owned privately licensed castles to paint them in glowing colours — white, blue or red — so that they shone from the leafy landscape like objects in fairy tales. But King Edward's Welsh castles were different animals. They were military strongholds so bereft of adornment or luxury that the Welsh poet Euan the Rhymer had described them as 'spikes of Hell thrust out through Cymru's fair hide.'
Grogen fulfilled that vision perfectly. It was comprised entirely of grey granite cemented in huge blocks. Its colossal walls and towers were sheer and bleak, and fitted with projecting upper gantries, which were massively crenelated and equipped with swinging timber panels from behind which an avalanche of stones, darts and boiling oil could be launched. Its only windows were narrow slits through which arrows could be shot and javelins thrown.
However, much more of a shock to Corotocus and his men was not the pitiless nature of this fastness, but the many figures manning its awesome defences.
'What the hell is this?' the earl swore, reining his horse at the front of the column. He slammed his visor open. 'Du Guesculin, what in Satan's name is this?'
The banneret lifted his wide-brimmed helmet and, shielding his eyes against the early-morning sun, focussed on the figures dotting the top of the curtain-wall and the parapet of the Barbican. At this distance it was impossible to discern who they were, but there were plenty of them and their blades and helmets glinted.
Others of the earl's men now rode up, among them William d'Abbetot, his chief engineer, Captain Garbofasse of his mercenary battalion, and Craon Culai, who commanded a company of the king's infantry attached to the earl's retinue for the duration of the war. They were equally surprised and, having been assured that the castle was theirs for the taking, not a little alarmed.
'Someone tell me what's happening here!' Corotocus bellowed. He rarely allowed himself to get angry in front of underlings, but now he'd lost face. His cheeks reddened, there was froth on his lips. 'Did some of Anwyl's dogs stay behind? How could the bloody place have been reoccupied when he only abandoned it yesterday? Someone explain this to me!'
'Why do none of them move?' Culai wondered. A tall, thin man with pinched features, he seemed spooked by what he was seeing, and it was indeed an eerie sight — the figures on the wall were silent and motionless. Too motionless, some might say, to be living men.
'Are they dead?' Garbofasse asked.
'Neither dead nor living,' came another voice. Ulbert FitzOsbern, an older knight wearing a red and blue harlequin mantel over his mail, cantered to the front of the column. 'My lord, most likely they're scarecrows.'
'Scarecrows?' Corotocus said.
Ulbert nodded. 'I saw this done often during de Montfort's rebellion. Castles expecting siege but held by only a handful of troops, would create scarecrows — dummies stuffed with straw — and prop them on the battlements. Given an iron cap and a spear each, it looked to all the world as if the place was strongly garrisoned.'
Corotocus laughed loudly, partly to conceal his relief. 'Of course. That Breton wastrel de Brione only had a few men. When he heard the Welsh were coming, he'd have panicked. Once again Ulbert, we're grateful for your wisdom and insight.' He regarded his other lieutenants sternly. 'It comes to something when a homeless knight, an errant wanderer who is only with us to pay off his family's debts, provides a solution while the rest of you stand around like frightened children.'
They hung their heads, abashed.
There was still, of course, the possibility that this could be a trap. The earl's force might approach the castle's main entrance thinking it safe, only to be struck by a deluge of missiles. So lots were drawn and ten men selected to go forward. The rest of the army, six hundred in total, arrayed itself on the western bluff to watch.
While to the south Grogen Castle was bordered by the deep, broad flow of the Tefeidiad, it was surrounded on its three other sides by a moat, which had been hacked from the living rock on which the fastness was built. This moat was about ten yards across and thirty feet deep. During the spring thaw, mountain streams emptied into it from the north, but at present it was dry and filled with rubble. The only way to cross over it was via an arched stone bridge at the castle's southwest corner. Having managed this, an enemy force would be required to follow the 'berm' path, a narrow footing running between the base of the south-facing curtain-wall and the inner edge of the moat. This turned at the castle's southeast corner, passed alongside the east-facing wall and the north-facing wall, until finally reaching the main entrance, which was set between the Gatehouse and the north-facing wall in the castle's northwest corner. By this time, of course, the enemy would have been subjected to prolonged attack from overhead as it was forced to circle the entire stronghold.
As the ten chosen men readied themselves, donning not just their helms and shields, but additional plating on their elbows, shoulders and knees, the rest of the army waited. Among them were Ulbert FitzOsbern and his twenty-two year old son, Ranulf.
One of the duties the father and son had been given was to guard Countess Madalyn's daughter. Partly of their own volition, but also at the instigation of Father Benan, the earl's chaplain, who thought it unseemly that Gwendolyn should be naked among so many men, they'd loosened her bonds and given her a cloak to wrap herself in. Though streaked with dirt and tears, she sat upright on her pony, taut with anger but determined to maintain her dignity. When Ranulf offered her a drink from his water bottle, she didn't lower herself to reply.
'It's your choice,' he said, turning back to the castle.
The FitzOsberns were tall, well-built men. Age had wizened Ulbert's neck and thickened his paunch, but, thanks to countless clashes in battle and tournament, his son was flat bellied, barrel-chested and stout of limb. He had grey eyes and a lean, square jaw. When he pulled back his mail coif, he shook out a mop of sweaty, straw- yellow hair; sure proof that his family — though they'd intermarried many times with Norman stock, hence their surname — had its origins in Saxon England.
Navarre galloped up to them, his horse chopping turf as it slid to a halt.
'The girl rides with the vanguard,' he said.
'Why?' Ranulf asked.
'Isn't it obvious? To lessen the chance of attack.'
'I thought the idea was to draw an attack… if there's to be one.'
'Earl Corotocus wishes to lose as few men as possible, FitzOsbern. But he needs to know what we're facing. With the girl as a human shield, we'll likely draw a non-fatal response.'
Ranulf glanced unhappily at his father, who shrugged.
'Ranulf FitzOsbern,' Navarre said in a sneering tone. 'I wouldn't like to think you were about to disobey Earl Corotocus.'
Ranulf handed over the reins. Navarre rode away, leading Gwendolyn's pony behind him at a fast trot. The girl sat stiffly, but now looked frightened. She glanced back at Ranulf and his father as if suddenly thinking them a better option than whatever lay ahead.
'Earl bloody Corotocus,' Ranulf said. 'Corotocus? Where did he get that name? Doesn't it sound like a demon to you?'
'It sounds more Gaelic,' Ulbert replied.
'The Gael people would be insulted… those that haven't been slaughtered.' Ranulf's voice tightened with disgust. 'I've never seen such savagery as in the last few days.'
'He treats his English subjects the same way.'
'His English subjects can appeal to the king.'
'And would the king listen? You know the law of the March. Men like Corotocus thrive here because the king needs brutes to control the border.'
'That doesn't excuse him.
'Agreed. By any standards, his atrocities are perhaps… over elaborate.'
'Atrocities to which we're a part, father.'
'We're excused, Ranulf. We're here through fealty.'
'Fealty?' Ranulf shook his head. 'We agreed to pay our debts by fighting for him.'
'Which we have done, many times.'
'Yes, and which I'll gladly do again. Show me armed opposition and I'll fight it now. But I'm tired of terrorising the weak and helpless.'
'You should watch what you're saying, boy,' another knight said as he walked by, leading his horse. He was Walter Margas, one of Corotocus's tenants. By all accounts he'd done well in the earl's service, but he was now an
