“As to the castellan and his family, I leave that to your own judgment. If you desire to take him prisoner in hopes that ransom may be paid by someone, by all means do so. I have no particular lust to see him or his family dead. However, I will not pay nor lend him a mil to preserve him. He has violated his oath to his dead overlord and sought to win advantage from a helpless widow and child. He is filth in my eyes, less than the beasts who have not God’s law and precepts of honor to guide them.”
Ian knew he had almost certainly condemned the man to death and his womenfolk to rape and murder. He hoped there were no young girls in the man’s family, but it was not going to give him second thoughts or sleepless nights. Not only was he truly offended at the castellan’s dishonorable act, but he also had two more keeps to take and a lesson to administer to the loyal castellans. When news of this castellan’s fate reached the ears of the two other rebellious men—and Ian would make sure that it did reach them—the chances were greatly increased that they would yield without further resistance. To do so would ensure them of their lives and their family’s lives. What they would do to live afterward was questionable, but possibly they had families that would take them in or they could try the tourney trail. Life was sweet.
In addition to the possibility of saving his own men future death and injury, Ian was planning on nipping future rebellions in the bud. He had gone to great trouble to be generous, mild, and affable to the castellans who had loyally answered his summons to fight for him. It had not always been easy, as his mind seesawed up and down according to Alinor’s whim, but he had succeeded. The men were comfortable with him and trusted him. Now he wished them to see the other side of the coin. It was not sufficient to say, “I am terrible when angered.” It was far better to say nothing, to smile and show how ill those who broke faith fared.
“And now,” Ian smiled as he looked out over the men, “I am sure you are as eager to break your fasts as I am to break mine. Eat hearty. If you do your work well, we will have dinner in the castle. If you are slow, you will miss your dinners altogether. Good fortune. God bless you all.”
He turned to say a few courteous words to the priest while the men dispersed. Ian’s chaplain was a sensible young man, not nearly as good or learned as Father Francis but also far less likely to preach a sermon on the evils of violence just before men went into action. In fact, he never preached sermons before battles, only offered the men the mystical comfort of the Mass. And when he did preach, few of his sermons failed to include the themes of upholding honor and righteous wrath, nor was he above wearing armor and wielding a mace to defend his Bible and chalice and holy relics. Father Jocelyn, Ian believed, would rise high in the Church—and he would do the best he could to help him. Ian finished what he was saying, and the priest began to fold up his traveling altar.
“My lord.”
“Yes, Robert?”
“I need to talk to you.”
The young man’s eyes were bright, his color high. He was almost as excited as Geoffrey. It occurred to Ian for the first time that Sir Robert might never have been involved in taking a keep before—he had never thought to ask. It did not matter, because he was part of Ian’s own personal fighting force and Ian had no doubts at all about his courage, but he wondered under whom he had trained.
“Very well. Come and share my breakfast. We do not have much time. Nothing is wrong with the preparations?”
“Oh no, Lord Ian. The ramps are in place, covered with brush, and the scaling ladders are in the ditch covered with mud. They need only to be lifted to the ramps.”
An expression of acute distaste crossed Ian’s face. “Whose brilliant thought was that?”
“Mine, my lord,” Robert replied apprehensively. “I thought it would save time. They cannot be lost in the mud, I swear. They are all marked, and the men who are to lift them know well where they must seek. Have I done amiss? I fear—”
“No, no,” Ian laughed. “The thought was wise. If it works as planned, it will save time. But, Robert, in God’s name, think how we shall all stink!”
“Stink?” Robert repeated blankly.
Of course they would stink, covered with the mud from the drained moat, which was rich in half-decayed feces and garbage. But what had a stink to do with anything? Everyone stank anyway, after working in the heat all week, with no chance to wash and no change of clothing.
“Never mind,” Ian soothed, “it is a personal oddity in me. Sit.”
He gestured toward a second campstool, and Geoffrey hurried over with a large wedge of cold meat pasty and half a fowl.
“I am sorry, lord,” Geoffrey said. “That is all I saved from dinner. I did not think—”
“Bring bread and cheese and another cup, and we shall do well enough. Leave it. I will serve. Go arm yourself.”
Ian broke the fowl into pieces and cut the pasty in half with a slight smile on his lips. He had sent Geoffrey away for a purpose. He did not misunderstand the boy’s trembling, but Sir Robert from the superior level of his twenty-one years of life might do so. Six parts excitement, three parts eagerness, one part fear was what Ian judged Geoffrey’s affliction to be. He would do well enough once he had duties to perform.
“What did you want to talk to me about, Robert?”
“The women.” The young man choked a little around the mouthful he was eating. “You said no word about the women. The men will think they are free to do with them as they please.”
It was, of course, exactly what Ian wanted them to think, but how did one say that to an inexperienced young man who had been raised in a decent household? Sir Robert’s precepts about women were clear. A serf girl might be raped in a field; a gently born woman might be seduced, but must not be forced. When you married, you could beat your wife for a fault, but she must be protected against harm by anyone else. Moreover, even in a war, the gentleladies were not to be assaulted or insulted—they usually brought good ransoms. Ian rubbed the back of his neck under his hood. His situation was particularly difficult because only a few days earlier he had had a long discussion with Sir Robert on the finer points and deeper meaning of honor, stemming from what happened at the tourney.
“I know. That was because I did not know what to say,” Ian temporized. “By his act, the castellan has put himself beyond the law, has made himself less than a man, and that which is his is lessened also, its quality destroyed. He gave oath before God that he would faithfully administer his trust and return it on demand. He has stolen this property, and to make it worse, stolen it from a child of seven, as well as violating his oath before God. He is not an honest enemy as might be if he were, say, Philip’s vassal and I John’s, and we came to blows. Then he and his would deserve to be treated with honor, no matter how bitter the conflict between us. If I ordered the women to be spared, where would be the difference between honorable war and thievery?”
“I see.”
“Robert,” Ian said, amused by the fact that the young man’s appetite was in no way diminished—his concern had apparently been more that he should not transgress his lord’s sensibilities again than for the women involved, ”if you can and you wish to shield the women, it will do you no particular disservice in my eyes. That will be your business and nothing to do with me—ever. Remember, if you cannot find a relative to take them, you will be burdened with them. Every man must know, you also, that although I will strive with all my power to help and protect a faithful vassal, I will not mitigate the punishment of an unfaithful one by so much as a hair.”
Sir Robert merely nodded acceptance, his mouth being too full of meat pasty to make a reply practical. Ian gnawed the ends off the thigh bone of the fowl and sucked experimentally at the marrow. He heard the battle leaders urging their men to form up. Sir Robert heard also. He swallowed hastily, gulped down the remains of his wine, sketched a salute to Ian, and went off to attend to his assigned duties. Owain and Geoffrey appeared by the side of the tent with Ian’s shield and helmet. He got to his feet and smil
ed at them.
“Owain, you will hold your place by my left shoulder. Do not be carried away. If a blow takes me on that side, God help you.”
“He will need to, my lord, for I will be sore hurt or dead. I will not fail you.”
“No, I do not suppose you will. Now, Geoffrey, you may draw your sword if you wish, but you may use it only to defend yourself at need. I do not wish you to become embroiled in the fighting. You must be free to carry messages for me. In such a battle, where the parties are hidden from each other, this is a most singularly necessary task. It is dangerous—I am sorry for that—but you are fittest for it. You are a small target and light on your feet. I tell you again, your first duty is to deliver the message and bring back a reply. Do not stop to help the wounded or try to save a man overmatched by others. This may be a hard thing, for you will doubtless see pitiful sights that you might amend or avert, but that is not your purpose. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
There was disappointment in the young face. Doubtless Geoffrey had envisioned himself a full-blooded warrior. He was not far off at that, Ian thought. Geoffrey’s improvement in fighting technique was nothing short of spectacular. He made up in speed and ferocity, in pure determination to excel, for any deficiency in size. He was very nearly as good as Owain, who was two years older, although he was less powerful, of course. But the boy was beginning to grow now. He would be taller than his father, a good size, not so awkwardly tall as Ian was himself—if he lived long enough.
“Geoffrey,” Ian warned sharply, “if you fail, we may lose the day. If I give order that a troop attack, or yield ground, and you do not give the message in the time I allow, my plans will be fouled. Do not forget yourself.”
“No, my lord.”
It was not really so serious a matter. Sir Robert had been instructed to keep an eye on Geoffrey when the assault was first made and the fighting was heaviest. Nonetheless, Ian hoped the boy would obey orders. Courage was a good thing, but a sense of responsibility was equally necessary for a man who would rule extensive estates and, very likely, be high in the councils of the king—if not John, then the next king. There was no sense in wondering. The matter would be put to the proof soon enough. Ian put on and fastened his helmet, slid his arm through the shield strap, and grasped the handhold. It would have been more convenient to use a round footman’s shield for this work. Obviously, horses did not climb ladders to scale walls, and knights and men-at-arms would all be afoot. But Ian was so accustomed to the weight and feel of his own shield that he chose to put up with its unwieldy size rather than trust to an unfamiliar protection.
A glance at the sky, where the sun was now well up, assured Ian that they were in good time. The attack could not be a complete surprise. The men in the keep must realize that once the moat was drained, an assault would soon follow. Ian hoped, however, that the leisurely pace of the morning activities in his camp would convince the defenders that the attack would not take place that day. It was the reason why the ramps and ladders had been so secretly prepared and so carefully hidden. Doubtless, there would be sentries who would cry a warning as soon as the ramps were thrown over the drained moat, but, if most of the men on day duty were breaking their fasts, it would take them a few minutes, at least, to come to their positions.
The slow pace and leisurely start had also given time and confidence, Ian hoped, for those who had stood guard all night to go to bed. Full half the men had been on night duty. Ian had left instructions that all the serving men, dressed in the men-at-arms’s armor, should be up and stirring, forming groups in a purposeful way from time to time, as if a night assault was being planned. It would take those men even longer to reach the walls. Whether or not they slept in their armor, some time must be lost shaking sleep from one’s eyes, grabbing up weapons, and coming from the sleeping places. Ian looked around the camp and toward the castle walls. So far so good. His men were milling about in seemingly occupied groups, a few parties wandering toward the moat. No alarm had yet been sounded.
Ian walked slowly toward the nearest party of men while he watched the groups approaching the moat. Some, of course, he could not see because they were around the curve of the wall, but those he could see were only a few paces farther from or nearer their goal than the others. He had reached his own party by then, and he could feel himself tensing, could hear Owain and Geoffrey just behind him breathing harder and faster. Almost simultaneously, two men in each of the parties bent down.
“Ready,” Ian warned softly.
As he spoke, he could see the men-at-arms in each group all turn toward the castle. The men who had bent suddenly flung the brush off the ramps and lifted. Then everything happened at once. Alarms rang out all along the keep walls. The fighting parties began to run toward ramps they were supposed to cross. The ramps continued to rise as the men walked forward, lifting. Other men aided them from underneath, pushing and walking, pushing and walking, until the long plank bridges were perpendicular. The guards on the wall were winding and firing crossbows now, but there were few and poor targets, most of the men being shielded from the missiles by the bulk of the ramps. Finally, the ramps were overbalanced and fell over, the violence of their drop digging them well into the soft muddy clay of the banks. It did not matter even if the ramps broke. Their only purpose was to save the men from slipping and being bogged in the mud, which was a foot or two deep.
A loud cheer went up from the fighting parties of men-at-arms, who ran faster, a selected few lifting their shields over their heads to form a “turtle”. Under this protection, the men who had buried the ladders came forward. More and more arrows were flying down and out now. Thus far, the turtles were not damaged, but it was not long before one who stepped out from under their shield cried out and fell. Another took his place at once. The long ladders began to come loose from the mud that covered them and caused them to adhere to the drained moat. One end was laid across the ramp. Willing hands pulled, pulled. Braced against the cross-pieces of the ramp, the ladders lifted sluggishly, wavered, wavered, fell against the wall.
Around the curve of the wall, Ian heard shrieks of disappointment. One of the ladders, at least, had overbalanced and fallen to the side instead of against the wall. “Now!” Ian called to those who followed him, and ran onto the ramp. The turtle parted before him, and he set his foot first on the ladder. He had not drawn his sword. One does not climb a slippery, muddy ladder in full armor without at least one hand to grip the rungs. He did not raise his head to see how close he was to the top, either. That would be an open invitation for an arrow full in the face. Ian’s back itched with apprehension as he climbed, although probably his mail would be firm enough to protect him at the angle he presented to the wall.
Right at his heels Owain climbed. He had his sword unscabbarded, hung from a leather thong at his wrist. Ian could hear it clink dully against the ladder from time to time. He hoped Owain would have sense enough to stay back sufficiently far that he did not get kicked in the head. He hoped the loose sword would not catch on a rung and either tear free or trip Owain. He hoped the free-swinging blade would not strike Geoffrey, who was directly behind Owain. Then the ladder swayed alarmingly. Ian could hear the overstrained wood groan as men on the wall hooked the top struts and tried to push it outward.
Panting slightly with effort, Ian struggled to increase his rate of climb. He did not think the ladder could be pushed outward and overturned. The angle at which it lay against the wall had been carefully thought out—Ian was no novice at wall-scaling. But if it could be lifted from its rest position, it might be tipped sideways, or the weight might be shifted completely onto one strut. If so, the pegging and lashing might not hold, or the foot of the strut might break. The only protection against that was to have sufficient weight at the top to prevent the ladder from being shifted. Ian drew a deep breath and moved his eyes from the rungs of the ladder to the side. He was no coward, but, when fully armed, he feared heights. To die in battle was one th
ing. To be crushed and broken and, perhaps, live to mend all awry and to be crippled—that was something else again.
The distance of the ground below at once brought relief and cold sweat. In the next moment, the easing of the pressure on the ladder was a warning. With a desperate effort, Ian lifted his shield over his head. A blow struck it and then another, but Ian laughed. The edge of the shield had not caught the wall. He was up! Viciously he swung the shield out, mounted one more rung, swung sideways so that he could place a buttock on the wall. A single blow caught him on the upper right shoulder. He gasped with pain, although he had half expected it, lashed out with his mailed fist, and hopped down onto the safe stone surface of the wall. Three men leapt at him, but his shield was up, and under its cover he drew his sword.
The noise was now so loud and so general that Ian did not know whether any of the other parties had been successful in scaling the wall. He disabled one of the men who opposed him and moved right. Owain dropped beside him, his sword already swinging; he moved left. Geoffrey dropped safely between them and scuttled behind Ian, drawing his lighter weapon. For the moment, there could not be any messages to run. A solid wall of men opposed them to the right, where lay the entry in the left-hand tower that guarded the drawbridge and portcullis.
The number of defenders was not important, except in the long run. Because the walls were only eight feet wide at this level, only two or three could advance against the invaders at any one time. If the other parties scaling the walls were unsuccessful, however, the supply of fresh defenders could overwhelm Ian’s party by exhaustion. Right now that problem was far from Ian’s mind. He was concentrating on keeping his side clear and pushing the defenders back. What inhibited them worked even harder against Ian. If he and the few men who had come up the ladder did not push the defenders back, no more of his party could come over the wall to help. There simply would not be standing room for them.
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