Stronghold

by Paul Finch

  The doctor smiled to himself.

  "Something amuses you?" Ranulf asked.

  "It certainly does. You occupy the lowest of the equestrian ranks, yet you speak to Earl Corotocus almost as an equal."

  "At some point I'll be punished for that."

  "I've no doubt you will. But he tolerates you for the time being because during this crisis he clearly considers that he needs you. And after what I heard you tell him, about your wise attempt to parley with Countess Madalyn, I would make the same decision."

  "It was a poor plan. It failed."

  "At least it was a plan. And you have my commendation for it, FitzOsbern, if no-one else's."

  There was brief silence, Ranulf eyeing the gleaming knives, scalpels and forceps arrayed in their orderly rows.

  "Why do you clean those things so thoroughly?" he asked.

  "Because I will have to perform more surgeries with them."

  "Is one man's blood poisonous to another?"

  "Maybe. I don't know for certain, but why take the risk?" Zacharius laid down another tool - a screw-handled speculum, which he regularly used to open and clamp deep wounds in order to remove foreign objects buried inside them. "It may also be that even the smallest speck of filth will cause an injury to fester, and lead to blood disorders and death."

  "You have a strong instinct for your profession," Ranulf observed.

  "As do you."

  "All I do is fight. Any man can fight."

  "I can't. Not to your standard."

  "But almost no-one at all can do what you do."

  Zacharius smiled again. "Don't flatter me too much, my friend. We all have our instincts. That stubborn fool Benan's instinct tells him that only God can save us now. He thus refuses to allow me to treat him. He wouldn't even be brought down here to the infirmary, but insisted on making his own way from the Constable's Tower to the chapel, where there is no bed, no warmth - and he had to crawl on his belly most of the distance, because he's lost too much blood to stand. But that's all to the good, he says. He has to win back the Lord's favour, and the only way to do that is by self-imposed penance."

  "You criticise him for it?"

  "Not really." Zacharius sighed. "Who is to say that I am right and Benan is wrong? If forced to make a judgement, I suppose I'd always rather men solved their problems by shedding their own blood rather than the blood of others."

  "And yet you'd have no qualm about cutting one of these creatures open to examine its entrails... even if it is bound with chains and completely harmless?"

  "None whatsoever."

  "Some might say that God would object."

  "Some might also say that if a man were brought to me with a mangled limb, God would object to my removing that limb in order to save the man's life. Do you think He would, FitzOsbern? When in all the great hunting-chases of England, limbs are regularly lopped for the far less edifying reason of punishing poaching, and yet those wielding the axe are almost never struck down or even castigated by holy Church, as far as I can see?"

  Ranulf struggled visibly with his doubts.

  "Surely this is not a difficult concept for you?" Zacharius said. "You who this very night has defied the conventions of his own martial world, bypassing your overlord to make what you believed was a correct decision? But don't trouble yourself with such seditious thinking, my friend. I understand your reservation. How many sacred cattle can we slaughter before we have nothing left to defend? Perhaps it's better to return to your post on the castle wall and leave me in my hospital, where we can both stick to our allotted tasks, which..." He lowered his voice until it was almost inaudible. "Which, in truth, will yield the world little."

  Ranulf moved away from the outhouse, still deep in thought - only to return a few moments later.

  "I can't capture one of these creatures for you," he said from the doorway. "It would be impossible, so there is no point in my even offering to try. But I'll remember what you said for the future."

  Zacharius nodded, as if that was as much as he could expect.

  "And I will try to get you out of here alive," Ranulf added. "If I can."

  "I wouldn't take any more risks if I were you, sir knight. Not on my behalf."

  Ranulf shook his head. "You haven't been outside. You haven't seen what we're facing - not up close. The walls of this castle will not hold them for long."

  "And more's the pity." Zacharius shrugged. "I'll never enjoy a comely lass again."

  "That said, it's not unfeasible that one or two of us may escape. You should be among them."

  "Battle my way to safety, you mean?" The doctor smiled. "My dear FitzOsbern, didn't I just tell you; I'm a lover, not a fighter."

  "Maybe we can smuggle you out?"

  "And would you smuggle my patients with me? You'd need to, because I won't abandon them."

  Ranulf felt frustrated. "But what you've said here needs to be understood more widely."

  "As I say, there are other doctors more learned than I."

  "Doctor Zacharius! This thing that's been unleashed... it won't end here."

  Zacharius regarded him carefully, before shaking his head. "You think more deeply than is good for you, FitzOsbern. More deeply than is good for any of us." He had now finished cleaning his implements and began to wrap them in separate bundles of clean cloth. "Go back to your post."

  "I fear Christendom faces a graver peril now than ever came from the Moslem desert or the Mongol steppe."

  "Then why should I want to survive to see it?"

  Ranulf had no immediate answer to that, because it was a sentiment he was slowly starting to share. Zacharius would no longer talk with him. In fact, he would no longer even look at him. So at length the young knight did as he was bidden, and returned to his post.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  As dawn approached there was, for the first time that year, a feeling that winter at last had flown. Despite the chill, an apricot sky began to arch its way eastwards. Suddenly the trees were rookeries of twittering birds, their bare, twisting branches laden with buds and catkins, their roots resplendent as the first spring flowers poked through the drifts of rotted leaf.

  High above Grogen's western bluff, in a circle of gnarled and ancient oaks, there was a wheel-headed cross, cut from granite and carved all over with intricate knotworks, which its coat of green lichen did little to conceal. This was where Gwyddon found Countess Madalyn. She was kneeling in silence before the ancient edifice, a veil over her hair, her joined hands wrapped with prayer beads. Gwyddon regarded her scornfully, before dismounting.

  "We are ready to resume the assault, countess. This time I recommend that we press it night and day until the English are broken. Give them no respite at all."

  She made no reply.

  "Countess Madalyn..."

  "I am praying, Gwyddon!" she hissed.

  Gwyddon stood back respectfully. The countess's horse was tethered to one of the oaks' lower branches. A few feet above it, a pattern of curious notches scarred the side of the tree trunk, bulging and distorted as though thick layers of bark had overgrown some inscribed image. By the looks of it, it had once been a face. There were similar markings on the other trees.

  When Countess Madalyn finally stood and removed her veil, Gwyddon was still waiting for her.

  "Were you aware this place was once sacred to an older god?" he said. "You Christians supplanted him. As you did in so many of our other holy groves."

  "On the contrary," she replied, looking pale and drawn. "We cleansed this place."

  "Its air is certainly sweeter than the air down in the valley."

  Countess Madalyn grimaced. "The stench down there is unbearable. I couldn't tolerate it any longer."

  "Sadly, it's a price we must pay."

  "And what other price must we pay, Gwyddon?" She didn't even look at him as she untied her horse.

  "Countess, I understand your concerns, but answer me this: would you have your Welsh countrymen die in droves? Because that is the
alternative, I fear. Had we attacked Grogen Castle with an army of the living, ten thousand of us, maybe more, would now lie slain."

  The countess didn't mount her beast but stood against it, her head bowed. She appeared weary, almost tearful. Her right hand clutched the bridle so tightly that its tendons showed through her white silk glove.

  "I see you don't dispute that fact, at least," he said.

  "Gwyddon!" She rounded on him, but more with desperation than anger. "This thing you - we - have done is an abhorrence in the eyes of God!"

  "In what way, madam? Our soldiers know no terror as they are sent to battle. They feel no pain when they are cut down. For all we know, their spirits are already in God's hands. We are merely making use of their remains."

  "And in the long-term, Gwyddon, what do we plan to do with those remains?"

  Gwyddon had not been prepared for this question.

  "The young English knight was right, was he not?" she said. "This army of ours will simply rot. Soon it will be nought but clacking bones. And what then? We make more, as you threatened? Is that your plan? How many more, Gwyddon?"

  "These husks are a matter of convenience, countess. When we no longer have need of them, we will dispense with them."

  "Will we? And will we then compose our armies of living men - those who do feel terror, those who do feel pain?" She gave a wintry smile. "I see your concern for human suffering is also a matter of convenience."

  "And do you think Earl Corotocus would have any of these qualms?"

  "Earl Corotocus is one man, Gwyddon." She became thoughtful. "That young knight said there are strong feelings against him."

  "And at the same time, that young knight's accomplices destroyed the very weapon with which we were stripping their battlements of armour. Clearly, that was his real objective."

  "He could have killed us both. Would that not have been a more useful objective for him?"

  "Even if he spoke the truth, the chances are that he's dead. Only a couple of them, at the most, made it back into the castle."

  "Nevertheless..." She climbed into her saddle. "We need to speak with them."

  "Earl Corotocus will never negotiate unless it's from a position of strength. And King Edward is exactly the same. This is why ruthless individuals like them will always succeed... and why radical means are needed to stop them."

  The countess wheeled her horse around. "We've already stopped them. Earl Corotocus and his army can't wreak any more damage. They are trapped."

  "As is your daughter, madam."

  The countess paused to think. "Would it serve their purpose to harm her now? They know what their fate will be if they do. My decision is made, Gwyddon. We will maintain the siege, but there will be no further attacks unless the English provoke them. In the meantime, I will send messages to King Edward."

  "Who even now is entering Wales from the north."

  "All the better." She made to ride away. "Let him see our power first-hand."

  "And what if he likes what he sees, and tries to claim it for his own?"

  She reined her horse, gazing down at him.

  Gwyddon shrugged. "Edward Longshanks is a crafty tactician. He has no truck with honourable warfare. As far as he is concerned, victory is all. When he sees what we have done here, he is more likely to be inspired than frightened."

  "What exactly are you saying?"

  Gwyddon climbed onto his horse. "I'm saying that if King Edward felt you were pliable, he would certainly sit at the negotiating table, especially with such a prize as the Cauldron of Regeneration to be won."

  "You think me a fool, Gwyddon? I would never bargain away the Cauldron. In any case, it would be no use to the English without your arcane knowledge. Unless..." She looked slowly round at him again. "Unless that also is available to be won? Would you share your knowledge, Gwyddon? With the English?"

  "Under torture, madam, a man may share anything."

  "Ohhh, I see." She regarded him with new understanding. Her wintry smile had returned. "So Wales and the Welsh are also a matter of convenience to you?"

  "Wales and the Welsh are my future, madam. As they are yours. Thus, I feel we must destroy the invaders utterly. That is the only kind of message King Edward will understand. We proceed with the assault, yes?"

  He posed it as a question, though it was clearly more of a statement. As such, Countess Madalyn made no answer.

  "One more thing, madam," Gwyddon said, as he turned his horse around. "If it suits you, you may remain here where the air is fresh and the grass green rather than red. After all, there is no longer any reason for you to witness these terrible events. You made your appearance on the first day, as required. Your part in this affair has been played."

  He spurred his horse away, leaving Countess Madalyn alone in the grove of mottled oaks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  With the dawn came the dead.

  Heralded by a dirge of howls and moans, they crammed along the causeway, a hundred abreast, pushing their siege-tower ahead of them, its mighty wheels rumbling on the timbers. The English responded in the only way they knew how, with showers of arrows and stones. But it made no discernible impact. The oxen, to prevent them being wounded or killed by the castle defenders, were being driven beneath the shelter of the siege-tower's ironclad skirts. As the great structure drew steadily closer, it could be seen that assault teams of the dead were already gathered on top of it. Its gantry bridge, perhaps twenty feet in length, was currently raised, held aloft by two leather thongs, either of which a simple blow would have cut. The lip of the bridge was fixed with iron hooks, so that when it fell across the Constable's Tower's stone parapet, it would catch and hold itself in place.

  The earl's best fighting men waited for it, armed not just with shields and swords, but with bills, spears and a stockpile of naptha grenades. Earl Corotocus also had an onager brought forward and devil's sachets packed with bricks broken from the rear battlements.

  "They must not cross!" Navarre bellowed, as the tower halted in front of them. "Not one of them!"

  When the bridge fell, poll-arms were lifted to prevent it making contact, but the first of the dead merely scrambled to the top of it and leapt. At least five plummeted to the foot of the tower, but three landed safely and a savage melee commenced as they laid about them with axes and mattocks. A retaliatory storm of slashing blades soon hacked them to pieces, but not before the poll-men were themselves cut down and the bridge crashed onto the battlements.

  "Onager!" Earl Corotocus roared.

  His engineers were already in place, and the first devil's sachet loaded into the bucket. But before the lever could be pulled, the dead on the top of the siege-tower let loose a blizzard of arrows and crossbow bolts. Space was immediately cleared, maybe a dozen men, including those on the onager, struck down. Ramon la Roux, already grievously wounded from the fight at the Gatehouse, pivoted around grey-faced, blood oozing between his lips. A missile had pierced his breast to its feathers. He staggered a couple of yards, fell against Ranulf and dropped to the floor.

  With gurgling groans, the dead threw down their bows and, bristling with swords, hammers and cleavers, advanced across their gantry. They were mid-way over, when Ranulf threw himself onto the onager's lever. The complex throwing device had been tilted upward on rear support blocks, so that its payload travelled in a straight line, rather than arcing through the air. As such, ten heavy projectiles were now flung clean into the approaching horde. The first few were felled by gut-thumping impacts, their bodies shattered into glistening green and crimson scraps; those behind went toppling over the side. Two projectiles continued through, striking the rear of the siege-tower's upper tier with pulverising force, smashing an entire section of its framework. But fresh cohorts of corpses were now flooding up its timber throat. While men-at-arms hastened to crank the onager back to full tension, Navarre and others lobbed naptha grenades across the bridge. Several struck the dead full-on, engulfing them in flame; others dropped down
inside the siege-tower, spilling fire through its joists and beams.

  "More naptha!" Walter Margas shrieked, only for a blazing figure to leap down and wrap its arms around him. Ranulf hewed it from its shoulder to its breastbone with a massive stroke of his longsword. But Margas was already horribly seared. He staggered back to his feet, a twisted, drooling wreck, only to be struck in the face by a javelin, which didn't penetrate deeply but laid his cheek open to the glinting bone beneath.

  Though entire sections of the siege-tower had now caught fire, the dead continued to clamber up through it and rampage across the bridge. The onager was again sprung. Its deadly cargo was catapulted through the advancing mob. Yet more went spinning from the bridge, but others made it onto the battlements. One of them sent shockwaves through the English by the mere sight of him. He was a giant of a man, naked save for a loincloth, covered in soot and grease, and armed with a spike-headed mace. The flesh across his throat was gruesomely mangled. His face had been bitten over and over, his scalp almost torn from the top of his head, but it was perfectly visible who he was - Captain Garbofasse, late of the earl's mercenary division.

  With black gruel vomiting from his mouth, Garbofasse gave a guttural, inhuman roar and, swinging his brutal weapon around, smote the skulls of two of his former hearth-men, dashing their brains out where they stood.

  Other corpses lumbered down behind him. One was recognisable as Roger FitzUrz. The other, walking with a bizarrely crooked gait, was Red Guthric.

  "Repel!" Earl Corotocus bellowed, advancing to battle himself, his sword and shield hefted.

  With a furious clangour, the two forces met, blade clashing on blade, on mail, on helmet and buckler, falchions crushing shoulder-joints, axes biting through foreheads. The squire Tallebois fell at this point, Red Guthric, his former comrade, hurling him shrieking to the ground and striking at him again and again with a scramsax, cleaving him from cranium to chin three times, each breach an inch from the next, so that his head fell apart like a sliced loaf.

  "Ladders!" someone cried.