Ellis Peters - Virgin in the Ice

Doubtful if he was heard, though the clear air carried sounds with meticulous accuracy. Certainly he was seen. The head - it barely topped the parapet - craned into view recklessly for a moment, to shriek in shrillest excitement: “Come on! Bid them come on! We hold the tower! We are two, and armed!” Then he vanished behind the merlon, and none too soon, for at least one bowman within the stockade had been watching the same serrated outline, and his arrow struck the edge of the embrasure, and stuck there quivering. Defiantly the clangor from the tower resumed its resolute beat.

Cadfael picked himself up from his niche in the rock, regardless of danger, and ran for the trees. At least one arrow followed him, but fell short, somewhat to his surprise when he heard its shuddering flight extinguished in the snow behind him. He must still have a better turn of speed than be had thought, at least when running for his own life and many others. He plunged breathless into cover, and into the arms of Hugh Beringar, and was aware by the stir and quiver all along the fringe of the trees that Hugh also had employed these few minutes to good effect, for his lines were drawn ready for action, waiting only the urgent word.

“Set on!” said Cadfael, puffing for breath. “That’s Yves sounding for us, he says he holds the tower. Someone has reached him, God known how. No danger now but from our delay.”

There was no more delay. Hugh was away on the instant, and into the saddle before the words were spent. He from the left and Josce de Dinan from the right broke from the trees and drove in upon the gates of Alain le Gaucher’s castle, with all their footmen streaming full tilt behind them, and a file of torches spluttering into life after, to fire the fringe buildings within.

Brother Cadfael, left unceremoniously thus, stood for a while to get his breath back, and then, almost resentfully, resigned himself to the recollected fact that he had long ago forsworn arms. No matter, there was nothing in his vows to prevent him from following unarmed where the armed men led. Cadfael was striding purposefully across the open expanse of snow, torn up now by many hooves and many feet, by the time the assault converged in a spear-head to hurtle against the gates, and drive them in.

For all the industrious din he himself was making, Yves heard the charge of the sheriff’s men, and felt the tower shake as they hit the gate like a sledge-hammer, and burst the holding timbers in a shower of flying splinters. The clamor of hand-to-hand battle filled the bailey, but about that he could do nothing; but here the very boards under them were heaving and groaning to a fury of axe-blows from below, and Olivier, sword drawn and long legs spread, was holding down ladder and trap against the onslaught. The ladder heaved at every blow, but while it held its place the trap could not be raised, and even if it should be breached, only a hand or a head could be first exposed, and either would be at Olivier’s mercy. And at this extreme, Olivier would have no mercy. Braced from crown to heel, he bestrode the enemy’s entry, balancing his weight, sword poised to pierce or slash the first flesh that offered.

Yves dropped his aching arm, and let the steel helmet roll away from between his feet, but then, with a better thought, scrambled after it and clapped it on his head. Why refuse any degree of protection that offered? He even remembered to stoop well below the parapet as he flexed his cramped hand, took a fresh grip on the hilt of the sword, and plunged across the roof to embrace Olivier, and plant his own feet on the rungs of the ladder that held them secure, to add his weight to the barrier. There were already splits visible in the wood of the trap, and splinters flew both above and below, but there was nowhere yet that a blade could be thrust through.

“Nor will be,” said Olivier in confident reassurance. “You hear that?” It was the roaring voice of Alain le Gaucher himself, echoing hollowly up the dark spaces of the towers. “He’s calling off his hounds, they’re needed more desperately below.”

The axe struck once more, a mighty blow that clove clean through an already splintered board, and sent a long triangle of shining blade into view beneath the ladder. But that was the last. The striker had trouble freeing his blade again, and cursed over it, but made no further assault. They heard a great scurrying down the stairs, and then all was quiet within the tower. Beneath, in the bailey, the whole enclosure was filled with the babel and struggle and clamor of arms, but up here under the starry calm of the sky the two of them stood and looked at each other in the sudden languor of relief, no longer threatened.

“Not that he would not make the same foul use of you,” said Olivier, sheathing his sword, “if he could but get his hands on you. But if he spends time on hewing you out of your lair, he will already have lost what your throat might save. He’ll seek to fight off this attack before he troubles you again.”

“He will not do it!” said Yves, glowing. “Listen! They are well within. They’ll never give back now, they have him in a noose.” He peered out from behind a merlon over the confused fighting below. All the space of the bailey seethed and swayed with struggling men, a churning, tumultuous darkness like a stormy night sea, but lit by fiery glimpses where the torches still burned. “They’ve fired the gatehouse. They’re leading out all the horses and cattle - and fetching down all the archers from the walls … Should we not go down and help them?”

“No,” said Olivier firmly. “Not unless we must, not until we must. If you fell into the wrong hands now, all this would be thrown away, all to do again. The best you can do for your friends is to stay out of reach, and deny this rogue baron the one weapon that could save him.”

It was good sense, though none too welcome to an excited boy longing for prodigies to perform. But if Olivier ordered it, Yves accepted it.

“You may be a hero some other day,” said Olivier drily, “where there’s less at stake and you can put only your own neck in peril. Your part now is to wait in patience, even if it cost you more. And since we have time now, and may be mortally short of it before long, listen to me carefully. When we are loosed from here, and all over, I shall leave you. Go back to join your sister at Bromfield, let your friends have the satisfaction of uniting you in safety. I have no doubt they would send you with a good escort to your uncle in Gloucester, as they promised, but I have a fancy to finish my work and deliver you myself, as I was sent out to do. This mission is mine, and I’ll complete it.”

“But how will you manage?” Yves wondered anxiously.

“With your help - and certain other help which I know where to find. Give me two days, and I will have horses and supplies ready for us. If all goes well, two nights from this night that’s wearing away under us, I will come to Bromfield for you. Tell your sister so. After Compline, when the brothers will be bound for their beds, and you will be thought to be in yours. Ask no more questions, but tell her I shall come. And should I be forced to have speech here with the sheriff’s men, or should you be asked about me after I vanish - tell me, Yves, who was it made his way in here to find you?”

Yves understood. He said at once: “It was Robert, the forester’s son who brought Ermina to Bromfield, and happened on this place while he was searching for me.” He added dubiously: “But they’ll wonder at such a deed in a forester, when all the sheriff’s men were already searching. Unless,” he went on, curling a disdainful lip, “they think that every man living will risk his life for Ermina, just because she is handsome. She is handsome,” he conceded generously, “but all too well she knows it and makes use of it. Don’t ever let her make a fool of you!”