Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  “Sorry,” Niobe interrupted from the doorway that opened onto the bridge over the moat. “But we’ve got company. Bad company!”

  Ayesha pushed past the castle director and rushed to the doorway. She bit her lip and tightened her grip on Harold’s sword. Men, ten or a dozen in all, clad in military camouflage fatigues raced down the path from the direction of the church. Mercenaries, she thought. They would reach the bridge in less than a minute.

  Joram rounded on the castle director. “Everything the vicar said was true!” He rapped the words out with the urgency of a drummer beating a warship’s company to quarters. “The treasure of the Templars lies below this castle. Right beneath our feet! Harold’s tomb, too.” He gestured to Ayesha’s sword. “It really is Harold’s own. Ayesha took it from his body. Others want the sword. And the treasure. The people coming across your moat. They’re killers! They will stop at nothing to get it. Nothing! We have to prevent their entry. At all costs! Or everyone here will end up dead.” He fixed Simon Knollys with his stare. “Do you understand what I’m saying, man?”

  The director returned Joram’s stare, goggle-eyed, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down, as if with a life of its own. Sweat beaded his balding head. With jerky steps, he crossed to the moat doorway. He peered past Ayesha’s shoulder. For the space of two heartbeats, he stood frozen, rooted to the spot. Then he jumped back. With apparently well-practiced efficiency, he swung the ancient doors closed, slid the locking bars into place at the top and bottom, and placed a massive iron bar across the middle.

  Knollys turned from the doors. “Right,” he said. “What—”

  Whatever the castle director was going to say was cut off by the sound of heavy pounding on the doors. As if someone was banging on it with the stock of a gun.

  “Other entrances?” Joram demanded of the administrator.

  Knollys nodded his understanding. He plucked a cellphone from the inner pocket of his suit coat, thumbed a button, and spoke: “Jim? Lock the reception gate…now! Yes, quick as you can. Bolt and bar it. Then make sure all of the ground-floor windows are secured and that no one can get in….now! Do it now! Let no one in. And Jim?…The shotguns we use for hunting. Make sure they’re loaded….I’m damned serious!…No. Wait there until you hear from me….I’ll be in the gatehouse.”

  The call ended and Knollys pressed more buttons on his phone. “Police. Whatever’s going on here, I’d prefer they sorted it out.” He held the phone to his ear. After a moment he frowned, held it out, and waggled it about. He punched in more numbers. “I can’t get a ringtone. There doesn’t seem to be a signal.”

  “They’re jamming it.” Ayesha was surprised it had taken Bebe Daniels’s people this long; she guessed they hadn’t been expecting any resistance. “They’ll have cut the wires, too. These people leave nothing to chance.”

  The pounding on the doors hadn’t stopped. Now voices could be heard as well, calling for someone to open up.

  “Those doors are very thick,” Joram observed, frowning. “We should hardly be able to hear them, let alone understand them.”

  “Through here.” Simon Knollys led the way to an alcove on the far side of the now-closed moat doors. An archer’s slit was cut into the three-foot-thick masonry of the wall—the reason why they could hear those outside. The slit was cunningly made with sloped sides so the defending archer had a good field of view of the outside, but it would be much more difficult for those outside to see in.

  Peering through the slit, Ayesha counted five camouflage-clad mercenaries in her immediate sight line. All of them had Uzis cradled in their arms. Bebe Daniels was there, too, clad entirely in black, also armed. Even as she watched, Bebe’s gaze swung in the direction of the arrow slit. The slight, dark-haired woman’s eyes narrowed as she attempted to pierce through to what lay behind it. “Who’s there?” she called. “Open this door! Now!”

  Joram eased past Ayesha and leaned into the slit. “What do you want?” he yelled.

  Bebe Daniels smiled, the smile of a serial rapist. “You know what we want. Let us into the castle. Give us Harold’s sword, show us the way to the treasure, and we’ll let you all go.”

  Joram laughed. “Forgive me, but I really don’t have any reason to believe that. And just what do you propose to do if we refuse? Huff and puff and blow these walls down? Your guns aren’t going to be much good.”

  Bebe Daniels swung up the weapon she had been holding loosely in one hand. Without even seeming to aim, she fired a single shot at the arrow slit. It smacked against the brick wall—where Joram would have been if he had not had the good sense to throw himself sideways the instant he saw Bebe’s arm move.

  Joram moved well out of the way of the arrow slit before he got to his feet. Ayesha stepped back to give him room. Suddenly conscious of the silence behind her, she swung round.

  The door to the Headless Drummer stood wide, but the noise that had swelled from it moments before had stilled. The space between the door and the bar was packed with anxious, wide-eyed faces.

  Simon Knollys stepped forward into the silence and nodded to the one person in the group inside the pub who was not in his late teens or early twenties. A stocky man in his mid-forties with short-cropped dark hair and a military bearing about him leaned against the bar, pint of lager in one hand. He nodded back.

  “Miller,” Knollys said. “I don’t have time to explain, but the castle is under attack. Seriously under attack, by people with guns,” he added, raising his voice in response to the growing hubbub that met his first statement.

  “Communications?” Miller asked him.

  “Down. They’re jamming us, apparently.” Knollys turned to Ayesha. “This is Ian Miller. He runs the medieval warfare program. Ex-SAS. He knows his stuff.”

  The noise in the small pub was growing. One girl, sturdy looking and barely out of her teens, with fair hair that flopped low over her forehead, broke into loud sobs.

  “Terrorists!” someone shouted. A girl screamed shrilly.

  Ayesha strode forward into the uproar and held up a hand. “It is not terrorists!” She climbed on a chair. All eyes were riveted on her. She was aware of the state she must look: one leg naked, thigh wrapped in a bloody bandage. Bloodied forehead and face. Scrapes and cuts all over. Her hair covered in dust and ash. Huge sword in one hand. Hardly a reassuring image. “There is no time to explain now, but there is a great treasure below this castle. Evil people, not terrorists, but just as bad, or worse, are after it. They are driven not by fanaticism or by religious creed, but simple greed. They will stop at nothing. Nothing! Not even the deaths of everyone in this castle.” She hadn’t been strictly truthful about Bebe Daniels’s motivation—Malcolm’s motivation, rather—not that she was entirely sure what it was, but it seemed best to keep things simple.

  Ayesha had everyone’s attention now; there was total silence. She surveyed the faces of the young people in front of her. “We don’t know how many we’re up against. They’re well armed, and merciless. We can’t call the police. They’ve jammed phone signals. Internet, too,” she added, before anyone raised the inevitable question, observing that several of the students were thumbing phones.

  “We’re armed, too.” This from a stocky young man with curly red hair, who stood at the front of the group, a scabbarded sword thrust through his broad leather belt. He looked like he would relish using it.

  “Indeed, we are armed.” Ayesha raised Harold’s great sword high over her head so that everyone could see it. “From what I’ve seen this castle is much better armed than most.” Applause greeted her statement; a frisson of excitement tingled her spine. Her eyes pricked with sudden tears. And gentlemen of England now abed. She couldn’t help it. Her mouth split into a grin. She saw several answering smiles. Her spirits soared.

  “Aye.” Ian Miller stood. “The castle is well armed. And we’ve a few surprises those people outside won’t soon forget.” He nodded to a tall, slim girl with dark hair tucked under a green leather helmet. “M
arian, take your archers up to the battlements,” he commanded. “Fire on anyone who approaches the castle.”

  Marian! Was there a Little John, too? Ayesha saw the mad look in Joram’s eyes. The look, she knew, would find a reflection in her own.

  “Fire?” Marian’s expression was aghast. “You mean at them?”

  “Aye.” Miller nodded, grim-faced. “You heard what this lady said.” He glanced at Ayesha. “These people are out to kill. We have no choice. We’ll try and work out a way to get in touch with the police, but we have to hold them off in the meantime.”

  “He’s right.” Ayesha’s eyes found Marian’s, held the girl’s gaze. “I’ll come with you. Do you have a spare bow? I used to be pretty good.” She jumped down from the chair and turned to follow the young student, who, pale-faced, was making her way to the door.

  Joram came after her. Ayesha squeezed his arm. “Stay here.” It cost her a lot to say those words. More than anything she wanted Joram with her. “Unless you’re handy with a longbow. I’m sure Mr. Miller can use your help.”

  “That I can.” Miller nodded. “There’s going to be plenty of work for everyone. We’re going to need to reinforce the reception door. Patrol the perimeter, too. With communications out, we’ll need messengers.” A sudden grin transformed his face, making him appear younger. Wild. “Then we’ll show them what this castle’s made of!”

  Chapter 46

  Ayesha clambered out onto the wall walk at the top of the castle. The girl, Marian, had led a mad dash up a winding stone staircase and through the tiny turret that, for defensive reasons, only allowed passage of one person at a time onto the battlements.

  Ayesha was encumbered with Harold’s sword, as well as a longbow and a quiver of arrows that she’d slung over her shoulder. Marian had thrust these into her arms as they raced through a room on the far side of the gatehouse, on their way to the staircase. The armory for the siege warfare classes, it was filled with all manner of weaponry: pikes, halberds, swords, longbows, and crossbows. Another time Ayesha would have lingered to examine them. She had stopped only long enough to add a leather draw glove.

  Laying her weapons down, Ayesha crouched beneath an embrasure directly over the main gate. Five student archers in addition to Marian—two young women and three young men, all barely out of their teens—had pounded up the staircase behind them. All of them carried stout longbows made from the traditional yew. Ayesha looked doubtfully at the nominal leader of the group. Marian was shivering; not from the cold.

  Ayesha leaned through the embrasure and peered down. Eight of the enemy, including Bebe Daniels, milled around the gatehouse entrance. None of them were looking up or seemed to have any concern that they might be observed. Let alone attacked. Ayesha lifted her gaze to the other side of the moat. Six more mercenaries, all in a mix of camouflage gear, Longo’s bald head distinctive among them, wheeled something toward the bridge: a large wooden frame, mounted on wooden wheels that squeaked and groaned as it moved. Within the frame, a huge log, more a tree trunk, was slung on chains on which it swung slowly back and forth as the thing was wheeled forward. Something was mounted on the front end of the log. A carved ram’s head, complete with curving horns. Ayesha’s jaw tightened. A battering ram. It must be one of the castle’s collection of siege weapons that Niobe had told them about.

  She stepped down from the embrasure. “What are we going to do?” Marian asked her. She was white-faced, her teeth chattering audibly.

  “Discourage them.” Ayesha grinned. Although it didn’t seem to help Marian, her attitude infected the other students. All of them looked as if they were itching for a fight. Marian might be their nominal leader, but Ayesha would have to take charge.

  Ayesha addressed the group. “The enemy is below. They are bringing up your battering ram to force entry to the gatehouse. It’s our job to stop that from happening. Right?”

  A couple of the students high-fived each other. Most of the others nodded. Marian, too, although she still looked unsure.

  “One thing first. You”—Ayesha looked at the stocky youth with curly red hair who’d spoke up in the pub; she’d caught his name, Matt—“and you,” she said to a slight red-haired girl with a face covered in freckles; Josie, she thought. “Do a quick circuit of the battlements. See if you can spot any of the enemy anywhere else.” Both nodded and then dashed off on their assigned duties.

  Ayesha turned back to the embrasure. The mercenaries wheeling the ram had reached the far side of the stone bridge. She picked up her quiver and slung it over her shoulder, slipped on the leather glove, picked up her longbow, and practiced her draw.

  The two students whom Ayesha had sent to reconnoiter returned.

  “All clear,” Matt said.

  “Same here,” Josie echoed.

  “Okay. Everyone take an embrasure. Get ready, but don’t fire until I say so.”

  “What, no speech?” Matt grinned at her.

  Ayesha was sorely tempted. For the first time in her life, she felt uplifted with a spirit of pure joy at the sheer righteousness of her cause. Defending a great historical treasure and a castle filled with young people against forces of undoubted evil. What adventurer could ask for more? “Let’s save that until the battle’s won.”

  Ayesha mounted the fire step. Once more, she leaned through the embrasure and looked down. The group with the ram had stopped. Then they moved forward again and onto the bridge over the moat. Bebe Daniels’s group, immediately below, shifted to the sides of the bridge to give the ramming party room. Still no one had looked up at the battlements.

  Ayesha drew one of the thirty-inch arrows, made of ash with an iron arrowhead, from her quiver. She lay it against the left side of her bow and arranged her fingers in the basic Mediterranean draw she had been taught many years before: forefinger on the string above the arrow, middle and ring finger on the string below it. She leaned back from her embrasure and called to the students. “Fire when they reach the middle of the bridge. After that, independent fire.”

  “You really mean it, don’t you?” Marian’s voice wobbled with fear.

  Ayesha looked calmly at the student. “Yes,” she said. “It really is them or us. Just like it was for the people who built this castle. Or your own grandparents, seventy years ago, when the Nazis threatened to invade. History doesn’t always happen to someone else. Today, Marian, it’s happening to you!” The girl swallowed hard, then she nodded grimly and climbed up to an embrasure, reaching for an arrow from her quiver.

  Adrenaline pumped through Ayesha’s system. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been so excited. About killing. When she drew back on her bow, it was as if she had been practicing all her life. She no longer felt the strain on her muscles. She picked a spot on the bridge. Waited. The group with the ram was ten feet from the spot. Eight. Six. Four. Two.

  The leading mercenary on the side of the ram nearest to her wore standard camouflage gear. A black balaclava was pulled down over his face, the holes left for eyes and mouth giving him the appearance of an alien creature. His weapon was slung over his shoulder and he walked steadily forward, muscles straining as he helped to push the giant siege engine, entirely oblivious to the woman on the castle battlements who had him in her sights. Ayesha took a deep breath. Waited the tiniest fraction of a second. Then she released her arrow. Automatically, she reached for another. She heard a dull thunk and a howl of pain. The mercenary, her target, collapsed onto the bridge, shot through the upper thigh. Writhing in pain, he tugged impotently at the shaft of the arrow.

  At the same moment the students released their arrows. Another mercenary reeled backward, his chest pierced. He fell against the side of the bridge and cartwheeled over the low stone wall that edged its sides. He dropped into the moat, disappearing into the murky water with barely a splash. One arrow embedded itself into the wooden framework of the ram itself. The rest clattered onto the surface of the bridge. It was enough. The remaining mercenaries abandoned the siege engine, turned, and
raced off the bridge.

  Bebe Daniels’s group in front of the gatehouse had been stunned by the assault from above. They did not stay stunned. Whirling and crouching, they took up defensive positions on the bridge, their weapons pointed at the battlements.

  “Down!” Ayesha yelled. She jumped back. Just in time. A hail of bullets slammed into the battlements. The fusillade was murderous, but no bullets penetrated the embrasures. None of her group was hit. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of Marian. The girl was transformed; she was no longer shivering with fear, her eyes alight with the fire of battle.

  As soon as the firing stopped, Ayesha leaped for her embrasure, bow drawn, arrow in place. She sighted on a camouflage-clad figure. Released. She was rewarded by a scream of pain. Another followed as the students let fly.

  Bebe Daniels’s group beat a rapid retreat across the bridge. One figure lay sprawled on his back, sightless eyes staring past the long shaft that protruded from his throat. Another, shot through the upper arm, was aided by two companions. Bebe herself brought up the rear. She walked backward, wearing an expression of disdain, her Uzi pointed up at the battlements. Ayesha drew back on her bow. Bebe saw her and let fly with a burst of gunfire. Chips of stone flew from the wall just below the battlements.

  Ayesha ignored them. She had Bebe fair in her sights when she released. The arrow flew straight and true. “Damn!” she exclaimed. The black-clad woman spun round, dropping her Uzi. The arrow had grazed her arm. Scooping up the weapon, she jogged after her men.

  “Round one to us.” Ayesha shook her head. He that outlives this day, she said to herself, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d. It was only round one. Bebe Daniels would not give up easily.

  Chapter 47

  Bebe Daniels was naked, except for the narrow leather band she wore at her throat. His band. She could never remove it. Unless at his command. His protégé was strapped, facedown with leather thongs, to an iron rack. Chains, and a wooden block, saw to it that her legs were spread and her butt raised. He could take her whenever he wanted. But first…he eyed the selection of whips in the wall-mounted rack…there must be pain.