the lord’s new bride.
A tremendous groaning and creaking could be heard halfway across the moor as the foot-long rusted iron links of chain winched the outer drawbridge open. Horses’ hooves sounded like the clatter of drums as the party trooped three abreast beneath the raised portcullis gate, their heads barely clearing the spiked points of the thick bars. The inner gate was opened, the huge beams of oak requiring the strength of ten men to push open beneath the overhang of the studded barbican tower. Stone walls slit with meurtrières welcomed visitors at eye level; funnel-shaped spouts of iron were cemented into the stone arch above which one could imagine huge copper ladles filled with bubbling oil waiting to add their warm greetings.
The outer bailey, little more than a wide, defensive strip of field, sloped upward toward the mortared fieldstones of the curtain wall. Here there were deep trenches running in staggered stripes, a casual glance noted them filled with hay, a closer inspection revealed the pointed tips of stakes jutting through. A second wall, a second drawbridge admitted the cavalcade to the village of workshops and stables clustered around the castle grounds. The tradesmen broke work for a few moments to stare at the colourful procession of knights and men-at-arms who rode through their midst. Theirs was a small, bustling town of skinners, vintners, tailors, salters, bakers, brewers, fletchers, armourers—all of whom contributed in some way to sustain the castle and its inhabitants.
By way of showing respect, the men doffed their scruffy felt caps to Lucien Wardieu as he rode past. The women, smudge-faced and brawny with muscles gained by toiling day after day at heavy labour, stopped and used their coarse woolen skirts to wipe ineffectually at the grime coating their hands and faces. They gazed with dull eyes upon the slender figure who rode in the midst of so much masculine power. Servanne attempted to smile at a face or two belonging to those who stared the hardest, but the gesture was met with either blank looks, or overt suspicion.
“Not a very friendly flock, are they?” Biddy observed beneath her breath. “And not a very friendly place to get into or out of with any ease.”
Servanne suppressed a shiver and concentrated on what lay ahead. The cavalcade was approaching a smaller drawbridge slung over a dry moat, where a much less threatening portcullis gate was already raised. The bridge and gates admitted a steady stream of pedestrian traffic passing to and from the outer and inner bailey, and here again, conversations ceased abruptly and people scrambled hastily to clear a path for the mounted knights.
Once inside, the men-at-arms and half the mercenaries broke out of the strict formation and veered toward the massive jumble of stone and wood buildings that comprised the castle barracks. The other half remained as escort to Wardieu and the women, who followed a wide cobbled path between buildings and under stone arches until they reached the innermost private courtyard.
Perhaps fifty feet square, the paved space was surrounded by high-walled towers, most covered more than halfway up with a thick, furry blanket of lichen and ivy. Above this, the cold stone facings were gray and weathered, with long ranges of rooms and apartments buttressed to the walls so the square of open sky was reduced by yet another half. Standing in the centre, staring straight up at the small patch of gray sky, Servanne and Biddy felt suitably humbled. Sir Hubert’s castle at Wymondham would have fit unobtrusively into a corner niche of one of the outer baileys of Bloodmoor and made very little difference to the imposing silhouette. Neither could even begin to estimate the numbers of servants, maids, and workmen required to keep the castle running smoothly. Provisioning and maintaining accounts would surely require more than one able mind.
Twin arched doors swung open as the horses were reined to a weary halt. Servants poured out into the courtyard, one of whom stopped by Undine and set an elaborately carved set of wooden steps against the single stirrup. A young page of eight or ten years clambered importantly up the steps to assist Servanne out of the saddle. She accepted his hand with an apologetic smile for the stiffness of her limbs, and was grateful to feel solid land beneath her feet once again, regardless of the doubts and fears that had grown with each step taken inside the massive outer gates.
Wardieu finished issuing his orders to the servants and groomsmen, then