Their journey had taken them farther downhill than he had anticipated. They were well down-slope of the nearest catapult. The incline, however, was easier to navigate here on the southern side of the city. Moving slowly upward, Gripho scanned the pickets. There were two, one east and one west of the machines. Three men manned each post, one to patrol the wall, and two to guard the catapults. Gripho nodded to his companions, and they separated. Bart moved uphill and climbed onto the catwalk into the path of the guard patrolling the wall. Before he was seen, Bart acquired a pronounced limp.
The guard halted. Bart took a few more dramatic steps.
“Excuse me, sir.” Bart collapsed.
The guard moved to the boy’s side and knelt down next to him.
“Where did you come from, boy?”
“My dad brought me up here to look at the wall.” Bart looked miserable. “He stopped for a drink at that campfire north of the city. When I tried to get him to come back with me, he let me have it good.” Bart rubbed his cheek for emphasis. “I ran off and tried to make my way back down, but I fell and got lost.”
“Who is your dad, boy?”
“His name’s Wilhelm. He’s with the Austrasians.”
Without taking his eyes off Bart, the guard called to his colleagues.
As the rest of the eastern picket moved to investigate, Gripho and Petr climbed onto the catapult’s platform behind them. Silently, they closed on the backs of the two pickets and, with knives drawn, attacked.
At least Gripho did. He drove his blade deep under the ribs of the man nearest him. The man collapsed, reaching out for the guard kneeling over Bart. The guard turned and attempted to catch his falling comrade. The effort pulled him off balance. Just as Gripho had planned, Bart drew his knife and thrust it up through the stomach of the guard who held him into the man’s heart. Blood spewed from the wound and covered both of them. Bart rolled the man to his left and got to his feet. The dying soldier grasped futilely at his belly in shock.
Shit, Gripho thought. Petr hadn’t moved. Neither had the third soldier. The man stood frozen in his tracks, watching the life drain from his two comrades. He managed half of a shout and an attempt at his blade before Gripho kicked him in the groin. The guard doubled over, and both Bart and Gripho descended upon him. Their knives came away bloodied and successful.
The damage, however, had been done. Footsteps thundered from the western side of the catapult to answer the alarm.
Goddamn that lump of cowshit! I never should have brought him, Gripho thought. Seizing the bucket of pitch and a nearby torch, he leapt atop the back of the nearest catapult. “Run!” he called to his companions. Gripho poured the pitch onto the machinery and shoved the torch into its workings. He hoped that would do it. Fire licked along the black ooze just as the soldiers reached the catapult. Gripho took one backward glance. Petr still hadn’t moved. Bart was nowhere to be seen. As the soldiers gained the platform, Gripho threw himself off the catapult into the darkness of the hill below.
***
On instinct, Gripho curled into a ball. He did the best he could to protect his head while his body banged down the steep hillside. A sharp rock caught him in the ribs, and his right leg hit a sapling. He didn’t think his leg was broken, but the pronounced pain that rippled along his shin and into his knee made him worry. This was not a good time to be lamed. His tumbling body encountered a thicket of large bushes, and he threw out his arms and legs to break his momentum.
The bushes raked through his hands, but the effort was enough to stop him. He came to rest downhill of the thicket, his head facing up toward the city. The catapults still shone in the torchlight high in the distance, but he could see little in the darkness. Gripho squinted to see into the lighted space and swore under his breath. They had put out the fire. He slumped into the grass beneath him. His plan had failed.
Three torches moved down the hillside toward him. He roughly pushed his frustration aside. They would expect him to move parallel to the siege wall to find a way back to the city, so Gripho headed downhill. He ran and fell toward Carloman’s camp to put distance between him and his pursuers. He hoped they would limit their search to farther up the hillside.
When he had descended an additional hundred paces, Gripho moved west rather than north and east, the way he had come. He could barely see the torches that lined Carloman’s siege wall in the mist, but it was enough to guide his progress across the incline and around the city.
He abandoned any thought of searching for Bart and Petr. They would be far better off making their way back alone. Bart would find a way. But Gripho wasn’t so sure about Petr. The boy was useless. When Gripho had turned back to tell them to run, Petr was still rooted to the catwalk like a tree.
Gripho’s mud-covered body helped him to blend into the brownish black landscape created by the hill and the night. Twice he was forced farther downhill to avoid patrols looking for him. He passed the Soissons gate and knew that the main road up to the city lay ahead.
When he reached it, he began to despair. It was heavily patrolled along the length of its meandering path. Gripho sat behind a large bush off to the side of the road and tried to devise a plan of attack.
“Halt! You there! Stay where you are,” a voice cried out from the darkness. Gripho swore under his breath and looked for a place to run. It was a moment before he realized the soldiers weren’t speaking to him.
Less than fifty paces uphill from him, a short figure covered in mud raced across the road past the soldiers and disappeared into the shrubbery on the other side. It was Petr. He must have tried to follow, Gripho thought. When the soldiers, including those nearest to Gripho, scrambled after him, Gripho used the distraction to cross the road unseen. He heard Petr cry out as the soldiers found him.
“Gripho! Gripho!” There was a dull thud, and Petr fell silent. Damn him! Gripho knew he must abandon the boy. He could not risk being caught. The soldiers scrambled back to the road and began searching the area where Petr had first appeared. Without looking back, Gripho continued to move west.
After an hour, Gripho entered an area thick with trees. The ground had begun to slope upward. He decided he should turn northward and move upslope to circle back to the north side of the city, where he could find the rope. The undergrowth and the trees made this part of his journey difficult, but it was preferable to being out in the open. He climbed up, his leg aching. He found he needed to stop regularly to catch his breath. His ribs hurt. His leg hurt more. He hoped he would make it before dawn.
The night was changing hue when he reached the northwest corner of the city. Gripho turned east, out of the woods, and traversed a steep slope just below a plateau where Carloman had formed his siege wall. It was far more difficult to navigate, and Gripho slid regularly down the face of the hill. He began to worry. He would need to make a move soon. Once the sun began to rise, he would be as visible outside the city as a bug on linen.
The slope gradually began to decline, and he judged he had begun to move east on the north side of the city. He climbed closer to the siege wall. Going back over it would be more difficult since the wall was higher on the down-slope side. He needed to find something to help him scale it. He moved parallel to the catwalk trying to find something, anything, to help him over the wall. Near one of the torches, he spied several crates. Gripho waited for the guards to pass before attempting the climb. When the soldier had gone twenty paces, Gripho sprinted for the catwalk.
He did little to hide his movements since he didn’t have much time before the guard came back. He picked up one crate and stacked it. It was heavy. He doubted that he could lift a third high enough to stack on the first two, so he climbed on top, hoping that he was tall enough to reach over the wall.
He jumped, but his hand failed to gain purchase on anything that could help him pull his way over the siege wall. A guard shouted, and footsteps thundered toward him. He looked around frantically trying to find something that would aid his flight. Seeing the torch, he
pulled it from its holder and threw it into the night. He leapt toward the now-vacant holder, caught it, and pulled with both hands. He swung his right leg over the wall. His calf caught on a jagged rock imbedded in the top of it. Despite the pain, Gripho used it for leverage and hauled himself over. It sank deep into his flesh.
There were more shouts as he pulled himself up and over the wall. Other jagged rocks scraped his chest and stomach, but soon he was dropping the short distance to the ground on the other side. He hurried uphill toward the city wall, praying that the rope would still be there.
Arrows flew. Archers were trying to pick him out in the gray half-light. Shafts sank into the turf near him. He was limping. Blood ran down his calf into his boots. He made twenty paces and then twenty more. He fell. An arrow sank into the earth a hand’s length from his face. He got up and kept on until he reached the city wall. There, he paused to catch his breath. He was out of arrow range but far from safe. Soldiers were scrambling over the siege wall to give him chase.
Gripho tried to judge how far he was from where they had descended earlier that night, but he had no point of reference. He had to guess. He moved east along the wall. His leg was stiff, and each step brought a stab of pain. He used the wall for support and struggled against the incline. The soldiers were gaining.
He saw the rope. It was another fifty paces. The soldiers were closer. He wouldn’t make it.
Again, arrows were flying, but this time from the city wall. The soldiers pursuing him had become targets. They huddled behind their shields under the hail of shafts. Twice they tried to regroup and charge after Gripho, only to be overwhelmed again. Twenty lay wounded on the field between the walls. The others retreated.
Only one soldier continued the chase.
Gripho was near the rope. He sprang for it awkwardly. Climbing hand over hand, his progress was slow without the use of his right leg. The soldier appeared below him, reached out for the rope, and then he, too, began to climb.
“Shoot him!” Gripho screamed to those above. “Shoot him!” But the man was below Gripho and effectively shielded from the arrows above. And he was gaining. Gripho didn’t want to think about his chances against the man given his bad leg. They were high enough for a fall to be fatal. He threw all his might into the climb.
Shouts and cheers came from both the siege wall and the city as the two raced skyward. Gripho’s arms ached, and his leg was on fire. He was two body lengths from the top. He felt the soldier’s hands below him just as arms reached over the rampart’s edge above him. In a mad scramble, Gripho redoubled his effort, pulling his body upward. The hands above him grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up and over the wall.
When his feet touched the catwalk inside the rampart, Gripho seized a sword from a nearby knight and swung the blade at the rope he had just climbed. With any luck, he could sever it before his pursuer could slide back down. His first blow failed.
Incredibly, a hand crested the rampart and tried to grasp the rope where it crossed the wall. The soldier was coming over the wall. Gripho held the blade aloft at eye level, tried to gain sure footing, and waited for the man’s head to show. Gripho saw the helmet and began his lunge. A face appeared.
Bart.
Gripho recognized his friend too late to stop his lunge, and the blade jabbed out across the wall, into nothing. The face was gone.
“It’s me,” Bart called from below the rampart. “It’s Bart. I stole the uniform.”
Again the face appeared, and hands reached over the wall to bring him up. Once on the rampart, Bart jumped into Gripho’s arms, and the two hugged each other in celebration.
“That was too close!” Gripho laughed.
“That was reckless.” A stern voice shocked them to silence. Gripho and Bart turned to find Heden standing over them.
“Where’s Petr?” he demanded.
Both boys found other places to occupy their eyes.
“Well?”
“The last time I saw him, he was chasing after Gripho,” Bart said. “One of the soldiers grabbed him, but Petr slipped away and followed Gripho down the hill.”
Heden focused his attention on Gripho.
“He was captured,” Gripho said. “He tried to cross the road, and they caught him. He didn’t have the sense to wait.”
Heden’s head rolled away from Gripho as if he had been struck. Pain lanced through his eyes. “Are you sure? Are you sure they caught him?”
Gripho nodded.
“What were you boys thinking?” Heden asked, spittle spraying from his mouth when he spoke. “That mission didn’t have a chance to succeed.”
“It would have,” Gripho growled. “If it wasn’t for Petr. That little coward never raised a blade.”
Heden’s backhand caught the Gripho on the cheek and sent him flying backward. “You’ll find I can,” Heden said.
Gripho lay at Heden’s feet, fury streaking through him. He stood to confront the tall Thuringian. “How dare you strike me?”
Heden had him by the throat. With one hand, he lifted Gripho up and pinned him to the rampart. When he struggled, Heden tightened his grip. Gripho could not breathe. He started to panic.
“You led an ill-conceived raid that had little chance of success,” Heden railed. “You took the service of untrained boys without permission from their liege lord and father. You left my son behind. You failed.”
Gripho felt his eyes bulge as Heden’s grip shut off his throat. Desperately, he searched for someone to intervene. No one moved. Looking back into the Thuringian’s eyes, Gripho saw the possibility of his own death.
“Father,” Bart called.
Heden turned to his son and after a moment dropped Gripho to the catwalk.
“Because of you,” he said to Gripho, “I will have to beg Carloman to let my son go.” Heden picked up the sword Gripho had used and, with a curse, threw it over the wall and into the night. “I doubt the bastard will acknowledge an offer to parley,” he said. “And even if Carloman does agree to talk, I won’t have anything to barter with—except you. If you have any sense, boy,” Heden growled, “you’ll make yourself scarce.”
Gripho did.
***
It’s Heden’s fault, Gripho thought. It should have been clear to everyone that as mayor, he was in charge. But you couldn’t tell that by the way people knuckled their heads to the Thuringian. Everyone acted as if Heden were mayor. Even Sunni deferred to him. He couldn’t believe she was sleeping with the man. Gripho rubbed his jaw. And the bastard actually had hit him.
A bone-jolting boulder from one of Carloman’s catapults hit the wall and interrupted Gripho’s thoughts. The catwalk beneath his feet gave a little beneath him, dropping nearly a hand’s width. Gripho reached to the rampart for balance. A plume of dust rose from the base of the wall, and repair crews scrambled to reach the weakened section. Gripho frowned. The southeastern wall was almost ready to fall. Huge cracks of daylight streamed through it. Laon was a mistake, he thought. I can’t understand why Mother chose it. We should be closer to our allies in Aquitaine or Alemannia or even Bavaria. Gripho grunted and wondered about the possibility of aid from the east. Where was the “pagan revolt?”
Gripho spied Samson far away, shuffling down the street. Another I could do without, Gripho thought. I can make up predictions as well as he can. Gripho had asked the lore master to repeat his foretelling, but the old man had told him no. The stones “said what they said.” They couldn’t be redone. Gripho had come close to stabbing the old cow fart. What does it mean to be betrayed by your past?
When Gripho heard the sound, he had trouble recognizing it for what it was. Pitched low and loud, it howled against the evening like a wounded animal and grew in volume until it drew every eye to the wall. There was a crunching noise, a prolonged silence, and then a loud rumble as the wall began to fragment and the stones to sluice outward like water behind a collapsing dam.
“Breeeach!” Gripho’s cry was echoed on both sides of the wall. Out
side, Carloman’s catapult teams scurried to reorient all their trebuchets to the wall’s damaged site. Inside, armed men streamed to the gap in the wall to prevent incursions while engineers hauled wooden trusses to bolster the rest of the sagging stones.
Gripho checked over the wall to ensure there was no imminent attack and then descended from the catwalk to direct the reinforcement. His damaged right leg, however, slowed his descent. By the time Gripho reached ground level, Heden was already taking charge. Damn him! Gripho had avoided the Thuringian since Petr had been captured. But now there was little choice. Gripho strode directly to Heden.
“I will take over here.”
The large Thuringian looked at Gripho and grunted, barely acknowledging him. Heden turned back to the engineers.
Gripho raised his voice. “I said—”
“I heard you,” Heden said.
Gripho seethed with anger. “You, there … you, that’s right. Put down that planking. Everyone needs to focus on the wall.”
The engineer hesitated and looked to Heden. Gripho erupted. “You don’t need to look to him! I am mayor. You do as I say!”
Work around them ground to a halt. Soldiers, engineers, workmen, and servants turned to watch the two nobles. Heden looked around at their audience, breathed a huge sigh, and put his hand on Gripho’s upper arm.
“Get back to work,” Heden shouted at those on the wall. “The mayor and I have something to discuss.” Before Gripho could protest, Heden nearly lifted him off the ground by his arm and shoved him to a distance out of earshot of the wall.
“You will not cross my path in this.” Heden’s voice seethed with fury. “Do you have any idea how to defend a breach? Have you ever seen a breach assault?” Gripho glared back with anger but did not respond.
“I have. It’s a death march. Hundreds, maybe thousands will be killed assaulting the gap in our walls. It will be the most vicious fighting you will ever see. It will require a Herculean effort to stop them. Many of our best knights will be killed. But Carloman can be stopped. I can stop him. I know how.
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