‘Didn’t know sooner,’ said Reft.
‘Here.’ Colving offered Beck a hunk of black bread, his eyes scared circles in his chubby face.
Even the thought of eating made Beck feel sick. He snatched up his sword, then realised he’d nowhere to take it to. Weren’t like he had a place at the fence, or in the shield wall, or anywhere else in particular. He looked towards the stairs, then towards the window, free hand opening and closing. ‘What do we do?’
‘We wait.’ Flood dragged his stiff leg up the steps and into the attic. He’d got his mail on, glistening with drizzle across the shoulders. ‘Reachey’s given us two houses to hold, this and one just across the street. I’ll be in there.’
‘You will?’ Beck realised he’d made himself sound scared, like a child asking his mummy if she was really going to leave him in the dark. ‘You know, some o’ these boys could do with a man to look to—’
‘That’ll have to be you and Reft. You might not believe it, but the lads in the other house are even greener’n you lot.’
‘Right. ’Course.’ Beck had spent the past week chafing at Flood being always around, keeping him back. Now the thought of the old boy going only made him feel more jittery.
‘There’ll be you five and five more in this house. Some other lads from the weapontake. For the time being just set tight. Block up the windows downstairs best you can. Who’s got a bow?’
‘I have,’ said Beck.
‘And me.’ Reft held his up.
‘I’ve got my sling,’ said Colving, hopefully.
‘You any good with it?’ asked Reft.
The boy shook his head sadly. ‘Couldn’t use it at a window, anyway.’
‘Why bring it up, then?’ snapped Beck, fingering his own bow. His palm was all sweaty.
Flood walked to the two narrow windows and pointed towards the river. ‘Maybe we’ll hold ’em at the fence, but if not we’re forming up a shield wall at the bridge. If we don’t hold ’em there, well, anyone with a bow start shooting. Careful, though, don’t go hitting any of our boys in the back, eh? Better not to shoot at all than risk killing our own, and when the blood’s up it can get hard to make out the difference. The rest of you downstairs, ready to keep ’em out of the house if they make it across.’ Stodder chewed at his big bottom lip. ‘Don’t worry. They won’t make it across, and even if they do they’ll be in a right mess. Reachey’ll be getting ready to hit back by then, you can bet on that. So if they try to get in, just keep ’em out ’til help gets here.’
‘Keep ’em out,’ piped Brait, jabbing happily at nothing with his twig of a spear. He didn’t look like he could’ve kept a cat out of a chicken coop with that.
‘Any questions?’ Beck didn’t feel he had a clue what to do, but it hardly seemed one question would plug the gap, so he kept quiet. ‘Right, then. I’ll check back if I can.’ Flood limped to the stairway and was gone. They were on their own. Beck strode to a window again, thinking it was better’n doing nothing, but naught had changed that he could see.
‘They over the fence yet?’ Brait was up on tiptoe, trying to look over Beck’s shoulder. He sounded all excited, eyes bright like a boy on his birthday, waiting to see what his present might be. He sounded a little bit like Beck always thought he’d feel facing battle. But he didn’t feel that way. He felt sick and hot in spite of the damp breeze on his face.
‘No. And ain’t you supposed to be downstairs?’
‘Not ’til they come, I’m not. Don’t get to see this every day, do you?’
Beck brushed him off with an elbow. ‘Just get out of it! Your stink’s making me sick!’
‘All right, all right.’ Brait shambled away, looking hurt, but Beck couldn’t bring up much sympathy. It was the best he could do not to bring up the breakfast he hadn’t had.
Reft was stood at the other window, bow over his shoulder. ‘Thought you’d be happy. Looks like you’ll get your chance to be a hero.’
‘I am happy,’ snapped Beck. And not shitting himself at all.
Meed had established his headquarters in the inn’s common hall, which by the standards of the North was a palatial space, double height and with a gallery at first-floor level. Overnight it had been decorated like a palace too with gaudy hangings, inlaid cupboards, gilded candlesticks and all the pompous trappings one would expect in a lord governor’s own residence, presumably carted half way across the North at monstrous expense. A pair of violinists had set up in the corner and were grinning smugly at each other as they sawed out jaunty chamber music. Three huge oil paintings had even been hoisted into position by Meed’s industrious servants: two renderings of great battles from the Union’s history and, incredibly, a portrait of Meed himself, glowering from on high in antique armour. Finree gaped at it for a moment, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Large windows faced south into the inn’s weed-colonised courtyard, east across fields dotted with trees towards brooding woods, and north towards the town of Osrung. With all the shutters wide open a chilly breeze drifted through the room, ruffling hair and snatching at papers. Officers clustered about the northern windows, eager to catch a glimpse of the assault, Meed in their midst in a uniform of eye-searing crimson. He glanced sideways as Finree slipped up beside him and gave the slightest sneer of distaste, like a fastidious eater who has spied an insect in his salad. She returned it with a beaming smile.
‘Might I borrow your eyeglass, your Grace?’
He worked his mouth sourly for a moment but was held prisoner by etiquette, and handed it stiffly over. ‘Of course.’
The road curved off to the north, a muddy stripe through muddy fields overflowing with the sprawling camp, tents haphazardly scattered like monstrous fungi sprouted in the night. Beyond them were the earthworks Meed’s men had thrown up in the darkness. Beyond them, through the haze of mist and drizzle, she could just make out the fence around Osrung, perhaps even the suggestion of scaling ladders against it.
Her imagination filled in the blanks. Ranks of marching men ordered forward to the palisade, grim-faced and determined as arrows showered down. The wounded dragged for the rear or left screaming where they lay. Rocks tumbling, ladders shoved from the fence, men butchered as they tried to climb over onto the walkways, thrust screaming back to be dashed on the ground below.
She wondered whether Hal was in the midst of that, playing the hero. For the first time she felt a stab of worry for him, a cold shiver through her shoulders. This was no game. She lowered Meed’s eyeglass, chewing at her lip.
‘Where the hell is the Dogman and his rabble?’ the lord governor was demanding of Captain Hardrick.
‘I believe they were behind us on the road, your Grace. His scouts came upon a burned-out village and the lord marshal gave him leave to investigate. They should be here within an hour or two—’
‘Typical. You can rely on him for a knowing shrug but when the battle begins he is nowhere to be seen.’
‘Northmen are treacherous by nature,’ someone tossed out.
‘Cowardly.’
‘Their presence would only slow us down, your Grace.’
‘That much is true,’ snorted Meed. ‘Order every unit into the attack. I want them overwhelmed. I want that town crushed into the dust and every Northman in it dead or running.’
Finree could not help herself. ‘Surely it would be wise to leave at least one regiment behind? As I understand it, the woods to the east have not been thoroughly—’
‘Do you seriously suppose you will hit upon some scheme by which you will replace me with your husband?’
There was a pause that seemed impossibly long, while Finree wondered if she might be dreaming. ‘I beg your—’