The Great Hall was immersed in the battle. Gylain’s forces were a hundred strong, the rebel’s thirty. The Queen of Saxony’s soldiers, however, did not join the fray on either side. The rebels had formed ranks in a tight semi-circle around the windows, while Willard and Montague had been fighting.
Willard came upon the first of Ivona’s attackers without warning and quickly dispatched him. Seeing his comrade thus struck down, the other soldier fled into the anteroom. Willard turned to follow him, but stopped for a moment to speak with Ivona.
“Hurry,” he said, “Join the others, we must stay by the windows or all is lost.”
“And you?”
“I will be there, in time.”
Willard turned again and ran into the anteroom, chasing the soldier. But the soldier, by this time, was no longer in the anteroom. Instead, he had fled into the secret passage, with Willard close behind him. Ivona ran to the window, where she was able to use her bow in relative safety.
Meanwhile, the Fardy brothers, Osbert, Barnes, and the sailor had safely reached the cover of the rebel line, behind the rude barricade of tables that had been set up before their ranks. The rebel soldiers knelt behind the tables with their spears before them, holding the attackers back. There were twenty-eight within the barricade, yet it was small and they could hold it easily – for a time. Behind the soldiers, those who did not have armor were filling the hall with arrows.
“Can we jump?” Osbert cried to Barnes, who was keeping watch on the catapults below.
“Not yet,” Barnes called back. “They are not ready.”
“Nor is Willard here,” said Ivona. “And the Admiral did not come with you.”
“By thunder!” yelled the blond Fardy, looking back to see what came of him. “There he is, stranded in the center of the Hall!”
William Stuart was standing on a table, surrounded by several soldiers. He kept them at a distance with his powerful arms, and the others were too busy to assist them in overcoming him. Montague was preparing siege equipment in the far corner, to drive the the rebels from their barricade. Gylain and the Queen of Saxony were speaking near the door. Their conversation is as follows:
GYLAIN : Have your men join mine in assaulting the rebels. We will conquer them either way, but a greater force will mean fewer casualties.
CYBELE : Your domestic struggles are your own, Gylain. My men are here to guard me and nothing more.
GYLAIN : True, and they can do so with honor. But was it not under your aegis that they gained entrance to the castle?
CYBELE : Not in the least – I did not help them into the castle.
GYLAIN : But was it not for you that the gates were opened?
CYBELE : The guards would have been suspicious, with two Queens demanding entrance. They must have been destroyed and replaced with rebels: they are not so weak as you pretend.
GYLAIN : Perhaps not, but we will see their fate soon enough. Look about you: they have little hope. What have they accomplished, other than present themselves for execution?
CYBELE : As you say, we will see. Did you not expect me so soon?
GYLAIN : Not from the west. The forest is not my own.
CYBELE : But this castle is? Still, if you did not know, then why plan demonstrations of power?
GYLAIN : Demonstrations? There were none planned.
CYBELE : What of the catapults?
GYLAIN : The catapults!
Gylain’s face recoiled as he remembered – in the excitement he had forgotten. He looked across the hall, to the rebel’s makeshift fort that overlooked the catapults. Then he understood. His countenance was transformed from that of the gentleman ruler to that of the beast of passion.
“Montague, come here,” and he drew his sword.
“My lord?” Montague answered as he came. “The siege will begin soon.”
“No, we must attack at once. The catapults!”
Montagueturned his head involuntarily to the rebels and drew his own sword.
“Charge!” Gylain roared in fury, “Charge men, as if hell is upon your heels!”
Chapter 42
“The Admiral will fall, if no one goes to him,” said the brown Fardy. “And I am not the kind of man who stands by while an old friend is in danger.”
“We have got to save him, brothers,” the blond Fardy said.
“Yes, but how?” answered the black Fardy.
“With our swords,” said the brown Fardy. “It is dangerous, yet it must be done.”
His brothers nodded their heads in assent and drew their swords. The Admiral was making his last stand in the center of the Great Hall, surrounded by several soldiers who were making thrusts at him with their swords. They could not draw near, however, for he was a powerful man. Yet his strength could not last forever against such odds.
The rest of the hall was in a giant melee, with the rebels stoutly defending their line until the catapults were ready for their escape. Fifty of Gylain’s soldiers were attacking them along the overturned tables, throwing chairs at them and using spears to wound whoever they could. But their efforts were weak, for the rest of their body – led by Montague – was busy preparing weapons that would easily defeat them. Their only task was to keep the rebels contained.
There was no mischief from the Fardy brothers now, for they were in a serious mood and were prepared to die for their country. Having drawn their swords, they stood abreast of one another and began to run toward the lines of their comrades, from behind. They leapt over the soldiers and into the ranks of the enemy, who scattered as they came down. The Fardy brothers passed the ring of enemy soldiers to the center of the hall.
“Friendly faces in unfriendly places,” the Admiral called out as they reached him.
One of his adversaries tried to thrust at his legs but he countered with a downward slash. A soldier on the other side tried the same thing but the Admiral harnessed the momentum of his downswing and aimed it in his direction, where it clashed with the soldier’s sword and sent him reeling backwards.
“To work, brothers!” yelled the blond Fardy as he engaged the nearest soldier. Their swords met and parried, first to the left, then to the right. The soldier tried to slash the blond Fardy from the left once more, but the latter stepped into the blow with his hands firmly gripping his sword, which absorbed it. Using his right foot as a pivot, he spun around and took the soldier by surprise, breaking the alliance between him and his head with a single, powerful stroke.
Meanwhile, the brown Fardy attacked the next soldier, who was a more able swordsman. First, their swords clashed between them. Then, in quick succession, they parried back and forth with slight, jerky movements – until the soldier’s strength was lessened and the brown Fardy knocked his sword to the side, thrusting his own sword through him in the resulting gap.
The third soldier was dispatched by the black Fardy – the most skilled swordsman of the three – with a simple three stroked move: an upward stroke to the leftward, where their swords met; then a peculiar twist that swung his sword to the other side of the soldier’s; then a swift cut to the throat.
While they were fighting the soldiers around the table, the Admiral jumped down upon the fourth soldier. He was not expecting such a reversal of fortune, and was easily overcome.
“Quick,” the Admiral said, “Back to the lines!”
As he spoke, Gylain called Montague to him and ordered the charge. The four friends left the table just as Gylain reached it and charged full force into the attacking soldiers, who were not expecting an attack from the rear. The soldiers scrambled to the sides just long enough for them to leap over the barricade and into the safety of the rebel line. The soldiers charged after them, but were kept back by the defenders’ spears.
“Not a moment too soon,” said the Admiral when they were safely within the walls.
“Yes, and almost a moment too late,” replied the blond Fardy, turning his head to look at his back. His shirt had been cut open by one of the guards.
“There is no time to mend it now, for look: Gylain advances.”
“Barnes,” Osbert called back to the window, “Are the catapults ready?”
