The Edge of the Blade [antikvár]

ONE The siting of the castle had added two hours to his journey; the time it took to skirt around the bleak Cornish ridge. It was his grandfather's fault - well, no, entirely to the old man's credit - that Tremellion stood where it did. Its broad back to the north, the castle dominated the ridge. The base of its outer wall was planted sixty feet up from the Hexel River. The wall itself rose another twenty-two feet, its long northern side further strengthened by four semicircular towers. But only a madman - an army commanded by a madman - would attempt to scale that near vertical face. Indeed, it would be lunacy to choose either route, for the now dead Sir William Falkan had, as was said, chosen his perch with care. Nevertheless, admiration for Sir William's cunning found no place today in the travel-weary Baynard Falkan. He was soaked to the skin, his hands and face slapped raw by a bitter March wind, the nagging pain of toothache in his lower jaw. The nearest physician was, where? In Launceston? Too far away. No choice then but to submit to the less-than-tender mercies of Constable Guthrie. Think of that and maybe the pain itself would cringe and grow quiet Tremellion had never housed much by way of a garrison; few castles did. Fifty men was fifty mouths to feed, fifty bodies to be lodged, clothed, armed. It was unnecessary in time of peace, easy enough to recruit from the villages if war or menace loomed. A castle was not, after all, an hospice, and the ashlar blocks of Tremellion were its most daunting show of strength. So Baynard's escort consisted of no more than five men-at-arms -a quarter of Tremellion's watchguards - and the two servants who occupied themselves with the baggage, the crude leather tents, the purchase and cooking of food. The tents had been pitched on a dozen separate occasions during Baynard's month-long absence, though part of the month had been spent at his destination, an island fortress off Cornwall's north-west coast. A memorable experience, once the choppy crossing had been made, for the castellan of Ardelet Island was an old friend of Baynard's father. They'd been on crusade