She turned to see her steward, Gilbert Kempe, offering a chunk of bread and cheese, with a flask of wine. His tunic was soaked from helping to water down the gate and buildings in the inner bailey, though the attackers had not fired any flame-pitched arrows yet.
“Thank you, Gilbert,” she said with a grateful smile as she took the food, even though her stomach was too knotted up just now for her to eat anything.
He winced, hearing the ram’s noise from this closer distance. “Know you who they are?”
“Sir Falkes’ men,” she replied at once.
Gilbert had not thought of that, and was alarmed to think of it now. “But they wear no colors,” he pointed out. “Nor are there any knights among them. And they did not come prepared to give siege.”
“Aye, they thought they would have an easy path straight into the keep with their man inside to open the way. And nearly they did. If someone had not seen what the pilgrim was about and given the alarm, there would have been no time to bring in the castlefolk from the outer bailey and secure this gate. But who else, Gilbert, would dare to take me?” Her voice lowered to add, “Who else knows my father is dead?”
He shook his head. “Anyone could know by now. It has been nigh a year, though we only learned of Lord Roger’s death four months ago ourselves. Think you no one else with King Richard writes home as your father did to us? And the earl informed his castellan at Shefford of the loss of his vassal just as he did us. There is no knowing who Shefford’s castellan could have told in these past months, and told also that you are not yet wed. Did he not write again just last week for the date of your wedding?”
All of that was true, though it annoyed Reina to admit it. She still found it hard to speak of her father’s death at all, or the dilemma it left her in. She had been so undone by grief that nigh a month had passed ere she got around to writing the letters that would secure her future. That month had cost her dear, witness Clydon under attack now. But she still had no doubt that these were Falkes de Rochefort’s men trying to get at her, and she reminded Gilbert why she thought so.
“Be that as it may, you forget the visit de Rochefort paid us a fortnight ago. Did he not ask me to wed him then? And when I refused, did he not sneak into my chamber that night to rape me to see the deed done in that foul manner? If Theo had not heard my scream—”
“My lady, please, you need not mention that unfortunate night. This could indeed be Sir Falkes’ doing, and with revenge in mind, too, after you had him thrown out of Clydon right into the moat. I only point out that he is not the only lord who would risk much to have you.”
“I am not a great heiress, Gilbert,” Reina said in exasperation.
He frowned at her. “To tempt an earl, mayhap not. But with so many knights’ fees yours, there is more than enough to tempt the countless petty barons in the realm, as well as the greater ones. Clydon alone is enough to tempt them.”
He said naught that she was not aware of, but again, it was annoying to admit it. She could have been married two months ago if she had not taken so long to write her letters. She knew how vulnerable she was with her overlord, the Earl of Shefford, on Crusade, and half her vassals with him, three now dead with her father. And this attack had come so quickly, to surround her so thoroughly, she had not been able to send for aid from Simon Fitz Osbern, her nearest vassal.
“These could even be those accursed outlaws living in our woods,” Gilbert was continuing.
Reina had to force down a laugh to keep from offending Gilbert, but the levity relieved her fear for a moment. “Those pesky wood rats would not dare.”
“There are no knights below, my lady, nor even a single man in mail,” he reminded her.
“Aye, de Rochefort is too cheap to invest his men properly. Nay, enough, Gilbert. It matters notwhois knocking on our door, as long as we keep them out.”
He said no more, for he would not dream of actually arguing with her. When he went away, Reina’s fear returned. And she truly was afraid. If Clydon were merely besieged, she could hold out for months, but that would not even be necessary. Simon would come before then, and Lord John de Lascelles was due sometime next week, finally in answer to her letters to him. But these curs below had to know she was so undermanned. Why else would they have immediately attacked after she refused to give herself over to them? They were determined to get at her with all speed, to win victory before helpdidcome, for their numbers were not that large, though far larger than her own.
She had done all she could, considering the battle was half lost. Her greatest defense, the outer curtain wall with the deep, wide moat that would have taken men days to construct a bridge for the crossing, was already breached. True, she did not have enough men to man such a long wall, for Clydon was no small castle. But the enemy would have lost a good deal of their number in trying to take that outer wall, and mayhap would even have given up. The inner wall was not nearly so long, enclosing only a quarter of the entire area where the keep sat in a corner, and was easier to defend, with four sturdy towers, including the second gatehouse, facing the outer bailey, on which the enemy was concentrating their efforts.
She had had time to prepare after she heard the demands from the wall and had replied to them in the negative. While the ram was being cut down, her buildings torn apart for protection against arrows and a new bridge to cross the dry ditch, her animals slaughtered for the hides to shield the enemy’s covers, she had put to use all Sir William had prodded her to learn, having weapons checked and readied, water and sand heated for pouring from the walls, poles found for pushing ladders back, all near flammables wetted down. And with such a shortage of men, every male servant was enlisted, which did double her numbers. The menservants knew naught of fighting but could throw stones, push away ladders, wind crossbows for those with the skill to use them. But they would be of little help once the battering ram did its job, and then all Reina could do was retreat into the keep, the last defense—if there was time.
Chapter Two
The meow woke him, Lady Ella letting him know she did not like to be kept waiting for her morning viands. Ranulf Fitz Hugh stretched a long arm out without opening his eyes and picked up the bundle of scraggly fur to plop it down in the center of his wide chest.
“I suppose it is time to get up?” he grumbled sleepily to the cat, and got more answer than he wanted.
“My lord?”
Ranulf cringed, having forgotten he had taken more to bed yestereve than his pet cat. The light-skirt, one of a half-dozen camp followers who serviced his men, moved closer to rub a bare leg over his. Ranulf was not interested. The whore might have come in handy last night when he felt the need, but this was morning, and he did not like to be bothered when he had work to do.
He sat up and gave her backside a sharp whack, then caressed the smarting area to make his rejection more palatable. “Begone, wench.”
She made a moue of her lips that did not impress him. She might be the prettiest of the current lot, but beauties came easily to him. He could not even remember this one’s name, though this was not the first time she had warmed his pallet.
Her name was Mae, and as soon as a coin was found and tossed to her, she knew she was forgotten. He was not. It was impossible not to think of him at least a hundred times a day, for Mae had made the mistake of letting her emotions get involved with her livelihood, something she knew better than to do, though it was too late. She was already in love—along with every other woman who had ever set eyes on him, including her fellow camp followers, who despised Mae because she was the only one of them he ever called for. If they knew he sent his squires for “the blonde,” that she meant so little to him that he could not even remember her name, they would not be so envious of her. To him, she was what she was, a whore, a convenience, no more.
She sighed as she watched him leave the tent bareassed naked to relieve himself. Like most men, he thought nothing of his nudity as long as there were no ladies around to be embarrassed by it. Whores did not count. But Mae imagined a lady would not be so very embarrassed to get an eyeful of Ranulf Fitz Hugh. Few men had such presence of height as well as magnificence of form. That Sir Ranulf avoided ladies as he would a shit-clogged privy was their misfortune.
Mae gasped to realize she was wasting time with her musing. Sir Ranulf might have woken with his usual morning grouch, but if he returned to find her still in his tent, his grouchiness could turn much uglier.
