This story is set in the 12th century keep of Striguil, known today as Chepstow Castle and situated on the Welsh (Celtic) side of the river Wye in Britain. At that time, King Henry Plantagenet was on the throne and his warring sons, Henry, Richard and John managed to create vacuums of authority, which rebel Celts from both the north (modern day Scotland) and the west (modern day Wales) always used to their advantage.
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Alais sat in the bower with her ladies, stitching an undershift with cramped fingers as rain lashed against the great keep of Striguil Castle, sat overlooking the River Wye and one of the frontier holdings of the Marcher lands. Her father had died in service to King Henry the year before and her mother had passed on years ago, following the difficult birthing of her youngest brother, Harold. Alais, the only surviving child of a largely loveless marriage, was under the care of a warden, one of King Henry's most trusted knights. Sir Walter administered her lands and saw that the crown was free to milk their profits until Alais was safely married off. King Henry himself would decide who her husband was to be, so great was the dowry of land she held. To her knowledge and despite all the fighting between Henry and his sons, only two other young, fatherless heiresses had more wealth and land to bestow upon a prospective husband and only one was of a marriageable age. Under normal circumstances, she would be safely walled up in the Tower of London until attention could be given to her marriage and the allocation of her estates. However, there had been so much trouble in London and the south since she had lost her father that even though there were men at arms enough to escort her, the journey had been deemed too hazardous. She had turned eighteen just a few weeks ago and although her ladies had done much to mark the occasion, it was not the same with her father gone and Sir Walter strutting about the place as though he owned it.
Sir Walter had often looked upon her with something other than the cursory duty of a castellan. It was embarrassing enough that her breasts had suddenly budded and required her to order more cloth to let out her shifts and gowns in the bodice and hips and even to stitch some new ones. Just a few days since, he had stopped her in a deserted hallway to admire her work with embroidery around a new green bodice sewn into a dress of brown twill. It had made her flesh crawl to look at his whiskery features softening at the sight of her modestly rounded bosom and she had hastened to excuse herself. Now that she was aware of the encumbrance of her developing womanhood and the overly watchful eye of Sir Walter, Alais had taken to braiding her thick red curls and binding them up in a more mature style. She no longer ran about the keep with the laughing freedom of a street urchin. Her dresses now fell properly to the floor and Alais no longer hitched them up and displayed her hose and shoes when she was impatient or in a rush. It was all very confining and she knew that it would be all the more so once she had been married off to some arrogant knight who wanted her for the trophies of her beauty and wealth and to use her as a brood mare. It was likely she would be given to a man twice her age, one mature enough to manage such a large estate and whose loyalty to King Henry was proven. They would have nothing common and she would rot within these walls until she died, or until he died and then if she did not marry again swiftly and according to the King's wishes, she would meet her end in walled up within a convent. It often made her wish ungratefully that she was a street urchin.
That morning, Sir Walter had ridden out to make an annual accounting to the King. The weather was such that he would have postponed the journey a day or two but King Henry was not the sort of man whom one kept waiting for any length of time. The increasing animosity between Henry and his sons was prompting him to take stock of the wealth he had dispersed about the land and what he could commandeer in the way of gold, men and supplies from his dukes, barons and castellans in the event of a civil war. It was also rumoured that he was seeking renewed pledges of fealty from his vassals, hopefully ensuring that they would not betray him and lend their aid to one of his sons instead. Alais had seen Sir Walter wished Godspeed at Mass and had also bade him a formal farewell as was proper. Now she had the luxury of a few days without his breath down the back of her neck, as he marked in a ledger every last little item that she purchased for her household. Warm braziers lit and heated the room, their fuel suffused with cinnamon to give the bower a cosy feel. The women worked quietly but there was also an air of celebration. A jug of mead was kept warm by the fire and a pot of leek and rabbit pottage bubbled merrily beside it, lacing the room with its aroma.
By the time night fell, all pretence at industriousness and propriety had been abandoned. The ladies sang, clapped time and danced, played at chess and even placed wagers of fripperies, ribbons and small coins upon merels. They drank a little too much wine and laughed a little too loudly but the weeks under Sir Walter's watery, condescending gaze had been arduous indeed.
A hesitant, unmistakeably masculine cough interrupted proceedings and all the ladies turned and stared, hastily endeavouring to compose themselves. A young man but recently knighted was stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to enter. He had on about half of his armour and would have cut an amusing figure, had his countenance not been so grave.
"My Lady, Celts have been sighted and already they are almost upon the keep. It is my sad charge to inform you that we are heavily outnumbered but father bids me assure you that every last man will do his duty. I must ask you all to accompany me to the dungeons immediately below the great hall as it is the most defensible place for you. Do you have your keys?"
Alais stepped forward and drew her heavy bunch of keys from among her skirts to display their place upon her belt.
"I have the keys but I do wonder that one as young as yourself, and only half armed, has been charged with us. Where is your father?" The lad's sire, John Marshall, was the head of Alais's men at arms and a formidable battle veteran who still sat his horse like a man half his age. He was a broad stone wall of muscle and scars with an angry countenance that concealed a gentle and generous nature, when peacetime allowed for it.
"He is rounding up men, weapons and horses. Every able bodied man will fight; grooms, servants, everyone. You will be safe below stairs, please tarry no longer, my lady."
With all haste, Alais descended below stairs with her ladies. The young knight, Jack Marshall, bounded in front of them, clearly frustrated by the slower pace of the women as they lifted their voluminous skirts and attempted to run after years of being taught that it was improper. Only Alais kept pace with him, tucking her skirts into her belt and displaying a truly scandalous amount of slim, stocking clad calf.
"Where are Sir Walter's keys? Who has them?" She asked.
"They were entrusted to Wigain, who does the book keeping. I have not seen him this afternoon." Jack's brow furrowed as he attempted to assimilate this new implication.
"You must take them from him and pass them to your father. He is the only man I trust to judge when to fight and when to yield. I would not have every last man here die in an unwinnable battle and I doubt we have the resources put by to last long in a siege, thanks to Walter's scrimping and fussing. You must see to this personally and you must tell him what I have said. My honour is not worth every soul in this keep."
"I will do as you command, Lady. In a few minutes, more experienced men will take my place here and I will go immediately to find Wigain."
"I thank you. Please have your father thank the men for me. If I get through this alive, I will personally see to it that the families of those who fall are provided for, with my gratitude. Please have him tell them that. God speed to yourself as well, may your youth and strength over reach your inexperience." Alais gave the lad an impulsive squeeze. Their ages were not dissimilar and they had known each other for years. He returned the embrace, surprised and flushed, before gently pushing her away and entreating her to hasten down to the dungeons with the other women.
In the hours that followed, the sounds that the women heard from above were hideous. There was really no way of telling how the battle was faring and Alais was simply pleased and impressed that the Celts' victory had not been a swift one. The half dozen ladies of her household comforted each other and organised the space in which they were confined. One small cell was being unwillingly used as a latrine. Seats and benches were gathered into the largest cell and as an extra precaution Alais locked them in, only opening the barred doorway when a lady was forced to answer a call of nature. If any enemy were to find them, their first ploy was to pretend that the knights had locked them in and they had no keys. Hopefully, they would have the opportunity to flee from their prison while the keys were being searched for.
Before long, they began to lose track of how long they had spent underground. There was no grate at ground level through which they could judge how far into the night they were. It was cold, dank and cramped in their little cell. Alais could not even pace away her worry and impatience.
Eventually, the door that led up to the hall was flung open and a group of men fell through it, John among them, swinging his sword with as much strength and conviction as if the battle had but just begun. It took three men to take him down and they did so in a protracted and bloody fashion, showing no mercy even when John lost his sword. The man mountain went down and lay on his back, his breathing ragged and blood welling up from his throat. It was clear that there was no hope for him. From his position on the floor he focused unsteadily on Alais and her women and gave an anguished cry.
"I am so sorry Lady, you are undone." He rasped, before his chest shuddered and fell still.
John's three assailants fell abruptly silent and stood to one side as another man swept into the cramped hallway, his sword drawn and bloody. He stepped over the body as though it wasn't there and approached the barred cell. He was tall and clean shaven with dark curly hair and a tanned complexion. His eyes glittered like obsidian and it was clear that he was still in the bloodlust of battle. Alais guessed him to be around thirty five years old. He assessed the women as though they were a herd of cattle and then turned away.
