Gonnes of navarre, p.16
Gonnes Of Navarre, page 16
And then her vision flashed, and she felt her body lifted up into the air.
Elsabeth came down hard on her side in the cold and wet, and for a moment she could not decide what surprised her more: The icy shock of snow on her face, or the sharp and throbbing pain where Kilianus’ fist had connected with her jaw.
It was a masterfully placed blow, just enough to daze her and put her on the ground, and yet not one that would have put her out entirely. Her vision spun and for a moment Elsabeth could not decide whether the stars across her eyes were from the force of the hit, torchlight on the snow, or wheeling in the night sky above. She furiously shook her head to clear her eyes and spotted Kilianus speeding across the bailey and melting into the darkness. The guards were in two groups: Most charged after Kilianus in pursuit, while another knot of three or four rushed to her side.
Elsabeth scrambled against the slush but only managed to get to one knee. Her halberd was still in hand, so she propped it against the ground for support. Fortunately, her wits cleared enough to piece together Kilianus’ intent, though she little liked the lack of warning, and she hastily waved the oncoming guards off.
“Don’t worry about me!” she called out, trying to lower her voice as best she could and hoping that the sudden confusion would distract them enough they would not question its pitch. “After the intruder! Quick! I think he means harm against Monsieur de Carcassonne!”
“Come on!” a rough voice barked, likely a veteran of the guard. “You see to him, you with me, the rest get after him with the others!”
Elsabeth peered up from beneath the brim of her helm and watched him point to the men gathered round. Most sped off in the direction Kilianus fled. He and another turned for the castle. The last remained behind and crossed the remaining space between them in a few long strides. He was not armed that Elsabeth could see, and was bundled up against the cold with a cloak, hood, and several layers of clothing. She did not hear the rattle of armor.
The fellow rushed to her side and held out a hand.
“Come on lad, up we go, and we best get you to the fire ...”
He trailed off when Elsabeth took his hand and met his eyes as he helped her to her feet, and the mustachioed man from Isabeau’s mouth dropped open in shock.
“You!”
“Thank you, love,” she said. “But I must be going.”
And before he could cry out a warning Elsabeth struck a hard rising blow with the butt end of the halberd right between his legs. All the air rushed from his lungs in a sickening wheezing grunt, and he doubled over clutching his manhood in agony. She reversed her strike in a sharp falling cut with the halberd shaft that caught him at the base of the neck across the shoulders, and he went down in a heap with a wet squish into the slush.
“I am sorry, but you really are having a bad run of luck.”
His only response was a pitiable grunt muffled by the wet snow in his mouth.
Elsabeth considered the dazed guardsman for a moment, then hastily relieved him of his cloak and tossed it round her shoulders. It was already soaked through and covered with a dusting of snow, so did little to offer her warmth, but it would help to better disguise her figure from prying eyes.
She quickly surveyed the bailey. All around her was quiet but the ruckus Kilianus’ flight stirred up echoed across the grounds. Nor did she note anyone else near at hand. It seemed that for the moment everyone had been successfully drawn off, leaving her alone in the bailey. She considered the guardsman lying crumpled in the snow and sighed.
I don’t quite have the heart to leave the poor bastard to freeze to death. And ’twill only raise the alarm that much quicker if he is found lying out here. So I best get this fellow out of sight.
Elsabeth dropped her halberd and bent over to grab him beneath the armpits. With a grunt and a curse over his weight she lifted him up as best she could, and dragged him as quickly as her uncertain footing allowed towards the armory and barracks.
18
Robin passed through the hallways at a brisk pace with d’Alle close at his heels. The summons from de Carcassonne came just as the last of the gonnes and the clockmaker’s equipment had been secured in the armory. Fortunately, no time was lost despite his distraction with the laundry maid and her husband, and for that Robin considered loosening his hold on the noose round Pierre’s neck.
’Twould be a waste as he is indeed a good man when he has not had too much to drink. And perhaps keeping him away from Isabeau’s will be enough to straighten him out.
Nonetheless, Robin gritted his teeth at the thought of yet another disruption of his duties. He was certain there was still a spy about, and he would not be at ease again until d’Alle and his gonnes were off to Domme and in the care of the King’s men.
His path through the castle led him up a winding stairwell to the second level, and back through a series of passages connecting to private quarters for guests staying within the keep itself, rather than guest houses elsewhere on the grounds or within the city. Guards stood sentinel at important junctures, so that no one could pass unchallenged, and servants scattered out of his way. They bowed their heads when he passed, but he paid them no mind.
The furnishings here were more luxurious: plush carpeting and decorative hangings, chairs with velvet cushions, paintings, statues, and other works of art. D’Alle considered the décor on their hurried walk, but remained, for the moment, mercifully silent. The hallway they followed ended at a large suite of rooms. Four guards flanked the elaborate double-doors granting access to the private quarters of de Carcassonne, and he and the clockmaker were admitted with little fanfare.
He found himself in the spacious solar, through which all traffic into de Carcassonne’s private rooms passed. A fire crackled in the fireplace on the right as he entered. It filled the chamber with the fragrance of perfumed and burning wood, and dancing golden light. Gilt lamps were lit to chase away the flickering shadows cast by the fireplace, so that every corner and cranny was bright, cheerful, and welcoming. A couch and several padded leather chairs formed a conversation circle in front of the hearth, and there was also a table where meals could be taken in private. Tapestries depicting scenes of the hunt and war adorned the plastered and painted walls, and the molding was richly carved and gilded, and gleamed under the lamp and firelight. The floor was of polished wood, with a round woven carpet bearing the arms of de Carcassonne — Purpure, on a chevron inverted Or five roses Gules — dominating the central space.
Doors opposite the entrance leading to de Carcassonne’s private offices and bower stood closed.
Monsieur Ethor Odson, Comte de Carcassonne, stood in front of the fireplace with three other people. He was a man of considerable height (and girth to match). His graying hair fell to his shoulders and lines creased his face. In his youth he would have been a formidable man, but as old age encroached and he became more accustomed to riding than walking — and lounging in the hall of Carcassonne or Domme than exercising in the yard — his strength failed, his belly expanded, and his limbs grew heavy from disuse. Nonetheless, he still carried himself with a semblance of his former majesty, and stood tall and straight-backed, so that he nearly towered over his guests that evening.
He dressed richly in a brocaded blue silk doublet of a style growing popular further west in Arras, and golden hose cut so closely to his lower extremity that Robin’s face heated at the sight of the bulging codpiece, (which, if rumor held, was filled mostly by padding) and legs that reminded him much of overfull sausages stuffed into casings too small to bear them. He alone of the retinue (but for Robin himself) was armed, with a magnificent longsword that served more for ceremony than a practical weapon of war. The scabbard was covered in carved purple leather graven with interlacing golden vines, and dotted with roses of gold and garnets. Lamplight sparkled on the golden plaques riveted to his sword belt, which Robin suspected served more to restrain his ample gut threatening to burst the gilt buttons of his doublet than to support the sword at his hip. A golden chain round his neck and rings on his fingers completed his outfit.
The other three were unknown to Robin, though he suspected they were courtiers or functionaries come to witness the morrow’s demonstrations. They laughed politely at some jest of de Carcassonne; their tone just strained enough to betray they did not share their host’s humor but dared not admit it. All cupped crystal glasses of deep purple-red wine.
Robin approached the gathering with d’Alle in tow, and upon reaching his side bowed deeply.
“Ah! Monsieur de Sens,” de Carcassonne said, pausing his current tale upon sight of him. Robin glanced up from beneath the hair falling across his face at the genuflection, and watched the others take a relieved drink from their glasses now that they were released from the clutches of his storytelling. “I am glad you have made it at last! You are a damned hard man to track down.”
Robin rose and leaned his hand on the sword at his hip. “Forgive me, Monsieur le Comte, but there was a minor disturbance I needed to address, and a few other matters regarding the demonstrations for tomorrow needed my attention.”
A frown crossed de Carcassonne’s features. “A disturbance? Here? I have heard nothing of trouble in the castle.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte,” Robin said, in his most soothing tone. “’Twas nothing you needed be troubled with; a small bit of excitement with the new laundry maid.”
The other’s face lit up at mention of the maid, and a smile immediately returned to his features. “The red-haired one, yes? I passed her in one of the halls when I returned to Carcassonne. Quite the striking creature; I had a mind to send for her myself for a better look ...”
Robin cleared his throat. “It seems she has been something of a handful for Mademoiselle Rapine. I am not sure she is worth you troubling over.”
De Carcassonne clicked his tongue in playful admonishment. “Now, now, my lad. ’Twould be a dereliction of my duty if I not take a personal interest in the well-being of the staff of my home! But perhaps there is another position she is better suited for, eh?”
The last he added with a wink, and Robin’s face heated again.
“I would not know. I have not had much occasion to see her for myself, and ’tis not my place to manage the staff. I leave that in Laurens’ more capable hands.”
De Carcassonne laughed out loud, and the rest of the company laughed with him. “Ah! My dear man!”. De Carcassonne turned to the others, but motioned to him with his glass. “Here I think we find the one man in Carcassonne who keeps the Lord of All’s word on fidelity close in his heart. Not once since he wed has he let his eye stray. Not that I can blame him; his wife is such a lovely creature. I for one feel there is much more to be appreciated in a variety.”
Robin shifted uncomfortably at the scrutiny and mirth at his expense. “Respectfully, Monsieur le Comte, I do believe there are greater concerns than the incompetence of one of the staff’s laundresses, and my lack of wandering eye.”
“Oh! You are not on about security again, are you? I should think the preparations you have made are more than sufficient!”
“I would remind you that I do have good cause to believe that there may be a spy in Carcassonne,” Robin said.
De Carcassonne shook his head and sighed, before turning to address his guests. “All because one of his guardsmen was found drugged in a local nunnery.” They all laughed politely into their drinks, and Robin gritted his teeth. “I say again, Monsieur, that you are merely paranoid. I have never seen security in the castle so tight; I suspect not even an ant could sneak into the larder with how you have the entire guard marching up and down the halls at all hours, making a frightful racket and disturbing my guests.
“Now, I have left the disposition of the guard in your hands because I trust you, but I daresay I did not intend for you to jump at every little shadow!”
“I am merely doing my duty, Monsieur le Comte.”
“And what say you, Master Clockmaker?” de Carcassonne asked, with a look past Robin’s shoulder at d’Alle, who had been mercifully silent to this point. “Do you feel that Monsieur de Sens’s preparations have been adequate?”
“Excessively so, Monsieur le Comte,” d’Alle groused. “Why I could hardly even visit the privy without an escort. ’Twas a miracle I could even finish my work at all. And mind you ’twas not helped at all by the rush I was being placed under!”
Robin squeezed his eyes shut tight and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation as d’Alle unleashed the rant he had spent the past weeks crafting on his patron. Oh! If only de Carcassonne would lose his patience with the man and end this farce!
But there was to be no such reprieve. De Carcassonne merely stood with his wine in hand and listened to d’Alle’s every minor complaint. From the constant presence of the guard, to the austerity of his workshop deep in the bowels of the castle, and the demand for a demonstration as quickly as possible. For his part, de Carcassonne took the tirade in stride, and in the end brushed the matter off with a wave of his hand.
“I assure you, Master Clockmaker,” de Carcassonne said, taking on that peculiar buttery quality Robin found him wont to affect when seeking to guide his subject to a particular end, “that if everything works even half as well as you boast that you will be more than adequately compensated for the troubles.”
“I should hope so, Monsieur le Comte!” d’Alle replied, and folded his arms in a huff. Nonetheless, his tone softened, and he appeared suitably mollified. “I assure you, you shan’t see a mechanism like it for another hundred years!”
“Good! Good! His Majesty is eager for his own demonstration, but I daren’t send you on your way without seeing it myself for assurances. I have not had the occasion to drop in on you before now and see your work, but might you tell me something of these contraptions and their mechanism? Of course, I fought in the wars with the Coventrish myself, you know, and had quite a bit of experience with the gonnes and bombards fielded by the King, but what sets these apart?”
D’Alle straightened to his full height, and a satisfied smirk crossed his lips at the prospect of an audience upon whom to unleash his self-aggrandizing genius. Robin sighed again and closed his eyes with a small shake of his head, and braced himself for the lecture to come; one that was certain to soon dazzle de Carcassonne and his guests, yet leave them no less perplexed over the complexity of gears, springs, and other gizmos.
This time, however, there was a reprieve. Before the clockmaker could delve too deeply into his mechanism, they were interrupted by hurried footsteps in the corridor outside. D’Alle trailed off, Robin turned and flexed his hand round the handle of his sword, and everyone stopped to watch as the doors were flung open, and in burst two of his guard; Aimery and Baulduin, if he recalled rightly. Both were red-faced and gasping for breath, and were bundled up in cloaks and with their halberds still in hand. Boots and trousers were both wet from melted snow.
“Monsieur de Sens!” Aimery, the larger of the two, gasped in a rough voice. “Pardon the interruption, but there is trouble down below."
Robin released his hold on his sword and stomped forward, spitting them both with a stern glower. “Trouble? What sort of trouble? I left the armory in your charge, what are you doing up here?”
“That is it entirely, Monsieur, there is an intruder on the grounds!”
Robin gritted his teeth, and an oppressive silence fell across the chamber. De Carcassonne stomped forward, and both men tensed as they hastily bowed their heads.
“What do you mean an intruder?” de Carcassonne demanded.
“’Tis just as I said, Monsieur le Comte!” Aimery stammered. “One of the guard had the fellow in custody, but he broke loose and struck him before fleeing across the bailey. I sent part of the guard to run him down while Pierre remained behind to help the lad.”
“Damn!” Robin snapped, heedless of the company in the chamber, for he was already in motion without even bothering to beg his leave.
“My gonnes! My gonnes!” d’Alle exclaimed. “They are sure to be after my gonnes!”
“I know that, you damned fool! Aimery, where was he headed?”
“Not for the armory, Monsieur,” Aimery said, as he fell into step with him. “He took off along the wall, I think headed for the main gate.”
“Alert the guard and seal that gate, and every other way out of the castle! No one leaves without my express permission. Redouble the guard on the armory at once.”
“Yes, Monsieur!” Aimery replied, and saluted sharply before hurrying off with Baulduin to see the orders carried out. Robin strode with measured purpose down the hall, with d’Alle scrambling behind him and tearing at his hair over the safety of his precious gonnes as they rushed to join the pursuit.
19
Elsabeth dragged the guardsman’s prostrate body through the open door of the armory and shut it behind her. The dusting of snow covering the two of them quickly began to steam and melt under the warmth of a fire crackling in a hearth near the entrance, and it soon became rather hot within the confines of the structure. A brief search turned up enough spare crossbow strings to serve as bindings, and she made them fast around the hapless guardsman’s ankles and wrists, tying them both together so he could neither stand nor use his hands to free himself. A balled-up wad of wool secured with a short strip torn from her cloak provided a serviceable gag.
Once finished, she quickly surveyed the interior of the armory. It was a sizable structure built up against the inner wall of the enceinte. Munitions-grade arms of all sorts, from crossbows to halberds and even a few swords, were stacked in barrels or stood in racks running in several long rows along the length of the packed-earth floor, or hung from pegs and wall-mounted racks, and a number of pavises stood in one corner. There were a few hand gonnes of the sort that required manually touching a match to the touchhole, and even one of the more sophisticated type with the lever-driven mechanism. Old suits of armor — most of them brigandine with simple kettle helms, vambraces, and greaves much like those worn by the rest of the guard, but here and there she spied full suits of articulated plate armor — were hung from floor stands, like rank upon rank of silent soldiers standing in formation. Though none of the arms stored here were of high quality, all were serviceable and in good repair, and she judged that de Carcassonne could outfit a good thousand men beyond his standing guard in a crisis. In a far corner stood several barrels of wax, oil, tallow, and, she suspected, powder for the gonnes.
