A red-haired knight swigged from his ale cup. “Yes, damn these Welsh.” He slammed the pewter onto the table, causing an oil lamp to sputter. “Every ten years, they stir up trouble, me seems.”
Robert tightened his hand around his wrist. “From what I understand, they objected to fighting in Gascony as well as the taxes to pay for it.”
“Are you defending them, good sir?” Staundon queried as tension snapped around the gathered men, full Normans all, save him.
“Merely stating the circumstances,” he replied through gritted teeth.
Staundon waved a hand. “Whatever the cause, we face them on the morrow. I want all resources in full force to prevent a fire from spreading. Pile all available cloth near the well for soaking and spreading over the roofs. Buckets—anything—filled with water. Even our piss pots. Get them stationed around the inner bailey.”
Robert bowed. “I will see to this, my lord. I oversaw the villagers today. They are familiar with me.”
De Buche cleared his throat. “Villagers unable to fight should be sent outside the walls, spare our rations.”
“And leave good English stock to the cursed Welsh? Lose the king’s income in taxes?” Staundon asked, the rebuke in his tone clear. “No. We will hold out.”
“We cannot hold for long,” argued Sir Hugh. “Though I don’t condone sending the weak outside.” He directed a quelling glance at his vassal, de Buche. “However, we must agree we find ourselves in a rather weak bargaining position, which does not bode well for us if the castle should fall.”
Robert kept his counsel, though he agreed with Sir Hugh. Only a strong position could garner fair terms from a besieging party. Their only choice was to resist and pray the relief party from Harlech arrived in time.
“By Christ’s death,” swore Staundon. “How are we to withstand a determined siege? Today’s assault was nothing.”
“We could use the sally port,” another knight offered. A time-honored tactic of besieged forces--using the hidden gate in the back to sneak out a contingent of knights to reduce the enemy’s forces.
Staundon stroked his beard. “No. Too risky. We have not the men to both flank them and hold the castle for the king.”
“I beg your leave, my lord. I shall see to the fire prevention.” Robert bowed and backed away.
To be sure, he’d like nothing more than to sit down with the pretty “squire” and discover exactly from where she hailed, but the castle’s defenses ranked higher in priority. He found her and Alfred huddled around a game of merrills by the hearth and apprised them of their new task. After Alfred interpreted, they made for the inner bailey and once again, he gathered the villagers together.
This time, it was not so easy to keep them focused.
“When may we leave to bury Ralph the Tailor and Fulk the Fat?” asked the same merchant he’d conversed with this morn. His wife stood by his side, arms akimbo, two children clinging to her skirts.
“You will need to bury them here, I am afraid.”
They grumbled at that, and the merchant crossed his arms. “They need to be in consecrated ground.”
“I shall speak to one of the Augustinian canons, see if they can find a spot within the walls. ‘Tis the best I can do. I know not how long we’ll need to remain inside.”
“By every holy saint, I wish I’d never agreed to settle here. Cursed idea,” muttered a man to his left.
Robert crossed his arms and injected his voice with finality. “You knew the risks. You all did. These settlements are vital in promoting the king’s peace in these parts.”
Robert said what was required as the king’s representative. More and more, though, he questioned King Edward’s policies—harass and settle, push, harass and settle, until all of Wales was under the King’s law.
But his private thoughts and opinions mattered not.
“Listen,” Robert continued. “We shall resist as long as we are able—”
“Surely, Staundon will not surrender to them,” a youth yelled, face red with frustration and fear.
“Men-at-arms and supplies are forthcoming. As it was today, our biggest threat on the morrow is fire. All of you must pitch in to prevent such.” He repeated Staundon’s directions regarding fire prevention.
All the faces now looked appropriately grim but determined. Good. “If any lack for food tonight, see the castle steward.”
Darkness blotted Katy’s surroundings, muffling the visual evidence of her new, crazy, time-traveling reality enough to ease the pressure that had settled on her chest since her arrival. Somewhat. The darkness—whole, deep, punctuated by smoking torches—had enough of an “other” quality to keep an uneasy thrum inside herself. An uneasy thrum which she worked hard to quell. Not the time or place to freak out. But it was getting harder and harder to maintain that veneer of control.
Katy and Alfred set down their empty buckets and waited their turn at the well.
Wind whipped around them, scattering straw and leaves. An eerie moan rose from the well—just the wind tunneling though the crevices. Still, with the torchlights flickering in the darkness around them, it gave her the damn goose bumps.
“Jesus wept,” whispered Alfred. “I didn’t believe the guard, but now…”
“What?”
“Ghosts in that well, he said. Moans from the Welsh dead the Normans threw in there when they captured this castle about ten years past.” His voice was tinged with fear and glee. Fear because the supernatural scared the kid. Glee because the fear thrilled him.
“It’s just the wind, Alfred.”
“How do you know?”
Katy contemplated the castle grounds. “You said the Normans took over this castle then?”
He frowned. “Yes.”
“Then would they pollute their own drinking water with dead bodies?”
His rangy body stood straighter, chest out. “I had not thought of that.” He nodded. “No ghosts.”
“No ghosts,” she agreed.
Still, she shivered looking over the short walls of the well. Not the round stone structures—with a quaint wooden roof—of her imagination, but rectangular, easily six by ten feet. Unfortunately, only two buckets on a pulley accessed the water below. Hence the wait.
Finally at the pulley, they quickly filled their buckets and placed them near the stables, the most vulnerable and largest thatched roof in the area.
Another hour passed scrounging for buckets and green-glazed jugs from the kitchen and storage areas—and filling and distributing them. The activity kept Katy’s mind off her new reality—helping others, Good God, defend against an attack from hundreds and hundreds of years ago!
The folk tale she’d heard when they’d first arrived in this remote part of Wales came to mind: anyone who spent the night on Cadair Idris Mountain would wake up either a poet or a madman. And she was on a spur of said mountain.
She rubbed her arms. Well, she knew she hadn’t turned into a damned poet.
Mid-morning sun, which would have been a welcome splash of warmth on a chilly October day, instead acted as one more heat source pulsing against her, Alfred, and the others as they labored to fight the fires raging through the courtyard.
It was bad.
So much for thinking the Welsh’s flaming-arrow assault yesterday was the extent of their abilities. Obviously realizing storming the walls was not going to work, they launched, one after another, volleys of flame-tipped arrows.
She and Alfred dodged through the chaos to refill buckets. “Why are they out of range of our crossbowmen?”
“Those are the dreaded Welsh longbowmen, and their range is farther.”
Great. Just great.
One structure, of no strategic importance and isolated enough that its sparks posed no danger to other buildings, Robert had ordered them to let burn. He and most of the knights pitched in right along with them fighting the rest of the fires. The crossbowmen lined the outer walls.
Frantic shouts behind spun her around. The clu
ster of buildings that hid her purse and clothes were aflame. Shit. She sprinted with her full buckets, clambered onto the barrels stacked near the wall, and threw water from one bucket and then another over the flames.
“Here!” Alfred handed her another bucket, and she splashed the last of the flames. Legs shaking, she settled for a moment on a barrel and wiped her forehead. Soot and fear sweat streaked across the back of her hand. Her muscles ached as if they’d been pounded flat. The idea of even lifting them again?
She held out the buckets with arms that weighed like stone. “Go fill these. I’ll be right behind you.”
Okay. Get up. Stopping had made her body feel worse. She climbed onto the roof, grabbed a piece of wet cloth covering a portion, and crab-walked to her purse. Whew. Still there. She plopped it in the center of the cloth and tied it, hobo-style. Her bundle of clothes she left to burn, if the worst came to pass.
All done, she slid back to the ground when Alfred returned, panting. They doused the roof again.
“What is that?” He pointed to her bag.
“My things. I had them stashed nearby and was afraid they’d catch fire.”
“You should put them in the keep.”
Could she spare the time, the energy? Another roof was on fire, but the villagers and Robert had it covered. The well was packed with others refilling. “Meet you back at the well.”
He nodded, young face scared but determined, and dashed off. She bolted for the middle tower, across the bridge, and into the keep, legs and lungs protesting the whole way, and dropped her bag by Robert’s trunk. Back in the courtyard, she flinched as another wave of flaming arrows whizzed over the wall with a weird sizzling, whining sound that she’d never, ever forget. Most clattered harmlessly onto the stone courtyard, but enough landed on roofs. Adrenaline, now such a familiar drug running through her system, eroded more and more of her energy, like a relentless ocean tide. At the well, she forced her body to bend one more time to the task—yank, yank on the pulley rope, bend her aching back, lift the bucket—
A trumpet blew on the walls, urgent. Now what? The knights, including Robert, drew their swords and dashed for the outer bailey. Another wave of arrows hissed overhead and slammed—thunk, thunk, thunk—into flammable targets.
Shit. Shit. Shit. One foot in front of the other, that was all she could do, all any of them could do against the relentless attack. Could they ever get any of it under control? Don’t think about that. Act.
It was like the universe was testing her, seeing how much it could throw at her to break her of her vow to never lose control again, to never allow her emotions to bubble up and spill out in all their hideous glory.
She stumbled to the nearest spot vacated by one of the knights and helped extinguish the flames. Grimly, she worked, pushing herself past exhaustion.
Shouts erupted along the front wall, followed by the clash of steel and cries of battle and pain. The clash and cries echoed through her aching limbs. They were at the walls? Oh God, was she scared. Fill this bucket. Douse that fire.
Close my stiff fingers around this handle. Walk, put one foot in—No clash of steel. No cries of pain.
Arrows flew into the courtyard as thick as ever, though. What the—
She darted a glance to the gate—the knights rushed along the walls and spilled into the courtyard.
She picked out Robert’s dark green surcoat as he hustled to his commander. Angry shouts and hand waving followed.
What was going on?
Chapter Nine
“Lord,” said the nobles unto Matholwch, “there is no other counsel than to retreat over the Linon, and to keep the river between thee and him, and to break down the bridge that is across the river, for there is a load-stone at the bottom of the river that neither ship nor vessel can pass over.” So they retreated across the river, and broke down the bridge.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
“We must withdraw now, Staundon,” shouted de Buche, blood and soot streaking his face. “We cannot hold the outer wall for much longer.”
“I agree.” Sir Hugh’s lungs labored as he fought to regain his breath. “We barely fought off that last assault. They’ll overrun us on the next, for certes.”
“Seek a conditional surrender,” countered Robert. Muscles unfamiliar with the stretch and pull of slinging water buckets ached with strain, on top of the normal pangs of battle. None of them were injured, thank the Blessed Virgin, but they were no longer fresh. “Ask for two fortnights and, if help arrives not by then, we surrender.”
“God’s balls, no,” cursed another knight, his red surcoat torn across his chest. “Already they know how weak we are, we cannot possibly achieve favorable terms. The Welsh aren’t fools—they can easily take this castle. They know that now. The longer we resist, the worse it will be for the villagers and men-at-arms.”
De Buche spit. “I agree. They are ruthless savages. They’ll have no qualms putting everyone to the sword. Plus, some in these parts have grievances with me.”
Fury choked Robert’s throat, and he could hold back no longer. “You might have made enemies, of that I have no doubt, but the Welsh are not the savages you portray. This is one of the king’s castles. Are we to abandon it to them without negotiating first?”
“Yes,” cut in Staundon. “De Buche, instruct the crossbowmen to hold the Welsh off on the outer wall as long as possible, then fall back to the second wall. We’ll use that time to get everyone out. We withdraw to Harlech Castle, now.”
“What about pursuit?” Robert asked. “Won’t they know of the sally port?”
“The villagers will slow us down,” de Buche added.
“Lookouts report the Welsh are concentrated at the outer gate.” Staundon’s breaths came sharp and fast. “It’s a gamble, I grant you, but we can gain some distance before they fully occupy the castle, and I have hopes they’re eager enough to gain a stronghold that they’d forgo pursuit.” He slapped his thigh. “Let’s away. Now.”
Empty buckets clutched in her aching fingers, Katy stumbled back to the well near the conferring knights. She caught Robert’s eye, and his jaw clenched. He stalked over and issued unintelligible instructions.
Alfred dashed up, soot streaking his boyish cheeks. “He said the commander has ordered a retreat.”
“Into the keep?”
“No, we’re abandoning the castle. Grab your possessions. I’ll come with you as I have nothing to save, and I can show you the way.”
Word had spread. The villagers had scattered to their encampment, and the knights and squires were letting the horses, skittish from the smoke, out of the stables.
A bitter pang ran through her, as well as an upswell of panic—her case, if even there and not stolen or trampled into the ground, was exactly in the middle of the teeming Welsh. But what could she do? Nothing.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, letting what she could not control wash through her. Yes, the universe was testing her. “Come on, let’s go then.” With one last look at Robert, as well as the gate, she bolted for the keep.
Once inside, she dodged overturned benches, barking dogs, and servants dashing about and fetched her sack.
“I’ll take my lord’s trunk,” Alfred said.
He staggered under the weight, clutched with determination and pride in his small hands. His cheeks turned red from the strain, though the trunk wasn’t much bigger than her idea of a pirate’s chest.
“Hold one side,” she shouted, flinging her bag over her shoulder and grabbing a handle of the trunk.
Together, they rushed back across the bridge, through the middle tower, and into the courtyard. Alfred pointed to the far end, hand shaking, to the steps leading up to the north tower—No. To a gap in the wall to the left. A scraggly line of villagers headed for it, and the knights arrayed themselves in a defensive formation in the courtyard, their mounts stamping beside them, nostrils and eyes wide with fear. More roofs were aflame, and dark, oily smoke billowed greedily sk
yward, no longer kept in check by the defenders. She glanced over her shoulder. The crossbowmen had retreated to the wall at the second gate.
Arrows continued to fly over the walls. One landed in front of a stoop-shouldered woman, who staggered back, dropping her trunk. The contents spilled out, and the lady dropped to her knees and shoved her possessions back inside, heedless of the surrounding danger. Sunlight glinted off metal.
Her case!
“Hey—” Sharp pain seared her arm. She gasped and looked down. Her sack hit the hard ground with a thud.
She had a friggin’ arrow in her arm.
“That’s the last villager,” shouted one of the knights. “The Welsh are storming the outer wall.”
Robert gritted his teeth and hurried Perceval and the rouncey he used as a pack horse to follow the villagers and castle servants through the sally port.
Above the cries and shouts, a familiar voice jolted him. Kaytee. She slumped to her knees, fingers clutched around her arm, from which protruded a cursed arrow. His heart thudded to a stop. She locked her gaze with his, and disbelief crossed her face.
Alfred was shouting to him and jumping around her. Robert’s trunk lay beside them, and he was momentarily stupefied by their thinking of him and retrieving it.
He sprinted to them, pulling along his horses.
She grabbed a hemp sack and slumped sideways, hand to the ground for balance. As he approached, she got a foot under herself and began to stand, but the blood drained from her face, and she crumpled to the ground in a faint.
He landed on his knees beside her, his poleyns cushioning the jolt. “Jesus wept.” He snapped off the end of the arrow, tore a strip from his surcoat, and tied it tight around the wound, leaving the point embedded for now.
“Up you go.” He grabbed Alfred around the waist and hoisted him into the saddle. “Keep low and hold onto her—him.”
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