B00B9BL6TI EBOK (24 page)

As he ran through the gateway, Edwin had nothing in his mind other than the thought of imminent death. To his surprise, this failed to materialise, and he followed John Marshal and six other men around to the north side of the castle.

There they were confronted with the sight of the massive western gate to the city. Edwin heard John Marshal swear, and at first he thought that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, for the gate seemed blocked behind tons of fallen masonry and debris. As they picked their way forward, however, it became clear that, apart from the bar across the gate itself and one or two pieces which had been left to disguise the rest, all the remaining rubble had been artfully placed to make it look as though the gate was blocked, when in fact it would be the work of moments to open it. He gave thanks for the souls of the brave men who had dared to defy their oppressors to clear the way, some giving their lives to do so.

Urged on by John Marshal, the men started to heave at the rubble and hurl it aside. Edwin tucked his dagger back in his belt and worked as fast as he could, tearing the skin of his hands on the rough stone and still in great fear, but the crossbowmen in the castle were doing their job well, and not a single enemy soldier appeared to distract them from their task. Finally all eight of them set their hands to the great bar and heaved it out of its metal sockets to throw it aside. They seized hold of the gate and began to drag it, protesting, open. As soon as the first chink appeared, a great shout came from outside and some of the regent’s men ran forward and pushed it from the outside, until finally it lay wide open, offering access to the city for the hundreds of knights standing ready.

The men on foot quickly stepped back to allow them entry, and Edwin had to jam himself back against the wall to avoid being crushed by flying hooves. First through the gate was the regent himself, charging through the gap and roaring his men forward, armour shining and bright surcoat streaming; a sight which was to remain burned in Edwin’s mind until the end of his days – the greatest hero of the age storming into battle in the cause of righteousness. Then he was gone from sight, followed by a torrent of steeds and men, forcing their way in and hurtling into the narrow streets. After them came the footsoldiers, taking advantage of their lighter bodily protection to leap over the fallen debris.

And then they were gone, except for the men on foot who had opened the gate and the remainder of John Marshal’s mounted sergeants, who had come through it with the regent’s men. They stood looking at each other in silence. Sounds of battle came from all around, but Edwin was standing in an island of calm. He began to heave a sigh of relief.

He was only halfway through it when John Marshal began shouting again that their task was not yet done, and that they needed to help with the fight. One of his men was leading an extra horse, and Marshal strode towards it. As he did so, he grabbed a fistful of Edwin’s tunic and swung him round, surprisingly powerful for such a slight man. ‘Not you. You get inside that castle and protect yourself. You are valuable and I don’t want to explain to the lord regent that I got you killed. Go!’

He gave Edwin a rough shove and then he was gone, onto his horse in one swift movement and urging the mount past the castle walls, his men following. With cries and with the exhilaration of battle upon them, they were gone.

Sir Reginald was surrounded by enemies and handicapped by trying to pull his fallen leader up onto his horse behind him. There were too many of them … but then he heard a welcome sound. Shouts came from behind him as more mounted men crashed into the press around him. The footsoldiers assailing him screamed and fell back, as a knight whose device he recognised as John Marshal’s drove past him, hacking down at them. Falkes de Breauté had the space to grab the reins of a spare horse and haul himself into the saddle.

The momentum of the new charge got them all moving again and they pushed further forward. The men ahead of them started to fall back, and they pressed their advantage. Ahead of them was the open ground where the French had their siege engines, which were still being manned, still hurling huge missiles at the damaged castle walls. If only they could stop that bombardment! Sir Reginald forced himself forwards to John Marshal and pointed, knowing he wouldn’t be heard above the din. Marshal gestured to show he had understood, and the two of them made themselves into a wedge, thrusting their way through the enemy knights with their own compatriots fanning out behind them, as they sought to reach the machines.

Sir Reginald was stopped in his drive by another dismounted knight reaching for his reins, but as he paused to crack his sword down on the man’s wrist he saw John Marshal continuing on. He had broken through the press of knights and was hurtling, alone, towards the siege machinery. The engineers manning the devices weren’t properly armed or defended, and they stood no chance against the knight who sent blood and gore flying as he hacked his way through them, even as they tried to flee before the onslaught. Finally he reached the first mangonel, on top of which stood the chief engineer, still bellowing orders to his men. Without pause John Marshal rode straight at him, bringing his arm back in a wide arc, and the man’s head flew off his shoulders in between the space of two words. The Royalist forces cheered and surged further forwards, and soon all the engines had been seized, the bombardment stopped at last.

Dame Nicola paused on her way across the courtyard and listened to the cheers coming from the south side of the castle. She stood still for a moment, listening. What was different? One of her men ran down from the south wall.

‘My lady, my lady!’ He skidded to a halt in front of her and she nodded for him to speak. ‘My lady, they have captured the siege engines!’

Of course – that was it. She had become so used to the regular sound of the missiles that she had barely noticed when they stopped. For once heedless of dignity, she picked up her skirts and ran faster than she had in twenty years up to the parapet, a place which had been too dangerous to visit until a few moments ago. She looked out over the ground and saw a scene of carnage: blood and bodies and limbs everywhere, those of the damned engineers – served them right – and what were obviously the regent’s men starting to break the wretched machines to pieces. Standing atop one of the mangonels was an armoured knight – John Marshal, might the Lord bless him for the rest of his days. As she watched, he saw her on the parapet and somewhat foolhardily removed his helmet in order to bow to her with a flourish. Then he was gone, back into the press of men, back onto his horse, the enemy not yet defeated. But the bombardment had stopped! After enduring it for so long, she could scarcely credit it. They were going to win. They were going to drive those blasted French out of her city, and she would be able to start the process of rebuilding.

She stopped herself from becoming too optimistic. Things were not over yet. For a few moments more she watched as Falkes de Breauté’s crossbowmen shot at the remaining enemy within range, cheering inwardly as each bolt found its mark in an adversary’s body. The weapons weren’t much use against the knights, of course, for their mail protected them against every shot but those at close range, but it was thinning the ranks of the bastards, and she gave thanks. After watching one final shot which lodged in the spine of a screaming footsoldier and left him writhing on the ground, she grunted in satisfaction and descended from the parapet.

In the courtyard things were busy, as the wounded Royalists were being brought in. Now that the French were away from the immediate environs of the castle, it was safe to open the gate, so it made sense for the wounded to be tended here. She gave orders for her remaining garrison to help as best they could, while still keeping a sharp lookout on the walls for any stragglers among the French. As she surveyed the groaning men lying around her, she noticed Warenne’s spy helping one of the wounded. Warenne would do well out of this, despite his absence, for the man had done good work and the credit must go to the earl for putting him forward. The regent might even let him back into the Royalist camp, if he was lucky.

She watched the man for a few moments, doing his best to stop a sergeant with a stomach wound bleeding to death; she had seen such injuries before and the man had no hope. She considered the spy again. No doubt Marshal had sent him back inside the safety of the walls, for he would be valuable, and he didn’t look like he would be much good in a fight anyway. But her supposition was obviously wrong, for as she watched, the man laid down the dead soldier and ran out of the gate and into the city. Foolhardy – no armour and only a dagger with which to defend himself – but that was his concern, not hers. She had plenty of other things to worry about.

She sent a man for de Serland, who was at the north wall of the castle. She was feeling hopeful, but his news was not of the best. Chester’s men had been embroiled in some brutal fighting there and the result was still in doubt. The battle wasn’t over yet.

Once more, Sir Gilbert raised his weary arm, bloody to the elbow, and brought it down on the head of the man who was trying to stab his horse’s belly. Since their charge through the west gate they had been involved in some vicious combat in the north-western corner of the city. The layout of the narrow streets had made it exceedingly difficult to fight properly, for they could only ride four abreast between the overhanging houses, and sometimes not even that. The French and rebels were in front of them at every step, and sometimes behind or above them as well, for they had seized the houses in that quarter, killing the citizens within or throwing them out into the street. There had been a number of fatalities which in Gilbert’s mind were regrettable. Just a moment ago he had stopped his horse and made it walk around the body of a small child – he couldn’t bring himself to step on it even though the mite was clearly dead already. But such things happened, and any deaths here would be a sacrifice towards the greater good of freeing the kingdom from the invaders.

He flinched as the man next to him was struck by an arrow, but fortunately it rebounded off his helmet with a loud clang, and after shaking his head the knight appeared to be all right. Gilbert was now not in the front rank of the advancing force, having taken his turn as one of the leading four in the street, but having been replaced there by another. He looked sharply around him as they inched their way forwards, looking for any soldiers in the houses, so that he might send his troop of foot inside to flush them out. It was bloody and messy work, not his idea of a battle at all, but it was working. The French were slowly giving ground along the high part of the city towards the cathedral, as the regent’s men spread out through all of the streets and cut their way forwards.

Screaming sounded from a house to his right, and he immediately sent some men in. There was the sound of a struggle and they came out again to dump the body of an enemy soldier in the street. The screaming went on – it sounded like a woman, so there had probably been some violence in there. He couldn’t stop to find out. He wondered for a brief moment about the girl Edwin had told him about, and hoped that she was safe. He didn’t think that she would be in this quarter of the city – hadn’t Edwin said that she lived further south, down the hill? Anyway, he hoped for his sake that she might escape unscathed. He hoped also that Edwin, and Reginald for that matter, were still alive. He had little fear for his fellow knight, but Edwin was hardly able to defend himself, never mind take part in a battle, and it would be a shame if anything were to happen to him. Gilbert had grown quite fond of him over the last few days.