Martin tried to stay calm as he stepped forward. His first instinct was to punch the smug Proctor in the face—maybe that would get a reaction from the Commander.
“Did you not receive the messenger from Milecastle nigh on a week ago?” he said.
“Yes,” the old soldier said. “And he’s in irons in the castle dungeons, for spreading sedition and rumour. The best part of the town fled because of him.”
“Yes,” said the Proctor. “He destroyed the trade. There’s been nothing bought or sold in the town since. He’ll rot in the cells for many years before I forgive him. If I’d had my way he’d be hanging from the castle walls.”
It was all Martin could to do restrain himself from killing the man in front of him.
“It is not your place to give that man forgiveness,” he said angrily. “He was about the Thane’s business, and under his protection. If he is not let free in the next five minutes, then you are the one who will be hanging, and I will see to it personally.”
The fat man was full of splutter and bluster.
“He said the Boy-King had raised the Stuart Standard at Glenfinan. And how would he know that? He was merely spreading sedition and wild rumour.”
Martin stepped further into the room.
“And these would be the self same rumours which overran the wall just last night? The rumours which took two thirds of the forces of the best guarded fort on the stretch? The rumours which killed my father, the old Thane, a far better man than the two sorry specimens I see here?”
The old army man got out of his chair, full of indignation.
“Now see here, sir, I will not tolerate insubordination in my command.”
Martin was fighting hard to contain his anger as he stepped forward to be nose to nose with the old man.
“Then it is lucky for you that I do not fall under your command. I would have put you on your fat arse long since.”
The fat Proctor was also on his feet by now.
“You cannot talk to the Commander in that way,” he said, his jowls trembling in indignation.
“Be quiet,” Martin said, his voice low. “And listen, if you want to be alive come morning.”
The fat man’s face had turned beetroot red, but one look at Martin was enough to stifle any argument he was about to make.
“Despite what you have heard, or what you wished to hear, the rumours are true. The Boy- King has returned, and he has raised an army that even now may be knocking at your gates.”
He gave them a short summary of the events of the night before, and was gratified to see them react—first incredulous, then shocked, then their eyes betraying a growing awareness of how desperate their plight was.
“You need to bring your men back from those barricades, and get them inside the wall,” he said. “They will be overrun in minutes if they are left out there exposed.” “Nonsense,” the old soldier said. “We have cannon, plenty of them, and a musket for every man, and this troop has seen action in the colonies against the French. They are more than a match for a bunch of barbarians.”
Martin grabbed the old man by the throat.
“Have you been listening at all? Your soldier’s toys are just that. The Boy-King will laugh at them as he walks in here, then he will take them and use them for his own devices.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Get them back behind the walls.”
The Proctor found the courage to speak.
“But you cannot. They are out there to protect the streets of the town from loot and pillage— the tradesmen that I represent demand that they stay.”
Martin let the soldier go and turned on the fat man who took a step backwards and knocked over the drinks that had been sitting on the small table.
“Our adversaries are not interested in loot and pillage. Can the already dead eat your meats? Can they spend your gold? Mayhap you think they are interested in fine furniture? They are only interested in your body, and the hot blood therein.” He looked the Proctor up and down. “And a very tasty morsel you will make for them.”
The Proctor looked at Cunningham for support, but the old soldier was staring at Martin, and he had the grace to look ashamed.
“We had no idea,” he said. “All my life there have been rumours, and still he did not come. How was I to know?”
“You didn’t have to know. All you had to do was your duty. And in that you have been remiss,” Martin said.
“Aye. I can see that now. But the Proctor here told me that the Boy-King died in the great fire. He said he had proof.”
“Nevertheless,” Menzies said, “there is no excuse for sloppy soldiering.”
Martin marvelled at how astute the old doctor was—he had said the one thing guaranteed to get through to an old war-horse. Cunningham straightened his back and tried, unsuccessfully, to cover his belly with his tunic.
“If you will not call your men back to the wall, then I will,” Martin said. “For I have the right as Thane of Milecastle to take control of your men if I deem it necessary.”
“I am still commander of this garrison,” the old soldier said, and called out for the guard. The man they had passed on the stairs arrived at a pace that could hardly be called fast.
“Call out every man and get them on the walls,” Cunningham told him. “And get the watch to fall back to the castle.”
The guard stared, slack-mouthed, at the old soldier.
“Now!” Cunningham roared, “Or do I have to put you on a charge?” The guard visibly flinched before leaving at a run.
“The tradesmen will not support this,” the Proctor said. Cunningham turned on him.
“Blast you and your soft-bellied traders. How many of them are still here? Three? Four? Most of them headed south days ago. As would you if you weren’t so fat,” he said.
The Proctor sat down in an armchair, so hard that the chair slipped backwards nearly a foot. The fat man looked too stunned to speak as Cunningham continued. “I have listened to your mealy-mouthed platitudes for too long. I allowed you to tax those poor farmers just for the use of the ground they sit on out there. “Then you talked me out of sending reinforcements to Milecastle when the rumours began. You persuaded me to construct that ridiculous barricade, and you lulled me into security with your fine port and your bribes.”
The Proctor looked as if he was going to speak, but the Commander leaned over him and bellowed in his face.
“No! Be still! Enough is enough. Now is the time for fighting, although I don’t think you will be much use on that front. Mayhap the young Thane is right. Mayhap we will toss them a fat morsel—you might keep them busy for a while.”
The Proctor’s face went white as the blood drained from it, and he started to bluster again. The old soldier ignored him and turned back to Martin.
“My apologies, sir. Lately I have been feeling my age and reliving old battles instead of preparing for new ones. We will make up for that lapse this night.”
Martin was grinning as the old soldier led him from the room, but the grin faded quickly as the drone of bagpipes filtered through the walls.
“Whatever you plan to do, it would be best to do it quickly, for I fear they are upon us already,” Menzies said.
They descended the stairs at a run and entered the courtyard to find the place in turmoil. People were running everywhere, women frantically rounding up their children, men rushing for whatever weapons they could put a hand on. Horses and cattle, sheep and goats were all frantically jostling for escape from their yokes and pens.
“Do you have people with you?” the Commander said, shouting to make himself heard above the hubbub.
Martin nodded.
“Out there, just beyond the gate.”
“Best get them back in here then. I’ll go to my men and try to get you some cover.”
They fought their way through the seething crowd, trying to ignore the fearful screams of women and children. When they reached the main castle gate they saw, over the top of the houses, the thin red line of th
e troops moving slowly backwards away from the barricade.
Beyond the barricade a black shadow gathered, a dark line that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, a line that was slowly creeping over the makeshift defences.
“See to your people,” Cunningham said, and ran off at a speed that belied his age, heading out into the dark to be with his men who were still over two hundred yards away from the gate, only just beginning to filter their way backwards through the streets.
Out in the darkness the pipes still screamed, and they were joined by a drum beating in time with the eerie tune. The darkness rolled forward, completely obliterating the barricade, but still it moved slowly, flowing through the narrow streets like tar on water. If their luck held for only a few more minutes, Martin thought that the old man might have a chance of getting his troops back.
He managed to pull his gaze away from the blackness. There was something hypnotic about it, something that reminded Martin of the way the Boy-King had gripped his mind back in Milecastle. But he wasn’t in his sick bed now, and he was able to turn his thoughts away, back to the defence of his people.
They had not been idle while Martin was away. They had turned their carts over in a rough semi-circle around the well, setting up the three bellows to draw water from it. They had pulped the bags of garlic, and were waiting for orders.
“Dump it in,” Martin shouted. “And get the women and children into the inner courtyard. And don’t forget the horses—they’ll be useless out here.”
Four soldiers from the garrison helped get the horses to safety, and Martin was left with Menzies and ten men.
“We’ll have the three men on the bellows at the front. Those of you with muskets, stay behind the carts!” he shouted. “And make your shots count.”
Martin lifted one of the bellows and pumped it hard, testing that it worked. Water flowed from the spout, creating a puddle at his feet, and he nodded, satisfied.
Menzies stood beside him, and he too had a bellows in his hand.
“I had thought to send you to safety, old man,” Martin said. “I’ve lost enough that I hold dear already.”
Menzies merely pointed to the bellows. “My idea, my responsibility,” was all he said.
Someone moved forward to take up the remaining bellows, and Martin was surprised to see one of Milecastle’s womenfolk, her face grim and determined.
“I lost my husband last night,” she said. “And if he’s out there in the dark I mean to be the one who sends him to his eternal rest.” Then she seemed to remember who she was addressing. “With your permission of course, my Thane?”
Martin grinned and nodded.
“Your Thane owes all here a debt of gratitude,” he said, raising his voice. “When we return to Milecastle, and if you desire it, you will all be made officers of the new watch.”
“I will hold you to that, sire.” the woman at his side said, and Menzies chuckled.
“That’s another break with tradition, my Thane. You have just promised to make the first woman watchman.”
“If she is brave enough for it, she will have it,” Martin said. He raised his voice even higher so that even the soldiers on the walls around could hear him. “We will drive the Boy-King out of our country. He is not welcome here.”
A cheer ran out, starting with his own people, then spreading along the walls of the castle. Martin acknowledged them all before turning to face the on-rushing shadow. Old Cunningham had managed to bring his troops to within fifty yards of the gate, and their line was holding steady in a ribbon, two deep, that stretched a hundred yards on either side across the wide parade ground.
Martin could see the old soldier, standing near the middle, barking orders, straight and defiant in the face of the wall of shadow that was now only twenty yards from him, completely obscuring from sight the buildings of the town beyond. Martin could make out the individual shadows, creeping slowly, their eyes shining like those of a rat in the moonlight. There was no sound other than the drone of the pipes and the beating of the drum. The soldiers retreated slowly, and, just as slowly, the Others advanced.
“Hold your fire,” he heard Cunningham shout, but up on the battlements above the defenders the man could bear the tension no longer. A cannon shot boomed out into the night...and that was the signal for all hell to break loose.
The shadows surged forward, like a wall of water, a wall which broke on the shore of Cunningham’s troops and scattered them like so much driftwood.
The cannon on the castle walls boomed in unison. Martin was not surprised to see that most of the shot was flying over the top of the dark army and was instead destroying the fine houses of the town. He allowed himself a wry smile as he thought of the apoplexy the sight would bring to the fat Proctor.
Out on the parade ground Cunningham’s troops were in chaos. All semblance of a drilled fighting unit was lost as pockets of fighting broke out along the ribbon of men and screams began to rent the air. In the midst of it all Cunningham could be seen, trying to get his men to fall back in an orderly fashion while they fell and died around him.
They were less than twenty yards away by now. Martin aimed the nozzle of the bellows over the heads of the soldiers and squeezed, pumping with all his strength. The jet of water arced through the air, sparkling silver. It fell short of the shadows, but covered three of the red-tunics. Immediately the Others fell back away from them, hissing and spitting like wildcats, their skin steaming and boiling where drops of the water had struck.
“Aim for the soldiers!” Martin shouted at Menzies, at the same time climbing over the cart and moving forward to the limit of the bellow’s line from the well.
He sprayed Cunningham, and got a look of surprise and disgust from the old soldier, which turned to amazement as the Others fell away from around him.
He might have been old, but he was not slow on the uptake.
“Close ranks!” he shouted above the din. “To me! To me!”
The red tunics were already down to half their numbers as they closed up. The three bellows pumped gallon after gallon of water over them as they inched backwards, the Others following more slowly, until they began to walk in the quagmire where water had already fallen. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from their boiling skin and they squealed and shrieked as the press of bodies from behind pushed them deeper into mud and water.
Cunningham’s men fell back until there was a semicircle, four men deep, defending the gate, with the three bellows still pumping water over their heads into the darkness beyond.
Martin was able to move back to the protection of the cart. He was vaguely aware that serious fighting was going on to either side of the gate as the Others out of reach of the water began their assault on the walls. Cannon still boomed overhead, their flashes lightening the sky, but still the horde pressed forward.
“Fall back inside the gate in ranks,” Cunningham shouted, and the back rank of four peeled off, running to take a place on the wall. The semicircle tightened further around them, and the Others pressed closer still, trampling over the ranks of their fallen.
Martin, Menzies and the woman pumped their bellows harder, setting up a wall of water, and the Others fell in their dozens. The men behind them started to fire volleys of silver shot into the dark ranks, and the wall of shadow near the defenders actually broke. Although they didn’t retreat, at least they had been stopped from coming forward.
Martin’s hopes were almost beginning to rise.
“We have them on the run, sire,” the woman beside him shouted.
“No,” Menzies said. “The Boy-King will not be running from this fight. For him this is only the first of many.”
As if to prove the doctor’s point, the wall of shadows parted, and pale white figures pushed their way to the front. The water fell on them, but they did not flinch, their dead stares fixed on the thin red line ahead of them. Martin recognised that stare—he had last seen it on Barnstable’s face.
“These can be killed!” he shoute
d to Cunningham. The old man nodded, and ordered a volley, and the first row fell as if cut by a scythe. But just as fast, a second row stepped over them to take their place. Martin saw to his dismay that most of those hit were already struggling to their feet, gaping wounds testament to the accuracy of the shots. The musketmen were hitting their targets, but hardly slowing them.
Before the musketmen could reload, the pale figures were almost on top of them. Cunningham ordered a retreat to the upturned carts, and Martin found himself and his people in the front line as hand-to-hand fighting started among the soldiers to either side.
The sheer weight of bodies from the attackers pushed the carts over before Martin was able to do anything to hold them back. He stepped back quickly and the cart smashed to the ground, just missing his toes.
Old Menzies hadn’t been so lucky. He had tried to back away, but hadn’t been quick enough and was trapped as the fallen cart pinned him at the ankles. To make it worse, the grey bodies were beginning to climb over the broken-backed vehicle, and their weight was stopping the old man from freeing himself. Only the fact that the ground was sodden saved his legs as they settled ever deeper in mud.
Martin stepped over and stood above the old man as the first attacker came through.
“Leave me!” the doctor shouted. “Fall back and save yourself.”
“And what kind of Thane would that make me?” Martin said, and felled the first attacker with one punch to the head. A second stepped forward towards him, but Cunningham stepped in and ran it through the heart with one stroke of his sabre. Turning to one side, Martin saw that the commander had got his troops organised and closed up into a semi-circle around the well once more. “Get your man out of here,” the old soldier said. “We can hold them for a while longer.”
“Well, old man,” Martin said to Menzies. “Shall we leave you there, or would you rather stay with the living?”
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