by Paul Finch
“Out of my way,” she said, trying to shoulder past him.
He grabbed her by the throat and flung her savagely onto her bed. “Arrogant bitch! You think you can treat me like some common tyke, when I hacked the head from your King Harold’s torso! When I took his royal bollocks on the tip of my sword!”
“You should have stuffed them down your own breeches, Norman pig!” she hissed. “Then you’d have had a whole pair!”
“You little whore!” He kicked aside the loom and crochet-frame, and hurled himself on top of her, crushing her into the down-filled mattress.
“I am Count Dagobert’s ward,” she gasped. “You dare not …”
“Count Dagobert will shortly adorn a gibbet,” he laughed, blowing his foetid onion-breath into her face. “And you’ll be sold to the highest bidder. But don’t worry, my pet …” He backhanded her across the face as she tried to struggle, reached down and dragged her skirt up her legs. “They’ll pay a lot less for you when I’m done!”
Then there was a heavy blow, and spittle burst from Drogo’s mouth.
The next thing he knew, a hand had gripped his right ear and was yanking it around, almost tearing it out by the root. Drogo shrieked, staggered upwards to his feet and twisted around as he was forcefully turned. A foot was planted in his backside, and he was shoved across the room, where he toppled into the wreckage of the loom.
“Turold,” Ella sobbed, still flushed with terror but unable to conceal her relief at the sight of the tall figure who now stood over her.
Turold brushed her skirts down, and helped her to her feet. “You’re required below, my lady.” He indicated the open door. “I’ll finish off here.”
“You fucking Saxon-lover!” Drogo spat, drawing his sword as he got to his feet. “You’re the one who’s finished!”
Ella halted in the doorway, fearful. She knew that Turold was skilled and strong, and had won many trials by battle for his overlord. But though he’d now drawn his own longsword, he was still clad in hunting-garb whereas Drogo was fully mailed and sported a dagger as well as a sword.
“Go, my lady,” Turold said, not taking his eyes off the brutish figure before him.
Without further preamble, the twosome clashed. Sparks flew as steel impacted on steel. There were grunts and gasps as they chopped and slashed, circling tightly in the close confines of the bower. Furniture was reduced to matchwood. Sword-points glanced along stonework, striking more sparks.
Still Ella watched, too frightened to move. Her teeth clamped on her knuckle.
Drogo used his dagger and sword alternately, lunging at his opponent’s face one moment, at his throat the next, and at his midriff after that. Turold parried every blow, though one vicious dagger thrust slit the left sleeve of his jerkin, drawing a scarlet line down his forearm. He retaliated, ducking under the swiping longsword and catching Drogo in the throat with an elbow. Drogo tottered backwards but managed to stay upright, the veins like thick cords in his bulging neck.
“Turold!” Ella cried.
“Go, my lady, now!”
She fled, but the fight spilled out into the passage behind her. With more room to manoeuvre, the combatants went at it furiously, exchanging massive blows. Rushes scattered about their feet as they struck. Flickering firelight played on their sweat-soaked faces. Turold managed to push Drogo back against a wall. Their blade edges scraped together as they leaned on each other, nose to nose.
“You’ve betrayed Normandy,” Turold said through gritted teeth. “They’ll remember us only for men like you.”
Drogo head-butted him in the face. Turold staggered groggily back, his nose flowing claret. “They certainly won’t remember you!” Drogo laughed.
Ella watched from the top of the stair as the murderous Norman took aim with a savage downwards swipe, which she felt certain would split Turold to the teeth. But somehow, Turold, though dazed, managed to dodge it. He realised that she was still watching.
“Flee, my lady!” He wasn’t just bloodied now but gasping hard, his sallow cheeks quivering.
Sensing that her champion was beaten, Ella scampered down the stair, weeping.
When she entered the main hall from its eastern doorway, Dagobert, Isabel and Rolf were already waiting there. Isabel immediately crossed the room towards her, but with the door to the stair open, no answers were needed. All of them heard the clashing of blades from the residential apartments. Rolf and Dagobert exchanged alarmed glances.
Behind the tapestry, Eric stiffened.
“Ella … ?” Isabel said, taking the girl in her arms. “What’s happened?”
Rolf crossed the room as well. Next to the Korred’s cage, Count Reynald furtively drew his sword. The fight sounded as if it was now on the stair itself. By their desperate grunts, the combatants were engaging with their last vestiges of strength.
Then, there was a ripping of flesh, followed by a prolonged, choked gasp.
Rolf put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Ella buried her face in Isabel’s bosom.
There was brief silence, before heavy footfalls descended the stair. Dagobert approached the east door, just in time for Drogo to emerge through it, his sword still drawn. He walked casually in, his face fixed with a cruel smile. Reynald crossed the hall to meet him – only to stop in his tracks. A gruesome wound appeared in Drogo’s throat as his head tilted and dropped sideways onto his shoulder. As he slumped to the floor, Turold descended the stair behind him, stumbling with fatigue. His sword was drawn too, only his was sheathed with gore.
Reynald didn’t wait to see more. He turned and ran across the hall, snatching the key from under his cloak.
“Reynald!” Dagobert shouted. “No!”
But Reynald had already reached the cage. He turned, his eyes wide and crazy, spittle hanging from his lips in frothy strands. Despite more protestations, he inserted the key into the padlock on the cage-door, turning it twice.
With a creak of arthritic metal, the cage swung open.
Reynald laughed hysterically, like a man who had literally gone mad. And flung his sword down onto the paving stones.
“KILL THEM!” he screamed. “KILL THEM ALL!”
The first step the Korred took out of the cage was a tentative one, as if it somehow couldn’t believe that freedom was being granted to it. When it came out entirely, it dropped into into a wary crouch, and regarded the family backing away from it. Its crimson eyes fixed on them, and its black lips arced back over the bulging blades of its teeth, but not in a snarl – more as if it wanted to communicate. Then it spied Reynald’s longsword, and if it was possible for a creature dug from the filthiest mud or cut from the crudest rock to actually smile – this one did now, the great mouth drawing back to its ears, the red-filmed eyeballs rolling in their thick, bony orbits. A hand that was more like some monstrous hairy spider scurried across the flagged floor and seized the sword by its leather-bound hilt.
It glanced up at the family again. Its eyes had narrowed to burning slits, and what seemed to be tears of rage seeped out from them. Through the rents in its mail, the dense fur on its neck and shoulders bristled like the hackles on a rabid dog. It lifted itself to its feet, and with a low, rolling growl, raised the longsword. Breath hissing, black mucus bubbling from its flared nostrils, it slowly began to stalk them.
The family gazed at the apparition in disbelieving dread.
Almost as an afterthought, Dagobert grabbed up his longsword and threw himself in front of them. Turold limped up and stood alongside him.
But it was Rolf who rushed to meet it first, snatching up Drogo’s discarded sword. “Father, take the women!” he yelled.
“Rolf, don’t be a fool!” Dagobert shouted.
Rolf drove his blade hard at the creature’s chest, but it parried the blow with ease, smashing its paw across the side of his head, hurling him to the floor.
“Rolf!” Eric cried, fighting his way from behind the tapestry, his own sword drawn.
Reynald looked astonished to see
him, but then pealed with even more hysterical laughter. “Perfect! More grist for the mill!”
Eric was ten yards to the creature’s left, whereas Rolf was lying directly in front of it. It halted, deliberating over which target it should attack first.
“Do as Rolf said, father,” Eric shouted, advancing. “Get the women out!”
The monster turned to face him. Eric moved left, circling away from the others. The Korred pivoted around, still watching him. And that was when Turold raced forward and struck at it. At the same time Dagobert shoved Isabel and Ella towards the main door, while Eric also darted forward. The Korred was distracted. It turned and fended off Turold’s blow, only for Eric to strike home instead, pinning the brute under the arm, drawing blood through a great, ragged hole in its hauberk.
With an ear-pummelling howl, it rounded back on him, and swept its sword down from high. Eric danced aside, just evading it and trying to drag the groggy Rolf to safety. Turold slashed at its mailed shoulder, severing numerous links, drawing yet more blood, but it responded with shocking speed and strength, swiping out a monstrous backhand that would have cloven Turold in half had he not thrown himself bodily backwards – only to find himself jammed against the banquet table.
The Korred swept again at him with its sword. Turold jumped aside and the smashing blow caught the table full-on, splintering the hard oak planking. Turold reeled away, but was felled by a great fragment of timber, which the monster tore from the shattered table and flung after him, catching him in the middle of the back. Eric now charged again. It spun around to meet him, swinging its sword in both hands. Eric had no choice but to meet its blade with his own, and the impact was devastating – his longsword snapped under the cross-hilt and he was flung to the ground, his right arm numbed from wrist to shoulder.
Panting and pumping sweat, he tried to scuttle away, rolling over onto his back as the Korred came after him, its eyes like flaming embers, its tusks bared.
“Eric!” came a shout. “Eric … move!”
Rolf was back on his feet, and had taken a captured Dane-axe from the wall. As he shouted, he rushed the monster from behind, dealing it a savage blow in the back; the heavy, well-honed blade bit deep through mail and hair and muscle.
With a wailing scream, the agonised beast twirled around. The axe-haft was yanked from Rolf’s grasp. He tried to back away, but it was too late. Shrieking like a gigantic demented child, the Korred slashed down with its sword, and Rolf took the full crushing impact on the top of his skull.
“No …” Eric cried, climbing to his feet. “Nooo …”
Rolf collapsed in a heap, blood gushing from his sundered cranium. Not content with that, the Korred clawed with one hand at the hilt of the axe, and, tearing it free, set about the fallen knight with both weapons, raining alternate blows on his prostrate form.
Eric winced as a hand grabbed hold of his aching arm. He turned – it was Turold, grey-faced with pain and clutching his ribs but indicting that they should use the distraction to get clear. Eric allowed himself to be steered across the hall to the eastern door. Beyond this, they stumbled up the steep stone spiral to the residential apartments. Already there was a feral grunting and an elephantine tread coming swiftly in pursuit.
*
Outside the keep, the castle servants milled helplessly on the upper slope of the bailey yard. It was still dark, so many had tripped and fallen in the mud. Others had lit torches or rush-lights, but there was much confusion. When Dagobert, Ella and Isabel staggered outside, Gilbert was forcing his way uphill.
“My lord!” he said. “My lord … ?”
“Gilbert,” Dagobert replied. “Take Lady Isabel and Lady Ella to the gatehouse. Secure it completely. Have all the servants abandon the castle.”
Gilbert still wasn’t sure what was happening. “My lord, what is …?”
Dagobert brandished his sword. “Do as I say. The devil is loose in this place.”
Isabel grabbed him by the wrist. “Dagobert, where are you going?”
“To help my sons.”
“At least take more men.”
“Who, these frightened servants?”
Isabel turned to Gilbert. “Where are the men-at-arms?”
Gilbert shrugged helplessly. In this confusion, it would be difficult locating any of them. “I can search, but …”
“In that case go with Lord Dagobert yourself.”
Gilbert put a hand to the hilt of his sword, only for Dagobert to put his own hand on Gilbert’s chest. “You fought your last battle three years ago, my friend.”
“But my lord!” Gilbert protested.
“I won’t hear of it. You know as well as I, at Hastings you almost died from shortage of breath. Now do as I say. Protect these ladies.”
Isabel objected further, but Dagobert turned and headed back up the keep steps.
“Lady Isabel, please,” Gilbert said, ushering her and Ella away.
Dagobert crossed the drawbridge and ascended quickly to the main hall. However, he was not encouraged to hear only silence overhead. Why had the fighting ceased?
When he entered the hall, he had his answer.
At the far side, beyond the broken hulk of the central table, was the corpse of a man; a man who, despite the hideous violence wrought upon him, was still recognisable.
Dagobert approached slowly. His sword hung low, its point dragging along the stone paving. When he came within a yard of the eviscerated body, he halted. The blood was suddenly cold and sluggish in his veins. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision.
The only consolation was that at least it seemed to have been quick.
Rolf’s head had been sliced like a melon, and clumps of brain-matter had surged out through the gaping fissure in his skull. His limbs had been severed many times by the repeated frenzied blows of an axe. A lake of wine-dark blood had spread out around him, for his torso too had been gruesomely wounded; in many parts, his internal organs were visible.
Dagobert sank to his knees in the gore and, with eyes brimming, took his son in his arms and cradled his smashed head.
“So die all enemies of the king,” came a cold voice.
Slowly and carefully, Dagobert mopped away his tears. Then he turned.
Reynald had stepped from behind a pillar. His bearded face, hairy chest and flat, muscular belly glistened with sweat. He’d retrieved another longsword from the wall, and it now hung from his gauntleted right fist.
When Dagobert replied, his eyes flamed like orbs of molten metal. “You’ve rearmed yourself, I see. Does that mean you’re finally ready to fight your own battle?”
Reynald smiled. “Careful, Count Dagobert. You were a famous warrior once. But now you’re old ... whereas I have slain many hundreds this past year alone.”
“Women and children don’t count, Reynald!”
And with a roar, Dagobert leapt to his feet and charged.
*
Higher up in the keep, Eric and Turold were barricading themselves into Rolf and Isabel’s bedchamber. They thrust benches across the door, along with the sideboard in which Isabel kept her finer clothes.
But the Korred, wielding the sword in one hand and the Dane-axe in the other, battered its way through with ease, and stooped under the arched lintel with a bestial grin. The two knights withdrew through a connecting door into Dagobert’s bedchamber. This was wider, more handsomely furnished with shelving, a table and chairs, and lit by a blazing candelabra. While Turold hurled items across the door, Eric turned for a weapon. Nothing caught his attention, and he could have screamed with frustration.
“Rolf saved my life,” he said, “and that brute-bastard killed him!”
“So make his sacrifice worthwhile, my lord,” Turold replied.
“By barring every door we come to?”
“We can’t stand against it. Your sword-arm looks broken. My ribs are definitely broken. All we can do is buy ourselves time.”
“For what?” Eric said.
“To
get up to the battlements. Once there, we separate. You take the north battlement, I’ll take the south. Whichever one it goes for, the other will be able to slip back down.”
“Or strike it from behind.”
Turold winced as he tried to haul the heavy oaken frame of his overlord’s double-sized bed across the door. “How many times have we struck it already, my lord? It’s a demon.”
Eric assisted him with the bed, though his sword-arm was next to useless. “It’s no demon, Turold. And I’ll prove that.”
A furious impact sounded on the other side of the door. The woodwork cracked; splinters shot out.
“Hurry!” Turold said. But it was already a waste of time.
Another blow was struck, and plaster exploded from around the door’s hinges. The axe-head smashed a hole in the planks. Its blade appeared to jam, though the Korred clearly didn’t need it. Impact after impact followed courtesy of its feet and fists, and the door as last started to sag inwards.
Eric still searched for a weapon, finally focussing on the candelabra, and then on the bed with its linen sheets. “Turold!” He grabbed the candelabra. “Turold, the bedding!”
Turold realised what Eric meant, and just as Korred finally, successfully bashed the door through its frame, he snatched up a bundle of linen. The monster stooped beneath the arch, and Turold struck, hurling the coverlets over its head, draping them over its flailing arms. While the creature tried to wrestle its way past, kicking and striking out in all directions, Eric thrust the candelabra forth and applied the candle-flames. Instantly, the material caught alight. With a ferocious crackle, the fire grew swiftly.
Choking smoke soon filled the room. The Korred blundered back and forth, dropping its sword, its roars becoming shrill squeals. Seizing the advantage, Eric knocked the remaining candles out of the candelabra, and swung the entire thing round like a cudgel, slamming it across the creature’s flaming body. Turold hefted the bed’s mattress – a great, bulky sack filled with straw and goose-down – and flung it on top of the intruder. The fire now raged to tremendous height, licking the ceiling, blackening the wooden beams, throwing dark, tar-like stains across the whitewashed walls.