Stronghold

shields hefted, their weapons brandished. All eyes were fixed on the river's distant shore, and the great war- machines at work there.

'My lord!' Ranulf said, shouldering through.

Corotocus barely glanced at him.

'My lord, you've denied us permission to withdraw from the south wall?'

'That is correct.' Corotocus said. He seemed less uneasy than those around him, but there was a tension in his brow. His eyes were keen, blue slivers.

'My lord, you've seen that we're under a very heavy barrage?'

'No-one ever said that fighting the Welsh would be easy, Ranulf.'

'Fighting the Welsh?' Ranulf struggled to hide his exasperation. 'It's come to your attention, has it not, that we're facing more here than just the Welsh?'

'Ahhh… more talk of witchery. It's all over the castle at present. And yet it's so powerful, this witchery, that they've resorted to using catapults — our own catapults, no less — to force entry.'

'Either way, my lord, they will soon succeed.'

Corotocus turned and looked at him. 'Especially if those men I appoint to defend my stronghold have no stomach for it.'

'My lord, we are only asking to withdraw to the Inner Fort. It's a more defensible position.'

'Return to your post, sir knight.'

'My lord, we have nothing to strike back at the mangonels with. In due course they will pound the south wall to rubble. Must all the men there die to prove a point?'

'It would take a decade to pound that wall to rubble, FitzOsbern, as you know. Even with a dozen mangonels.'

'My lord, the men on that wall face certain death.'

' Death!' Corotocus roared, spittle suddenly flying from his lips. 'So be it! If they must die to preserve this bastion, they must die. I won't surrender the outer rampart and allow these devils to walk into our precincts unmolested!'

'So you admit they're devils?' Ranulf said quietly. 'A rare moment of honesty from you…'

'You impertinent…'

The earl went for the hilt of his sword, but before he could unsheathe the steel, William d'Abbetot appeared, quite breathless. Close to seventy, bald and white-bearded, he was exhausted simply by his journey from the Barbican. Having removed his mail earlier, he now wore only hose and a linen shirt, both of which were clingy with sweat.

'You summoned me, my lord?' he asked.

Corotocus continued to glare at Ranulf, who glared boldly back.

'God's blood, FitzOsbern!' the earl hissed. 'If you weren't born of a she-wolf in a pit of marl! How is it you're the only man alive who doesn't fear me?'

'Should I fear you more, my lord, than what waits for us outside?'

'I need only snap my fingers and you'll be thrown to them first.'

'And would that serve your purpose?'

'It may be your just desert.'

'We're all going to get our just deserts, my lord. Every one of us.'

The earl jabbed a mailed finger into Ranulf's chest. 'You stay here, FitzOsbern. Right here! D'Abbetot?' He turned to the elderly engineer and pointed south, just as two more projectiles made deafening impacts, dust and rubble exploding into the air. 'You see our problem?'

D'Abbetot dabbed his damp pate with a handkerchief. 'I do, my lord. Once they've broken the battlements on the south wall, they'll do the same on the east and north. It's only a matter of moving the engines. Of course they'll have full control of the berm path long before then.'

'Unless we stop them first,' Corotocus said. 'How serviceable is the trebuchet?'

'It hasn't been used much in recent times, but it's in working condition. A little oil here and there, some replacement hemp…'

'Can you target the bridge with it?'

'The bridge?'

'There is only one bridge, d'Abbetot. In the southwest corner, for Christ's sake!'

'But my lord, if we smash the bridge won't we be trapped in the castle?'

'We'll also be out of reach. The Welsh can't regain the berm if the bridge no longer exists. They aren't ants, are they? They can't fill up the moat with their dead and just walk over the top.'

'Especially as they don't appear to be dying,' Ranulf put in.

'Well, d'Abbetot?' the earl growled.

'I'll see to it, my lord. Straight away.'

D'Abbetot hobbled off.

'Have the bridge down by nightfall and I'll reward you with estates on every honour I hold,' the earl called after him. He turned back to Ranulf, still having to restrain his anger. 'You're quite a speaker, sir, for a rogue knight. You must have a high opinion of yourself to voice so many viewpoints in such august company.'

'Wasn't it you, my lord, who said you'd rather have men who told the truth?'

'Yes, Ranulf, it was. But that doesn't mean I won't kill them for their impudence.'

Ranulf pursed his lips. Perhaps it was time to hold his prattling tongue.

'You may hate my cruelty, Ranulf. You may resent my power. You may revile my ambition. But do you know what hurts the most — your mistrust of my abilities.'

Ranulf could not refute the charge. His temper had got the better of him, for there was no doubt that breaking the bridge was a clever plan. No matter what demonic powers protected them, the Welsh could assail the castle with missiles for day after day, but if the bridge was destroyed they could make no further gain. They could never physically wrest the stronghold from its defenders. Of course, a prolonged bombardment would still inflict horrendous casualties.

'My lord, if they continue to pound us…'

'It will achieve little,' Corotocus said. 'Apart from wasting their time. King Edward plans to enter this country through the north, but he won't sit on his arse there forever. Even if he doesn't receive a plea for help from us, he'll come down here at length to consolidate his gains. Let's see how they fare then, against a host of fifty thousand. In any case, once the bridge is broken, I can withdraw all my troops from the south wall. We won't need the outer rampart any more.'

Ranulf nodded. Earl Corotocus might be a brute but he'd always been a capable tactician.

'Which brings me back to you,' the earl said. His lieutenants hovered behind him, uncertainly. Only Navarre looked pleased by this turn of events. 'I can't tolerate your constant rebellions, Ranulf, or your petty treasons. So your sentence is death.'

Some of the knights hung their heads. Navarre broke into a delighted grin.

'Do you hear me?' the earl said.

'I hear you, my lord.'

'You think I can endure this indefinitely, boy? You think I can be defied with venom in the midst of battle, when other men of mine — better men, and more loyal than you — are dying all around? Do you think I should endure it?'

Ranulf said nothing.

'Be assured, if I didn't need every man in my command right now, I'd hang you from the highest gibbet in Wales. But don't be comforted, Ranulf. When this war is over, the sentence will be confirmed. And of course you must challenge it. You must claim trial by combat, as is your right. I'll be more than happy to oblige…'

Before he could say more, a shadow fell over them. They glanced up.

A dark but glittering cloud was arcing from the top of the western bluff towards the castle's northwest corner. At first it was like a flock of birds, sunlight glinting on their black, metallic feathers. But then they realised that it was debris — or 'iron hail', to use catapult crew parlance — maybe a ton of it, spreading out as it descended on the Barbican.

Its impact was deafening and prolonged. It covered almost the entirety of the Barbican roof and spilled partly