Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘God have mercy,’ Lucie cried. ‘Daimon!’

The young steward had already jumped up, grabbed his sword belt. He struggled to buckle his belt as he strode to the doorway. Tildy rose to follow, but Lucie held her back. Already shouts rang out in the yard.

Phillippa, too, had risen with a cry, and shuffled towards the rear door of the hall. Brother Michaelo went after her.

‘Come, Dame Phillippa,’ he cried above the din of men’s shouts without. ‘You are best in here, by the fire. Burning brands are good weapons, if need be.’

‘I must see to things,’ Phillippa cried, trying to shrug out of his grasp.

Lucie sent Tildy off to gather the maidservants in the buttery. She noticed Harold, his sword drawn, standing near the hall door. ‘You need not hold the door against them,’ she said. ‘We shall manage. Help Daimon.’

Harold nodded towards Michaelo and Phillippa. ‘Your aunt is much distressed.’

‘As she should be! Brother Michaelo will calm her.’

‘Do you have a dagger?’

‘We have a kitchen full of weapons. Go!’

‘Bar the door behind me,’ Harold said as he raised his sword and stepped out into the darkness.

As Lucie reached the door, she saw smoke beyond the courtyard. What was burning? The gatehouse? Two men struggled close to the door. Lucie pushed it to, barred it. Dear God in heaven, what if they had not been here this night? She watched Phillippa, still arguing with Brother Michaelo. Where did she think to go?

‘It is the watchers,’ Phillippa hissed. ‘They know .’

Lucie met Michaelo’s troubled gaze. ‘The outlaws heard that Sir Robert was dead? It is possible. But what of our steward? Why would they attack an occupied house?’

Something thudded against the outer door. A man cried out. Tildy ran out from the buttery. ‘That is Daimon!’

‘The hall is not safe,’ Michaelo said. ‘Is there a cellar?’

‘The maze,’ Phillippa cried. ‘We must go to the maze.’

‘The kitchen maid saw horsemen near the maze,’ Tildy said.

‘The chapel,’ Lucie said. ‘Come, Aunt. Tildy, bring the others. Brother Michaelo, try to gain the yard, see whether Daimon needs help.’ Taking her aunt firmly in hand, Lucie led the way to the chapel at the far end of the hall. Though her knees felt weak, she was determined to keep her aunt as safe as she might.

‘For you, Sir Robert. I would do this for no other,’ Michaelo muttered as he checked that his dagger was loose in its sheath, then took a torch from the wall and made for the hall door, which groaned against the bar. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on this sinner,’ Michaelo whispered as he tried to unbar the door; but the pressure from the other side made it difficult to move. If he put the torch in the sconce beside the door and used both hands to work at the bar, he would be momentarily unarmed when whoever was pressing against it fell through. He cringed at the thought of the weight of the door and the body against him. His neck prickled with sweat. He reasoned with himself that he would have his dagger; but that was a weapon of finesse, not force. Yet what choice did he have?

Michaelo put up the torch, put both hands to the bar, pushed it towards the door and tried to shove sideways. It did not move. He stepped back, rubbed his hands, took a deep breath, grabbed the bar, tried just shoving it sideways. It moved a few inches, then stuck. Now he put his whole body into pressing against the force being brought against the door. But it was suddenly lessened. The bolt slid easily. Taking a deep breath to quiet the violent hammering of his heart, Michaelo laid the bolt aside, grabbed the torch, opened the door. A body fell in. Michaelo thought he was about to choke on his heart. He forced himself to bring the torch near the body at his feet.

Daimon. Blood covered his head. Part of his tunic was scorched. Michaelo grabbed a shoulder of the young steward’s tunic with his free hand and dragged him further into the hall. Then he knelt to him, checked for a pulse. Deo gratias . He lived. Even now Daimon tried to open his eyes, blinked at the bright light from the torch, muttered something unintelligible.

‘Do not try to move,’ Michaelo said. ‘I must see to the door, then I will get help.’

He peered out of the door. The fighting seemed to have stopped. He paused with the door halfway shut. A sword glittered in the courtyard mud. Why leave a weapon for the outlaws? Michaelo made a dash for it. But he was too slow. Someone came up from behind, knocked him aside. Michaelo fell headlong, losing his grasp on the torch. He could just see booted feet dash past, a hand grab the torch, another hand the sword. The boots then continued on towards the stables.

Propping himself up on one arm, Michaelo looked round the courtyard. Finding himself alone, he dared to stand. Sweet Jesu, but his hip hurt. He hobbled back to the hall door, discovered it had closed behind him. He was certain Daimon had not managed that. He pushed. Pushed harder. He could not believe it. Barred from within. He pounded on the door, shouting, ‘Mistress Wilton! Tildy! It is Brother Michaelo. Let me in!’ He put his ear to the door, heard nothing. Perhaps they were too busy tending Daimon. He prayed that was so. Still, why did they not respond?

He turned round, leaned against the door, took a deep breath, let his eyes become more accustomed to the dark. Clouds of smoke hung over the gatehouse. He must not go that way. Round the back? See whether the rear door to the hall had been barred?

Lucie and Tildy had managed to get Daimon into the chapel just before the strangers rushed through the hall door. Before Lucie closed the chapel door she saw three figures enter the hall below, one carrying a lantern not quite shuttered.

‘They will burn the house round us!’ a maidservant whimpered.

‘They have killed him,’ Tildy moaned, bending over Daimon.

Lucie shushed them as she leaned against the door, trying to hear where the three had gone. But the walls were too thick.

‘Let me go to them,’ Phillippa whispered at Lucie’s side. ‘I shall give them what they want.’

‘Help Tildy with Daimon.’

‘But — ’

Lucie crossed her arms, positioned herself in front of the chapel door. ‘See to Daimon.’

As Michaelo came round the back of the house he heard a horse whinny. Flattening himself against the wall, he searched the darkness. But he could not see anyone. So he waited. A line of light appeared, widened, illuminated a man with three horses. Two men came from the house, hurried to join him. Without a word to one another, they all mounted and rode off.

Michaelo crossed himself, hurried towards the door. When he reached it, it was closed. He tried it, found it opened easily. Torchlight welcomed him. He hurried across the hall and up to the chapel, found all the women safely within. And Daimon, breathing, but just barely.

In a little while, Harold and the menservants came in, all of them sooty, sweating, most of them with minor wounds, all chattering at once.

Michaelo told them about the horsemen at the rear.

Harold proposed a search of the woods.

Lucie agreed that it would help everyone feel more secure, though she doubted the men would have been such fools as to linger.

She frowned as she turned round to Michaelo, drew him aside. Michaelo smelled the young steward’s blood on her. Her gown and her scarf were stained with it. He hoped she did not wish him to help with Daimon. He was no good as a nurse.

‘I saw three men enter the hall,’ Lucie said. ‘But you mentioned only two.’

‘You fear one may yet be in the house?’

‘Perhaps.’

Michaelo had not considered that. The three men had not hesitated for another before riding off. Three men. Of course. ‘The one waiting with the horses — he was one of them. He must have slipped out earlier.’