Stronghold

'My lord, they will never be able to capture the Keep. Its walls are one hundred and fifty feet high. No ladders, ropes or throwing machines can assail those battlements.'

'He's right, my lord,' Navarre said, approaching. Instead of a sword, he now wielded a mattock, its knobbly head caked with brains and human hair. 'All the dead in the world couldn't build a pyramid with their own flesh that would reach such a precipice.'

'And how long can we hold out in there?' the earl asked. 'Are there supplies enough for us all?'

Navarre and du Guesculin glanced at each other. Only half way through the previous day had the earl given orders that sacks of meal and salt-pork and kegs of well water should be taken from the storehouses in the courtyard and placed in the Keep cellars. Neither could answer this question, because the implication was simply too terrible, so Earl Corotocus answered for them.

'The garrison could not last a week on what we've so far managed to store in there, am I correct?'

Navarre wiped blood and spittle from his disfigured mouth. 'You are correct my lord. Either way, the majority of the garrison is doomed.'

Corotocus looked to du Guesculin. 'How many of us remain in total?'

The banneret could only shake his head, sweat dripping from his disarrayed hair. 'I can't perform a proper count here, my lord. Of the Welsh who served you — one or two, at most. Of Garbofasse's scum — thirty or so.'

'Archers?' Corotocus asked.

'A mere handful.'

'And of mine?'

'From the fiefs, less than half — forty. Less even than that from the household.'

Corotocus considered. 'Send the household men to the Keep,' he eventually said. 'No-one else.'

Du Guesculin looked shocked. 'No-one?'

'My household men are the most loyal.'

'Your landed vassals are loyal too, my lord.'

'My landed vassals have fat fees I can reclaim and re-issue at a profit.'

Unaccustomed as he was to seeking approval from his underlings, the earl risked a glance at Navarre, who gave a curt nod. Even in the midst of this horror, with carcasses piled on all sides, du Guesculin was pale-faced as he turned away.

'And du Guesculin!' the earl said. The banneret looked back. 'Be furtive, du Guesculin. On pain of your own death, do not cause a panic.'

Though the English managed to retake the Constable's Tower roof for a brief time, by knocking down every set of scaling ladders, more were soon being carried forward. In addition, there was the problem of the battering ram.

The great door at the front of the tower was not recessed. This was to give defenders overhead a clear line of attack. But the dead that came against it with their spike-headed ram withstood the hail of stones and spears, though more necks and shoulders were broken than any battering ram party had ever sustained in the history of warfare.

The great door was solid of course, reinforced with ribs of steel. But they pounded it with their unnatural strength and stamina, and at length the ram's steel tip began to tell, tearing holes which the dead could cram their hands into and rend at the timber like wolves at a carcass. Piece by piece, the door was pulled apart, which led to even more frantic efforts above. With nearly all pre-prepared missiles exhausted, coping stones were worked loose from the battlements and hurled down. They struck their targets many times, but to infinitesimal effect. The dead continued their frenzied and tireless assault, regardless of skulls crushed and limbs shattered. They rent and rent at the creaking, splintering edifice. Only when their fingers and hands were ripped away, their arms reduced to slivers of bone in shreds of pulverised flesh, were they hauled backward so that others could replace them. Gradually of course, as new ladders were raised and more and more of their number regained the parapets, this deluge of destruction slowed to a trickle and at last ceased altogether. And finally the door that King Edward's Savoyard architects had never imagined could be broken was broken, wrenched from what remained of its hinges and hurled from the causeway. The decayed legion then funnelled en masse into the passage beyond.

Arrows sleeted into them via the murder holes, more stones were dropped, naptha grenades were flung — none of it to any consequence. At the far end of the passage they met the portcullis, behind which the fire-raiser waited. Gouts of white-hot flame billowed through them. Again, they melted like candles or flared like figures hacked from coal. When they threw themselves onto the grille, which soon glowed red with the heat of a furnace, they fried, their liquefied flesh running down its bars in sizzling rivulets. Only when crossbows were passed forward, and bolts discharged through the portcullis itself, one by one picking off the crew operating the fire-raiser, were they able to proceed. With groans of elemental agony, the overheated metal was bent and twisted out of the way and access was made.

The dead streamed through, howling like the devil's Cwn Annwyn, the hounds which from time immemorial had haunted these drear Welsh moors. Only one man was left on the fire-raiser. He was an arbalester formerly of the royal contingent, though few of his companions remained in any part of the castle that he knew of, and even now he fancied some of those he'd lost might be coming against him — not that this was a prime concern. A crossbow bolt had already struck him in the chin, another in the shoulder. Though his blood splashed copiously on the flagstones, he was conscious enough to scream like a child as their skeletal paws grabbed hold of him. Shriek after shriek burst from his lips, his froth spattering their raddled, rotted faces as they carried him to the pot at the fire-raiser's mouth and immersed him head-first in the bubbling mixture that had cut through their ranks with its demonic breath.

Next, they flowed up towards the galleries serving the murder holes. Defenders met them on the stairs with swords and axes. Slashing blows were exchanged. Struggling figures pitched down the stairwell, locked together. But the dead steadily prevailed. When their weapons broke, they latched onto the English with claws and teeth, ripping mail from flesh, flesh from bone. Others of their host, meanwhile, bypassed the battle on the stairs and herded along the main passage to the inner courtyard. Another portcullis awaited them there. Arrows whistled through it from a handful of defenders on the other side, but, unhindered now by fire, the dead fell upon the great iron trellis and began to lift it with ease.

High overhead on the roof, the melee surged back and forth across a carpet of carnage. Blood ran in rivers. Corpse-fires still burned, spreading hellish, stinking smoke. More and more of the dead ascended from the ladders. Ranulf cut his way through half a dozen of them, only to be confronted by William d'Abbetot armed with a club- hammer. In truth, the aged engineer was so mutilated that he was only recognisable by his garb. His face had been smashed to pulp; his lower jaw hung from strands of sinew. Yet still he shrieked like a banshee as he rushed at Ranulf. Ranulf ducked the sweeping blow and ran d'Abbetot through from behind, but of course to no effect. Even with a severed nervous system, the engineer merely turned and sought to attack him again. Ranulf had to wrestle the club-hammer from him and batter him down with one massive blow after another, until he was nought but crumpled flesh and mangled bone.

At which point, a shocking cry went up.

'My lord!' someone cried. 'My lord, Earl Corotocus — the dead are in the courtyard! '

Every man still living pivoted round where he stood and stared back across the roof.

'We're breached!' Gurt shouted, floundering towards Ranulf, blood streaming from a fresh gash across his forehead. 'Ranulf, we're breached! We have to retreat!'

'Where's the earl?' Ranulf demanded.

Other survivors on the Constable's Tower were wondering the same. Over half the garrison had been here at the start of the battle; those who remained were clumped together at the south side, sheltering behind a wall of battered shields. But now there were only a couple of dozen of them, and even allowing for those killed or wounded, that was inexplicable. It was even more inexplicable that Earl Corotocus, Navarre and Hugh du Guesculin were absent, as were several other of the household knights and squires.

'Has the earl fled?' someone asked, by his screechy tone of voice scarcely able to believe it.

'Retreat to the Keep!' someone shouted hoarsely.

'Wait!' Ranulf retorted. 'There must be a hundred wounded in the rooms and passages below.'

Gurt shook his head. 'Ranulf, if we could carry one each, that wouldn't be anything like enough.'