‘Hell!’ A harsh whisper rattled the reeds. A lantern flap opened a crack, and as a yellow wedge of light streamed forth, it lit up a fenland bristling with men who stood taller than the fresh willow shoots pushing their way to the sky. The men’s spears were more pointed than the frost-tipped reeds, and in the light of the lantern they flashed more brightly.

The big man holding the lantern clenched his fist and controlled an urge to strike the fool who had broken the silence. ‘Quiet, dog,’ Otto Malait mouthed.

‘Damn sedge,’ the trooper muttered, licking blood from his palm. He displayed a vivid slash running across his hand. ‘Edge is sharper than my sword.’

Otto’s hand rose as he delivered a swingeing clout to the fellow’s ears. ‘Be silent,’ he hissed. Flicking the lantern cover, he extinguished the light.

A sedge warbler gave a warning cry as Otto pushed forwards. The web of silence trembled. A moorhen shot out from under his boots, echoing the warbler’s note of alarm. Resigned that the silence was lost, Otto ploughed on. He had his orders. His men must cover as much ground as possible if they were going to be in position before the sun melted the frost on the reeds.

Count de Roncier planned to lead his attack from the north, while Otto had been commanded to direct his men via the marsh to the village. From there they were to force their way into the courtyard. Otto wondered if de Roncier was in position. If this raid was to be effective, they must strike before first light.

***

Katarin’s whimpering disturbed Gwenn. ‘What is it, little one?’ She yawned, turning in bed so she could embrace her sister.

‘Thunder,’ Katarin muttered, burying her head in Gwenn’s shoulder. ‘Katarin doesn’t like thunder.’

Gwenn listened. ‘But that’s not thunder, Katarin. That sounds like someone trying to get in.’ She pushed her sister’s clinging hands to one side and strained her ears. ‘No, it most certainly is not thunder. Someone’s forcing the–’ Gwenn broke off. This was no casual visitor seeking shelter.

Wondering what had happened to the guard and why the alarm bell was not ringing, Gwenn swung out of bed and groped for an unlit candle stub. ‘Stay there, Katarin. Watch Philippe. Papa! Papa!’ she called, running to the solar hearth and shoving the wick of the candle into the faintly glowing embers. The candle sputtered reluctantly into life and, belatedly, the tocsin began to peal.

Jean emerged from his bedchamber half clothed and buckling on his sword. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. Snatching up his shield, he dived for the twisting stairs. ‘Keep Katarin and Philippe up here. If necessary, don’t hesitate to bar this door.’

‘Aye, Papa.’ Barring the door would be a last, hopeless measure, for it would mean that all her father’s men were... Fear tied a knot in Gwenn’s belly, and her mind shied away from the gruesome images her imagination conjured up. Her father could not have meant that. Gwenn wondered what he had meant, and how she was to judge when locking the door was necessary. A thousand other questions milled round in her sleep-dazed mind, but they too must go unanswered.

Holding her candle high, Gwenn’s gaze swept the solar. The glazed eyes of half a dozen women blinked up at her. There was no sign of panic yet, only confusion. The thundering assault on the hall door had settled into a rhythm so regular it was almost soothing.

‘You heard my father,’ Gwenn said, pleased her voice was steady. She did not want to set them screeching. ‘We must get dressed. Mary, light the candles, if you please. And Johanna, I’d be grateful if you could come and see to Philippe.’ Candle aloft, she led Johanna back to her niche, trying to remember if there were any weapons up here. They all had their eating knives, naturally, and there was a dagger at the bottom of Izabel’s ancient chest.

A tearing crack, which could be nothing else but a solid oak door being hewed apart, made her miss a step. A roar from below, and she felt herself grow pale. She heard the clash of steel on steel. A man howled like a wolf and fell silent, and the silence was worse than the howl. Hot wax spilled on her hand, burned her. She gasped.

‘Mistress?’ Johanna’s dark eyes were watchful.

The wet nurse was commendably cool. Gwenn found this surprising, but had no time to ponder on the vagaries of Johanna’s character. Directing her mind to the seemingly impossible task of keeping her candle steady, Gwenn went to rouse her sister. ‘Come on, Katarin,’ she said brightly. It was a miracle her tongue worked at all, for her throat was dry as dust. ‘We’re rising early today.’

Katarin had her thumb in her mouth. She removed it long enough to ask, ‘Why?’

Gwenn wrenched her lips into a smile. ‘We are going to pray.’ The thumb came out again and Gwenn’s heart lurched. Please God, she prayed, don’t let Katarin start asking questions, not now.

‘What’s all that crashing, Gwenn?’

‘The men are practising,’ Gwenn answered briskly. It was a feeble answer, for Katarin was no idiot child and she knew well enough that the men never practised in the small hours. But it was the only explanation her beleaguered mind tossed up, and if Gwenn answered her firmly enough, perhaps Katarin might believe her. ‘Come along, Katarin. Prayers.’

The thumb went in, and obediently Katarin climbed from the bed. Blood-curdling noises were being channelled up the stairwell. Gwenn shut her ears and found her sister’s clothes. The child was old enough to dress unaided, so, having handed her sister her dress, she rooted in the coffer for the dagger. Digging it out, she looked disparagingly at it. It wasn’t much of a dagger. The blade was dull, the whalebone haft yellow and cracked with age. It couldn’t have seen a whetstone in years. She ran a finger down one edge, and grimaced, it was blunt. However, it looked stronger than her eating knife...

She shook her head. What use was one dagger when it appeared they’d been invaded by an army?

The solar brightened. Mary was holding a couple of reed dips to the cressets. Klara whimpered. Bella the dairymaid began to sob. Gwenn clenched her teeth. Like frightened sheep, the other women clustered round Bella, making sympathetic noises. Gwenn stalked to the centre of the chamber. ‘Think of the child, Bella,’ she said, sternly.

‘But, mistress–’

‘Will someone lead us in prayer?’ Gwenn asked. She noticed that Mary wore a calmer face than the rest of them. ‘Mary?’

‘Aye, mistress. As you will.’

As Gwenn waved the women into place round the Virgin, the flaring cresset light fell on a mason’s hammer and chisel that had been kicked into a cobwebby corner. A week ago her father had set a mason to work on a new privy, and the man must have left his tools out, handy for finishing his work.

‘Hail Mary,’ Mary began to intone.

Gwenn shivered, and was for an instant whirled back to Lady Day two years earlier. She was in St Peter’s Cathedral, listening to the Black Monk preaching. She could see two mercenaries leaning against the cathedral porch. She was fleeing them, running, running...

‘...Full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst women...’

Gwenn took a grip on herself. It was Mary taking the prayers, not Father Jerome. And the two mercenaries were no longer callous strangers, but Ned Fletcher, her friend, and Alan le Bret, who, while he was no friend, had saved her life. Dragging her mind to the present, she marched to the corner where the mason’s tools lay. They might make weapons.

‘...Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...’ Mary dropped to her knees and the other women followed her lead.

The hammer was old, its handle worn, but it was solid. The chisel needed sharpening, but – Gwenn’s mouth twisted – it was no blunter than her dagger. She’d hate to have to use them, but if she must... She flexed her shoulders. They had three possible weapons between them. Three weapons, seven women, and two children. She shot a furtive glance at the door. Exactly what were they up against? Women and children would be safe, wouldn’t they?