Gwyddon had not been prepared for this question.
'The young English knight was right, was he not?' she said. 'This army of ours will simply rot. Soon it will be nought but clacking bones. And what then? We make more, as you threatened? Is that your plan? How many more, Gwyddon?'
'These husks are a matter of convenience, countess. When we no longer have need of them, we will dispense with them.'
'Will we? And will we then compose our armies of living men — those who do feel terror, those who do feel pain?' She gave a wintry smile. 'I see your concern for human suffering is also a matter of convenience.'
'And do you think Earl Corotocus would have any of these qualms?'
'Earl Corotocus is one man, Gwyddon.' She became thoughtful. 'That young knight said there are strong feelings against him.'
'And at the same time, that young knight's accomplices destroyed the very weapon with which we were stripping their battlements of armour. Clearly, that was his real objective.'
'He could have killed us both. Would that not have been a more useful objective for him?'
'Even if he spoke the truth, the chances are that he's dead. Only a couple of them, at the most, made it back into the castle.'
'Nevertheless…' She climbed into her saddle. 'We need to speak with them.'
'Earl Corotocus will never negotiate unless it's from a position of strength. And King Edward is exactly the same. This is why ruthless individuals like them will always succeed… and why radical means are needed to stop them.'
The countess wheeled her horse around. 'We've already stopped them. Earl Corotocus and his army can't wreak any more damage. They are trapped.'
'As is your daughter, madam.'
The countess paused to think. 'Would it serve their purpose to harm her now? They know what their fate will be if they do. My decision is made, Gwyddon. We will maintain the siege, but there will be no further attacks unless the English provoke them. In the meantime, I will send messages to King Edward.'
'Who even now is entering Wales from the north.'
'All the better.' She made to ride away. 'Let him see our power first-hand.'
'And what if he likes what he sees, and tries to claim it for his own?'
She reined her horse, gazing down at him.
Gwyddon shrugged. 'Edward Longshanks is a crafty tactician. He has no truck with honourable warfare. As far as he is concerned, victory is all. When he sees what we have done here, he is more likely to be inspired than frightened.'
'What exactly are you saying?'
Gwyddon climbed onto his horse. 'I'm saying that if King Edward felt you were pliable, he would certainly sit at the negotiating table, especially with such a prize as the Cauldron of Regeneration to be won.'
'You think me a fool, Gwyddon? I would never bargain away the Cauldron. In any case, it would be no use to the English without your arcane knowledge. Unless…' She looked slowly round at him again. 'Unless that also is available to be won? Would you share your knowledge, Gwyddon? With the English?'
'Under torture, madam, a man may share anything.'
'Ohhh, I see.' She regarded him with new understanding. Her wintry smile had returned. 'So Wales and the Welsh are also a matter of convenience to you?'
'Wales and the Welsh are my future, madam. As they are yours. Thus, I feel we must destroy the invaders utterly. That is the only kind of message King Edward will understand. We proceed with the assault, yes?'
He posed it as a question, though it was clearly more of a statement. As such, Countess Madalyn made no answer.
'One more thing, madam,' Gwyddon said, as he turned his horse around. 'If it suits you, you may remain here where the air is fresh and the grass green rather than red. After all, there is no longer any reason for you to witness these terrible events. You made your appearance on the first day, as required. Your part in this affair has been played.'
He spurred his horse away, leaving Countess Madalyn alone in the grove of mottled oaks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
With the dawn came the dead.
Heralded by a dirge of howls and moans, they crammed along the causeway, a hundred abreast, pushing their siege-tower ahead of them, its mighty wheels rumbling on the timbers. The English responded in the only way they knew how, with showers of arrows and stones. But it made no discernible impact. The oxen, to prevent them being wounded or killed by the castle defenders, were being driven beneath the shelter of the siege-tower's ironclad skirts. As the great structure drew steadily closer, it could be seen that assault teams of the dead were already gathered on top of it. Its gantry bridge, perhaps twenty feet in length, was currently raised, held aloft by two leather thongs, either of which a simple blow would have cut. The lip of the bridge was fixed with iron hooks, so that when it fell across the Constable's Tower's stone parapet, it would catch and hold itself in place.
The earl's best fighting men waited for it, armed not just with shields and swords, but with bills, spears and a stockpile of naptha grenades. Earl Corotocus also had an onager brought forward and devil's sachets packed with bricks broken from the rear battlements.
'They must not cross!' Navarre bellowed, as the tower halted in front of them. 'Not one of them!'
When the bridge fell, poll-arms were lifted to prevent it making contact, but the first of the dead merely scrambled to the top of it and leapt. At least five plummeted to the foot of the tower, but three landed safely and a savage melee commenced as they laid about them with axes and mattocks. A retaliatory storm of slashing blades soon hacked them to pieces, but not before the poll-men were themselves cut down and the bridge crashed onto the battlements.
'Onager!' Earl Corotocus roared.
His engineers were already in place, and the first devil's sachet loaded into the bucket. But before the lever could be pulled, the dead on the top of the siege-tower let loose a blizzard of arrows and crossbow bolts. Space was immediately cleared, maybe a dozen men, including those on the onager, struck down. Ramon la Roux, already grievously wounded from the fight at the Gatehouse, pivoted around grey-faced, blood oozing between his lips. A missile had pierced his breast to its feathers. He staggered a couple of yards, fell against Ranulf and dropped to the floor.
With gurgling groans, the dead threw down their bows and, bristling with swords, hammers and cleavers, advanced across their gantry. They were mid-way over, when Ranulf threw himself onto the onager's lever. The complex throwing device had been tilted upward on rear support blocks, so that its payload travelled in a straight line, rather than arcing through the air. As such, ten heavy projectiles were now flung clean into the approaching horde. The first few were felled by gut-thumping impacts, their bodies shattered into glistening green and crimson scraps; those behind went toppling over the side. Two projectiles continued through, striking the rear of the siege- tower's upper tier with pulverising force, smashing an entire section of its framework. But fresh cohorts of corpses were now flooding up its timber throat. While men-at-arms hastened to crank the onager back to full tension, Navarre and others lobbed naptha grenades across the bridge. Several struck the dead full-on, engulfing them in flame; others dropped down inside the siege-tower, spilling fire through its joists and beams.
'More naptha!' Walter Margas shrieked, only for a blazing figure to leap down and wrap its arms around him. Ranulf hewed it from its shoulder to its breastbone with a massive stroke of his longsword. But Margas was already horribly seared. He staggered back to his feet, a twisted, drooling wreck, only to be struck in the face by a javelin, which didn't penetrate deeply but laid his cheek open to the glinting bone beneath.
Though entire sections of the siege-tower had now caught fire, the dead continued to clamber up through it and rampage across the bridge. The onager was again sprung. Its deadly cargo was catapulted through the advancing mob. Yet more went spinning from the bridge, but others made it onto the battlements. One of them sent shockwaves through the English by the mere sight of him. He was a giant of a man, naked save for a loincloth,
