B00B9BL6TI EBOK (23 page)

And still they had not been attacked.

His stomach cramped as he stood, and he thought he would embarrass himself, but his thoughts were distracted by the sound of shouts and the clash of steel issuing from the north. The signal. The Earl of Chester’s men had struck the first blow, and now it was his turn. He ran forward with the others, expecting at any moment to hear a deadly rain of arrows hissing down, but none came. The men inside the city obviously had other things to worry about. Lord, protect me this day.

As they neared the castle, the postern opened and the first of the crossbowmen entered. Edwin waited his turn and then passed through the small gate for the second time in several hours. Then he was inside the castle, wincing and ducking his head as a thunderous crack signalled another stone hitting its target. His heart beat faster with the terror. How had the garrison survived such an onslaught for so long? Surely they must have been driven mad by the fear. He kept his head down as he moved forward quickly into the courtyard, even though he knew deep down that this would do him precious little good if he were to be hit by one of the gigantic missiles. He would be crushed like an ant, the rock shattering his bones. Desperate to take his mind off that image, he followed the man in front as the rest of the party formed up. Those with crossbows ran up the steps to the curtain wall and took up position, while Falkes de Breauté and his men waited by the main eastern gate of the castle. Once everyone was ready the bar was lifted, and with a great shout the knights and men began to pour through into the city, weapons at the ready. Edwin drew his dagger and followed.

They were still sitting in the kitchen when the first sounds of battle erupted. It was Margery who heard it first, recognising that the noise was different from the horrible reverberations of the stones crashing into the castle, but not knowing what it meant. But the two men seemed to understand: they both leapt to their feet.

‘Combat!’ Master Pinel opened the back door to hear better. ‘The men from the castle must have come out to fight.’

Gervase was beside him. ‘Either that or a relief force has arrived.’

Alys felt her heart soar. He’d done it! He must have returned to the castle in safety and passed the message on. The king had sent an army and they would be saved.

But there were more immediate concerns. It was Mistress Guildersleeve who voiced them first. ‘There will be fighting in the streets of the city. We must protect our homes.’

Gervase took charge. ‘Mother, come home with me now. Alys, is your front door barred?’ She nodded. ‘Good. Now take anything else you can find and pile it up behind the door, in case anyone tries to break it down.’

Master Pinel took up the theme. ‘I’ll do the same in my home, although Appylton’s place must, I fear, be left to fend for itself. Is there any way of defending the yard?’

Gervase thought for a moment. ‘We’ll see. Come.’ As they all hustled out of the door, he turned and cast a parting remark to Alys. ‘Once the doors are barred, take the children upstairs and hide. If anyone does get in, they might only loot the shop. God protect you.’ And then they were gone.

Alys was terrified, hardly able to move, but as she looked at the stunned faces of the children she realised again that she would have to be the strong one. She tried to sound decisive. ‘Margery, Edric, take Papa’s chair and put it behind the shop door. Then take these stools and try to wedge them in to keep everything fast.’ Used to the voice of authority, they obeyed without speaking, starting to drag the heavy chair through to the shop. Dear Lord, she hoped they wouldn’t look too closely at the mess of fabric near the fire. She turned to Randal, who was shaking. She could barely get him to understand her. ‘Randal, help me.’ He didn’t move. She knew how frightened he was, but this wouldn’t help him. ‘Randal!’ Still he stood, quivering and rooted to the spot. Hating herself, she drew back her arm and slapped him across the face, hard. In shock he brought up his hand, looked at her and burst into tears. She could have wept herself, could have curled up on the floor, sobbing until her heart broke, but there was no time. At least she’d roused him. ‘Come now. Help me move things across to block this door.’ The kitchen door, opening as it did on to the private yard, only had a fairly light bar which wouldn’t withstand much of an attack. She did as best she could by heaving the flour barrel over to it and packing around it every other movable thing she could find.

Once they had barricaded themselves in as best they could, she took them all upstairs, where they huddled together in terror, praying that they might survive the day.

Sir Gilbert’s horse pawed the ground as he waited with the rest of the regent’s part of the host. They were on the ridge to the north-west of the city, waiting for the gate to open. He’d heard the clash of weapons from the north gate, where the Earl of Chester’s men were attacking, and had seen Falkes de Breauté’s party entering the castle’s postern. Reginald and Edwin were both there, and he prayed for their safety while he waited.

And waited.

He shouldn’t let himself become too nervous. Think about what you’re going to do. Now was the time to find out whether Edwin had risked his life in vain, whether the information was true, whether they were going to get into the city unopposed or whether they would end up being sitting targets for a forewarned and forearmed enemy force. What would happen to his estates? What would …

That wasn’t the right thing to think about. He needed distraction and fortunately it was provided, for the regent rode up in front of his men, removed his helmet and began to address them. His oration was spirited, and men straightened in their saddles as they listened to him declaring that they were fighting for a just cause, to drive the French out of their realm on behalf of the true king, and crying out that God was on their side. As a roar went up from the host, Sir Gilbert had a momentary heretical thought that the enemy were probably also claiming that God was on their side, and that presumably He couldn’t be supporting both factions at once, but despite this, he still found himself stirred by the words of the old man. He was a knight, it was his calling to fight for a just cause, and today he would do it, by God. He felt his heart lift and the cares about family and estate melt away. He was here, he would engage in battle, and the Lord would decide the outcome.

The regent ended his speech amid rousing cheers and turned to face the city. He seemed about to ride off, but one of his men ran forward with his helmet, which he was evidently about to forget to don, and stopped him. Then he too was encased in faceless steel, a killing machine ready to cut his way mercilessly through the enemy forces. He took his position as the papal legate – ah, that settled it, of course: if the Pope supported them then God must really be on their side – blessed the host. All eyes were on the city gate, and as Sir Gilbert looked at it he thought he saw the tiniest crack appearing in the opening. Or was he imagining it? No, it was definitely opening, but only the Lord knew who would be behind it. He readied himself for the charge.

Sir Reginald watched as the crossbowmen rained their deadly bolts down on the besiegers. The order had been given that they should concentrate on killing the horses of the enemy, rather than the men, for which he was glad. For one thing, it still felt slightly odd to be fighting against fellow countrymen, even if they had allied themselves with the French, and for another, there would be the possibility of capturing other knights for ransom. Besides, men of rank should be fought by other knights in proper hand-to-hand combat, not merely mown down from a cowardly distance by commoners.

While these thoughts ran through his head, he was preparing with other mounted men to sally forth into the city. This was it – his chance had come. Falkes de Breauté gave the order and as the gate was opened he watched John Marshal and the men on foot run through, and then he rode out, ready for battle.

The first thing he noticed was that city streets weren’t made for fighting on horseback. The space immediately outside the castle gate had been cobbled, and his horse slipped and slithered as he tried to control it. After that it was slightly easier, the stones giving way to earthen roads, but the fight would be along a narrow front, made worse as the hooves churned up the ground into a mire. Still, he would make the best of it. Combat was his reason for living, and he felt the elation building up within him and the smile growing on his face; he whooped as he spurred towards the foe.

But immediately in front of him was an enemy knight on horseback. There was no time to set his horse into a proper charge, but he barrelled into the man, shoving his mount sideways. He couldn’t get his long lance into position, so he simply threw it at the man’s face to distract him momentarily while he drew his sword. That was better – he was able to move his right arm more freely now, ignoring the stabbing pain from his broken hand, which was still sore after the night’s exertions. He struck a sound blow at his opponent’s helmet: the knight was obviously stunned as he let slip his own weapon and slid off his horse. This would be a good opportunity for a capture, but unfortunately the press around him was too thick and he had to leave the man where he was lying in order to focus on further enemies.

Now he was surrounded by knights on foot, their dead and wounded horses lying still on the ground or thrashing their legs, crossbow bolts protruding from bleeding wounds. One knight reached up to try and seize his reins, intent on stealing his own steed, but he lashed down with his sword and saw the other fall away. More foot soldiers came towards him, commoners this time, defended only by light gambesons, and he laid about him mightily until he was surrounded by a pile of the dead.

Around him his compatriots were doing the same, but they had slowed. The impetus of their very short initial charge had worn off and they were becoming mired in the small confines, surrounded by more and more enemies. Ahead of him he saw Falkes de Breauté being pulled from his horse down into the press, and he pushed his own mount forward, lashing about him with his sword and using his shield as a battering ram, until he was over his fallen leader. He held off the enemies long enough for Falkes to stand and recover himself, but his horse had gone. Shouting to Falkes to pull himself up on to his steed, he tried to stay still long enough for the man to haul himself on to the beast’s back, but it was difficult with so many assailants. A few more of his companions thrust their way forwards so that Falkes had the time and space to grab his saddle and try to heave himself up, but they were becoming hard pressed. A glancing blow caught him on the leg and he winced, but the damage wasn’t serious, thanks to his mail chausses. More and more enemies came at him. The sortie was being repulsed, and he was stuck. Was he going to die here?