The Sword of the Spirits

NINE

THE WALLS OF WINCHESTER

SALISBURY OPENED ITS GATES TO us in shock. I put a garrison there and moved on. I left forty men and that was more than was needed; because I left twenty Sten guns with them. I had no fear of an uprising after the army had gone.

We took the road to the east. I had not intended to attack Romsey but their army came on us as we crossed the valley of the Test. They aimed to take us by surprise, riding out of the shelter of woods as we approached the river and clearly hoping to drive us into it.

They appeared to have some success at the outset. Their charge broke through our flank, and I heard their cry of triumph: “Romsey! Romsey!” But the flank had given way on my instructions. Our Sten gun troops were in the center. They had no time to dismount, but they wreaked a fair havoc from horseback. The attack crumpled and broke. Those that were not brought down scattered and fled to the woods from which they had started.

Our own horsemen pursued them, killing many, but I called them back by bugle. The victory was decisive enough; and a rabble fleeing back to the city served us better than unnecessary slaughter. It would be easy enough to take Romsey, and other things came first. The road to Winchester lay open.

The banners of the army that rode out of the woods had all been yellow and black, and there were no men of Winchester among the fallen. This meant that Romsey had freed itself, or been set free by Harding and the rest. But although they must have heard by now how we had destroyed the army of Salisbury, they had still ridden against us alone rather than wait and join with Winchester.

Cymru spoke of it. “These are a strange people. Out of resentment, you think? But we are foreign and invade their lands. Does it not make sense to combine together when there is a threat to all?”

I tried to explain the way of it to him, but with small success. He could not conceive what it might be like to live as a citizen of one free and independent city amongst many, to nourish rivalries through generations. He came after all from a single city, an oasis of culture and prosperity surrounded by lands that were savage but offered no threat. There were no divisions among the Wilsh, or none that mattered.

Cymru shrugged. “Well, it serves our purpose. Though if all their cities sent their armies against us together, I do not think it would make much difference. This is a mighty weapon you have given us, Luke.”

I looked at the mound of death beside the river.

“Mighty indeed. Nothing can stand against it.”

“I have one regret.”

“What is that?”

“That we lose you when you regain your city.”

He had said fulsome things about me in the past, as the Wilsh commonly did; but now he spoke from the heart.

I said: “There will be commerce between us. I shall visit you in Klan Gothlen.”

Cymru shook his head. “It is a long journey. And you will be well occupied here. But no man may command another’s destiny. It is enough that we share this mission. We shall take your city for you and avenge the insult that concerns us both.”

• • •

It was raining as we came down into the Itchen valley, a feathery drifting rain that slowly soaked to the skin. We rode past the water meadows where on a summer’s day—so long ago but less than a year gone by—Edmund had played the lute and sung to Blodwen while I rode from them, foolishly content. Now the fine rain washed over the grass under a weeping sky of gray.

Our scouts reported the army of Winchester ahead of us. They had drawn up west of the river in ordinary battle array. I said to the scout who told me:

“Are you sure of this? Their full army?”

“We have covered the ground well, Lord. I think if there was a single man in hiding we would have found him.”

I did not doubt it: the Wilsh made cunning scouts. Still it was hard to believe. They would have heard what happened to the warriors of Salisbury and Romsey. Surely they were not such fools as to stand in the open and wait for us to attack?

And yet when we came within view of them my heart was moved by the sight. The troops were set out in classic fashion, each with its banner of blue and gold: Captains, standard-bearers, lancers with their spears at rest, and behind them the swordsmen. It was a brave challenge to those who came against them—a challenge to battle in the old way, right arm against right arm, steel against steel: honor an equal prize with victory.

For a moment I was tempted to accept it, and to lead my Wilsh horsemen into the charge. But too many things had happened, and too much was at stake. I kept the horsemen back. The Sten gunners were already quietly moving into position on high ground to the east. One of the high-roads of our ancestors ran there. It had been a railway once and steam engines had pulled carriages along it, taking people to far places at many times the speed of a galloping horse. Now it was overgrown with bushes and trees, and gave good cover.

They could still have attacked us while the Sten gunners were taking up their places. It would have made no difference in the end, but as with the men of Romsey they might have gained an advantage at the start. But they did not move. They were waiting until our own disposition was complete. According to custom we should sound a bugle to show our readiness. Then they would attack.

Why did they do this? I wondered. Out of folly? It might be so, but they were men I knew, and knew to be hard-headed. Nor could I think they would really believe that I would accept the challenge to fight on equal terms. If I had not spared Salisbury and Romsey, who had done me no real harm, why should I spare them?

I think it was more from resignation and despair. They could see nothing facing them except defeat; but at least they would go down in ancient fashion, fighting as the armies of Winchester had fought for generations. Perhaps it was folly, but it had grandeur in it.

My Sten gunners were ready. I made a sign to the bugler. He sounded the call and it was answered. A quarter of a mile away the line of horsemen began to move toward us.

This time I had told the Sten gunners to hold their fire until a command from me, as shown by a second blast on the bugle. The bugler rode at my side, ready for my word. In front of us the line came on, through the drizzling rain; from a walk to a canter and so to full gallop.

When they were a hundred yards from us they would be not much more than fifty yards from the gunners, thereafter moving away from them as they closed with us. It was that moment I was waiting for. I watched the distance narrow, the word ready in my mouth. When the line drew level with that stunted tree . . . I knew it well, had climbed it as a boy. The horsemen thundered on. They approached the tree; they reached it. I tried to cry my order. Ice blocked my throat and would let no word pass.

They rode in savage fury and their battle cries shattered the sky. I tried to speak again, and failed again. If they smashed into us with this impetus the Wilsh, I knew, would not withstand them: no horsemen could. Even at that moment I felt a pride in them.

They were not much more than fifty yards away. I could see the faces of men I knew: Blaine, Nicoll, Stuart. And in the center, mouth open in a yell, Edmund, who had been my friend. It was then that the ice cracked. I spoke, and the bugler blew, and at the first savage note my tongueless giants stammered out their hate.

Dozens fell but the rest came on. The guns could only fire for a few moments or they would rake us too. The line was full of gaps but it reached us. Then everything was forgotten in the clash of sword on sword.

I remember little of the battle itself. I do not know who I struck down, nor how many, nor who it was that gave me the thrust in the shoulder that all but unhorsed me. I do not know how long it lasted. Time has no meaning in a battle and this was a battle of the old kind, the last such there would ever be. All was slash and counterslash, cries of men in pain or triumph, the snort and squeal of horses, nerve-wrenching scrape and clang of steel, the wetness of rain and sweat and blood . . .

They drew back at last. Late though the command had been, the guns had taken dire toll of them before they reached us. Only desperate courage had enabled them to come to grips with our horsemen after that. They broke and scattered and fled under the shoulder of Catherine’s Hill to the distant East Gate.

I did not take my men and ride after them, but let them go.

• • •

The surgeon came to see to my wound. I told him it would wait, dismissing him with anger when he persisted. I walked between the bodies of the fallen. Some of the Wilsh were unfamiliar to me but there was not a face among the dead of Winchester I did not know. Barnes I saw, and the trooper who had taken my arm when he arrested me in my brother’s name. Foster, whom Hans had come near killing in the barracks on the night of the victory feast, lay sprawled on his back—now truly dead. I saw Edmund’s brother, Charles, with his head in a bloody puddle, eyes staring in surprise.

And I saw Harding. There was no mark on him, either of bullet or sword, but his horse lay dead of bullet wounds beside him. Harding’s head drooped at an unlikely angle. He had been thrown when his horse fell, I guessed, and broken his neck. I looked long at him. He had always been a slight man and now seemed very small, a child grown old. I felt no pity, but no joy either.

There was another body near. A bullet had caught him high up on the forehead, making a single blackened hole through which his life had ebbed. It was Wilson, my father’s oldest companion, who had refused a Captaincy from him but taken it from me; not because he wanted the honor but to protect me better. Wilson, the one Captain who had voted against the rest when they condemned me to exile.

I looked and turned away. I would have howled like a dog but the ice was back in my throat. I stumbled through the rain to where Cymru and the surgeon waited.

• • •

Greene and Ripon were two of the three who came to parley: the third was Edmund.

I received them sitting beside Cymru, with Snake in attendance also. I offered them cakes and ale.

“It is a good brew,” I said. “It was made on my father’s farm, not half a mile from here. But I can give you ale from your own farms if you would prefer it.”

“We want no ale,” Greene said. “We seek to know your terms.”

“That is easily done. I want nothing but my own: my city and the bride who was given to me by this her father.”

“A city is not something that can be given,” Greene said, “except by the will of its citizens. This is well known in civilized lands. Your father first seduced us from that course by taking Petersfield, and under your rule we strayed still further into error. We are paying for it now and know we must pay heavily. But we will not yield our freedom.”

Cymru said: “And my daughter? Will you yield her, to her father?”

It was Edmund who answered. “A free lady may not be given up, any more than a city may. If she wishes to come to you, she will. No one will force her.”

Cymru stared at him with black anger. “Your comrade talks of seducing, but what of you? You, who ate my bread, seduced my daughter from your Prince and friend. And do you chatter now of freedom?”

Greene said: “This gets us nowhere. We acknowledge defeat. We will say nothing of the way the victory was won. We will pay you gold—all the gold we have in the city. Our wives will strip the rings from their fingers to give you. Take your ransom, and let us live in peace.”

I shook my head. “We want no gold. No more than the gates of the city. One gate will do. And the Lady Blodwen restored to her father.”

“To her father,” Edmund said, “or to a man she hates?”

It told me only what I knew already but the shaft went home. The wound in my shoulder was nothing to it.

Greene said: “You will get neither. And our walls are high. Prince Stephen, Edmund’s father, saw to that.”

“In the end you will yield,” I said. “It does not matter to us whether it is soon or late. The suffering is on your side.”

“You will starve us, then?” Greene said. “We have wheat and cattle. When they have gone we will kill our horses and eat them. And after that we will hunt out rats for our suppers. And after that if we must starve then starve we will. But while there is any strength in our arms you will not come into the city.”

“Brave words,” I said. “But the promise is easier made than kept.”

They were ready to go. Cymru said to Edmund:

“A message for my daughter.”

“What is it, sire?”

“Send her her father’s curse.”

Edmund bowed. “She is too gentle to return it to you. But I do it for her.”

They sent the Wilsh soldiers who had been Blodwen’s bodyguard out to us. We kept the siege all summer. Kluellan, guided by Snake, proved an excellent quartermaster. We fed off the city farms first; then sent our troops to forage far afield. It was still no easy life, especially compared with the luxury of Klan Gothlen, and I was surprised by how well Cymru and the Wilsh nobles endured it. I had thought there might be mutterings, talk of abandoning it all, but there was none.

Much hung on Cymru himself of course, and his purpose did not waver. When I spoke of it once, he said:

“We have come a long way, Luke. Too far to abandon a purpose so nearly won.”

If the paralysis had not gripped my throat when the command to fire was needed, or if I had pursued them as they fled toward the East Gate, our victory would have been sealed already. We both knew that but he had never charged me with it. I said:

“They are a stubborn people, sire.”

Cymru laughed. “We Wilsh can be stubborn, too! And this hard life does us good. We have had too soft a time of it in the past.”

But all the same I brooded unhappily on the future. We could not keep the army in the field in winter. It was true we had a base in Salisbury on which we could fall back; but that would be a retreat and the thought sickened me. Nor was I confident, however high their morale stayed at present, that the Wilsh would cheerfully endure a winter in a foreign city, with the prospect of resuming the siege of another foreign city in the spring. A soldier must leave home and family when his monarch requires it; but it does not mean that he forgets them. And his longing for them does not weaken with absence but grows stronger.

Then one day in late summer a man in black robes, on a white horse, rode into the camp. It was Murphy, the High Seer.

• • •

He greeted me, and said: “You look well, Luke. Older and tougher, but well. And this is the army which you abandoned us to find. We have heard great things of it. I once doubted that you would take a Wilsh army against your own city and with such weapons as we gave you. I am glad to find I was wrong.”

I shrugged. “We have come so far, but here we stay. You can kill men in the field with Sten guns, but they do little harm to the stone walls of a city.”

“You should have asked us for another weapon, then.”

I looked at him sharply. “Is there such? Big guns, you mean? But can they be made with the materials we have?”

“No,” Murphy said, “or at least not easily. But there is a thing called a mortar. It was devised for use against forts, as a siege weapon. It throws bombs at a high angle to explode against the walls.”

I said doubtfully: “The walls of Winchester are not only high but strongly made.”

“Have you seen a thrush with a snail?” Murphy asked. “It will pick the shell up and throw it against the stone. The shell does not break at that first impact. But the bird picks it up and throws it again. It will throw it a score of times, fifty if necessary. In the end the shell is weakened. It breaks and the thrush gets its reward. We have many more than fifty bombs for you. I promise you: the walls of the city will crack like the snail’s shell.”

I said: “Where is this mortar, Murphy?”

He smiled. “You will not have long to wait. It will be here tomorrow. I rode ahead to tell you of it.”

“Get me this city,” I said, “and you will have your Science back. I promise that.”

“Within two days it will be yours.”

• • •

The mortar came at noon the next day, on a cart drawn by two horses. It was not at all like the cannons which the Prince of Petersfield had used against my father’s army. They had been long and slender of muzzle. The mortar was a squat affair, wide-mouthed, almost as broad across as it was long. It looked a poor instrument to break down the walls which Stephen had spent five years building up.

And the first bomb it cast fell short, dropping in marshy ground beneath the city’s wall, throwing up mud and water but doing no harm except to the frogs that dwelt there. Robb and Gunter had brought it, and they and Murphy consulted together and shifted the angle of the muzzle. The second bomb burst halfway up the wall, and the Wilsh who were watching raised a cheer at the sight. It died as the smoke cleared away, showing the wall undamaged.

The High Seers adjusted the muzzle again. The third bomb struck high up, just under the parapet. Robb said with satisfaction:

“I think we have it.”

Murphy had brought field glasses with him. These had lenses like spectacles but the lenses were doubled and much stronger. They made small distant objects seem large and close. I was using them, and I said:

“There is no damage there.”

“Not yet,” Murphy said. “It is a lucky thrush that gets its snail at the first blow. But we have the range and it is only a question of time.”

The mortar boomed again, and went on booming. After about an hour the glasses showed cracks and pittings in the wall. After two hours the parapet above that point collapsed, and the Wilsh cheered again.

The afternoon had turned warm, and the mortar itself gave off heat. Murphy wiped sweat from his brow.

“You were right. The walls are strong. But we have made a breach. Now it is only a question of hammering away at it.”

“How long, do you think?”

“Not today. But by noon tomorrow there will be a hole you can take your army through.”

“I can wait for that,” I said.

The angle of the muzzle had to be adjusted as the breach in the wall widened and deepened. The bombardment went on until the light failed with dusk. The top half of the wall had collapsed by then, but the lower half still held.

• • •

In the morning Hans came to my tent as usual to wake me, but I was awake already. He stood in the opening, silhouetted against the faint light of dawn. I said:

“This is a good day, Hans. Today we shall see our homes again.”

“Yes, sire,” he said. “Sire, there is someone who would see you; from the city.”

“Another deputation?” I stood up, yawning. “They are early risers. But they will get no better terms for that.”

“One man only. He who was an Acolyte.”

“Who was . . . ?”

I left the tent. Martin stood there, waiting. He had grown his hair and he wore ordinary clothes instead of the Acolyte’s black robe. Apart from that he seemed little different. He was thin, but he had never had much flesh on his bones.

I clasped his hand and said:

“Martin! I am glad to see you. How did you get here?”

“Through the Christians’ tunnel under the walls.”

That was the tunnel my brother Peter had used to take the city back from the Romsey army. I had not attempted to use it because it was known now, and they could pick my men off one by one as they came out. But I had not blocked it either.

I said: “You have been in the city? I thought you went to the High Seers in the Sanctuary under the rains of London?”

“I went there, but did not stay.”

“Could they not give you what you were seeking, either?”

“No.” He smiled. “I went a long journey and found what I sought in the place from which I started. But maybe the journey was necessary for all that.”

“What did you find?”

“Truth. The truth that is my truth. I am a Christian, Luke.”

I stared and laughed. “You jest! The truth you looked for was the truth of Science. Do you remember the old book you showed me, under the Ruins, with pictures of machines, and how bitterly you spoke against superstition and lies? Do you remember how you pleaded with me to flee the city with Ezzard, so that the mission of the High Seers could be preserved and Science at last brought back? Will you tell me now that you believe in this tale of a god born in a stable, out of the body of a maiden, who walked the earth performing wonders such as the Seers work in the Seance Hall, who died on a cross but three days later walked again, and who at last rose into the sky to sit among the stars and judge all men? Will you tell me this?”

“All that and more. Because Science gave no meaning to my life, but this does. But I did not come here to talk of Christian beliefs, Luke. I come to plead for the city which bore us both.”

“Do you? Who sent you—Edmund, who stole my lady from me, and then the city itself?”

I spoke bitterly. Martin shook his head.

“I have not seen them, except at a distance. Would a noble send a Christian to plead on his behalf? I can tell you they are thin from hunger. There is no one in the city who is not. There has been great suffering, Luke.”

“If there has been suffering it was freely chosen. It does not take much to open a gate.”

“If tyranny is waiting to come in, it does.”

“Do you call me tyrant?”

“Whoever takes what a man will not freely give is that. A tyrant or a thief.”

“You use harsh words, old friend,” I said. “This thief, this tyrant, once saved you when you hung in chains, awaiting death by fire.”

“Yes. For that, you may demand anything of me. But not of the city.”

There was a sharpness in the air, almost of frost. Summer was giving way to autumn. Winter would follow soon.

I said: “The suffering is almost at an end. I do not need a gate to be opened now. Before the day is over my soldiers will walk through the shattered wall into the streets of Winchester. Or will your stable-god who worked such miracles work one here?”

“It may be. Through the weak bodies of his servants.”

I laughed. “The Christians will build the wall again? I do not think they can build as fast as my mortar breaks it down.”

Martin took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes. I saw that his hand trembled.

“You are not a cruel man, Luke,” he said. “Only blind. If you could see them starving, all those you knew—men and women, dwarf and human and polymuf—you would have pity. No, do not say it. They have only to open a gate. They can get bread in exchange for freedom. And meanwhile they are behind walls and you do not see them. But we will make you see.”

“You waste your time,” I said. “It is almost over. And I have won.”

“Not yet.” He pushed the spectacles back onto his nose. “I said the truth I have found gives a meaning to life. To death, also. I will leave you now. When I return to the city I will stand in the breach of the wall. I fear the thought as much as any man would, maybe more than most, but I think God will give me strength. Your bombs will shatter flesh and bone as well as stone.” He smiled. “You have reminded me that I owe you a death. I am glad to repay it in this fashion.”

“You speak bravely,” I said, “and I believe that you would do it, with or without the help of your god. But I win here also. I have guards within call. You will not go back to the city until I am master of it.”

“Imprison me if you wish,” Martin said. “It makes no difference. I was sent here because I was your friend. There are others who will do this task, many others. The High Seers have brought you field glasses, I see, as well as a mortar. Use them to look at the wall.”

The light was feeble still. With the naked eye one saw only the wall’s gray shape, with the ragged V where the mortar bombs had crumbled it. But the glasses showed me other things. Small figures stood in the embrasure or clung to the broken edges of the wall. I counted a score of them, and more. I thought I saw the bald head of the Bishop. I remembered his words in Blodwen’s apartment:

“If killing there must be I would rather it were done by a warrior who kills with his own hand, and knows what bloody corpse he leaves behind.”

While I watched they began singing. One of their dirge-like hymns; it sifted thinly down through the cold dawn air.

“Give the order to fire whenever you choose,” Martin said. “But this time you will not be blind. This time you will see what it is you do.”

• • •

Men came from their tents, attracted by the singing. Cymru and Snake and Kluellan came to me, and the High Seers. They watched the singing Christians in the breach, and watched me also. Other figures appeared on top of the walls. They lined the parapets, in scores, in hundreds. There were not so many Christians in Winchester. These were the people of the city, human and dwarf and polymuf, offering their bodies as its bulwark.

I said to Martin: “Go back to them. Tell them they can keep their freedom.”