Stronghold

and death.'

'You have a strong instinct for your profession,' Ranulf observed.

'As do you.'

'All I do is fight. Any man can fight.'

'I can't. Not to your standard.'

'But almost no-one at all can do what you do.'

Zacharius smiled again. 'Don't flatter me too much, my friend. We all have our instincts. That stubborn fool Benan's instinct tells him that only God can save us now. He thus refuses to allow me to treat him. He wouldn't even be brought down here to the infirmary, but insisted on making his own way from the Constable's Tower to the chapel, where there is no bed, no warmth — and he had to crawl on his belly most of the distance, because he's lost too much blood to stand. But that's all to the good, he says. He has to win back the Lord's favour, and the only way to do that is by self-imposed penance.'

'You criticise him for it?'

'Not really.' Zacharius sighed. 'Who is to say that I am right and Benan is wrong? If forced to make a judgement, I suppose I'd always rather men solved their problems by shedding their own blood rather than the blood of others.'

'And yet you'd have no qualm about cutting one of these creatures open to examine its entrails… even if it is bound with chains and completely harmless?'

'None whatsoever.'

'Some might say that God would object.'

'Some might also say that if a man were brought to me with a mangled limb, God would object to my removing that limb in order to save the man's life. Do you think He would, FitzOsbern? When in all the great hunting-chases of England, limbs are regularly lopped for the far less edifying reason of punishing poaching, and yet those wielding the axe are almost never struck down or even castigated by holy Church, as far as I can see?'

Ranulf struggled visibly with his doubts.

'Surely this is not a difficult concept for you?' Zacharius said. 'You who this very night has defied the conventions of his own martial world, bypassing your overlord to make what you believed was a correct decision? But don't trouble yourself with such seditious thinking, my friend. I understand your reservation. How many sacred cattle can we slaughter before we have nothing left to defend? Perhaps it's better to return to your post on the castle wall and leave me in my hospital, where we can both stick to our allotted tasks, which…' He lowered his voice until it was almost inaudible. 'Which, in truth, will yield the world little.'

Ranulf moved away from the outhouse, still deep in thought — only to return a few moments later.

'I can't capture one of these creatures for you,' he said from the doorway. 'It would be impossible, so there is no point in my even offering to try. But I'll remember what you said for the future.'

Zacharius nodded, as if that was as much as he could expect.

'And I will try to get you out of here alive,' Ranulf added. 'If I can.'

'I wouldn't take any more risks if I were you, sir knight. Not on my behalf.'

Ranulf shook his head. 'You haven't been outside. You haven't seen what we're facing — not up close. The walls of this castle will not hold them for long.'

'And more's the pity.' Zacharius shrugged. 'I'll never enjoy a comely lass again.'

'That said, it's not unfeasible that one or two of us may escape. You should be among them.'

'Battle my way to safety, you mean?' The doctor smiled. 'My dear FitzOsbern, didn't I just tell you; I'm a lover, not a fighter.'

'Maybe we can smuggle you out?'

'And would you smuggle my patients with me? You'd need to, because I won't abandon them.'

Ranulf felt frustrated. 'But what you've said here needs to be understood more widely.'

'As I say, there are other doctors more learned than I.'

'Doctor Zacharius! This thing that's been unleashed… it won't end here.'

Zacharius regarded him carefully, before shaking his head. 'You think more deeply than is good for you, FitzOsbern. More deeply than is good for any of us.' He had now finished cleaning his implements and began to wrap them in separate bundles of clean cloth. 'Go back to your post.'

'I fear Christendom faces a graver peril now than ever came from the Moslem desert or the Mongol steppe.'

'Then why should I want to survive to see it?'

Ranulf had no immediate answer to that, because it was a sentiment he was slowly starting to share. Zacharius would no longer talk with him. In fact, he would no longer even look at him. So at length the young knight did as he was bidden, and returned to his post.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

As dawn approached there was, for the first time that year, a feeling that winter at last had flown. Despite the chill, an apricot sky began to arch its way eastwards. Suddenly the trees were rookeries of twittering birds, their bare, twisting branches laden with buds and catkins, their roots resplendent as the first spring flowers poked through the drifts of rotted leaf.

High above Grogen's western bluff, in a circle of gnarled and ancient oaks, there was a wheel-headed cross, cut from granite and carved all over with intricate knotworks, which its coat of green lichen did little to conceal. This was where Gwyddon found Countess Madalyn. She was kneeling in silence before the ancient edifice, a veil over her hair, her joined hands wrapped with prayer beads. Gwyddon regarded her scornfully, before dismounting.

'We are ready to resume the assault, countess. This time I recommend that we press it night and day until the English are broken. Give them no respite at all.'

She made no reply.

'Countess Madalyn…'

'I am praying, Gwyddon!' she hissed.

Gwyddon stood back respectfully. The countess's horse was tethered to one of the oaks' lower branches. A few feet above it, a pattern of curious notches scarred the side of the tree trunk, bulging and distorted as though thick layers of bark had overgrown some inscribed image. By the looks of it, it had once been a face. There were similar markings on the other trees.

When Countess Madalyn finally stood and removed her veil, Gwyddon was still waiting for her.

'Were you aware this place was once sacred to an older god?' he said. 'You Christians supplanted him. As you did in so many of our other holy groves.'

'On the contrary,' she replied, looking pale and drawn. 'We cleansed this place.'

'Its air is certainly sweeter than the air down in the valley.'

Countess Madalyn grimaced. 'The stench down there is unbearable. I couldn't tolerate it any longer.'

'Sadly, it's a price we must pay.'

'And what other price must we pay, Gwyddon?' She didn't even look at him as she untied her horse.

'Countess, I understand your concerns, but answer me this: would you have your Welsh countrymen die in droves? Because that is the alternative, I fear. Had we attacked Grogen Castle with an army of the living, ten thousand of us, maybe more, would now lie slain.'

The countess didn't mount her beast but stood against it, her head bowed. She appeared weary, almost tearful. Her right hand clutched the bridle so tightly that its tendons showed through her white silk glove.

'I see you don't dispute that fact, at least,' he said.

'Gwyddon!' She rounded on him, but more with desperation than anger. 'This thing you — we — have done is an abhorrence in the eyes of God!'

'In what way, madam? Our soldiers know no terror as they are sent to battle. They feel no pain when they are cut down. For all we know, their spirits are already in God's hands. We are merely making use of their remains.'

'And in the long-term, Gwyddon, what do we plan to do with those remains?'