mended and cleaned, and their attention firmly on their duty.
“Two, my lady,” Balwyn replied. “Mam says that’s nearly the whole lot. The innkeeper wants to keep some in the taproom in case Sir Roald don’t come after all. He says it would be a terrible thing to have no ale to offer because it’s all here.”
Mathilde nodded her agreement. “As long as he is willing to lose it should Roald return and lay siege to Ecclesford.”
“Aye, my lady,” Balwyn replied, sliding her the sort of sidelong, curious glance she had received many times in the past se’ennight, ever since Roald had publicly proclaimed her shame.
Ignoring his curiosity, she said, “You and your family must come here when you hear the church bells sound the alarm.”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Good.” She looked over her shoulder at the miller, who was standing in the middle of the yard, shouting about spilled flour.
She had spent hours going through the storerooms attempting to find as much space as possible for the incoming food, ale, wine and fodder for the animals. She had set the maidservants to clearing out any place a family might be housed, including the stables. Other men had been sent to find stones and carry them up to the wall walk, in preparation for throwing them down on any enemies who tried to scale the walls. The smith had built large iron pots and tripods, now set on the battlements, in which to boil water or pitch to rain down upon invaders. The village smith and castle armorer were busily repairing and sharpening the weapons they had, and making new swords.
She would never forget the look on Sir Henry’s face when he went to the armory with her. He had run a disgusted gaze over the weapons stored there. Yet when she had, with regret, remarked upon their poor condition, he had shrugged and simply said, “It is more important to have loyal men.”
He always spoke that way to her now, brusquely and succinctly, and rarely smiled. She asked herself again what else she could expect now that he knew—
“My lady!”
She looked up to see Father Thomas hurrying through the throng, a very worried expression on his face.
“Bishop Christophus is coming,” he said. “He and his acolytes are in the village now.”
Her heart started to race as it did whenever she was near Sir Henry, but for a very different reason. “Could he have made his decision already?”
Father Thomas looked doubtful. “I think not. Perhaps he comes to question you about your father and his will.”
She put her hand on Father Thomas’s arm. “I hope he has, and then he’ll learn that everything was legally done.”
“You have never met the bishop, have you, my lady?” the priest asked quietly, and in a way that filled her with even more trepidation.
But she would not betray any dread in the yard, where there were so many people who could see her. “If you will wait in the hall, Father, I should find Giselle and prepare to greet him.”
She scurried off to find her sister and change her gown to something more appropriate in which to greet such an important visitor. She wished Sir Henry hadn’t taken the men to train in the woods today, and Cerdic gone with him. She would have welcomed their company when she met the man who could have a hand in deciding their fate. Now she and Giselle would have to greet the bishop without their support, unless she wanted to keep the bishop waiting, and that she couldn’t do.
Unfortunately, and although she searched the hall, the kitchen and the bedchambers, she couldn’t find Giselle. She asked all the servants she met if they had seen her sister, but no one knew where Giselle was, and before Mathilde could locate her, the noise of an even greater commotion in the yard announced the arrival of the bishop.
Muttering an oath, Mathilde looked down at her plain dark blue gown. Where on earth was Giselle? She was always the one who greeted visiting nobles or clergy. She was the one who was always impeccably attired, modest and polite.
There was no time to change now, so Mathilde tucked an errant lock of hair back beneath her simple linen scarf, brushed any stray bits of dust and chaff from her skirt with her hands and hurried to the courtyard, pausing a moment to ask Faiga to bring wine to the hall for their guests. She would see to chambers for them later.
The bishop’s cortege was unexpectedly large and well armed, led by the tall, stately clergyman wearing a very fine purple cloak as befit his rank, and a purple zucchetto on his white-haired head. Beneath his cloak she could see an equally fine black robe and a wide purple belt across his ample middle. The various jewels in his golden pectoral cross winked in the fall sunlight.
In addition to the bishop, there were several more plainly attired priests, as well as soldiers in matching tunics armed with swords and pikes. Behind them came carts of baggage and, it seemed, enough food and wine for a small army. Clearly the bishop traveled in comfort and didn’t take his chances with his host’s provisions.
Her father had had as little use for high-ranking clergy as he did for most noblemen, and looking at this man’s expensive clothing and the jewels of his cross, Mathilde shared his aversion. Had not Christ said it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven? Did that not extend to His supposed holy servants here on earth?
