onto the Gatehouse alongside it. Even from as far away as the Constable's Tower, a hundred yards to the south, the clangour of impacts, the chorus of shouts and screams was ear-splitting.
Earl Corotocus moved to the north battlements, the others joining him. Though located on elevated ground, the Barbican wasn't as tall as the Constable's Tower. Subsequently, they had a perfect view of the damage the iron hail had inflicted. The trebuchet appeared to be intact. A good number of Carew's Welsh were milling around it, though many others lay prone as though felled by hammer-blows.
'The scoop-thrower!' du Guesculin shouted. 'Dear Lord in Heaven, they've got the scoop-thrower as well!'
'Of course they've got the scoop-thrower,' Corotocus replied. 'It's the deadliest machine in my arsenal. Would they leave that behind?'
'Why is it trained on the Barbican?' Navarre wondered.
'It's trained on the trebuchet, you idiot! If they break the trebuchet, we've no way to demolish the bridge and they can continue the infantry assault.'
'Can't we disassemble the trebuchet and move it?' du Guesculin said.
Corotocus snarled his frustration. 'There's nowhere to set it up where it'll be out of reach of the scoop- thrower unless we move it to the east rampart, where it will be useless anyway.'
'What in God's name do we do, my lord?' Du Guesculin had gone white. Of them all, he had looked most hopeful at the suggestion the southwest bridge might be made unusable and the Welsh held in abeyance. 'In the good Lord's name, what do…?'
'Arm the trebuchet!' Corotocus bellowed. 'Smash that bridge now, before it's too damn late!'
'D'Abbetot will need Carew and his damn malcontents to help,' Navarre said. 'But look at the state of them.'
Even after one deluge of iron hail, the priority on the Barbican had changed from mutual defence to self- preservation. There was still much shouting and consternation, but something like a retreat was in progress. Numerous wounded were being assisted up the steps to the Gatehouse.
Corotocus bared his teeth.
'Get over there, Navarre,' he snarled. 'Remind Captain Carew that if this castle falls he and his Welsh malingerers will be singled out for even less merciful treatment than we English. Remind them they are to assist William d'Abbetot, my senior engineer, in any way that he requests, and that this means holding their position until ordered to do otherwise. If any object, put them to the sword immediately.'
He turned to another of his tenant knights, a wiry, leathery-skinned fellow in a black and orange striped mantle, called Robert of Tancarville.
'You as well, Robert. And you!' Corotocus pointed at Ranulf. 'A chance to redeem yourself early.'
Ranulf didn't suppose the Barbican could be any worse a posting at this moment than the south curtain-wall. He nodded curtly and followed the other two.
'Let's hope d'Abbetot hadn't already got up there,' he said, joining them on the downward stair. 'If he's dead, the trebuchet's no use to us anyway.'
'Always you expect the worst,' Navarre jeered.
'No, I expect the iron hail,' Ranulf said. 'The worst may be yet to come.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Barbican was another supposedly impregnable feature of Grogen Castle.
Standing just to the west of the Gatehouse, it was a bastion in its own right: a squat, hexagonal tower, filled with rubble so that it was basically a gigantic earthwork clad with stone and fitted around its rim with huge crenels. Its roof was broad enough not just to accommodate the trebuchet, but over a hundred men-at-arms and archers, who could assail, in more or less complete safety, any force attempting to attack the castle's main entrance. The trebuchet itself was powerful enough to shoot clean down to the river, or, thanks to its turntable base, far up onto the western bluff. It was a strong and defensible position for any company of men, but it had never been foreseen that it might be attacked from overhead. When Navarre and Tancarville arrived up there, it was a scene of carnage. The corpses of Carew's malcontents dotted the Barbican roof, while many of those still living clutched bloody wounds as they flowed up the Gatehouse stair to mingle with Garbofasse's mercenaries.
In general terms, Carew's band were poorly armed, clad in hose, leather jerkins and boots. One or two were in mail, and some wore pointed or broad-brimmed helmets, but most lacked shields to shelter beneath, and so the iron hail had taken a massive toll of them. Carew, who had also retreated to the Gatehouse, was better equipped than most. His helmet was fitted with nose and cheek pieces. He also wore a hauberk of padded felt studded with iron balls, but he'd been cut deeply across the neck. Blood gushed from the wound as he sought to bind it.
'Carew, where the devil are your dogs running to?' Navarre shouted, as he and Robert of Tancarville approached with swords drawn.
Carew spun to face him. 'Hell's rain has just fallen on our heads! Didn't you see?'
'Hell is where you're headed if you don't get these wretches back to their posts!'
Ranulf now arrived, with William d'Abbetot alongside him. They'd overtaken the elderly engineer on their way here. Ranulf had held back to assist him as he puffed his way up the steep Gatehouse stair.
'You expect us to stand under the iron hail?' Carew shouted.
'The earl expects you to stand until the last man, if necessary!' Navarre retorted.
'And will you set the example for us, Aquitaine?'
'Do as you're commanded. Now! '
'You first, you crooked-faced ape.'
Navarre raised his sword, but Ranulf stepped between them. 'Fighting among ourselves is the last thing we need,' he said. 'Captain Carew, where do you and your men think you're retreating to?'
'We can still protect the castle entrance if we man the Gatehouse.'
'The Gatehouse is also in the scoop-thrower's range.'
As if in proof there was a wild shout and another nebulous shadow fell over them. Instinctively, Navarre and Tancarville lifted their shields. Ranulf did the same, but dragged d'Abbetot, who of course was not armoured, beneath his. Carew fell to a crouch, arms wrapped around his helmet. No-one else reacted before the second hail struck.
Every type of missile smashed down: bolts, nails, screws, stones, bits of chain, hunks of jagged metal. Ranulf had a sturdy shield. It was fashioned from planks and linen strips glued together, bound with iron and overlaid with painted leather. It felt as if a giant with a sledgehammer was beating on it and it was all he could do to keep the thing horizontal. When the deluge was over, the shield was buckled out of shape, though it had served its purpose — both Ranulf and William d'Abbetot were shaken but unhurt. Others hadn't been so lucky.
Garbofasse's mercenaries were better armoured than Carew's Welsh, but several of them had been struck. Ranulf saw split scalps, lacerated faces, broken limbs. All around, there were groans and gasps as dazed men helped fallen comrades to their feet. The Welsh, caught for a second time in the hail, had fared even worse. Those climbing the steps from the Barbican had been hit simultaneously by a timber beam, which had shattered three skulls in a row. The Barbican roof was under inches of debris; several dozen lay half-buried in it. Others still on their feet wandered groggily, their helms battered into fantastical shapes. Carew gazed bemusedly at his hands, which were badly mangled, the flesh torn away from several bent and broken fingers.
'God help us,' d'Abbetot stammered. 'We can't post anyone on the Barbican or Gatehouse under conditions like these. They'll be massacred.'
'We need to demolish the bridge,' Ranulf said. 'That's one thing we must do before yielding these posts.' He took d'Abbetot by the elbow and forced him down the stair, both struggling not to trip over corpses or slip on treads slick with gore. 'How long before the scoop-thrower's ready to discharge again?'
'Several minutes. But that won't be long enough for us.' Panic grew in d'Abbetot's voice. 'I have to find the range, and that could take four or five shots. And if I can't turn the damn thing around, we can't even aim.' They'd now reached the trebuchet, but every Welshman in the vicinity seemed to be dead or critically injured. 'For God's sake, FitzOsbern, get someone else down here… we can't turn the damn thing round on our own!'
