was.'
Ranulf ignored him. 'My lord, pacification should follow conquest. Isn't that always King Edward's will?'
Corotocus shrugged. 'Try if you wish.'
Ranulf turned and shouted: 'Countess Madalyn!'
'Who speaks?' she called back.
'An English knight.'
'Once you'd have been proud to wear that title.'
'Whore,' Navarre muttered.
'The war is over,' Ranulf shouted. 'It makes no sense to start it again.'
'This war will never be over until Earl Corotocus and his like have ceased to threaten my people.'
'You seek further destruction, madam? Madog's rebel army has been vanquished.'
'You may break our bodies, English knight, but you will never break our spirit.'
'Countess Madalyn… there will be more deaths.'
There was a brief silence, before she replied: 'Only yours.'
'That's what you get for reasoning with ignoramuses,' Navarre stated. He turned to the earl, pulling on his gauntlets. 'I'll bring you her breasts, my lord, so that you can play jeux de paume with them.'
Corotocus nodded.
'I wouldn't be too hasty, Navarre,' Ranulf said. 'Look.'
Additional figures had begun to appear on the bluff, not just from the wooded area above the countess, but all along the western ridge. Within a few moments there were several hundred of them, but more continued to swell their ranks.
'Dear God,' du Guesculin breathed. 'Who are they?'
Navarre's angry self-assurance had faded a little, but he still sneered. 'They don't look much like soldiers.'
It was difficult to tell for certain. Over this distance, the gathering force was comprised of diminutive figures, none of whom could be seen clearly. There was the occasional glint of mail or war-harness, though most seemed to be wearing peasant garb, and tattered peasant garb at that. One or two — and at first Ranulf thought he was hallucinating — seemed to be naked. This sent a greater prickle of unease down his spine than their overall numbers did. There was now perhaps a thousand of them, but still more were appearing.
'From the north too, my lord,' someone shouted.
Everyone looked, and saw processions of figures crossing the high moors to the north of the castle. They were thinly spread, moving in small groups or ones and twos, and, in many cases, limping or stumbling as though starved or crippled. They resembled refugees rather than soldiers, but all together there must have been several thousand of them. By the time they joined the countess on the western bluff, they'd be a prodigious host. Although the English held this bastion and were armed to the teeth, they were suddenly outnumbered to a worrying degree.
'Still think you can buy and sell the Welsh people, du Guesculin?' Ranulf muttered.
Du Guesculin couldn't answer; he had blanched.
'They're still only peasants,' Navarre scoffed.
'If so, they're armed,' Ranulf observed.
'What are scythes and reaping hooks to us?'
'I see real weapons,' Carew said.
Most of the ragged shapes were carrying implements, and though many of these looked to be little more than clubs or broken farm tools, others were clearly swords, axes, poll-arms.
'Where the devil did they get their hands on those?' du Guesculin said.
'Our artillery train maybe?' Ranulf glanced at Crotocus. 'Wasn't it expected to arrive last night?'
The earl didn't reply, but regarded the gathering horde with growing wariness.
'My lord, this is some riff-raff,' Navarre protested. 'They won't assault this castle. How could they possibly expect to take it?'
'What is that ungodly stink?' someone asked.
A noxious smell, like spoiled meat, was drifting on the breeze.
'Pig farmers, ditch diggers,' Navarre said. 'Which is all they are.'
'That, my lords, is the smell of war,' the earl said abruptly. 'Muster your men, if you please. Prepare for battle!'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bells rang throughout the castle for most of that morning. Clarions sounded in every section. But Countess Madalyn waited in silence on the western bluff, as did her army, its disordered ranks eerily still. By eleven o'clock, the walls of Grogen Castle were bristling with swords, spears and arrows knocked on strings; every defender was fully mailed. Even the grooms and pages had been called up and given blades. And yet still nothing happened.
Ranulf, on the south curtain-wall, with Gurt to his right and Ulbert to his left, wondered if this delay owed to some previously unseen notion of Welsh chivalry, but he soon dismissed the idea. More likely the countess was waging a mental attack before the physical one. She was letting it be known that she had no concern about whether the English were prepared to receive her or not; that she was undeterred by their readiness, their armour, their weaponry. The battle would only commence when she decided, for it was she, not Earl Corotocus, who was dictating this day's strategy.
Of course, Earl Corotocus was never one to waste an opportunity. While the countess dallied, he'd prepared his defences to their utmost. Though his personal artillery wagons might not have arrived, the castle had several engines of its own, and these were quickly marshalled. On the Barbican, Carew and his men, under the direction of William d'Abbetot, prepared the trebuchet, swivelling it round on its colossal timber turntable so that it faced the western bluff, then stockpiling rocks and lead weights, some as heavy as four hundred pounds. It took three of them to load just one such missile into the sling, and half the company to pour sweat as they lined a dozen more in the trough. They also set aside a pile of 'devil's sachets' — linen sacks, loosely tied with lace, each one containing ten smaller boulders, a payload that would spread mid-flight and cut a gory swath through massed infantry. At the entrance to the Gatehouse, meanwhile, the gate was locked and chained, the portcullis drawn down. Behind this, a fire-raiser was brought into position. This was a fiendish device: a massive steel tube mounted on two wheeled carts. At one end, a gigantic pair of bellows allowed its crew to expel wind through it at great force. At the other, which flared like a trumpet and, with a deliberate sense of irony, had been carved to resemble the gaping mouth of a Welsh dragon, a cauldron was suspended and filled with lighted coals, sulphur and pitch. When working at full capacity, great billowing clouds of flame could be expelled by it, engulfing anyone who managed to tear down the outer gate and attack the portcullis.
In the southwest tower, there were four levels of ballistae. The lower two comprised polybolas, immense crossbows designed to project large single bolts and fitted with windlasses and magazines so that they could discharge repeatedly and quickly. The upper two levels contained lighter weapons, archery machines constructed with cradles from which sixteen clothyard arrows — fitted either with barbed or swallow-tailed heads — could be shot at the same time. All these frightful devices were built into the actual fabric of the tower, in specially designed rooms containing masses of scaffolding, and angled at a downward slant so to discharge through horizontal ports cut into the outer wall. On the normal parapets on the top of the other towers and turrets, and on the curtain-wall, every archer and crossbowman had ample time to accumulate bushels of arrows. The rest of the men provided themselves with other, less sophisticated missiles — stones, spears, javelins, grenades made from interwoven nails and spikes, and barrels of naptha — a highly flammable mixture of oil and resin, which they could pour on the heads of their assailants.
Father Benan was visibly unnerved by these preparations. He'd seen war before of course, but had previously stayed clear of the actual battlefield.
'I shall return to the chapel and sing a mass for the preservation of our souls,' he said, crossing himself at the sight of so many axes, mattocks and cleavers.
