“Much better, my lord. Thanks to the surgeon.”
“Excellent,” continued Lord Richard, “let’s hope your son stays out of the way of horses in future. We can’t have your wife throwing herself in harm’s way all the time.”
He stepped forward to look at the next man. “William Blackwood, you old rogue! I suppose you’re here for the glory?”
The man nodded back.
“Harold Cooper, I’m surprised to see you. Why did you volunteer?”
The man blushed deeply.
“He’s recently met a young lady,” proclaimed Gerald, “and wants to impress her.”
Fitz chuckled, “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any.”
He looked to the last man. “Roger Graves, I see you’re much recovered.”
Graves nodded. He'd recently gotten arrested for being drunk and fighting in the tavern. He had just finished his punishment; three days in the pillory, and he was, no doubt, trying to make amends for his behaviour, for he had become a social outcast due to his antics.
“Very well, I can see you’re all rogues, but that is what is called for. Now, let’s get started.” He looked about dramatically before continuing, “Let us head to the guest rooms.”
Gerald was confused, “The guest rooms Lord?”
“Yes, it’s on the south side of the keep. We can lower ourselves outside the walls by a rope, and the shadows will conceal us. Besides, anywhere else, and we risk being seen by our own men. Being arrested before we can even begin would be embarrassing!"
Gerald grinned, “You’ve thought this out well, my lord.”
The older man looked back, a smile on his face, “I have indeed.”
“There’s just one thing you’ve forgotten Lord,” Gerald offered conspiratorially.
Lord Richard stared back, confusion written on his face. “Forgotten? What is it I’ve forgotten?”
“This,” said Gerald and he smeared mud over his lordship’s face. “We have to hide your lily-white face, my lord, else the enemy will see us coming from miles away.”
The men around him snickered quietly.
“I knew I had you around for a reason,” complimented Fitz. “I should have thought of this myself. Come along, we have work to do.”
It took the band of infiltrators some time to lower themselves from the keep. Upon landing, they carried no torches, lest the enemy see them, and covered themselves liberally in mud to hide their appearance as an extra precaution. The very darkness that kept them concealed also hampered them, leaving Gerald feeling that they were stumbling around. He had spent a significant portion of his adult life at Bodden, thought he knew every acre, but creeping along in the darkness he found new experiences with uneven ground and unexpected rabbit holes.
They began their sortie going eastward, paralleling the southern wall of the keep, until it was out of view, and then headed north. In the distance, the torches surrounding the catapults could be seen. There were six of the large siege engines. They had been firing continuously for hours, so much so that the rhythmic cranking of the winches had become general background noise to all within earshot.
Now, as they crept closer, came the most dangerous part of their mission, for they would soon be in the area lit by the torches.
They crouched in a shallow ditch and unsheathed their weapons. Fitz was beside Gerald and leaned in close.
“You take Blackwood and Fletcher,” he whispered, “move around to the east end of the catapults and work your way west. I’ll take Cooper and Graves and strike from the west. The catapults are in a straight line. Start from your end and work your way toward us. There’s plenty of torches around. You understand what to do?”
“Aye, my lord. The pig grease they use to lubricate the gears should burn nicely. They’ll have a hard time putting out the fire.”
“Be careful,” Fitz warned, “it can spit, and we don’t want to set fire to ourselves.”
Gerald poked his head up over the ditch. “Get ready to go, my lord. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.” He stared at the enemy catapults, watching the sentries as they moved. Norlanders were not a militaristic society; they were raiders, nothing more. The concept of organized patrols was foreign to them. He could see two men wandering the near side of the camp, close enough to cause problems should any of the Mercerians be noticed. He waited for the furthest man to turn his back, then waved Lord Richard and his group forward.
He watched them disappear into the darkness, turning his attention to the two remaining guards. Dropping back down into the ditch, he pulled Blackwood and Fletcher toward him.
“We’ll have to take out the sentries,” he whispered, “or we’ll never get to the catapults.”
“Let me go first,” offered Blackwood. “I’ll take out the man on the right, you two watch the other. If he looks like he’s seen me, rush him.”
Gerald agreed, pulling the shield from his back. He watched Blackwood disappear in the darkness, crawling parallel to the guard to get closer. A moment later, the man was swiftly silenced, falling to the ground with a muffled cry.
The second man turned and started to walk back towards the first. Gerald rose from the ditch and began moving forward quietly, his sword and shield held at the ready. Fletcher rose behind him, following his path forward. The second guard continued on his route which was bringing him closer to their position, then something made him look in their general direction. The man’s eyes went wild as he perceived their presence in the dark, then he unslung his battle axe.
Gerald cursed under his breath, increasing his speed, careless of the noise it might make. He struck a solid blow, but the enemy parried it, causing a considerable clang to ring out as the weapons met. To his left, Fletcher successfully attacked the man’s other arm, a small cut appearing, glittering eerily by torchlight.
He could hear a clash of steel to his right and realized that Blackwood had encountered additional resistance, but all his attention must be devoted to the fight in front of him.
He shield-bashed his opponent, forcing him back, then lunged forward with his sword. He felt the point sink in but his adversary was fast, and it only gave the man a surface wound.
His enemy returned with a vicious overhand blow, but Gerald raised his shield just in time to feel the axe bury its blade deeply. Pushing the shield forward again, he felt the weapon release. He swung low with his sword, but the man knew his business and jumped back, protecting his legs from damage.
Knowing time was of the essence, he realized he must reach the catapults as promptly as possible. He waited for the blow, parried it with his sword, then drove the edge of his shield into the man’s chest. The man staggered back, and he continued to push forward, kicking his opponent’s knee out from under him as he advanced. Falling prone to the ground left his adversary wide open for Gerald to drive his blade through his chest. A brief glance told him Blackwood was fighting to his right, some twenty feet away. The first catapult was directly ahead, and three men were lifting a rock into the catapult’s bucket, unaware of the danger that lurked nearby.
Gerald rushed forward, slashing one in the back. His target let out a scream of agony and fell to the ground, causing the other two to drop the rock. The remaining soldiers looked surprised but recovered their wits quickly. By the time Gerald had pulled his blade from his target, the others had drawn their weapons.
He parried the first clumsy strike but felt another attack on his shield arm. There was a ringing sound as the sword scraped across his chainmail, saving him from serious injury, but the force of the blow left his arm numb, and he nearly dropped his shield.
He slashed out with his blade at the man on his left, then used the hilt of his sword to smash the second man in the face as he drew it back. He felt blood on his hand and knew he had done considerable damage. He could hear Fletcher coming up behind him. “Grab the torches!” he yelled and turned back to the skirmish.
It took him only a moment to realize the man with the shattered face was ru
nning away. He ignored him and swivelled towards his second target with his sword already in motion, feeling the blade dig deep into his opponent’s flesh. Pushing his blade forward, he unexpectedly felt a sharp jab in his chest. His opponent's sword penetrated his chainmail; then it continued scrapping painfully along his ribs. The discomfort was intense but served to focus his attention solely on this encounter. He immediately withdrew his sword and stabbed again before a defence could be mounted, leaving him with one less sword to defeat.
He looked around, trying to gather a sense of what was happening. Fletcher was holding a torch trying to light the greased gears. The fat was starting to bubble, and he had no doubt it would soon be alight. Standing at the second catapult in line, Blackwood could be seen fighting a man at the first one. Many of the catapult’s crew had fled in terror at the start of the fight, but he could hear yells echoing around the enemy camp. They would not have long before the soldiers mounted a counter-attack. If they wanted to make this a successful foray, they must act without delay.
He could perceive fighting to the west. He looked over, seeing by the light, flames engulfing the far catapult. Light framed the figure of Lord Richard swinging his sword, as one of his men carried the torch to the next target. He wheeled to the right to see Blackwood, bleeding from his arm, holding a torch to light the first siege engine. A group of three men was running toward him, and Gerald moved to intercept.
He growled as he rushed forward, forcing them to take notice of him. Two turned to face him, while the third continued on. The first charged, but Gerald quickly blocked with his shield. So busy was he with this action, however, that he failed to see the other strike him. The blade bit into his arm, piercing his chain shirt and caused a shock of pain to travel up his arm. His sword dropped from his hand, and he swore as the man struck again. He rotated his shield skillfully, then pushed out, forcing the man back. His sword was now by his feet, so he stamped forward, pushing the edge of the shield toward his opponent. The man grudgingly stepped back, and Gerald crouched to retrieve his weapon.
As his hand grasped the hilt, the next blow glanced off his shield, making contact with his helmet. Knocked to the ground, he automatically rolled, desperately trying to avoid the expected flurry of attacks. He heard a groan as he saw Fletcher’s sword strike the man beneath the armpit, collapsing his enemy.
Fletcher helped him to his feet, “We must hurry, there are more coming.”
Gerald looked up and down the line. Three of the catapults were starting to burn, two at their end, and one down by Fitz. Blackwood came up beside him, brandishing a torch, a body behind him still burning from a strike.
“This way,” commanded Gerald, “Fitz needs our help.”
They travelled to the west, towards the third catapult. Blackwood started to light it while Fletcher stood watch, but there was no opposition. In the areas not illuminated by the flaming catapults, the darkness created mass confusion. The attack had come suddenly, taking the enemy by surprise. Now they ran around in the dark, fearing a full-scale assault.
Gerald ran past the third catapult looking for Lord Richard. He could see something happening near the fifth siege engine, and the sudden clash of steel drew his attention.
He came around the catapult to see Lord Richard on his knees; his shield held above him to stop the rain of blows that were descending upon him.
Gerald struck swiftly, stabbing an attacker in the shoulder as he ran by. He held the shield in front of him and ploughed into the next target, sending him sprawling to the ground. A solid thrust with a sword finished him off.
Lord Richard peered out from under his shield and struck with his sword, the blade cutting out the final assailant’s legs from beneath him. The man fell with a horrifying scream and was finished off with an efficient stab.
Cooper ran up to them, bleeding heavily from an arm wound, a burning torch held in his other hand. “We’ve fired the first two catapults,” he shouted, then fell to the ground, an arrow protruding from his back.
The whistle of more arrows flying through the air was all it took for Fitz and Gerald to duck behind the catapult.
“Graves?” enquired Gerald.
“Dead. Took a spear to the back, the bastards.”
Another volley of arrows whistled by, but it was evident they were shooting blindly.
“We must get back to the keep,” declared Lord Richard, “our work here is done.”
“Fall back,” hollered Gerald, hoping the others could hear him.
He glanced about and saw Blackwood and Fletcher by the third catapult. He waved them off and observed them running back toward the keep.
“Come on Lord,” shouted Gerald above the noise of the roaring fires, “we need to get out of here.”
Fitz nodded in agreement.
They rose from the cover of the catapult and ran as if the very Guardian of the Underworld was after them, their shields on their backs for some degree of protection. Arrows whistled past them and thudded as they struck the ground. Gerald felt two hit his shield, but he kept running, pumping his legs with all the energy he could muster.
They left the lit perimeter of the catapults and were engulfed in darkness, finally able to slow their pace. Off to the left, he heard Blackwood as they turned, diving into the same shallow ditch they had used when they started their mad escapade.
Gerald lay back, his lungs aching, desperately trying to pull in enough air. He heard yelling in the camp and could tell from the confusion that the enemy had lost sight of them.
He caught his breath, then suddenly the sky lit up as a massive fire erupted on the north wall of Bodden. Gerald looked south, saw the shadows flickering across the open space, and instinctively knew what had happened; while they were burning catapults, the enemy had assaulted the wall. Baron Edward, true to his word, had lit the combustibles and now a massive fire engulfed the half-finished north wall of the Keep.
The screams of the dying echoed across the ground. Lord Richard, his face lit by the flickering light, swore.
“The wall,” he yelled, “we have to help!”
They rose as one, each man knowing his duty, grasping their swords and shields as they moved in unison toward the terrible scene of carnage.
The smell of burnt flesh assailed their noses as they closed the range. It was as if they were entering the very Halls of the Underworld itself, as they made their way forward.
The fire had erupted suddenly, the force of it flinging stone far and wide. Rubble was strewn across the ground impeding the Norlander’s retreat from the wall.
A group of perhaps a dozen or so bore away someone on a makeshift stretcher, a nobleman no doubt, but the small group ignored them.
It took them some time to reach the remains of the wall. There was rubble from the blast that formed a ramp to the breach. They climbed it slowly, the rock tumbling beneath their feet as they took their steps. Soldiers were stripping armour off the dead, even women and children had rushed forward to find loved ones or recover valuables, but they ran off at the sight of the four warriors.
The returning quartet mounted the top of what was left of the wall, to look directly into Bodden itself. The explosion had spread into the village and set fire to two of the buildings. There was a dark smear on the ground where some inhabitants had been blown back by the force of the explosion. The survivors were staggering around, some clutching their heads as blood dripped from their ears.
Standing still, examining the carnage, Gerald was overwhelmed by the damage that had been inflicted. He slumped to one knee as a sense of dread overtook him.
Hearing the crunch of broken stone, he looked up to see Sir James approaching.
“My lord?” the knight said. His face was covered in soot and grime, but Gerald could still see the sorrow upon it.
Lord Richard turned towards the intrusion, his face still holding a look of horror. “What is it?” he demanded.
“I’m afraid the baron is dead, Lord.”
“Dead?
”
“Yes, my lord. He lit the fire when the enemy topped the wall. No one expected it to erupt the way it did. There was a tremendous noise, and then the wall was engulfed.”
“Where is his body?” demanded Lord Richard.
“Blown to oblivion, I’m afraid there’s nothing left of him,” Sir James apologized.
Lord Richard stood in disbelief, his head still trying to make sense of the devastation before him.
In a sombre voice, Sir James declared, “You are the baron now, Lord. What is your will?”
Gerald could see the pain of his brother's loss in Lord Richard’s face, but Fitz was a practical man and knew that he must take action now, for there would be time later for mourning.
Lord Richard looked around, the fires still burning, lighting his face with an eerie glow. “Place guards on this wall. I doubt they’ll attack again. We’ve broken their will.”
As he talked, he became more animated, and Gerald could see the energy returning to the man. Gerald heaved himself to his feet, and Fitz turned to him. “Gerald, see that this wall is shored up as best you can. Sir James?”
“My lord?”
“You will take orders from Sergeant Matheson here. Do as he says.”
“He’s not a noble, my lord,” objected Sir James.
“He has my complete confidence to carry out my will,” Fitz barked back, “and I am the new baron, correct?”
The knight backed down. The new baron might have unusual ideas, but he was Lord of Bodden now. “Of course, my lord,” he replied apologetically.
“Then do as I say. Gerald, when you’ve got this secured, meet me in the map room. I have something else to attend to first.”
“Aye Lord,” he replied and started giving orders.
It was dawn by the time he made it to the map room. Fitz was standing by the north window, staring out at the remains of the Norland camp. The enemy had left in a hurry, the explosion at the wall had been devastating to both sides. Perhaps they could have continued the siege if the catapults had been intact, but now the ghostly siege engines stood alone, the charred remains still smoking in the early morning light.
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