Stronghold (tomes of the dead)

by Paul Finch

They made no reply.

  "Am I clear?"

  Still they made no reply. Gwendolyn shot the earl a scornful look. Corotocus noticed this, and for a second Ranulf thought that he was going to drive his dagger into her back. But again the earl kept control of himself. In truth, Corotocus, though he could sense his men watching, witnessing this continued disrespect, knew that he was not in as strong a bargaining position as they might believe. He could not keep the Welsh girl standing on this parapet forever. Brave as she doubtless was, she was half-naked, shivering and weak from lack of sustenance. If she collapsed in full view of her mother, even though safely tied, it could have a disastrous effect.

  "My terms are these, countess!" he called down. "They are non-negotiable, but under the circumstances I think they are generous. My retainers and I are leaving Grogen Castle. You will have your creatures clear a path for us. That path will remain clear until we are far from this place. In the meantime, your child will remain here on the brink of oblivion. If any attempt is made to interfere with us, she will be pushed to her death. If any attempt is made to halt our retreat along the river — and be assured, from this vantage point we can see as far as the English border — she will be pushed to her death. However, once we have departed safely, the man I leave behind will stand down and you may retrieve your child unharmed."

  "I have to give you credit, my lord," Ranulf said. "When it comes to saving your own arse, you're quite the genius."

  "I meant what I said, Ranulf," the earl replied. "About liking men who tell me the truth. If you survive this, there's still a place for you at my court."

  "I doubt your court will be around for very much longer. Even if you get away from here, what's to stop this horde sweeping over the border after you?"

  "The bachelry of England. What else?"

  Ranulf shook his head. "I'm not sure even the bachelry of England will be enough."

  "Earl Corotocus!" a voice echoed up from the Constable's Tower. It was Gwyddon again. "By the good grace of Countess Madalyn of Lyr, you and your men may leave Grogen Castle. She gives her word that you will not be molested so long as her daughter is safe."

  Corotocus treated his men to a satisfied smile. A few managed to return it.

  "Then we have our truce." he called back. "But first I have one more demand."

  "Speak."

  "Our horses. We will not walk from here like yeomen farmers. We will ride out as we rode in, knights."

  There was a pause, and then: "That is acceptable."

  The earl nodded, turned to his men and pulled his gauntlets on. "Ready yourselves. Take only your weapons. No supplies — those will only weigh us down. Once we're away from here, we can gallop to the border."

  There was a slow bustle as it gradually dawned on the men that their ordeal might be coming to an end. A few stood dazed, not totally believing it.

  "Move yourselves!" the earl shouted, his voice a whip-crack. "This window of opportunity may be brief."

  Ranulf walked to the battlements. Despite the deal that had just been struck, he was surprised to see a long, meandering alleyway clearing through the mob filling the courtyard. It led from the base of the Keep to the ramp entering the Constable's Tower. Beyond that, he could see a similar space being made along the causeway. With a whinnying and clopping of hooves, horses, made skittish by the stench of their lumbering grooms, were brought from the stable blocks and led to the bottom of the steps at the Keep entrance.

  "How can you agree to this?" Gwendolyn hissed at Ranulf, her eyes filled with emerald fire.

  "It doesn't please you?" He was surprised. "This way, everyone gets what they want."

  "Except justice."

  "How much justice are you looking for? Most of those men who came here and violated your people are dead."

  "And the one who commanded it? What will happen to him?"

  Ranulf shook his head, peering over the parapet again. "I'm more concerned about what will happen to me. How much control does your mother have over these creatures?"

  Gwendolyn glanced down as well. Only now did she really seem to focus on the army that had come to liberate her; she found it impossible not to cringe at some of the things she saw.

  "There's a good chance," Ranulf said, "that once the earl is gone and the Keep thrown open, their vanguard will ascend to this roof before your mother does. Will they listen to orders from you? I find that doubtful."

  Gwendolyn shrugged. "You've played your part in this tragedy, sir knight. What will happen to you will happen."

  "Well that's encouraging…"

  "What in the name of Heaven do you expect?"

  "I want Corotocus punished too," he whispered. "It's because of him that my father died and my friend was murdered. If I survive this thing, I would like to be the one who follows him to England and exacts vengeance."

  "And I should give you the means?" She snorted with derision. "You think that because you are slightly more enlightened than most English knights, that means I like you? Even for the small part you've played in the disaster that has destroyed my country, I loathe and detest you."

  "You little ingrate!"

  She turned pointedly away from him.

  "Ranulf!" Corotocus said, returning. He'd now donned a full basinet helm with an open visor, and wore a fresh cloak and tabard over his mail. His longsword hung at his left hip and a two-headed battle-axe at his right. "I trust you aren't thinking of abandoning your post while we're in the process of leaving this place?"

  "That's something you'll find out for yourself when you try to leave," Ranulf said.

  "Very clever," Corotocus sneered. "But I know you, boy. And I know your conscience. If you let this girl loose or even neglect to guard her so that she gets loose of her own accord, there'll be nothing to stop her calling across the castle that she's safe. If we aren't away from here by then, these monstrosities will fall on us like mad beasts."

  "My lord, why don't you just leave while your household thinks you're wonderful? Because when you get back to England, they'll begin to realise the depth of your defeat, and then you'll be regarded somewhat differently."

  Corotocus chuckled. "Don't make the mistake of thinking this is over, Ranulf." He turned to Gwendolyn. "Nor you, you Welsh harlot! This affair isn't over."

  Gwendolyn didn't deign to look at him.

  "Your people have won the battle," he said, "but not the war. We'll be back, and there'll be the devil to pay. Now mind what I say, Ranulf. Neglect your duty here and these hell-hounds could fall on us when we're most vulnerable."

  "Why tar everyone with your own brush, my lord? Countess Madalyn gave you her word as a noblewoman that you would have safe passage."

  "No… Ranulf." Corotocus shook his head pensively. "No. That Welsh wizard gave me his word. I don't know what that means exactly, but it disconcerts me a little."

  Corotocus moved away, descending the stair. Du Guesculin and the rest of the household filed quickly after him.

  Puzzling over that final comment, Ranulf looked across the courtyard to the roof of the Constable's Tower, where Countess Madalyn stood as she had before against the battlements. She had not moved since he had first arrived here. Neither, as far as he had seen, had she joined the debates of her underlings, though that did not necessarily mean that she hadn't issued quiet commands to them, as she undoubtedly would in normal times. However, for some intangible reason, Ranulf now felt a creeping chill in his bones. Why was she so still? Why had she not led the negotiations herself? It was not Countess Madalyn's way, he was sure, to leave something so important to somebody else. But neither, he thought with a shiver, was it Gwyddon's way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Earl Corotocus understood the importance of appearance.

  The new cloak and tabard he'd donned were thus far unsullied. The black and crimson of his household devices glittered in the dimness of the Keep's interior. He brushed as much grime, dust and blood as he could from his battle-scarred mail. He'd even fluffed the cri
mson plume projecting from the crest of his helm. When he reached the Keep's lowest level, he strolled fearlessly along the stone passage to its main entrance, his spurs clinking on the flagged floor, one gloved hand clamped on the hilt of his sword. The men — those living, who now cowered nervously behind him, and those dead, who waited outside in silent expectation — had to know without being told that Corotocus was of a superior caste. It was essential he cut a striking figure, so they'd realise immediately that, by his very nature, this was a man untroubled by the events of recent days, a man who took torment and destruction in his stride because it was part of his born duty to do so.

  As well as appearance, Earl Corotocus also understood the importance of propaganda.

  "The battle is now over and, because of me, you fellows have survived," he said, turning to his household in front of the main portal.

  Their faces were milk-pale in the gloom.

  "This time yesterday, you were staring annihilation in the face. But now I have bought your futures back for you. Remember that when you are far from this place. Each one of you here owes me more than he could ever repay in a thousand lifetimes."

  "They'll gladly devote the remainder of this lifetime attempting it," du Guesculin replied.

  Corotocus eyed them sternly, as if daring anyone to disagree. He straightened the edges of his cloak and turned back around. "Lower the drawbridge."

  With an echoing rattle of chains, the timber gate was lowered. Daylight flooded in, making them all blink. The reek of death followed, thick as swamp mist; the men choked and gagged. Up until now they had not come face to face with so concentrated a mass of their enemy.

  Earl Corotocus's face, however, showed neither disgust nor revulsion. He walked boldly over the bridge, his hollow footfalls resounding across the otherwise silent castle, until he had reached the top of the steps, at which point he halted and gazed down.

  The dead gazed back, rank after close-packed rank. Straight away, there were those among them he recognised. Craon Culai, with his body so crushed that only his face was distinguishable; Odo de Lussac, burned almost to a crisp, a crossbow bolt projecting from his charred mouth; Ramon la Roux, an arrow still embedded in his heart. Even Father Benan was present; he seemed to have dressed himself in hanging rags, thick with blood and mucus, until the earl realised that these were actually remnants of his own flesh. Most bizarrely, the priest's iron crucifix protruded from the top of his skull, where it appeared to have been hammered into place. Others were indistinguishable even as human, horrible remnants of men and women who had died by axe, sword, spear or noose, or whose torn and forgotten husks had lain mouldering in the ground for weeks, feasted on by worms and maggots. Every sickly colour in the spectrum was represented: blue faces, white faces, green faces, black faces, yellow faces, purple faces. There were faces without skin, skulls without hair. Were it summer, the earl imagined this ghastly host would be engulfed in swarming flies. No doubt countless such vermin were already hatching from the clusters of eggs lodged in their pulped flesh and yawning sockets.

  Despite this, he walked casually down the steps, to where a troop of thirty or so horses was waiting. By good fortune, the nearest was his own black stallion, Incitatus, a powerful battle-steed bred and trained to smash through lines of infantry, though the challenge this time would be to keep the tempestuous brute in a relaxed state. To Corotocus's surprise, the dead had even saddled it for him, correctly. In fact, they'd saddled all of the horses. He glanced towards the stables, and there saw Osric, his former groom, a reaping hook buried in the side of his neck, standing by the open door — as if in death he'd automatically re-assumed the role he'd played in life. Just to be sure, the earl checked that his saddle was secure and that his animal's bit was in place before climbing into his stirrups.

  Others of his company were now descending after him, but they were stiff with terror, clinging together like children. Almost invariably, they scurried frantically down the last few steps, grabbing the first mount they could, and vaulting onto its back.

  The passage across the courtyard was still open, but looked narrower than it had from above. It would not be easy traversing it with an army of standing corpses ranked to either side. Corotocus peered to the top of the Constable's Tower. The rigid shape of Countess Madalyn gazed down at him, her priests alongside her. There was no conversation between them now. Their attention was fixed unswervingly on the departing English.

  "Hurry," the earl said to his men, the last few of whom were traipsing down the steps.

  Wheeling Incitatus around, the earl set off first, walking the animal at a steady pace. The passage was so narrow that, at most, they could travel only two abreast. Du Guesculin hastened forward to be alongside his master. Aside from the clopping of hooves and timorous snuffling of brutes, there was no sound at all, which, now that they were so close to their foe, was not surprising — for there was clearly no more life in these beings than there was in strips of hanging leather or piled-up cords of wood. They were inanimate, soulless; genuinely nothing more than mummified carcasses cut from gibbets or ploughed up from burial pits. Except that, as the English passed, their heads slowly turned, tracking each departing horseman one by one.

  "My lord, will we face this gauntlet of the damned all the way to England?" du Guesculin said, in a whisper made hoarse by fear.

  Earl Corotocus didn't respond. For all his bravado, his mouth was too dry to form words; his back was so straight that it hurt. When he tried to release his hand from the hilt of his sword he found that he couldn't. The fingers had locked in place.

  "My lord, I said…"

  "I heard you the first time!"

  "Will we?"

  "Who am I, God? What more to you want of me? I've gained you a free passport, haven't I?"

  "A passport to what?" du Guesculin wondered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  "At least untie me," Gwendolyn protested. "There's no blood left in my fingers."

  Ranulf, the only other person left on the Keep roof, peered down the wall to where Corotocus and his company were now snaking slowly and warily across the courtyard. He glanced towards her, distracted.

  "If I do, you must stay in sight," he said. "Your mother needs to know you are safe."

  "You really are a good little English soldier, aren't you?

  He bristled at that. "Now you mention it, yes! Just because I sympathise with your position, don't make the mistake of thinking I'd serve every Englishman I know to your vengeance."

  "Cut me loose, please."

  Reluctantly, he sawed through her hempen bonds with his sword. She stepped back from the embrasure, and leaned tiredly on the left crenel, rubbing at the wheals on her wrists. She still wore only the red and blue cloak they had given her on the first day. The wind set it rippling on her lithe form.

  "You must be frozen," he said.

  "You finally notice now?"

  "Wait here." He turned and, several yards away, spotted the black and red tabard that Earl Corotocus had discarded when he'd changed. It was torn in places and stained with grime, but it was made from heavy wool and at least it could be worn as a proper piece of clothing.

  He handed it to her. "If you can bring yourself to wear these household colours, you should find this more comfortable and a little less revealing. Put the cloak back on over the top and you'll be warm enough."

  She took the item from him, now looking thoughtful. "You're not too bad a fellow, sir knight. I've decided that I will speak up for you."

  He shrugged. "Assuming anyone will listen."

  She made to remove her current garb, but then saw that he was watching her.

  "If you'd avert your eyes please?"

  Ranulf was surprised. "You plan to change here and now? Getting undressed in front of your mother's army is probably not the best idea."

  "To offend someone's eyes, they need to have eyes in the first place, do they not?"

  Ranulf shrugged again, and turned his back. He peeked over t
he battlements. The earl and his men were half way across the courtyard, the earl riding tall in the saddle. Ahead of them, the ramp leading up to the Constable's Tower door had also cleared. Far above that, Countess Madalyn and her priests watched, unmoving. Behind him, Ranulf could hear a rustling of cloth.

  "I fear Earl Corotocus means what he says," he said. "He'll seek restitution of some sort."

  "And we Welsh won't?" Gwendolyn replied.

  "Revenge and counter-revenge are a recipe for disaster, my lady. They've made life on these marches intolerable for too long already."

  "I agree. So we should end it now, no?"

  He smiled. "If only that were possible."

  "Wasn't it you who told me that, with sacrifice, anything is possible?"

  There was a slight inflection in her voice as she said this, a sudden decisiveness, which made him spin around. As he did, Gwendolyn screamed long and loud. Ranulf was stunned by what he saw.

  She had donned the earl's tabard, as he'd suggested, but instead of putting the blue and red cloak over the top of it, she had wrapped this around one of the Breton mannequins — and had now flung that mannequin over the battlements. She continued to scream as it fell, at the same time making sure to step well back from the parapet.

  Earl Corotocus thought his eyes were deceiving him.

  Even though the object seemed to fall unnaturally slowly, its blue and red cloak billowing like sail cloth, there was no doubt what it was. Its legs were splayed, its arms spread-eagled. The ear-piercing scream lingered on the rancid air, only to be silenced when the object vanished into the dry moat. At first Corotocus was numbed to near immobility. When he finally glanced up again, the unmistakeable shape of Ranulf FitzOsbern was hunched over the Keep battlements.

  In that astonishing moment, the world came to a standstill for the Earl of Clun and his remaining household. Each one of them was fixed to his saddle, each one swallowed air the way a parched man swallows water.

  Corotocus looked back along his procession of followers. To a man their faces were stark white, beaded with sweat, their eyes bugging. If any were conversing he couldn't hear them thanks to the thunderous roar of his own blood in his ears.