easy traversing it with an army of standing corpses ranked to either side. Corotocus peered to the top of the Constable's Tower. The rigid shape of Countess Madalyn gazed down at him, her priests alongside her. There was no conversation between them now. Their attention was fixed unswervingly on the departing English.
'Hurry,' the earl said to his men, the last few of whom were traipsing down the steps.
Wheeling Incitatus around, the earl set off first, walking the animal at a steady pace. The passage was so narrow that, at most, they could travel only two abreast. Du Guesculin hastened forward to be alongside his master. Aside from the clopping of hooves and timorous snuffling of brutes, there was no sound at all, which, now that they were so close to their foe, was not surprising — for there was clearly no more life in these beings than there was in strips of hanging leather or piled-up cords of wood. They were inanimate, soulless; genuinely nothing more than mummified carcasses cut from gibbets or ploughed up from burial pits. Except that, as the English passed, their heads slowly turned, tracking each departing horseman one by one.
'My lord, will we face this gauntlet of the damned all the way to England?' du Guesculin said, in a whisper made hoarse by fear.
Earl Corotocus didn't respond. For all his bravado, his mouth was too dry to form words; his back was so straight that it hurt. When he tried to release his hand from the hilt of his sword he found that he couldn't. The fingers had locked in place.
'My lord, I said…'
'I heard you the first time!'
'Will we?'
'Who am I, God? What more to you want of me? I've gained you a free passport, haven't I?'
'A passport to what?' du Guesculin wondered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
'At least untie me,' Gwendolyn protested. 'There's no blood left in my fingers.'
Ranulf, the only other person left on the Keep roof, peered down the wall to where Corotocus and his company were now snaking slowly and warily across the courtyard. He glanced towards her, distracted.
'If I do, you must stay in sight,' he said. 'Your mother needs to know you are safe.'
'You really are a good little English soldier, aren't you?
He bristled at that. 'Now you mention it, yes! Just because I sympathise with your position, don't make the mistake of thinking I'd serve every Englishman I know to your vengeance.'
'Cut me loose, please.'
Reluctantly, he sawed through her hempen bonds with his sword. She stepped back from the embrasure, and leaned tiredly on the left crenel, rubbing at the wheals on her wrists. She still wore only the red and blue cloak they had given her on the first day. The wind set it rippling on her lithe form.
'You must be frozen,' he said.
'You finally notice now?'
'Wait here.' He turned and, several yards away, spotted the black and red tabard that Earl Corotocus had discarded when he'd changed. It was torn in places and stained with grime, but it was made from heavy wool and at least it could be worn as a proper piece of clothing.
He handed it to her. 'If you can bring yourself to wear these household colours, you should find this more comfortable and a little less revealing. Put the cloak back on over the top and you'll be warm enough.'
She took the item from him, now looking thoughtful. 'You're not too bad a fellow, sir knight. I've decided that I will speak up for you.'
He shrugged. 'Assuming anyone will listen.'
She made to remove her current garb, but then saw that he was watching her.
'If you'd avert your eyes please?'
Ranulf was surprised. 'You plan to change here and now? Getting undressed in front of your mother's army is probably not the best idea.'
'To offend someone's eyes, they need to have eyes in the first place, do they not?'
Ranulf shrugged again, and turned his back. He peeked over the battlements. The earl and his men were half way across the courtyard, the earl riding tall in the saddle. Ahead of them, the ramp leading up to the Constable's Tower door had also cleared. Far above that, Countess Madalyn and her priests watched, unmoving. Behind him, Ranulf could hear a rustling of cloth.
'I fear Earl Corotocus means what he says,' he said. 'He'll seek restitution of some sort.'
'And we Welsh won't?' Gwendolyn replied.
'Revenge and counter-revenge are a recipe for disaster, my lady. They've made life on these marches intolerable for too long already.'
'I agree. So we should end it now, no?'
He smiled. 'If only that were possible.'
'Wasn't it you who told me that, with sacrifice, anything is possible?'
There was a slight inflection in her voice as she said this, a sudden decisiveness, which made him spin around. As he did, Gwendolyn screamed long and loud. Ranulf was stunned by what he saw.
She had donned the earl's tabard, as he'd suggested, but instead of putting the blue and red cloak over the top of it, she had wrapped this around one of the Breton mannequins — and had now flung that mannequin over the battlements. She continued to scream as it fell, at the same time making sure to step well back from the parapet.
Earl Corotocus thought his eyes were deceiving him.
Even though the object seemed to fall unnaturally slowly, its blue and red cloak billowing like sail cloth, there was no doubt what it was. Its legs were splayed, its arms spread-eagled. The ear-piercing scream lingered on the rancid air, only to be silenced when the object vanished into the dry moat. At first Corotocus was numbed to near immobility. When he finally glanced up again, the unmistakeable shape of Ranulf FitzOsbern was hunched over the Keep battlements.
In that astonishing moment, the world came to a standstill for the Earl of Clun and his remaining household. Each one of them was fixed to his saddle, each one swallowed air the way a parched man swallows water.
Corotocus looked back along his procession of followers. To a man their faces were stark white, beaded with sweat, their eyes bugging. If any were conversing he couldn't hear them thanks to the thunderous roar of his own blood in his ears.
As a wail of anguished rage sounded overhead from the roof of the Constable's Tower, the earl banged his visor shut and, putting his spurs to his horse's sides, urged the beast into a furious gallop. The ramp and open portcullis were only twenty yards ahead of him and he was sure that he could make it through. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder. Du Guesculin was close behind, his face shining wet as he spurred his own steed mercilessly. But now corpses were stirring to demonic life, surging in from both sides, trying to close the passage — against which odds, the rest of the men were too far behind to even have a hope. In ones and twos, they were encircled, their horses whinnying hysterically, lashing out with their hooves, smashing the faces and skulls of their assailants but, as always, to no avail. One by one, the riders were pulled screaming from their saddles and hurled to the floor, whereupon axes, spades, clubs, maces, flails and falchions rained on them in a blur of blood, brains and exploding bone fragments.
Corotocus made it as far as the Constable's Tower ramp before a party of the dead blocked his route. Framed in the V-shaped viewing slot of his visor, this group actually resembled soldiers. They wore steel-studded jerkins and iron caps and had pikes, which they tried to lower to form a hedge.
'Incitatus, the field!' he bellowed, his voice sounding brazen from the confines of his helm.
This was a battle cry his steed was familiar with from many occasions in the past. Before the pikes could be arrayed, it had crashed clean through, scattering the figures like skittles. One tried to grab the bridle, but, with a single blow of his axe, Corotocus severed its arm at the shoulder. Another snatched the horse's tail, only to be dragged along behind, Incitatus's flying hooves kicking it continually in the face, reducing it to mulch. Still the thing
