VI
The Making of the Battering-Ram—The Count Has a Narrow Escape—The Secret Mines—The Question of Sorcery—Amabel's Project—A Brave Young Girl—The Friar as a Spy—His Masquerade in Minstrel Garb—The "Ballad of King Estmere"—Luke Decides to Undermine a Tower—The Ram Ready for Its Work.
CHAPTER VI
The flames of the burning cat lighted up the walls of the castle and the space round about so that the archers of the garrison were able to shoot with accuracy, and as the besiegers came running up to whip out the flames, or to pour upon the blazing timbers water drawn from the moat, the buzz of the long bow, and the sharp rattling of the crossbows was heard from the ramparts. Many of the Count's men were wounded and not a few were slain, but at last they succeeded in saving the cat from utter destruction.
It was necessary, however, to roll it back from the castle walls in order that the front of it might be repaired and made serviceable once more. This would take another day or two and meanwhile it was impossible to attack the castle walls with the battering-ram, since the protection of the cat was necessary to the men who were pushing the ram against the walls. Luke did not delay the preparation of the ram, but had his men cut the largest tree they could find, clear it of its branches, and then mount it upon great wheels as if it were a long truck—in fact it was much like the long trucks used by ship-builders to transport enormous pieces of timber. The end of the battering-ram was then armed with a metal head or beak. This was affixed by the Count's blacksmiths who had set up a forge in the forest, just out of range of the castle. All day and even late into the night the heavy sledges were ringing upon the anvils, and the giant bellows were blowing the smith's fires as he made or repaired the many pieces of metal work used by the besiegers, in framing their great tower, or in setting up the mangonels. In a few days, however, the garrison saw that the front of the cat had been repaired, and it came rolling back to its place against the castle walls. When it had once more approached as far as the causeway over the moat, it was followed by the advance of the ram—which came along the same track, propelled by men who pushed it, offering a tempting mark to the artillerymen of the castle, who at once aimed their balistæ at the advancing machine. Hugh and the Friar directed two of these machines, and there was a keen rivalry between them to see which could make the best shots. One would send a great dart whizzing through the air and then, sometimes before the first missile had struck, the second would be on its way. The rock-throwing machines were also put in action, and soon the bombardment became so effective that it was more than the Count's soldiers could endure. Abandoning the ram, they turned and ran back toward the sheltering woods, leaving the ram half-way on its journey.
But the Count was no coward, and mounting his horse, he came forward to meet the fleeing soldiers, being accompanied by a few of his horsemen. These met the fugitives, and drove them back again, beating the men with the flat of their swords, and berating them as they came. Thus they stayed the retreat.
Hugh saw that, in rallying his soldiers, the Count himself had come within the range of a balista, and taking careful aim, he discharged his great dart. The dart pierced the Count's horse entirely from side to side, and the poor animal fell dead, while the Count leaped from the horse's back just in time to save himself from being pinned under him. There was a cheer from the garrison, and as a stone flung by a mangonel just then struck one of the wheels of the ram, and split it in two the Count's men again retreated, and would not come forward so long as it was daylight. The ram was left where it stood, and the besiegers contented themselves with working upon their mangonels and their tower, meaning to repair the ram and bring it forward during the night, and then to make a vigorous attack the next day, when their own mangonels would be in working order.
The Count was angry at the many delays in the attack, but his men were for the most part hired soldiers who saw no glory in risking their lives when it could be avoided, and who always preferred to run when there was no plain advantage in standing their ground. So far every attack that had been made hastily had proved an utter failure, and the Count was convinced that his counselor Luke was wise in recommending a regular siege in the place of undisciplined attempts that cost them lives and advanced them no whit further toward the taking of the castle. He saw that the defense was being carried on with vigor and skill, and, what was more important, with the utmost caution. The garrison never failed to inflict a loss upon their enemies whenever an opening was given them, while they had so far made no mistakes, and had not lost a single one of their men.
The Count, therefore, was willing to listen to Luke's advice, and gave orders that no further attack was to be attempted until the tower was finished, the new mangonels in place, and the crane on the castle walls—the one that had dropped the great beam upon the cat—had been destroyed.
This delay gave the besieged garrison time to breathe, and Hugh improved the time by completing the new wall across the courtyard, and by digging the mines under the walls he meant to destroy. The Friar had made up his mind to intrust the secret of his black powder to Hugh, and the two worked during their spare time in making four or five kegs of this compound—which consisted of charcoal, sulphur, and saltpeter, mixed in certain proportions. After a day spent in the Friar's laboratory, Hugh would come out looking like a blackamoor, and it was not strange that some of the soldiers belonging to the garrison shook their heads when they saw him—wondering whether he and the Franciscan Friar were not engaged in the Black Art. These men talked among themselves, at first cautiously, and afterward more openly, saying that they would have nothing to do with enchanters. But before any serious trouble arose, Hugh and the Friar had done with their powder-making, and so the grumbling gradually died away—especially as one of Hugh's old companions, having heard some of the talk, threatened to break the head of anyone he heard accusing his comrade of unholy practices.
During the weeks of the siege the Lady Amabel, having been used to much outdoor exercise, became restless at being shut up in the narrow grounds of the castle, and complained bitterly to Lady Mortimer that she was only a useless burden.
"And yet," the young girl said, "I am without any ties in the world, except to you, who are not even relatives. I am young, strong, and afraid of nothing. I could do as much as many of the soldiers, and I must be always cautious. If I but go to walk upon the ramparts, Edgar is as uneasy as a hen with one chicken. He seems to think Count Ferrers' men are ever on the lookout for me, and will let fly an arrow if I poke my head through an embrasure, or pause to gaze through a slit in the wall. It is becoming unbearable, and I will not be answerable for myself if the siege lasts ten days more!"
"But what can we do?" Lady Mortimer asked kindly. "Fortunately, we are so well cared for that there is little we can attend to about the castle except the usual work. No one has been seriously wounded, and there is not any nursing of the sick or injured. If you were as old as I, you would be thankful that the siege has not been more exciting to us. If we had not been so well defended, your desire to be a heroine might be gratified, but it would be at a frightful cost to some of us."
"I don't care to be a heroine," Amabel replied, "but I am tired of wandering about as useless as a sick cat. I am going to Edgar, and I shall offer him my services. There must be something I can do, some way in which I can be useful. Lord Mortimer has given me a home, and has cared for me as if I were his own daughter. Now that his castle is attacked, I wish to show him that I am not without gratitude. I am going to talk to the Friar, also. I believe he will help me. Do you mind if I ask them both?"
"No," Lady Mortimer answered, "I feel much as you do. If I were young, and were able to do as you can, I should feel anxious to be at work also."
That evening the Lady Amabel entered the great hall where, after dinner, Edgar, Hugh, and the Friar were holding their usual consultation, and preparing for the work of the next day. She advanced boldly at first, but as the three, seeing her coming, looked up in surprise, her courage failed. But she could not well run away, and so came on to the table where they sat with their maps and plans before them. Edgar rose as she approached.
"What is it, Amabel?" he asked; "does my mother wish to speak with me?"
"No," she answered, with some hesitation, "I have come on my own errand."
As Edgar moved up a chair for her, she sat down, and he also resumed his seat, waiting to hear what she had to say. Amabel, seeing all three listening, almost wished she had not come; but she had enough resolution to carry her through whatever she seriously undertook, and clearing her voice spoke bravely:
"I have been talking to your mother, Edgar, and I have her permission to come to you. I have told her that it is hard for me to feel that, while you are bearing all the burden of this defense, I am of no more use than a doll. I would like to have some part in your work. I am a woman—a girl—but I am strong, and you know I am brave enough to undertake any enterprise you can confide to me. Is there nothing I can do besides helping your mother? She does not need me at all. Since so many of the village people have come into the castle, she has more help than she needs."
Edgar listened to her in surprise, and then turned his face toward the Friar as if asking his advice. Seeing that he was consulted, the Friar, instead of replying in any way to Edgar, spoke to Hugh:
"It seems as if this were a strange answer to our perplexity, does it not?"
Hugh shook his head impatiently, and then said decidedly, "I am afraid it would not do."
Amabel, of course, could not understand the meaning of these disconnected speeches, and turned to Edgar for an explanation. But it was the Friar who spoke next, and answered her silent question.
"We had been speaking," he said, "just before you came. Lady Amabel, of the prospects of the siege. We have done well so far. We have repulsed the Count, and we have succeeded in delaying his enterprises, each in turn. But that is not enough, unless the Count's men desert him—which is not likely now that he is proceeding cautiously and exposing them as little as he can—or unless we can cause an attack upon his forces from without, he will take the castle in time. Since he has entered upon the siege, no one has left the castle walls, and apparently no one outside of a few villagers knows anything of his attack. We can hold out for some time yet, but unless aid is brought to us, we are certain to surrender at last. It is necessary to send word to some of Lord Mortimer's friends, and to ask aid in his absence. We ought, if possible, to send word to him also, SO that he may return to defend his own, or to punish the Count.
"Edgar has offered to go, saying that he can be of more use in that way than as commander here. But we advise against it. We feel sure that his leaving the castle would be contrary to his father's wishes, and also would be disheartening to the defenders. I have offered, but I am unknown to Lord Mortimer's friends, and they might not trust me. Hugh cannot be spared, as you know. We were asking when you came in, Lady Amabel, whether there were any of the men who could be intrusted with this mission,—we had not thought of you."
"Let me go," said Amabel, eagerly.
"But you are a woman," Hugh immediately objected.
"I will go as a boy—as a minstrel, as a jester, as a beggar," she insisted, with sparkling eyes. "You need every man you have. There are scarcely enough to guard the walls—certainly not more than you need in case of an attack in force. As for me, I can be spared without loss. I have no family, and if I should lose my life in your father's service, Edgar, it would be no more than I owe him. Let me go. I should enjoy it."
"But if you should fall into the hands of the Count," Hugh objected, "he would torture you, perhaps. He is a scoundrel, though a brave soldier."
"I will never fall into his hands alive," Amabel said quietly. "See!" She drew a small dagger from her bosom. "I always carry this, and I will kill myself rather than be taken. Besides, they will never suspect me. I will be a beggar woman, a beggar boy—anything. Let me go! If you do not, I shall take a rope and lower myself over the walls some day, or hang myself in despair. I cannot longer stay cooped up in the castle. I shall stifle!"
"She is right," said the Friar. "Let her go. Why should not she risk her life to save us all? It is no more than she does by remaining here. When the Count first attacked, he might have given quarter. Now he is angered, and if he takes the place he may hang every soul within the castle. Let her go, Lord Edgar, she will do as well—better than any other. If Lady Mortimer consents, I advise it. What say you, Hugh?"
"I say—if Lady Amabel permits me—that she is naught but a madcap. And yet I see nothing better. She will be less likely to be caught, and none can carry the message better. Sore against my will, I say I agree."
Edgar still sat silent, frowning. It was hard for him to consent that a young girl should be allowed to go alone on so perilous a journey. And yet, wiser heads than his seemed to advise it, and he could not give other reasons against her going than his fondness for his girl comrade. After a long silence he rose and left the hall, saying only that he would consult his mother. Amabel, when left with the Friar and the old soldier, could not conceal her impatience until Edgar's return.
"I know," said she to Hugh, "that there are many maidens who would faint with fear at the idea of such an expedition; but I have ever been different. I am never so happy as when I am in danger. I love the excitement. And I do not say this as some might—from ignorance of what danger means. When I was a child of ten, my father fled from his castle one night, carrying me wrapped in his cloak, and for three days we were fugitives. I have seen more than one battlefield. But I cannot remain quiet here, I know myself too well to be mistaken about that. Ah—here comes Edgar!"
The young lord of the castle came slowly, as if reluctant to tell the result of his interview—but it was easy to guess that Lady Mortimer had agreed with Hugh and the Friar, for otherwise Edgar would not have seemed so depressed. Yet he seemed glad that Lady Amabel was to have her way, if remaining unconvinced of its wisdom.
"My mother," he said, "begs me to grant your request, and of course I shall not refuse. After all, I do not know that you, even in the open country, will be in any greater danger than if you remain to stand the chances of the siege. So, Amabel, when the right time comes, you shall go forth, and bring us aid if you can. Good-night, my cousin, and reflect well before deciding to undertake so dangerous a mission. Meanwhile we will consult as to the wisest way of sending you out, and of insuring your safety."
Amabel left them, and the discussion of ways and means was resumed, and continued until late, for all felt that the next few days would bring about most vigorous efforts by the Count. It was necessary that the garrison should be better informed as to what was to be done against them, and it seemed as if Amabel's proposal had been taken as a hint by the Friar, for the old man offered suddenly to go as a spy among the besiegers, and to find out what they were preparing.
"I can slip out," said he, "early in the morning—even before daylight. They will never know me, in the world, having seen me only as a mendicant Friar at the door of the Count's castle. I will alter the cut of my beard, and will appear among them from the other side, representing myself as a minstrel or a troubadour from the Holy Land. Never fear that I cannot play my part, and even if I be suspected, I shall have a way to save myself from any danger. Surely there can be no harm come to an unoffending old minstrel. Do you not remember the story of our good King Alfred in the Danish camp? I can sing and make music enough to keep up the deception, and you may be sure I shall return by midnight at the latest. Wait; if you can let me have the clothing—the older and more travel-stained the better,—I will soon convince you that it will take sharp eyes to detect the Friar in the minstrel-garb."
Edgar went to Lady Mortimer, and she produced from the stores of clothing she usually kept on hand to give to the villagers, a collection of odd garments from which the Friar had little trouble in selecting a disguise that suited him. With these he retired to his own apartment, and returned in half an hour completely changed in appearance. He had cut his long beard into two points at the sides of his chin, he had twisted the ends of his mustache into points, and had assumed a gayety of manner so entirely different from his usually quiet bearing that Hugh and Edgar were amazed, and could not restrain their laughter. As the Friar entered he began in a queer singsong tone; accompanying himself on a harp:
"‘King Estmere then pulled forth his harp,
And played thereon so sweet:
Upstarte the ladye from the Kynge
As hee sate at the meate.
"‘"Now stay thy harpe, thou proude harper.
Now stay thy harpe, I say;
For an thou playest as thou beginnest
Thou'lt till my bride awaye."’"
"Truly," said Hugh, "you make so good a minstrel, good Friar, that I would we had known it earlier."
"Yes," Edgar agreed, "I could wish to hear you sing us the whole 'Ballad of King Estmere,' if only for the pleasure of it. But do you know other ballads as well, and can you in all things play the minstrel?"
"Yea, truly," answered the Friar. "I know a dozen stories and songs of bold Robin Hood"
"I could wish you to sing of him," said Hugh eagerly. "I once wore the Lincoln green, and dwelt in Sherwood with good Robin himself, though I do not tell all the world so. But now let's to bed, good harper, for there will be much to do before the week is over. You may of a surety go into the very camp of the Count, for I think you might even go into the very court of the King himself. You may be King of Minstrels or the King's Minstrel, so far as your appearance goes, and your skill with the harp."
"Hugh is right," said Edgar, "both in his compliments and in his advice. If you are to be up and doing for a busy day at dawn, we must all to bed in as good season as may be."
The fire upon the hearth was covered with ashes, the candles extinguished, and the great hall left empty.
But outside the besiegers, who were still occupying the intrenchment they had thrown up near the gateway, received a visit from Luke the Lurdane. The Count's right-hand man, who was fertile in expedients, had resolved to take advantage of the delay, while preparing for a more vigorous attack, by beginning a mine. It had occurred to him that it would not be difficult to dig through the soft earth that formed the causeway, and thus undermine one of the towers. Luckily for the garrison, he had chosen to dig under the tower on the southwest corner—the very one Hugh had made up his mind to abandon if the besiegers succeeded in opening a breach in the south wall.
Luke knew that his sappers would be able to dig into the causeway without much noise, and he hoped that when they came to the wall of the
The mortar crumbled,
The very stones themselves cracked.
castle, they would find it built in part upon the earth. If he could keep his men at work next day during the noise made by the volleys of the mangonels, he hoped that it would not be long before he could undermine a part of the great tower. Any noise made in penetrating the causeway would be taken by the garrison to be made by work upon the cat or the ram—for during the hours spent by the leaders of the garrison in their long talk, the Count's men had brought forward the ram. and it was now safely hidden under the roof of the cat; so that when the cat was once more pushed forward against the wall, the ram could be advanced with it, and could then begin to batter the stone-work with its iron beak.
Under Luke's directions, a tunnel was begun well forward in the causeway, where the mouth of it would be hidden even when the end of the cat rested against the walls. This tunnel went rapidly through the soft new earth, and as fast as a narrow opening was made, it was built up inside with woodwork to keep the earth from falling in again. About an hour before daybreak, the miners reported that they had reached the other side of the moat, and were at work upon the solid earth beneath the castle wall.
Luke now warned them to proceed with the utmost caution for fear the garrison would hear them, and thus suspect what was going forward. At last, at about daybreak, he caused the work to be suspended until after the mangonels should begin their attempt to destroy the timbers of the crane that still stood upon the wall above the gateway.