Constable's Tower roof were close behind. At the same time they were struck with arrows from the curtain-wall, which accounted for a couple more of their number. The survivors finally scrambled through a nail-studded door into the upper level of the barrack house. It was lit by torches but rank with the smell of corrupted flesh — for the dead who had clambered through the arrow-slits here and slaughtered many of Davy Gou's small group of defenders were still present. They had now scattered the straw bedding and personal baggage of the earl's troops, searching for additional weapons — large numbers of which they had found.
The two bands were not evenly matched — there were many more of the dead. But of course additional dead were now closing from behind. So the English had no option.
'Butcher them!' Ranulf shouted, leading the charge. 'It's the only way!'
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The chapel was almost completely dark when Father Benan's eyes flickered open. The tiny candle he'd placed on the altar step was little more than a blob of melted tallow. Slowly and painfully, he tried to rouse himself from the latest swoon that he'd fallen into.
It had taken all the strength he had left to crawl here from the Constable's Tower. In addition, he hadn't eaten or drunk even a sip of water in as long as he could remember. Little wonder he'd been in and out of a dead faint since his return here. The welts that covered his plump body were stiff and aching. The cassock he'd wrapped himself with had adhered in strips to his clotted blood, and wouldn't be removed easily. Slowly, he sat upright on the step. His breathing was low and ragged. He hung his head. Despite the chill, sweat dripped from his brow. By the sounds of it, the attack on the castle was still raging. Thunderous impacts and wild shrieks sounded faintly through the chapel's thick walls.
Benan struggled to think clearly. If nothing else, he knew that he had to get back to his feet. Zacharius would be working out there practically alone. The dying would need shrift. Regardless that he himself was maimed, regardless of this devil's brew that he was part of, the priest knew that he had a sacred duty here. But good Lord, it was icy cold and it was so dark. His sole candle lit only the immediate area around him — the stone step and a patch of rush-covered floor.
He used the bare stone table to lever his shuddering bulk upright. Mumbling incoherent prayers, he bent down, picked up the stub of candle and, as carefully as he could, applied its glowing wick to two of the other three candles that were in reach. The light this created was dim, flickering, and cast eerie shadows over the rows of pews and the narrow aisles between them.
Benan was still glad that he'd taken such a ferocious beating. Oh, he doubted God would be satisfied with a few strokes of the whip; Benan's role in the earl's many atrocities would incur a far greater penalty on Judgment Day, he was sure. But at least it was comforting that he was no longer part of the earl's inner sanctum; that in fact he had more in common with those countless, helpless wretches the earl had slain and brutalised in his quest for power.
Then Benan thought he heard something close by — a rattling sound, as if someone had opened the chapel's outer door. He gazed down the nave. The inner door was half hidden in shadow, but it stood open. The passage beyond it was in inky darkness. Benan waited, but nobody announced themselves.
Suddenly he felt a chill down his lacerated spine.
He clutched at the crucifix hanging at his throat — as he had done throughout his chastisement. It was still sticky with blood, but he barely noticed. He listened intently, but there was no further sound — only the distant, muffled roar of the fighting, which, now that he thought about it, seemed to be penetrating the chapel from all sides — including above. Hastily, he lit the last candle, though it added precious little light to the chamber. He turned again to face the door and felt into the pocket of his cassock. From it, he brought out a scapular dedicated to the Mother of Carmel, made of soft fabric and fastened to a cord. It bore images of the Blessed Virgin and the Holy Child.
Benan regarded the celestial duo. As always, their expressions were serene, untroubled, full of love. Yet for a desolate second they seemed remote. Benan felt a terrible pang of regret for his misdeeds. How he suddenly yearned for that heavenly couple to be with him now — in spirit if not in body, just to bolster his resolve.
He turned again to the empty chapel.
If it was empty.
Fleetingly, he imagined that somebody was down there in the farthest recess. Another chill crept up his spine. Determined to stay calm, he took the iron crucifix from his throat. That was when he noticed that a streak of reddish, fiery light had speared along the floor of the passage beyond the inner door. He'd been right after all — the outer door had been opened.
Benan backed up until the altar table prevented him going any further.
The flames from the candles were guttering and cast cavorting shapes on the walls. He mopped his brow and held the crucifix in front of him. It felt good in his hands; heavy, like a weapon. Slowly, wondering if he dared do what he now planned to — a proven sinner like him — he raised the crucifix aloft.
'Glorious prince of the heavenly army,' he called in Latin. 'Holy Michael, archangel, defend us in our fight against the rulers of darkness!'
He imagined phantoms in the empty pews, regarding him silently. His breath puffed in frozen clouds.
'Come to the aid of the people whom God created in His own image and likeness, and bought at great price from the tyranny of Satan. Holy Church venerates thee as her protector. To thee God handed the redeemed souls, to lead them into the joys of Heaven. Ask the God of Peace to destroy all diabolical powers, so that our foes may no longer control mankind or desecrate holy mother Church.'
From the entry passage, Benan heard what sounded like the scraping of bone fingertips along the brickwork.
Fresh sweat broke on his brow. It was impossible for those things to enter here, he told himself. Not that they'd respect the sanctity of a chapel — he'd known enough so-called Christians whose lack of respect had led to them force entry to such sanctuaries, and there shed innocent blood and defile innocent flesh (Earl Corotocus, for one). But the only entrance to this holy place was from the courtyard. If the enemy had gained access here, Grogen Castle itself had fallen.
Benan's sweat-slick hair prickled; he clutched his crucifix all the harder. A stronghold like this could never fall — not so quickly. But still those scraping claws came closer. By the sounds of it, there were several pairs of them.
'Saint Michael!' Benan cried. 'Carry our prayer before the face of Almighty God, so the Lord's mercies may descend upon us. Seize the dragon, the old serpent, who is none other than Satan, and cast him into the abyss. We beseech you!'
In the barrack house, the English went at it like madmen, hacking and rending their way into the phalanx of corpses.
Ranulf ripped one gangrenous apparition from its groin to its gullet and a mass of putrid entrails foamed out, the stench of which alone was almost sufficient to knock him unconscious. Gurt's opponent had once been a woman, now its dead skin was mottled blue in colour and bloated out of all proportion. He smote it again and again with his sword as it raked at his eyes, but still it remained upright. His last blow was a murderous downward thrust through the side of its neck, right into the midst of its torso. The thing simply ruptured, like a bladder filled with bile, spraying filth as it seemed to deflate, odious fluids bursting from every orifice.
Other men were not so successful. A mercenary serjeant called Orlac, a doughty fellow by any standards but denuded of his weapons, strove at the creatures with a broken-off table leg. He struck skull-shattering blows on all sides, but four of them eventually overwhelmed him and bore him to the floor, where snapping teeth tore the arteries from his wrists and the windpipe from his throat.
And now the dead from the rear were entering the fray. Two tenant knights turned to face them. But Ranulf roared at them not to act like loons.
'Go forward!' he thundered, clearing himself a path with sweeps of his sword. 'Never mind what's behind us!'
