unlike you to refuse food. What is wrong?’
‘This situation,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘God knows we have seen battles before, but there is something deeply wrong about this one. I barely know what it is for, other than that Corwenna wants it.’
‘Do not dwell on it, or it will sap your concentration,’ advised Roger. ‘If the enemy is as numerous as we fear, then we need all the resources we can muster – including your wits.’
Reluctantly, Geoffrey accepted the bread Roger shoved into his hands, but he had taken no more than a mouthful before there was a shout. Geoffrey was on his feet in an instant, running across the hall and clattering down the stairs to the bailey, Roger at his heels.
‘They are here!’ called the white-faced man from the main gate’s fighting platform. ‘And there are thousands of them, stretching as far as the eye can see.’
Fourteen
‘Hundreds,’ corrected Geoffrey, scrambling up on to the fighting platform and trying to conceal his alarm at the size of the army Baderon had mustered. ‘Not thousands.’
With Roger at his side, he assessed the troops massing just out of arrow range. They formed a vast inverted U, with horsemen on each side, and a huge company of foot soldiers in the middle. Behind, watching from the vantage point of a knoll, were Baderon and his commanders. The Lord of Monmouth sat astride a dark bay. Lambert was on his right, identifiable by the fair hair below his helmet, and Hilde was to his left, atop a white pony. Corwenna was well to the front, however, head bared to reveal her auburn mane. She was standing in her stirrups, yelling. Even from a distance, her voice was clear and strong, and her words met with cheers.
Meanwhile, Goodrich’s defenders watched in horrified silence as rank after rank filed forward, armed with spears, battleaxes and shields. Just when Geoffrey thought the last had arrived, more appeared, until the fields around the castle gleamed silver with weapons and armour.
‘Lord!’ breathed Olivier. ‘We cannot withstand such a number. We shall be slaughtered.’
Roger clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘But you and I will take a few with us, eh? We shall meet in Paradise and exchange stories.’ Olivier looked terrified, and Geoffrey suspected Roger’s illusions about him were soon to be shattered once and for all.
‘We are well defended,’ said Joan firmly, although Geoffrey knew she spoke only for the benefit of the troops.
Geoffrey jumped from the platform and strode to where Bale waited with his warhorse. Durand was with him, dressed in something suspiciously like one of Father Adrian’s habits. Geoffrey could not find it in his heart to condemn Durand for donning clothes he hoped might see him spared. He was caught in the middle of a battle that was none of his making.
‘Remember what you promised me,’ Geoffrey said to Joan. ‘You cannot lead an attack yourself.’
She touched his cheek, her hand shaking. She was frightened, although her face betrayed no emotion. ‘Dear Geoff. But go, and let us pray we live to see each other again.’
He took the reins from Durand. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to his old squire. ‘You should not be here.’
‘No, I should not,’ agreed Durand fervently. ‘I knew it was a mistake coming here. Violence follows you, but this time you have excelled yourself. I do not envy Bale for what you are going to make him do today.’ He glanced at the squire. ‘Although he looks more than eager to begin.’
Bale was armed with an axe and a sword. Both were honed to a devastating sharpness, and the dull light in his eyes indicated he was ready.
‘You should hide,’ Geoffrey said to Durand, watching Roger prepare his mercenaries to engage the masses outside. ‘Remember the passage I told you about, which leads from my chamber to the woods? Go down it if we are overrun. Then tell the King what really happened.’
‘Very well,’ said Durand, terrified. ‘But let us hope it will not be necessary.’
With a great whoop, the gate was flung open and Roger hurtled out, his warriors streaming behind him. They flew across the space separating the invaders from the castle and, when the enemy broke ranks to meet them, Geoffrey signalled for his archers to begin their deadly attack. Roger tore among the front ranks with his broadsword, men falling around him like timber. Baderon’s troops fell back, and Geoffrey held his breath, half- expecting Roger to forget the plan in the heat of battle. But, still hacking at hapless stragglers, Roger yelled a retreat.
Geoffrey heard Lambert order his men to pursue Roger and watched as they obeyed, shields raised to fend off the deadly hail of arrows. As per his instruction, Roger veered to the right, towards Baderon’s right flank. The speed of the change confused the enemy, and some scattered, getting in the way of others trying to press forward. Roger wheeled away again.
Geoffrey ordered the gates opened a second time and led his own men out, yelling for them to keep in formation and not break ranks. He made a feint at the horsemen on the left, who had seen what happened to their comrades and were ready. They surged forward, but Geoffrey abruptly changed direction and aimed for the swarming foot soldiers, making sure Baderon’s left followed him.
Roger’s identical manoeuvre was completed simultaneously, and suddenly there were four separate units of horsemen – Geoffrey’s and Roger’s, plus Baderon’s left and right – converging on the hapless infantry. There was instant confusion, and more foot soldiers were crushed under the hoofs of friends’ horses than were killed by Goodrich’s men. Then Geoffrey’s and Roger’s forces met and formed a single unit, slashing with swords and axes.
With little room to move, and men behind pressing against those in front, it was sheer slaughter. Geoffrey lost count of the men who fell by his sword. The battle cries and horses’ whinnies almost drowned the clash of weapons. His hands were slippery with blood, and the faces that swarmed towards him blurred as he fought on, standing in his stirrups and using both hands to swing his sword. The rich, earthy stink of blood was sickening. Then, as the yell came for Baderon’s troops to retreat, a horseman appeared, aiming a series of heavy blows at Geoffrey.
‘You brought us to this point!’ screamed Lambert. His eyes were glazed and he was splattered with gore from head to foot. ‘And you killed my brother!’
‘On my honour, I did not raise my hand against Seguin!’ shouted Geoffrey. ‘Can we not, even at this stage, stop the slaughter and negotiate?’
‘It is too late!’ yelled Lambert bitterly. ‘Baderon is not in control: Corwenna is, and she will not rest until Goodrich is destroyed. It is what happens when you make alliances with rabid dogs – and there are few more rabid than her. I wish I had never set eyes on the woman.’
Before he could say more, there was the crash of a battleaxe, and Lambert toppled from his saddle, blood erupting from a huge gash in the back of his head. Behind him, face split in a diabolical grimace, was Corwenna.
Her face was splattered with blood, and it was clear that she had been at the heart of the slaughter. Her eyes were wild, and she was more ecstatic than Geoffrey had ever seen her. She drove her horse forward and raised her axe, aiming for his head. He raised his shield and launched an attack of his own, jabbing hard under it with his sword. Corwenna gave a screech of outrage as the blade bit into her thigh, and brought the axe down with all her might.
Caught at the wrong angle, Geoffrey’s shield split into several pieces, but before she could take advantage, several vicious swipes of his sword drove her back. With the heat of the moment compounding his mental exhaustion, he made an appalling blunder, jumping from his saddle to grab a replacement shield from a corpse. It was an inexcusable mistake that left him infinitely more vulnerable: no knight willingly left his horse during battle.
Corwenna, who was no match for him under normal circumstances, grinned her delight and came after him with a series of hacking swipes. Fortunately, it was easy to evade them, as she held her axe high up on its handle, restricting its reach.
‘Why did you kill Lambert?’ Geoffrey demanded, trying to make the crazed woman lose concentration.
‘He was weak,’ she snarled, swinging her axe, as he dodged away. ‘Like Baderon, who does not fight, but
