deaths and a severe wounding. They were an army under siege themselves from boredom, dissatisfaction and loss of morale as all their efforts foundered against the solid stone confidence of Caermoel’s walls.
They could not even vent their frustration on raiding the surrounding area since it was deciduous woodland, inhabited by a few woodcutters, charcoal burners and foresters. The game was elusive, requiring trained men and dogs to catch it. Sport for the Earl of Chester, but hardly for his men. The parts that were not wooded were populated by sheep; a diet of mutton soon became monotonous and there was no thrill in the chase.
‘When will Earl Ranulf be back, sir?’ asked Lucas, one of Hamo’s seconds.
‘Later tomorrow.’ Hamo scowled at the keep. They had been trying to locate the source of its water in order to send poison through the system, but it seemed likely that at least one well was fed by an undefilable spring rising straight from the rock and secure within the walls.
‘Do you think Prince Owain will agree to help him take this place?’
‘How should I know?’ Hamo snapped. Earl Ranulf had ridden off to a meeting with his sometime enemy, sometime ally, Owain Gwynedd, with the broad intent of general parley and the narrower purpose of persuading the Prince to co-operate in laying siege to Caermoel. ‘You never know which way the Welsh are going to jump.’
‘Nor FitzGuyon,’ Lucas said with a pained grimace at Caermoel’s walls. The last attempt at assault had been met by a barrage of small, clay pots, seemingly innocuous until they shattered on impact with the ground, or a man, and burst into the deadly flames that were impossible to douse. Since then there had been a noticeable reluctance in the men to go anywhere near the walls.
‘FitzGuyon!’ The word left Hamo’s lips like a red-hot coal. He remembered the fight in the forest and its ignominious conclusion. The blame was his own. He should have pushed on for home. In stopping to rest the horses and make sure of his prize, he had lost it, and the way this siege was progressing, Caermoel was not going to be his restitution. He spat again and stalked in the direction of his tent. Lucas followed, grimacing.
Somewhere in the distance a dog fox barked thrice and was answered. The sound floated clearly on the calm night air. Above the watchfires of the camp, on the keep’s outer wall walk, metal clinked and boots scraped on dusty stone as a guard left his post. The fox barked again and a vixen yammered an answer. Hamo growled a curse at the noisy mating habits of the local wildlife and splashed some cloudy ale into his leather cup.
Renard too was drinking — a pleasant, slightly tart wine from his brother’s vineyards down at Milnham- on-Wye. Caermoel’s hall was built against the inner curtain wall and the single row of windows facing the bailey were unshuttered to the balmy evening air.
Elene sat beside a double candlestick and close to one of the windows where she had been catching the last rays of light. Her needle flew nimbly in and out of a piece of fabric like a bird darting to and from its nest. Renard lounged in a pelt-spread chair, his tunic removed, shirt open at the throat. Standing on the trestle beside his cup were a cluster of wooden toys carved and polished smooth, and seated on his knee, resting in the crook of his arm was Hugh.
The child should have been long abed, but the sudden hot turn to the weather and a sore gum had kept him awake, crying and fractious, until his father in passing had plucked him out of his cradle and brought him to sit in the hall. Hugh’s distress had subsided so quickly that Renard had been forced to laugh at the almost smug expression on the baby’s face as he settled back against his arm.
Hugh gnawed experimentally on the wooden dog he was holding, then threw it down and decisively reached a chubby hand towards the dagger on the belt that Renard had removed with his tunic.
Adam, who was playing chess with Renard, rolled a pawn between his palms and chuckled. ‘You’ve a warrior on your hands there.’
Renard gave a bleak smile. ‘Learning early the skills he will need.’ He picked up the belt and let the baby play with the haft of his dagger, keeping his hand around the sheath to prevent Hugh from drawing the blade. Then he lifted his attention from his son and fixed it on the soldier who was running up the hall towards him.
‘My lord, the signal has come. Three barks of the dog fox repeated. It could not be mistaken!’ the man panted.
‘You know what to do?’ Renard was suddenly alert.
‘Yes, my lord.’ The soldier saluted and left again at a rapid trot.
Elene abandoned her sewing and rose to meet Renard as he handed Hugh into her care. Her throat closed and the words she wanted to say remained locked in her throat. All she could show to Renard was a wide, mute pleading.
‘Better rouse the cook, love,’ he said. ‘We’ll need hot water for the wounded and food for later.’ His eyes gleamed as he stooped to kiss her cold lips. ‘Best tell him to make it pottage. I don’t know how many men William has brought with him.’ Then he gave her a squeeze and hurried after Adam.
Hugh squealed and held out his hands towards his retreating father. Elene bowed her head over his silky hair for a moment and whispered a prayer.
In the stables everywhere was harness and chaos as the grooms and drafted servants worked furiously to saddle up the destriers. Renard caught Gorvenal’s bridle and led him out into the open bailey. Adam mounted his red-chestnut destrier, the progeny of the stallion he had lost before Elene’s wedding, and mustered his own half- dozen knights. Renard had another ten and himself. Then there were eight serjeants who had experience of fighting horseback, and another twenty on foot.
‘Ready?’ Renard enquired of Adam. The torchlight shone on his helm, on the rivets of his mail, and on his smile which was more than half-snarl.
Adam saluted him briefly and returned his hand to the bridle to control his restive horse.
Renard gestured to the guards in the gatehouse and the double portcullises were smoothly raised. There was no sound. Renard had had them thoroughly greased and checked over for this very occasion. The draw-bars on the huge gates were run back and noiselessly they swung inwards.
Silence. On the slopes the watchfires burned and the guards lolled at their posts. From the direction of the fox’s bark, an owl hooted softly and closer to hand.
‘That’s the attack,’ Renard muttered to Adam. ‘We count to a slow fifty, then we go.’
Adam nodded and fastened his ventail, glad that he was not one of the men about to be ground like grain between two crushing millstones.
He had reached forty when the first bellow of alarm was throttled short and the sound of a single sword blade scraping across a shield reached them. There was silence again, suspended like a raindrop trembling on a thread, and suddenly exploding outwards into confusion.
Renard adjusted his grip on his shield straps and unwound the spiked flail from his saddle bow, his lips silently counting. The weapon was much less refined than a sword, but its effect was devastating and excellent for lashing out at men in the darkness when it was difficult to see where to place blows. Behind him he could feel the restlessness of his men, their eyes boring into his spine, holding on his command. In the darkness beyond the gates a shriek of mortal agony rose above the battle clamour. ‘Now!’ he said, and squeezed Gorvenal’s flanks between his knees.
It was not a full charge which would have been suicidal down a haphazard rocky slope in darkness, but Renard took the men down as swiftly as he dared. There were no guards to cry warning of the new assault because they were already caught up in the chaos of the first battle. Awareness only came as Renard hit the outskirts of the fighting.
A soldier attacked Gorvenal with a lighted brand plucked from one of the fires. The stallion shied. Renard altered his grip on the reins and brought the horse under control and round in a semicircle. The soldier fell beneath the vicious lash of the studded ball on the end of the flail. Renard rode over him, leaning over Gorvenal’s withers to take up the brand himself and set fire to the nearest tent. A coughing soldier bolted out of it and Renard struck him down. More tents flared, blossoming the night with fire. Illuminated smoke billowed away towards Wales. A cluster of pitch barrels caught fire and exploded, scattering mayhem. Supplies were trampled, wains overturned and horse lines cut. Men panicked, broke and fled. Those who did not run fast enough or mistook their direction, died. Hamo and Lucas were not among them. Both had sufficient experience of saving their own skins to make the correct decisions rapidly.
Panting, Renard drew rein. Gorvenal sidled and half bucked, a raw patch on his rump where a fragment of molten pitch had burned the hair away. Another knight rode up alongside on a handsome liver chestnut, its hide shining red with the reflection of the fires. William, his face smoke-streaked and ablaze with a triumph as high as
