Stronghold

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"At least untie me," Gwendolyn protested. "There's no blood left in my fingers."

Ranulf, the only other person left on the Keep roof, peered down the wall to where Corotocus and his company were now snaking slowly and warily across the courtyard. He glanced towards her, distracted.

"If I do, you must stay in sight," he said. "Your mother needs to know you are safe."

"You really are a good little English soldier, aren't you?

He bristled at that. "Now you mention it, yes! Just because I sympathise with your position, don't make the mistake of thinking I'd serve every Englishman I know to your vengeance."

"Cut me loose, please."

Reluctantly, he sawed through her hempen bonds with his sword. She stepped back from the embrasure, and leaned tiredly on the left crenel, rubbing at the wheals on her wrists. She still wore only the red and blue cloak they had given her on the first day. The wind set it rippling on her lithe form.

"You must be frozen," he said.

"You finally notice now?"

"Wait here." He turned and, several yards away, spotted the black and red tabard that Earl Corotocus had discarded when he'd changed. It was torn in places and stained with grime, but it was made from heavy wool and at least it could be worn as a proper piece of clothing.

He handed it to her. "If you can bring yourself to wear these household colours, you should find this more comfortable and a little less revealing. Put the cloak back on over the top and you'll be warm enough."

She took the item from him, now looking thoughtful. "You're not too bad a fellow, sir knight. I've decided that I will speak up for you."

He shrugged. "Assuming anyone will listen."

She made to remove her current garb, but then saw that he was watching her.

"If you'd avert your eyes please?"

Ranulf was surprised. "You plan to change here and now? Getting undressed in front of your mother's army is probably not the best idea."

"To offend someone's eyes, they need to have eyes in the first place, do they not?"

Ranulf shrugged again, and turned his back. He peeked over the battlements. The earl and his men were half way across the courtyard, the earl riding tall in the saddle. Ahead of them, the ramp leading up to the Constable's Tower door had also cleared. Far above that, Countess Madalyn and her priests watched, unmoving. Behind him, Ranulf could hear a rustling of cloth.

"I fear Earl Corotocus means what he says," he said. "He'll seek restitution of some sort."

"And we Welsh won't?" Gwendolyn replied.

"Revenge and counter-revenge are a recipe for disaster, my lady. They've made life on these marches intolerable for too long already."

"I agree. So we should end it now, no?"

He smiled. "If only that were possible."

"Wasn't it you who told me that, with sacrifice, anything is possible?"

There was a slight inflection in her voice as she said this, a sudden decisiveness, which made him spin around. As he did, Gwendolyn screamed long and loud. Ranulf was stunned by what he saw.

She had donned the earl's tabard, as he'd suggested, but instead of putting the blue and red cloak over the top of it, she had wrapped this around one of the Breton mannequins — and had now flung that mannequin over the battlements. She continued to scream as it fell, at the same time making sure to step well back from the parapet.

Earl Corotocus thought his eyes were deceiving him.

Even though the object seemed to fall unnaturally slowly, its blue and red cloak billowing like sail cloth, there was no doubt what it was. Its legs were splayed, its arms spread-eagled. The ear-piercing scream lingered on the rancid air, only to be silenced when the object vanished into the dry moat. At first Corotocus was numbed to near immobility. When he finally glanced up again, the unmistakeable shape of Ranulf FitzOsbern was hunched over the Keep battlements.

In that astonishing moment, the world came to a standstill for the Earl of Clun and his remaining household. Each one of them was fixed to his saddle, each one swallowed air the way a parched man swallows water.

Corotocus looked back along his procession of followers. To a man their faces were stark white, beaded with sweat, their eyes bugging. If any were conversing he couldn't hear them thanks to the thunderous roar of his own blood in his ears.

As a wail of anguished rage sounded overhead from the roof of the Constable's Tower, the earl banged his visor shut and, putting his spurs to his horse's sides, urged the beast into a furious gallop. The ramp and open portcullis were only twenty yards ahead of him and he was sure that he could make it through. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder. Du Guesculin was close behind, his face shining wet as he spurred his own steed mercilessly. But now corpses were stirring to demonic life, surging in from both sides, trying to close the passage — against which odds, the rest of the men were too far behind to even have a hope. In ones and twos, they were encircled, their horses whinnying hysterically, lashing out with their hooves, smashing the faces and skulls of their assailants but, as always, to no avail. One by one, the riders were pulled screaming from their saddles and hurled to the floor, whereupon axes, spades, clubs, maces, flails and falchions rained on them in a blur of blood, brains and exploding bone fragments.

Corotocus made it as far as the Constable's Tower ramp before a party of the dead blocked his route. Framed in the V-shaped viewing slot of his visor, this group actually resembled soldiers. They wore steel-studded jerkins and iron caps and had pikes, which they tried to lower to form a hedge.

"Incitatus, the field!" he bellowed, his voice sounding brazen from the confines of his helm.

This was a battle cry his steed was familiar with from many occasions in the past. Before the pikes could be arrayed, it had crashed clean through, scattering the figures like skittles. One tried to grab the bridle, but, with a single blow of his axe, Corotocus severed its arm at the shoulder. Another snatched the horse's tail, only to be dragged along behind, Incitatus's flying hooves kicking it continually in the face, reducing it to mulch. Still the thing clung on, and finally, as it had been trained, the animal pivoted around and trampled the hapless passenger into a carpet of shredded flesh and bone. Again, Corotocus focussed on du Guesculin, who was close behind but was having trouble making further progress. The dead were hampering him from all sides. His horse reared in terror rather than ploughing forward, which attracted more and more of them to him.

Pleased, Corotocus spun his animal round again and charged up the ramp, through the arched entrance to the Constable's Tower and along its main passage, where the clashing of his hooves echoed like hammers on anvils. All the way, he fought fiercely with those corpses attempting to hinder him. Gripping Incitatus with his knees, he wielded his axe in his left hand and his sword in his right. None of his dead foes were mounted, of course, which gave him a huge advantage, though again and again they stood in his path and had to be barged out of the way.

Frantic cries for help drew his attention back to the rear, where, incredibly, du Guesculin had also made it into the building. Corpses were still running alongside the banneret, trying to pull him down. One fell beneath his horse's legs, tripping it. The animal skidded on its knees over the cobblestones, shrieking as hair and skin was flayed from its joints. As it righted itself, du Guesculin cried again for his master's assistance, laying desperately about him on all sides, fighting as hard as he'd ever fought. But those dead in the passage who had unsuccessfully attempted to waylay the first rider now switched their attention to the second.

This was the opportunity Corotocus needed, he realised. Spurring his mount, he galloped on towards the open portcullis at the far end. Another corpse stepped into his path — a near-giant bristling with arrows, who the earl was sure he'd personally had lashed to a tree and shot to death at a village not far from here. The giant was swinging a mighty poll-arm around its head, but, with pure knightly skill, the earl wove around the ponderous figure, burying his sword in its cranium as he passed. Now he had only his battle-axe, but this was all he needed. As he approached the portcullis, he glanced into the right-hand alcove where its main mechanism was contained. A wedge had been hammered into the central wheel. The earl flung his axe at it as he hurtled by — and struck clean. The wedge was dislodged and, as he rode beneath the portcullis, its great iron structure, still bent and twisted from the dead army's attack on it, began rumbling downward. Its impact on the cobbled floor reverberated through the entire tower, halting du Guesculin only a few yards short of freedom.

Corotocus glanced around one last time as he galloped along the causeway. Behind the iron grille, he caught a final glimpse of his lieutenant's despairing face.

"My gift to you!" Corotocus said under his breath. "Go and feed on him! He'll make a meal for all of you!"

Du Guesculin chopped wildly at the sea of decay that ebbed around him. The portcullis was so warped at its base that he might have been able to slide his body beneath it. But that would have meant having to dismount.

A claw now took hold of his cloak. He cut the tie, shrugging the garment loose, and, with no other choice, drove his animal back into the bowels of the building, still hacking them down, stomping over those that fell, breaking their limbs and torsos, grinding them into the stones, but having to stand in the stirrups to avoid taking blows himself, and now — suddenly — stopping and gaping with horror. For a veritable flood of black and twisted forms was pouring down the passage towards him, their howls a dirge from the lowest level of damnation.

All-consuming terror had now cost du Guesculin his sense of place and direction, so, when he veered his animal to the right through a very narrow doorway, he had no idea that this was the foot of a spiral stair leading to the roof. Of course, when he discovered the truth, there was no turning back.

It was a perilous ascent for a four-footed beast, rising steeply, turning, turning, turning. Around each corner there was another shambling horror to block his path. He knocked each one aside, or smote it down, their blood and brains splattering up the granite walls as his blade bit through them. But always they were back on their feet quickly, and he heard their echoing ululation as they hastened in pursuit. And then, when du Guesculin thought that things could not get worse, he entered that upper region of the Constable's Tower where destruction had been wrought by the mangonels.

Suddenly he was in open rooms crammed with piles of rubble and burned, blistered body parts. Dust clouds still hung here, obscuring almost everything. Crushed, crab-like shapes clambered or slithered towards him over the mounds of masonry. One of these was still able to stand on two feet and grabbed his bridle. Du Guesculin peered down at Gilbert, his own squire, though he only realised this when he saw the grimy red hose and tunic. The boy's face had melted like cheese and hung from his naked skull in loops and tendrils.

The now deranged horse tried to retreat, but its footing slipped, and suddenly it was sliding backward as the scorched floorboards gave way beneath it. Du Guesculin just had time to leap from the saddle as his mount disappeared, screaming, into the dusty spaces below. Twenty feet down, with a shattering crack, its spine struck a stone buttress, which sent it spinning, lifeless, into a void of darkness that was filled with the shrieks of the dead.

Du Guesculin, himself teetering on the edge of the hole, turned on his heel just in time to see the apparition that had once been Gilbert lurching at him, hands outstretched. He drove his sword into its breast, but this did not hold the thing back. Gasping, he spun around and stumbled away, tripping and landing on his knees with such force that one kneecap was split to the cartilage. Choking at the pain, he lumbered on. Another stairway appeared through the gloom, this one leading to the open sky.

Du Guesculin sobbed his way up it. At the top, he found himself on the roof, huge sections of which had imploded from the impact of the mangonel missiles. Beyond the first of these crevasses, Countess Madalyn's druids were ranged in a row: pitiless men — bearded and stern beneath their hoods, their onyx eyes fixed on him intently. On his side, stood the countess herself.

Blubbering spittle, gibbering for mercy, du Guesculin tottered towards her.

"Countess, I beg you, I beg you…"

He dropped to his knees despite the agony this caused him, clasped his hands together and gazed up at her, though his vision was blurred with tears.

"I am Hugh du Guesculin, banneret of Clun, Lord of Oswestry and Whitchurch. I am not without influence. And unlike Earl Corotocus, I can be trusted. Ma-am, listen, please, I beg you. I know King Edward. I can parley for you. I can end this war so that Wales remains with the Welsh, with you as their queen. I can do all this. I beg you, ma-am, listen to me please."

She reached down with both hands and cupped his face, almost gently. He blinked, not understanding what this meant. Slowly, her features swam into focus. They were as handsome and noble as he remembered. But they were also pale and rigid as wax. Beneath her aristocratic chin, a crimson line ran from one ear to the other. When she exerted the necessary strength to drag him to his feet and hoist him into the air, that line yawned open, exposing her sliced windpipe. With eyes of lustreless glass, she strode to the battlements. Du Guesculin's scream was a prolonged, keening whistle as, with one hand at his throat and the other at his crotch, she raised him high over her head.

He continued to scream even when she'd flung him over the parapet, the scream lingering as he plummeted — down, down, down, head first, legs kicking manically, until landing with horrific force on the courtyard floor, where he smashed apart like a beetle under a boot.

From the roof of the Keep, Ranulf watched aghast as these events unfolded. But if it shocked him to the core to see what remained of the earl's household torn to pieces in the courtyard, it was an even greater shock to see what happened to Hugh du Guesculin.

Ranulf turned stiffly to face Gwendolyn. She regarded him boldly, her smudged but beautiful face written with triumph.

"No doubt you're enraged?" she said. "Well, now perhaps you understand how I feel. Justice had to be done."

He stalked towards her.

She didn't flinch. "Now that the guilty ones have been punished, this is where it can end."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," she said. "You'll thank me for it in due course."

Ranulf didn't say anything else, just hit her — not hard enough to kill her, though he was sorely tempted, but sufficiently to knock her unconscious. She toppled through the embrasure, but he caught her by the tabard and pulled her back to him. In the process, he glanced again into the courtyard, where all the earl's men were now dead, their mangled remains being flung back and forth between the howling cadavers. Other corpses, of course, in fact cohorts of them, were already flowing across the Keep drawbridge.

Ranulf didn't wait to see more. Throwing Gwendolyn over his shoulder, he hurried to the top of the stair.