With the gate down, the main mass of the dead came flooding back along the entry passage to attack the portcullis, only to be greeted by clouds of sulphurous flame. With more oil cast from above, it again became a scene from Hell's foundry. But several still made it to the portcullis bars, which they gripped with their bare hands. Further gusts of fire swept through them, peeling away their rotted flesh layer by layer, searing the organs beneath until the vile fluids that filled them bubbled. Again, some collapsed. Others that had made it to the bars were fused there, black and sticky effigies melting onto the glowing ironwork. With the portcullis bolted down and impossible to lift manually, the remaining dead attempted to fix more chains, but now Earl Corotocus descended a ladder and joined the fray.
Calling the fire-raisers to halt, he hurried forward with a sword and mattock. As he hacked at the hooks, a vision of grinning, half-melted lunacy tried to grapple with him through the red-hot bars. He plunged his sword into its chest, only to be spattered with sizzling meat. Other men assisted him. With frenzied blows from axes and hammers, the hooks were broken, the chains severed. The defenders retreated and the fire-raising recommenced — gales of flame, like repeated blasts from a furnace, incinerating even those sturdiest of the dead who still clutched at the bars.
By now the stench and smoke had become intolerable all through the Gatehouse. Men staggered down its tunnel and out through its rear entrance onto the Causeway, coughing, choking, rubbing at streaming eyes. Others vomited or fainted. Ranulf was rigid as a board as he strode out among them. Ignoring everyone else, he headed straight for the Constable's Tower.
'Where are you going?' Gurt called after him.
Ranulf made no reply.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On first arriving at Grogen Castle and imprisoning Gwendolyn of Lyr, Ranulf took charge of two keys to her cell. When Murlock the mercenary replaced him, he only handed over one of them. At the time he hadn't been sure why. Had he genuinely felt such concern for the prisoner that he might want to come back and check on her welfare? Or was it the case that, right from the outset, he'd viewed her as a possible source of advantage to him?
Either way, as he re-ascended through the dripping darkness of the Keep, its mighty walls having silenced the sounds of battle without, he knew that he must tread warily.
On the Keep's seventh floor, its arched passages opened into numerous cobweb-festooned chambers. In one such, the garderobe, he saw Murlock standing with his back turned, grunting as he urinated into the privy chute, a brick shaft some four feet in diameter which fell right down through the innards of the building. Ranulf slipped past and proceeded along the passage, until he reached the door at the far end. He inserted his second key and turned it. Once inside, he closed the door behind him as quietly as he could.
Gwendolyn sat in the same place where he'd left her, only now she'd brought the lantern over. Its tiny flame illuminated little more than a few feet, though it revealed that she'd collected the blankets and gathered the little dry straw she'd been able to find, making a nest for herself. On his entry, she knelt up, trembling, possibly expecting that it would be Murlock. When Ranulf stepped into the light, she relaxed a little — but only for a second. Despite her earlier threats, his stained mantle, the gashes and bruises on his face, and the blood-clots in his tangled hair came as a shock to her.
'Has he treated you well?' Ranulf asked.
His right hand was clamped on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He knew there'd be a wildness about him, a dangerous gleam in his eye. It was difficult to imagine that he could present a picture of normality after the day he'd experienced. She nodded dumbly.
'And how rational a person is your mother?' Ranulf wondered.
Still distracted by the state he was in, the girl was apparently thrown by this question. 'How rational is my…? How rational would yours be, having seen her people massac-'
'Does she want to see more of the same?'
Gwendolyn hesitated before replying. His abrupt tone implied that he was no longer the courteous knight conflicted between duty and compassion.
'By the looks of things,' she said, 'it isn't my mother's people who need fear massacre.'
'This madness has to end, Gwendolyn!'
'You say that now…'
'Be flippant all you wish, girl, but as things are no-one will leave this place alive!' Despite his best efforts, Ranulf's voice rose to a hoarse shout. 'And you will roast on a spit before Earl Corotocus gives you up!' He paused, breathing hard. Fresh blood trickled from his brow. 'So I ask you again: is your mother rational?'
'That depends on what you propose.'
'What I propose is to end this slaughter. What I propose is to exchange the lives of many for the life of one.'
'One?' she whispered. 'And who is this one?'
'Who do you think?'
She clearly didn't believe him. In fact, she scoffed. 'Your overlord? But how could that happen?'
'It won't be easy. A chance will have to arise. But I need to know… is it a risk worth my taking?'
'Sir knight, if you are losing this battle, as I suspect…'
'Don't hang your hopes on that. We're far from beaten yet!' He retreated towards the cell door. 'We may lose it. But the tide of Welsh deaths will be cataclysmic. Never underestimate Earl Corotocus when it comes to killing. If he dies here in Wales, orders may already have been given to unleash genocide on your people. And by then even I won't be around to stop it.'
'Better destruction than slavery.'
'I'm offering you an easier way out.'
'No, you're seeking a way out.'
'That too.'
'Why should we help you?'
'You'll be helping yourselves in the process. You'll be helping mankind.'
She watched him warily, wondering what kind of web he was weaving. Again she shook her head. 'I don't believe you would hand over your lord and master.'
'There was much I wouldn't have believed when this morning dawned.' He opened the cell door. 'As you wish.'
'Wait!' she called. 'Wait. I don't even know your name.' He ignored her and made to step outside. 'If it helps, sir knight, my mother is a very rational woman.'
Ranulf glanced back; their eyes met. He nodded, closing and locking the door. Half way along the passage he encountered Murlock, who peered at him balefully. Ranulf didn't bother to speak. He didn't even look at the big jailer as he brushed past.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Prince Llewellyn of Gwynedd and his nobles arrived that fine autumn morning in 1278, to find the road to Worcester strewn with rose petals and lined with cheering folk.
The October sun beat warmly on the freshly stripped fields to either side. The blue sky was filled with swallows and only the fleeciest hint of cloud. Half a mile ahead of the prince, beyond the thatched roofs of the town, towered the cathedral — an almost magical structure built from chalk-white stone, its arches and statues climbing one above the other, tier on heavenly tier, its lofty pinnacles billowing with gaily-coloured banners. Ranulf, who was only five years old, marvelled at the sight of it.
Such a magnificent edifice could not have been more fitting a venue for an occasion like this, which every
