accountable for the 'improvisational skills of his commanders'. A short time later, when Pope Celestine excommunicated Earl Corotocus, King Edward sent an embassy to the papal court at Naples to have it lifted.
'What do you propose?' the earl said.
'Can we talk in private?'
The earl nodded. They crossed the roof and descended into a stairwell.
'I don't know how alert these walking dead are,' Ranulf said. 'But I don't think we can afford to take chances. Only a handful of men must go — five at the most. I don't even think it wise to take our best. It'll be perilous, and how many will return I don't know.'
'All the more courageous of you to offer to lead it, Ranulf.' The earl regarded him carefully, almost suspiciously.
'You're wondering if I really have lost my mind?'
'You wouldn't be the only man in this garrison who had.'
'My lord, we face an enemy the like of which has never been seen. An enemy that can't be killed. An enemy that threatens our very souls, or so we assume. I'd be lying if I said that I think any of us will survive this siege. Could any man think rationally in these circumstances? I don't know. But we can only do — as my father used to say — what we can do.'
'Tell me your plan,' the earl said.
'There are plenty of storages sheds in the courtyard. At the very least, we have rope, we have paint, we have barrels of pig grease.'
'And?'
'I suggest that whoever goes out there wears minimum clothing. I once heard a tale of how a Roman army was overwhelmed by a Germanic tribe. The Germans came through the benighted forest naked and painted black from head to toe. They were invisible until they struck the Roman camp.'
The earl looked sceptical. 'And this will fool our dead friends?'
'As I say, I don't know how alert they are. Do they think the way we think, can they even see as we do? But we must prepare as if they can. We must also grease ourselves, so that if they grab us we can still get free. It's all about speed, my lord. So much so that I recommend we don't load ourselves with weapons. We must break the scoop-thrower and get back inside the castle as fast as possible.'
'And how would you even get out of the castle, let alone get back inside?
'When I was in the Keep before, I noticed the garderobe chute. It must lead down to an underground sewer. I suspect it passes beneath the east bailey and feeds into the moat. We can exit that way.'
'An underground sewer?' The earl raised an eyebrow. 'It may be a tight squeeze.'
'In which case, the pig-grease will come in useful.'
Corotocus pursed his lips as he pondered. 'Supposing you succeed, how do you expect to get back inside? Climbing the garderobe chute? How high is it?'
'If we hang ropes down, with knots and loops tied in them, all it will need is for you to have a number of men standing by. The moment we're in position, you can pull us up. We won't need to climb.'
The earl now smiled. Irregular warfare was always to his liking. 'I think I'm in favour of this plan, Ranulf. But who will you take?'
'Volunteers initially. If there aren't enough forthcoming, as Navarre said… we'll draw lots.'
'I want Garbofasse to go with you.'
Ranulf tried not to show how much this disconcerted him. 'You don't trust me, my lord?'
'I trust the men less. If you get beyond this ring of dead flesh, what's to stop those worthless dogs fleeing for their lives? You'll be there, but you'll be alone. With Garbofasse, you can control things better.'
Ranulf had no particular dislike for Garbofasse, aside from him being the leader of a gang of murderers. And the mercenary captain could not really be described as the earl's man the way Navarre or du Guesculin could. But he was hardly someone Ranulf could trust. All of a sudden, the extremely difficult task Ranulf had set himself looked nigh on impossible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
That evening was a pleasant one, redolent of spring. Though cold, the air was clear and fresh. The sky was pebble-blue, but faded to indigo as dusk fell, and to fiery red as the sun finally settled.
At the far end of the causeway, the siege-tower was almost completed and as ominous an object as any man there had seen in all his years of war. The dead still worked in industrious and eerie silence. The only sound was the tapping of hammers as wheels were attached to the great monolith. Its front and sides were shod almost completely with iron plate. Where the iron had run out, the gaps were covered by shields purloined from the English. As the last vestige of sunlight melted into the west, a single ray shot across the land and burnished the object with flame. Several of the dead, clambering back and forth upon it like beetles, also glinted as it caught their pieces of mail.
The English watched tensely, expecting the tower to immediately roll forth along the causeway. But though the teams of oxen had now been brought from the Gatehouse, no attempt was made to yoke them in place. Gradually, the hammering ceased, and as darkness fell the dead withdrew into their fastness. A legion of them still watched from the western bluff and droves more remained on the parapets of the curtain-wall. If other monstrosities were still scouring the Grogen hinterlands for munitions, there was no sign of it. All were stiff and still as the mannequins that had first confronted the English on their arrival here. As night descended, and cloaked them from view, even their mewling and moaning faded. Soon, only the stink of mildewed flesh bespoke their presence.
A querulous voice finally broke the unearthly quiet. It was du Guesculin. 'In God's name, why don't they take action? Do the dead need sleep? How can that be?'
'Maybe their masters do,' Gurt said. 'We don't know if they-'
'Is your friend preparing himself?' Navarre interrupted, his voice edged with resentment.
On first hearing about the proposed raid, Navarre had volunteered, but Earl Corotocus had refused him permission to go, saying that, from this point on, he wanted his best men with him at all times. Navarre was even more embittered when he heard that Captain Garbofasse would also be going.
'So FitzOsbern, that whey-faced whelp, and now that damn mercenary oaf get the chance to win fame, while I, the household champion, remain coddled in this castle!'
Corotocus had snorted in response. 'Fame is for fools.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There was no sign of Murlock as Ranulf stole up through the upper levels of the Keep. The big mercenary was most likely taking full advantage of this long, lonely duty by sleeping. As quietly as he could, Ranulf unlocked Gwendolyn's door, slipped inside and closed it again. The prisoner sat bolt-upright as he approached.
'My lady, can you write?' he asked.
'Certainly I can write.'
'Then you must write a letter now.' He handed her a folded parchment, an inkpot and a quill. 'Hurry.'
She took the items hesitantly. 'I don't understand.'
'I'll be leaving the castle just after midnight. There is a target we must destroy. But I will have another purpose. If I can locate your mother, I will plead for a truce.'
'A truce?'
'My terms will be simple. If I return you to your mother unharmed, and hand over Earl Corotocus for whatever punishment she deems fit, she must allow the rest of us safe passage back to England. If you can write a letter vouching for my honesty, I will put it directly into her hands.'
Gwendolyn hesitated, as though wondering whether this was some kind of trap, but finally nodded and began
