various rooms. All were functional — made from cold, bare stone and bereft of wall hangings or furniture, though they had hearths where fires could be kindled, and bales of straw and piles of fleeces to provide bedding. Word soon came that the storehouses in the central courtyard were filled with grain and barrels of fruit and salted pork. There were also kegs of wine and cider, and a deep well in the kitchen, from which a pail of fresh water had already been drawn.
One by one, the earl's lieutenants were allocated their positions. Garbofasse and his mercenaries were to take the Gatehouse, and the earl's household knights the Constable's Tower. The royal contingents would be spread through the castle, the crossbows in the southwest tower, the men-at-arms along the curtain-wall, the longbows to any vantage point of their choice. Carew and his Welsh malcontents, deemed less trustworthy, were assigned to the Barbican, a low but heavily fortified tower just west of the Gatehouse, where they could man the castle's main piece of artillery, a huge stone-throwing trebuchet, but where, more importantly, the earl could watch them. Lastly, the earl's tenant knights would reinforce the defenders on the curtain-wall.
'That leaves us, my lord,' Ulbert said, speaking not just for himself and his son, but for three other indebted knights — Tomas d'Altard, Ramon la Roux and Gurt Louvain.
'Take the curtain-wall on the south side, overlooking the river,' Corotocus told them dismissively. He was seated at a long table in the Constable's Tower's main chamber. A map of the castle and its surrounding environs had been found in a chest, and lay unscrolled in front of him. 'Bed in the barrack house in the Inner Fort. Rotate your sleeping arrangements with the others. I never want less than half the garrison on watch.'
Ulbert bowed and retreated.
'And the girl, my lord?' Ranulf asked. 'Do we house her in the barracks too? I'm sure there'll be a side-hall or ante-chamber where she can have some privacy.'
'She can have her privacy in the Keep.'
'The Keep?' Ranulf said.
As the final refuge, the Keep, a gargantuan square edifice, was perhaps the grimmest part of the castle. It stood in the northeast corner of the Inner Fort, taking up almost a quarter of the central courtyard. It had its own moat, which could only be crossed at ground level by a drawbridge, or ninety feet in the air by two gantry drawbridges connecting to it from the North Hall and the State Rooms. It had few windows; its precipitous walls, which were much thicker than any others in the castle, rose unbroken for an incredible one hundred and fifty feet. It was unimaginable that anyone should try to storm such a structure. But it was equally unimaginable that anyone, save the lowest felon or most dangerous rebel, should be imprisoned inside it. There'd be little light in there, even less clean air, and probably no sanitation. The girl would be completely alone, for none of the men would be stationed there unless the castle's outer defences fell.
A few seconds passed, before Earl Corotocus glanced up from his map. 'Ranulf, is that disapproval I hear?'
'How could I disapprove, my lord, of such a fair and Christian-minded judgement?'
All around the chamber, where a number of the earl's men were still loitering, breaths were sucked through gritted teeth. Father Benan, who had been kneeling in prayer before a corner table with a crucifix etched on the wall above it, looked around and gaped. Ulbert stepped forward, thrusting Ranulf out of the way.
'Apologies my lord. My son is a fool who often speaks out of turn.'
Corotocus pushed his chair back. He regarded them both coolly.
'You're right, Ulbert. Your son is a fool… but at least he tells me the truth. I'd rather have men around me who are honest in their feelings than toadies who simper and scrape.' He stood up. 'Ranulf, walk with me.'
Ranulf glanced at his father, who averted his eyes.
The earl took a spiral stair, which led out onto the Constable's Tower's roof. Some of his household were already up there, using bellows to pump life into a brazier. Others hugged themselves in their cloaks. At this height, the wind gusting from the peaks of the northern mountains was edged with ice. Ranulf found himself gazing over a rolling, densely wooded landscape, much of it still shrouded with mist.
'You understand, Ranulf,' Corotocus said, walking to the western parapet, 'how empires are built?'
Ranulf followed him warily. 'We're building an empire, my lord?'
'You find my methods abhorrent.' Corotocus posed it as a statement rather than a question. 'So do I. That may surprise you, Ranulf. I don't like what we're doing here any more than you, but unfortunately we can't choose the necessities we face in life. Only two things can control a recalcitrant race — strength and more strength. Not just the strength to defeat them on the battlefield, but the strength to do what you must to suppress them afterwards. Never underestimate a people's self-pitying spirit, Ranulf — it can be a great motivator. Likewise, don't be fooled by these claims the Welsh make that they are different from us, that they're a separate nation who have earned the right to self-rule and an indigenous culture. The native English thought the same when first they were conquered, but it wasn't long before their world was consumed whole and, in the long run, made better for it. In any case, how have these Welsh earned the right to self-rule? They were as tyrannised by their own lords as they ever have been by ours. They've staged revolts against their princes, they've waged civil wars, their mythology is filled with blood and treachery.'
'With all respect, my lord…' Ranulf was cautious about voicing too much concern. He knew Earl Corotocus's reputation for meeting dissent with an iron fist — he'd seen it for himself, he'd been part of that iron fist. But, for now, the earl was calm, almost genial. And why shouldn't he be? He'd captured his main objective without losing a single man. 'With respect my lord, that doesn't make what we do here right.'
''Right'?' The earl seemed amused. 'What is 'right'?'
'The code tells us…'
'The code is a fantasy, Ranulf. Invented by frustrated French wives who dream of replacing their ancient, worm-riddled husbands with handsome young lovers. You are a fully girded knight. Tender in years, but you earned your spurs in battle. You've already seen enough to know that wars are not won by fair play or courtly gestures.'
He put a fatherly hand on Ranulf's shoulder.
'Ranulf, Edward Longshanks is a king who would be Caesar. Once this war is won, he will march against the Scots. He intends to rule the whole island of Britain, from the toe of Cornwall to the Wood of Caledon, from Wight to Northumbria. But right now he is watching the Welsh March. This is a troublesome region for him. If we who are appointed to guard it can curb this menace once and for all, he will be more than grateful. There may be better rewards here than simple relief from the debts we owe.' He moved away along the battlements, only to stop and glance back. 'But Ranulf… I will not dangle this carrot indefinitely.'
Suddenly there was steel in his voice.
'They tell me you and your father played no part at the River Ogryn.' His expression hardened. His blue eyes became spear-points. 'They say you spared lives in the villages we razed on the road here. Very gallant of you, Ranulf. But that may have been a mistake. As things are, I am your lord. I'd prefer to be your lord and your friend, but I can just as easily be your lord and your enemy. Listen very carefully… if I will not sacrifice my fortune and glory for these vermin that call themselves Welsh, I certainly won't sacrifice it for an upstart boy.'
Ranulf said nothing.
'Do we understand each other, sirrah?'
'Yes.'
'I didn't hear you.'
'Yes, my lord.'
Half an hour later, Ranulf locked Gwendolyn in the Keep. He found the largest, airiest room for her that he could, but it was still damp and filthy, filled with decayed straw and rat-droppings. He turned deaf ears to her tearful pleas. As he walked away along the cell passage, he refused to look back at her white hands clawing through the tiny hatch in the nail-studded door.
When he ascended to his post on the south-facing curtain-wall, his father was already there, sharing the warmth from a brazier with Gurt Louvain, a rugged looking northern knight draped in a green, weather-worn cloak. Two of the scarecrows had been flung to one side. They were hideous, soulless objects — sackcloth suits stuffed with rags and bound to stick frames. Their faces had been made up with streaks of what looked like dung or mucus. Weirdly — probably because the Breton troops had been bored — some of these faces were smiling exaggeratedly, almost dementedly — like caricatures from Greek or Roman drama. It gave them a sinister air, as if they knew
