warning her that most Welshmen were adept dagger-fighters and that she might strike once and succeed by dint of surprise, but not again. Probably she knew it already, but the die was cast and it was too late, whatever happened.
'The women will have to take their chance with the rest of us,' he said to de Bec as he struggled into his hauberk, feeling that it was a prison and punishment rather than security. He looked round at Judith again and held out his hand for his swordbelt. She fetched it and he stroked her cheek lightly with his knuckles.
'Organise the servants as best you can, love.
The women can care for the wounded and boil up whatever we have - pitch, oil, water. Let the men douse whatever is burnable and carry supplies to the battlements. I'll send you word in more detail when I've seen for myself how the situation stands. At all costs, Judith, keep them from panicking.'
She nodded more staunchly than she felt. Panic was like fire when it spread - difficult to contain and very destructive. She would have to make sure that everyone was kept far too busy to give in to its ravages, including herself. Her chin came up. She looked Guyon proudly in the eyes and he drew her against him, arm hard around her waist.
Her fingers tightened on his back, on the iron rings of war when not fifteen minutes before they had been resting contentedly on his warm, naked skin.
'Guy, have a care to yourself,' she whispered, suddenly feeling very frightened as it began to hit her. 'Don't go after de Lacey at the cost of all else.'
He released her to buckle on his belt. 'I'll take that as foolishness, not insult,
'I know what is at stake.' He latched the ornate buckle, hitched the scabbard, then kissed her again, this time lightly and tugged a strand of her hair.
She watched him leave, fear squeezing her heart. With icy fingers she braided her hair and pinned it out of the way. The fear intensified and with it came a rallying anger. She yanked on her overtunic, belted it and thrust the knife down against her left side. It was an act of bravado, but at least it gave her the confidence to stalk from the chamber like an Amazon and begin organising the half-hysterical servants into something less reminiscent of a chicken run with a fox amok within.
Guyon peered down from the wall walk battlements on a scene of utter chaos below and, tight-lipped, rapped out several commands. 'Get the sling stones to the wall and stop their pick before that section of shored-up wall comes down... the same for the ram. And there aren't enough grappling hooks up here. De Martin, get one of the boys to fetch some up from the stores, and arrows too if we have them. Soak them in pitch and set them alight and see if we can get that mangonel.'
'Christ's bloody bones,' Eric cursed beside him.
'It looks as though half of Wales is howling out there.'
Guyon smiled grimly. 'Not quite,' he said, 'but enough to send us out of this world if they break through; de Lacey will make sure of that.' He donned his helm and his expression vanished behind a broad nasal bar and patterned bronze brow ridges. He stabbed a finger. 'The trebuchet wants moving over there. It's not a bit of good where it is now. Michel, see to it and you take that section of wall as your command. Choose the ten men that you think will best serve your needs.
Eric, come with me.'
'Do we have a chance, my lord?' Eric looked doubtfully at the ant's nest of Welsh below. They were preparing an assault by scaling ladder with remarkable rapidity and making no attempt to conceal their intentions. Walter de Lacey was present, out of arrow range, talking with several of his captains and vassals.
'A fighting one, literally,' Guyon said, as he watched the small knot of men break up and take their positions. His eyes followed de Lacey with narrowed concentration before he turned and, hand on hilt, stalked to inspect the rest of the perimeter.
The attack came with the searing fury of a summer storm - fast and wild, and as difficult to contain. Stones and molten pitch were dropped upon the ram and boiling water was spouted down on the men scaling the ladders. An exchange of arrows swarmed the air. An arrow tipped off Guyon's helm as he strove with Eric and another knight to grapple loose a ladder.
Thirty feet long and set at an angle of about sixty degrees to the wall , they were extremely difficult to dislodge, particularly when loaded with fifteen determined, rapidly scrambling men.
'It's going!' panted Eric, face crimson with effort as he struggled for all he was worth. The foremost Welshman had reached the top and had begun straddling the wall , his round shield held before him, sword already swinging for Eric's throat. Eric was forced to duck and relinquish his hold on the grappling hook. Guyon swept beneath the Welshman's guard, slashing open his leather jerkin as if it were made of parchment, and kicked him back over the wall . He slammed his sword pommel beneath the second man's jaw, snapping him backwards and then kicked him off too.
The ladder scraped and grated on the stone as it started to slip. Another of the enemy reached the top and met his death on Guyon's blade. His cry mingled with the shrieks of his companions on the rungs as the ladder toppled sideways and crashed into the ditch below. There was no time to congratulate each other, or even to lean weakly against the stone to regain breath and stop their hearts from bursting, for ladders were up either side of the one just dislodged and from one of these the Welsh had gained the parapet and were dispersing along the wall walk.
For a time the fighting was so desperate that Guyon could scarcely hold his own without time to think of the defences elsewhere; when there was a lull in his section, it was only because the wall had broken on the other side and de Lacey was drawing men away to force the breach.
Guyon sprinted in full mail towards the new danger and was tripped by a wounded
Welshman. A knife glittered. Guyon blocked the thrust on his shield and then slammed it into the man's face, rolled and regained his feet. Eric bellowed a warning. Guyon ducked and a hand axe connected with the side of his helm instead of splitting his face, and sent him to his knees. The second blow he caught on his shield, which splintered beneath the impact. The third never landed, for he backswiped the blade across his opponent's shins and brought him screaming down. But there was another to take his place, and then another, and he could not break through.
CHAPTER 30
'I want the Welsh put out of the reckoning, Miles.'
Miles set down the destrier's hoof he had been examining and slapped the stall ion's powerful glossy shoulder.'
'Easier said than done, sire,' he said to King Henry. 'When we make war among ourselves, it is the time of their greatest profit.' He wiped his hands on his chausses and reached for his shirt.
'Perhaps I should have said the Welsh who are allied with de Belleme. The last thing I need when we march on Shrewsbury is for Cadwgan's rabble to come hurling out of Wales and attack from the side.'
Miles donned the garment and, hands on hips, signalled the groom to lead the destrier round so that he could assess how well the strained foreleg had mended.
'You want me to go to war against the Welsh, sire?' he asked with deceptive mildness.
Henry studied the stall ion's long, fluid stride. His lips twitched. 'I want you to negotiate with them, my lord - bring them to the trestle and make them see sense.'
Miles snorted. 'Anyone who sits at a trestle with you, sire, usually ends up being the meal,' he said drily.
Henry's smile deepened with appreciation and he made no attempt to deny the remark. 'They'll be susceptible to bribery. Offer Cadwgan whatever he wants - within reason. He's not particularly intelligent, but he's greedy and astute with it. With your Welsh connections and other skill s you should be able to persuade him off my back and on to de Belleme's.'
Miles looked wry. 'And what happens to be in it for me?' he asked. 'Apart from the warm glow of knowing that I am a loyal servant of my King?'
