‘Come!’ she said to Flora, and went to the door.
The lock opened quietly enough, and she peered through the tapestries, which had been pulled aside. In the room beyond she could see Ben and Esmon sitting side by side, a guard holding a crossbow standing with his back to her. Esmon, her Esmon, looked merely enraged, but Ben was listless, as though he expected or even welcomed death. Beyond the two were many of the castle’s servants, held in a corner of the room by two men armed with swords. She gauged the distance. It was at least six yards between her and the bowman, and the high table was in the way. She wasn’t sure if she could get to him.
She threw open the door with a scream, and hurried out, the jug still in her hand. ‘Rape! Rape! He’s tried to rape me!’
The guard turned, his mouth wide open. For an instant his task was forgotten, and she saw that Ben too was gaping at her, but her son, her lovely Esmon, was not so stupid, and he was already at the guard. There was a confused grapple, and then Annicia saw that the whole of the man’s head appeared to explode. Shards of something flew from the crown of his skull, warm stuff spattered her face and hair, and the crossbow’s bolt struck the timbers of the ceiling, penetrating and staying in the wood while the guard, already dead, toppled slowly and then fell.
In the corner, the other guards tried to hold the servants back, but they were forced to cover their prisoners while keeping an eye on Esmon, who had now taken the bowman’s sword. Facing the threat from Esmon as well as all the servants, the two guards exchanged a glance, and then bolted for the door.
‘Mother, you stay in here!’ Esmon called, and ran after them. Ben watched him, but was incapable of movement. He sat like one already slain. His fear petrified him and made him remain in his seat. Even as Esmon snatched up his own sword from the doorway where the guard had made him set it, as he struggled and hauled the bowstring back until it caught on the nut, Ben could not move. When Esmon had the bow cocked, he went back to the guard’s body and found the small pouch filled with steel-tipped bolts. He took a handful, placed one in the groove of the crossbow and went to the door. Outside, he saw the men guarding his father.
With a shout, he ran down the steps to the yard, bow in one hand, sword in the other. A guard by his father’s side realised something was wrong and turned. Esmon gave an incoherent roar and pointed the crossbow at him. He fired, still running, and saw the bolt fly, true to his aim, through the man’s throat. A red mist burst from the man, and he grabbed at his neck, gurgling as he started to drown in his own blood. Then Esmon was on the next guard.
He saw Baldwin move as soon as the first guard fell, thrashing as he tried to breathe. Another guard had turned to face Esmon, and Baldwin took his arm, spun him around, and hurled him into a third. He dropped to the dying guard and took his knife, whirling as a guard tried to stab at his back; he leaped back, and the sword whistled near his breast, and then he closed swiftly. The man tried to reverse the action of his sword, but he was too slow and Baldwin was already slashing upwards with his knife, inside the man’s ribcage, a ferocious glare on his face as the blade sheared through the man’s viscera, his blood drenching Baldwin’s hand.
There was a crack behind him, and when he turned, he saw a guard on the ground, his face bloody where Hugh’s staff had cracked full-force into his nose, but then he saw that more men were pouring from the gatehouse towards them. Brian was up on the wall, watching in a fury as he saw his men falling. In his hand was a crossbow, and he raised it. Baldwin took a deep breath, convinced that the bolt would strike him, but the machine wasn’t pointing at him. The string thrummed, and Baldwin saw the blur as the steel-tipped death flew through the air.
It hit Esmon on his left shoulder as he was lifting his sword to parry a heavy blow. Its massy weight smashed through his bones, locking his arm and shoulder in place, and with the impact, shards of bone exploded onwards, splinters tearing through his lungs and slicing through veins. He knew he was dying as soon as he felt the terrible shock of the impact, and when he looked down and saw the bolt’s wooden shaft protruding from his shoulder, he gave a bellow of fury and rage, like a bear tired of the baiting, and hurled himself onwards, determined to kill as many of his enemies as he could before he died.
‘Sir Ralph!’ Baldwin said. ‘Come with us!’
‘My son!’
‘Leave him – he’s dead.’
‘No! He can’t be!’ Sir Ralph cried. ‘Esmon!’
‘That’s your man, Sir Ralph,
he’s
your enemy!’ Baldwin shouted, pointing to Brian, who was desperately trying to recock the crossbow. ‘Do you want to die here, now, or come to safety and kill your son’s murderer? Will you avenge Esmon’s death or wail and gnash your teeth until you’re killed in your turn?’
He grabbed Sir Ralph’s shoulder and half dragged the man back towards the keep. ‘Come on!’
Simon was fighting another man, and he heard Baldwin’s cry even as he saw Hugh manoeuvring behind his opponent. There was a loud crack, and the man disappeared. ‘Hugh!’
‘Sir Baldwin’s over there,’ Hugh pointed, and Simon nodded, running after them.
Coroner Roger saw the way that Brian turned, shouted, and then took aim. There was nothing he could do to stop the man firing, and he glared at his men. Two of them had strung bows, and he shouted, all but unintelligibly, that they must fire on Brian. In a couple of moments the bows were in action and two yard-long arrows sped to him.
Brian was fortunate. In the moment that the arrows were fired he had loosed his second bolt at Esmon, missing as Esmon avoided a sword thrust, and before they struck, he bent to reach for a fresh bolt. One arrow thumped into the stone of the wall behind him, and he ducked a little lower as the second hurtled past him.
At his side, the gate’s watchman muttered, ‘Fuck! These bastards are getting serious!’
Brian chuckled. The blood was singing in his veins, and he felt more alive than he had done in weeks. ‘Make sure the gate stays barred,’ he grinned and dropped down the ladder to the yard.
Esmon was dying. He rested on his sword, the point sitting on the ground, panting while two men watched him warily. They were trained fighters. Seeing he was soon to die anyway, they saw no point in risking their own lives while he still had a spark of energy left. They would move in when he was past defence.
Brian gave a dry, humourless laugh. He dragged back the string on his bow, set another bolt in the groove, and shot Esmon through the heart.
Baldwin and Simon slammed the door shut. It was made of good, new, light-coloured oak, and the bars too were fresh and clean, as though they had recently been renewed. Simon slid them from their housings in the wall, dragging them across until the timbers fitted into the slots on the opposite wall.
They were in a rib-vaulted cellar with a loop in the east wall that gave a dim illumination to the room. Stairs within the thickness of the wall near the door led upwards, and the four men hurried to climb them as weapons began to hammer on the door.
Upstairs was a smaller chamber. This was about seven yards long, four wide. There was a loop over the barred doorway, a fireplace in the eastern wall with another two loops, and a fourth in the northern wall.
‘Rats in a trap,’ Baldwin breathed.
‘Yes, but we can make their lives difficult,’ Simon said, staring about for a weapon which might be dropped on the heads of the men attacking the place.
‘There’s nothing,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘I didn’t want that rabble having access to too many weapons in case they decided to mutiny.’
‘That was wise,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps it would have been wiser still not to allow them into your castle?’
Sir Ralph said nothing. His eyes held a strange kind of wildness which Baldwin had not seen before, but then he had not seen men witness their sons being shot down before them. His heart went out to Sir Ralph. He disliked the man, detested the way he had behaved, and yet he could sympathise with his present appalling situation.
‘Where are the women? Your wife and the girl Flora?’ Simon asked.
‘I don’t know. Did the men leave them in the hall?’
‘It’s possible,’ Simon grunted. ‘But if they’re there, that’s where Ben and Esmon were too, so they’re probably safe.’
‘We won’t know until we get out of here,’ Baldwin said. He glanced about him. ‘And there’s no easy escape.’
Simon nodded, and cocked his head. There was a change in the sounds from below. No more thumping, but gleeful roars, as though a new force had broken into the castle’s yard.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was with relief that Coroner Roger heard the sudden bellow from the rear of the castle. Squire Hubert and the Reeve were climbing the walls! The Coroner debated whether to chase around to the back to join them, but the Squire had promised he’d have the gate opened in moments and was true to his word. Soon there was a grating noise as the bars were dragged back, and then the gates opened quietly on their greased hinges. The Coroner spurred his mount inside, Thomas and Godwen at his side, the posse immediately behind them.
The yard looked as though it was filled with corpses. Everywhere was the metallic scent of blood. The Coroner gazed around, urgently seeking a face he knew, and he felt only relief when he realised that nowhere could he see Baldwin or Simon among the dead or wounded.
Ahead there was a fight at the foot of the tower. When the men had clambered over the fence, they had been hidden by the mass of the tower itself, and they had surprised Brian and his men at the foot of the keep.
Coroner Roger roared at his men and, brandishing his sword, cantered to them. He could see Brian, who turned with a look of shock on his face at this new threat, and bellowed to his own men. One fell as Godwen rode over him, but then two men grabbed Godwen’s booted foot and pulled him from his mount. Before Coroner Roger could get to him, he heard an almost insane-sounding scream of pure demoniacal rage, and saw Thomas running past him on foot, a heavy war-axe in his left hand, a thick, battered-looking club in his right. With these he flailed about him like a berserker of old, and soon there was a respectful space about him. Godwen was lying still on the ground and Thomas went to him, standing over him with his weapons ready.
The Coroner saw that Brian was being pushed back, but then two of his men appeared from behind, from the stables, and suddenly it was the Coroner’s men who were being beaten back. Coroner Roger dropped from his horse to rally the men, running to the front, and arrived in time to see Brian pointing at him. Roger had time to deflect one blow at his head, and then, when he threw a look at Brian again, he saw to his horror that the man had a crossbow in his hands and was aiming it at him.
For the Coroner, time seemed to stand still. The noise of the battle faded and died, and he was aware only of the point of the bolt that was aiming at his body. Men about him screamed and shouted, stabbed, slashed, moved forward and back, lifted their arms, and then themselves fell, and Coroner Roger knew nothing of them. The sounds were faded and dulled as though heard from an immense distance, while all he could hear was the blood hammering in his veins like an enormous drum. He could think of nothing but his wife, whom he adored, whom he would have wanted to see just once more, and yet whom he must never see again. That thought was hideously painful, as though the quarrel’s dart had already punctured his breast. She was his lover, but more than that, she was his very best friend.
Then the door to the keep was pulled wide, and Sir Ralph stood in the doorway for an instant, before running straight at Brian, roaring ‘
TRAITOR! TRAITOR!
’
His onward rush took him through the first group of men, and he was almost at Brian’s back in the time that it took Brian to glance over his shoulder. Seeing his peril, he ducked, and the crossbow was pointed away. Suddenly Coroner Roger was aware that he had been holding his breath, and he exhaled, light-headed. Then he felt his senses renew as he caught sight of Baldwin and Simon leaving the door to the keep. They ran out and joined Sir Ralph in attacking Brian’s men in flank, and that turned the course of the battle.
Brian and his men had been pushed back until now he was at the hall’s entrance with the last few of his men. There was a scuffle there, and Roger saw Sir Ralph trying to clamber up the steps to reach Brian, but then he saw that dreadful crossbow rise, saw Brian take a casual aim – from that distance, a matter of feet, he could not miss – and fire.
The bolt struck Sir Ralph in the forehead, and the Coroner saw his head jerk as though struck by a hammer. Even as Sir Ralph’s body hesitated, Coroner Roger knew he was dead. No man could survive a wound like that. Then Sir Ralph fell backwards down the steps and lay at the foot of them, a crumpled body with all life gone, and then Brian was in the hall, the door slammed firmly shut in the face of the attackers.
‘Aha! Coroner. We thought you might have forgotten us,’ Baldwin gasped.
‘You thought I’d forgotten
you
? When I’d promised you a good meal last night, I knew you had to be ill or detained, when you never arrived. A trencherman like you, missing a free meal!’
Baldwin could laugh now. The relief of surviving made him feel an excess of delight that rushed through his veins and into his head, almost like sex. He gave a great sigh. ‘I am glad you have so little understanding of my appetites.’
‘Ha! You think so?’ said the Coroner, and hiccupped.
He stumbled, a hand grabbing for Baldwin, catching him by the shoulder. Baldwin smiled still more broadly, thinking merely that his friend had stubbed his boot or tripped on a cobble, but then the Coroner coughed, and a little gobbet of blood spattered on Baldwin’s tunic. Coroner Roger was gazing up at Baldwin’s face with an expression of confusion, and then a frown passed over his features. That was when the knight saw the point of the crossbow bolt protruding from Coroner Roger’s breast.