Stronghold (13 page)

"Fighting the
Welsh
?" Ranulf struggled to hide his exasperation. "It's come to your attention, has it not, that we're facing more here than just the Welsh?"

"Ahhh... more talk of witchery. It's all over the castle at present. And yet it's so powerful, this witchery, that they've resorted to using catapults - our own catapults, no less - to force entry."

"Either way, my lord, they will soon succeed."

Corotocus turned and looked at him. "Especially if those men I appoint to defend my stronghold have no stomach for it."

"My lord, we are only asking to withdraw to the Inner Fort. It's a more defensible position."

"Return to your post, sir knight."

"My lord, we have nothing to strike back at the mangonels with. In due course they will pound the south wall to rubble. Must all the men there die to prove a point?"

"It would take a decade to pound that wall to rubble, FitzOsbern, as you know. Even with a dozen mangonels."

"My lord, the men on that wall face certain death."

"
Death!"
Corotocus roared, spittle suddenly flying from his lips. "So be it! If they must die to preserve this bastion, they must die. I won't surrender the outer rampart and allow these devils to walk into our precincts unmolested!"

"So you admit they're devils?" Ranulf said quietly. "A rare moment of honesty from you..."

"You impertinent..."

The earl went for the hilt of his sword, but before he could unsheathe the steel, William d'Abbetot appeared, quite breathless. Close to seventy, bald and white-bearded, he was exhausted simply by his journey from the Barbican. Having removed his mail earlier, he now wore only hose and a linen shirt, both of which were clingy with sweat.

"You summoned me, my lord?" he asked.

Corotocus continued to glare at Ranulf, who glared boldly back.

"God's blood, FitzOsbern!" the earl hissed. "If you weren't born of a she-wolf in a pit of marl! How is it you're the only man alive who doesn't fear me?"

"Should I fear you more, my lord, than what waits for us outside?"

"I need only snap my fingers and you'll be thrown to them first."

"And would that serve your purpose?"

"It may be your just desert."

"We're all going to get our just deserts, my lord. Every one of us."

The earl jabbed a mailed finger into Ranulf's chest. "You stay here, FitzOsbern.
Right here!
D'Abbetot?" He turned to the elderly engineer and pointed south, just as two more projectiles made deafening impacts, dust and rubble exploding into the air. "You see our problem?"

D'Abbetot dabbed his damp pate with a handkerchief. "I do, my lord. Once they've broken the battlements on the south wall, they'll do the same on the east and north. It's only a matter of moving the engines. Of course they'll have full control of the berm path long before then."

"Unless we stop them first," Corotocus said. "How serviceable is the trebuchet?"

"It hasn't been used much in recent times, but it's in working condition. A little oil here and there, some replacement hemp..."

"Can you target the bridge with it?"

"The bridge?"

"There is only one bridge, d'Abbetot. In the southwest corner, for Christ's sake!"

"But my lord, if we smash the bridge won't we be trapped in the castle?"

"We'll also be out of reach. The Welsh can't regain the berm if the bridge no longer exists. They aren't ants, are they? They can't fill up the moat with their dead and just walk over the top."

"Especially as they don't appear to be dying," Ranulf put in.

"Well, d'Abbetot?" the earl growled.

"I'll see to it, my lord. Straight away."

D'Abbetot hobbled off.

"Have the bridge down by nightfall and I'll reward you with estates on every honour I hold," the earl called after him. He turned back to Ranulf, still having to restrain his anger. "You're quite a speaker, sir, for a rogue knight. You must have a high opinion of yourself to voice so many viewpoints in such august company."

"Wasn't it you, my lord, who said you'd rather have men who told the truth?"

"Yes, Ranulf, it was. But that doesn't mean I won't kill them for their impudence."

Ranulf pursed his lips. Perhaps it was time to hold his prattling tongue.

"You may hate my cruelty, Ranulf. You may resent my power. You may revile my ambition. But do you know what hurts the most - your mistrust of my abilities."

Ranulf could not refute the charge. His temper had got the better of him, for there was no doubt that breaking the bridge was a clever plan. No matter what demonic powers protected them, the Welsh could assail the castle with missiles for day after day, but if the bridge was destroyed they could make no further gain. They could never physically wrest the stronghold from its defenders. Of course, a prolonged bombardment would still inflict horrendous casualties.

"My lord, if they continue to pound us..."

"It will achieve little," Corotocus said. "Apart from wasting their time. King Edward plans to enter this country through the north, but he won't sit on his arse there forever. Even if he doesn't receive a plea for help from us, he'll come down here at length to consolidate his gains. Let's see how they fare then, against a host of fifty thousand. In any case, once the bridge is broken, I can withdraw all my troops from the south wall. We won't need the outer rampart any more."

Ranulf nodded. Earl Corotocus might be a brute but he'd always been a capable tactician.

"Which brings me back to
you
," the earl said. His lieutenants hovered behind him, uncertainly. Only Navarre looked pleased by this turn of events. "I can't tolerate your constant rebellions, Ranulf, or your petty treasons. So your sentence is death."

Some of the knights hung their heads. Navarre broke into a delighted grin.

"Do you hear me?" the earl said.

"I hear you, my lord."

"You think I can endure this indefinitely, boy? You think I can be defied with venom in the midst of battle, when other men of mine - better men, and more loyal than you - are dying all around? Do you think I
should
endure it?"

Ranulf said nothing.

"Be assured, if I didn't need every man in my command right now, I'd hang you from the highest gibbet in Wales. But don't be comforted, Ranulf. When this war is over, the sentence will be confirmed. And of course you must challenge it. You must claim trial by combat, as is your right. I'll be more than happy to oblige..."

Before he could say more, a shadow fell over them. They glanced up.

A dark but glittering cloud was arcing from the top of the western bluff towards the castle's northwest corner. At first it was like a flock of birds, sunlight glinting on their black, metallic feathers. But then they realised that it was debris - or 'iron hail', to use catapult crew parlance - maybe a ton of it, spreading out as it descended on the Barbican.

Its impact was deafening and prolonged. It covered almost the entirety of the Barbican roof and spilled partly onto the Gatehouse alongside it. Even from as far away as the Constable's Tower, a hundred yards to the south, the clangour of impacts, the chorus of shouts and screams was ear-splitting.

Earl Corotocus moved to the north battlements, the others joining him. Though located on elevated ground, the Barbican wasn't as tall as the Constable's Tower. Subsequently, they had a perfect view of the damage the iron hail had inflicted. The trebuchet appeared to be intact. A good number of Carew's Welsh were milling around it, though many others lay prone as though felled by hammer-blows.

"The scoop-thrower!" du Guesculin shouted. "Dear Lord in Heaven, they've got the scoop-thrower as well!"

"Of course they've got the scoop-thrower," Corotocus replied. "It's the deadliest machine in my arsenal. Would they leave that behind?"

"Why is it trained on the Barbican?" Navarre wondered.

"It's trained on the
trebuchet
, you idiot! If they break the trebuchet, we've no way to demolish the bridge and they can continue the infantry assault."

"Can't we disassemble the trebuchet and move it?" du Guesculin said.

Corotocus snarled his frustration. "There's nowhere to set it up where it'll be out of reach of the scoop-thrower unless we move it to the east rampart, where it will be useless anyway."

"What in God's name do we do, my lord?" Du Guesculin had gone white. Of them all, he had looked most hopeful at the suggestion the southwest bridge might be made unusable and the Welsh held in abeyance. "In the good Lord's name, what do...?"

"Arm the trebuchet!" Corotocus bellowed. "Smash that bridge now, before it's too damn late!"

"D'Abbetot will need Carew and his damn malcontents to help," Navarre said. "But look at the state of them."

Even after one deluge of iron hail, the priority on the Barbican had changed from mutual defence to self-preservation. There was still much shouting and consternation, but something like a retreat was in progress. Numerous wounded were being assisted up the steps to the Gatehouse.

Corotocus bared his teeth.

"Get over there, Navarre," he snarled. "Remind Captain Carew that if this castle falls he and his Welsh malingerers will be singled out for even less merciful treatment than we English. Remind them they are to assist William d'Abbetot, my senior engineer, in any way that he requests, and that this means holding their position until ordered to do otherwise. If any object, put them to the sword immediately."

He turned to another of his tenant knights, a wiry, leathery-skinned fellow in a black and orange striped mantle, called Robert of Tancarville.

"You as well, Robert. And
you
!" Corotocus pointed at Ranulf. "A chance to redeem yourself early."

Ranulf didn't suppose the Barbican could be any worse a posting at this moment than the south curtain-wall. He nodded curtly and followed the other two.

"Let's hope d'Abbetot hadn't already got up there," he said, joining them on the downward stair. "If he's dead, the trebuchet's no use to us anyway."

"Always you expect the worst," Navarre jeered.

"No, I expect the iron hail," Ranulf said. "The worst may be yet to come."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Barbican was another supposedly impregnable feature of Grogen Castle.

Standing just to the west of the Gatehouse, it was a bastion in its own right: a squat, hexagonal tower, filled with rubble so that it was basically a gigantic earthwork clad with stone and fitted around its rim with huge crenels. Its roof was broad enough not just to accommodate the trebuchet, but over a hundred men-at-arms and archers, who could assail, in more or less complete safety, any force attempting to attack the castle's main entrance. The trebuchet itself was powerful enough to shoot clean down to the river, or, thanks to its turntable base, far up onto the western bluff. It was a strong and defensible position for any company of men, but it had never been foreseen that it might be attacked from overhead. When Navarre and Tancarville arrived up there, it was a scene of carnage. The corpses of Carew's malcontents dotted the Barbican roof, while many of those still living clutched bloody wounds as they flowed up the Gatehouse stair to mingle with Garbofasse's mercenaries.

In general terms, Carew's band were poorly armed, clad in hose, leather jerkins and boots. One or two were in mail, and some wore pointed or broad-brimmed helmets, but most lacked shields to shelter beneath, and so the iron hail had taken a massive toll of them. Carew, who had also retreated to the Gatehouse, was better equipped than most. His helmet was fitted with nose and cheek pieces. He also wore a hauberk of padded felt studded with iron balls, but he'd been cut deeply across the neck. Blood gushed from the wound as he sought to bind it.

"Carew, where the devil are your dogs running to?" Navarre shouted, as he and Robert of Tancarville approached with swords drawn.

Carew spun to face him. "Hell's rain has just fallen on our heads! Didn't you see?"

"Hell is where you're headed if you don't get these wretches back to their posts!"

Ranulf now arrived, with William d'Abbetot alongside him. They'd overtaken the elderly engineer on their way here. Ranulf had held back to assist him as he puffed his way up the steep Gatehouse stair.

"You expect us to stand under the iron hail?" Carew shouted.

"The earl expects you to stand until the last man, if necessary!" Navarre retorted.

"And will you set the example for us, Aquitaine?"

"Do as you're commanded.
Now!
"

"You first, you crooked-faced ape."

Navarre raised his sword, but Ranulf stepped between them. "Fighting among ourselves is the last thing we need," he said. "Captain Carew, where do you and your men think you're retreating to?"

"We can still protect the castle entrance if we man the Gatehouse."

"The Gatehouse is also in the scoop-thrower's range."

As if in proof there was a wild shout and another nebulous shadow fell over them. Instinctively, Navarre and Tancarville lifted their shields. Ranulf did the same, but dragged d'Abbetot, who of course was not armoured, beneath his. Carew fell to a crouch, arms wrapped around his helmet. No-one else reacted before the second hail struck.

Every type of missile smashed down: bolts, nails, screws, stones, bits of chain, hunks of jagged metal. Ranulf had a sturdy shield. It was fashioned from planks and linen strips glued together, bound with iron and overlaid with painted leather. It felt as if a giant with a sledgehammer was beating on it and it was all he could do to keep the thing horizontal. When the deluge was over, the shield was buckled out of shape, though it had served its purpose - both Ranulf and William d'Abbetot were shaken but unhurt. Others hadn't been so lucky.

Garbofasse's mercenaries were better armoured than Carew's Welsh, but several of them had been struck. Ranulf saw split scalps, lacerated faces, broken limbs. All around, there were groans and gasps as dazed men helped fallen comrades to their feet. The Welsh, caught for a second time in the hail, had fared even worse. Those climbing the steps from the Barbican had been hit simultaneously by a timber beam, which had shattered three skulls in a row. The Barbican roof was under inches of debris; several dozen lay half-buried in it. Others still on their feet wandered groggily, their helms battered into fantastical shapes. Carew gazed bemusedly at his hands, which were badly mangled, the flesh torn away from several bent and broken fingers.