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by C. B. Hanley

  And then they were gone, except for the men on foot who had opened the gate and the remainder of John Marshal’s mounted sergeants, who had come through it with the regent’s men. They stood looking at each other in silence. Sounds of battle came from all around, but Edwin was standing in an island of calm. He began to heave a sigh of relief.

  He was only halfway through it when John Marshal began shouting again that their task was not yet done, and that they needed to help with the fight. One of his men was leading an extra horse, and Marshal strode towards it. As he did so, he grabbed a fistful of Edwin’s tunic and swung him round, surprisingly powerful for such a slight man. ‘Not you. You get inside that castle and protect yourself. You are valuable and I don’t want to explain to the lord regent that I got you killed. Go!’

  He gave Edwin a rough shove and then he was gone, onto his horse in one swift movement and urging the mount past the castle walls, his men following. With cries and with the exhilaration of battle upon them, they were gone.

  Sir Reginald was surrounded by enemies and handicapped by trying to pull his fallen leader up onto his horse behind him. There were too many of them … but then he heard a welcome sound. Shouts came from behind him as more mounted men crashed into the press around him. The footsoldiers assailing him screamed and fell back, as a knight whose device he recognised as John Marshal’s drove past him, hacking down at them. Falkes de Breauté had the space to grab the reins of a spare horse and haul himself into the saddle.

  The momentum of the new charge got them all moving again and they pushed further forward. The men ahead of them started to fall back, and they pressed their advantage. Ahead of them was the open ground where the French had their siege engines, which were still being manned, still hurling huge missiles at the damaged castle walls. If only they could stop that bombardment! Sir Reginald forced himself forwards to John Marshal and pointed, knowing he wouldn’t be heard above the din. Marshal gestured to show he had understood, and the two of them made themselves into a wedge, thrusting their way through the enemy knights with their own compatriots fanning out behind them, as they sought to reach the machines.

  Sir Reginald was stopped in his drive by another dismounted knight reaching for his reins, but as he paused to crack his sword down on the man’s wrist he saw John Marshal continuing on. He had broken through the press of knights and was hurtling, alone, towards the siege machinery. The engineers manning the devices weren’t properly armed or defended, and they stood no chance against the knight who sent blood and gore flying as he hacked his way through them, even as they tried to flee before the onslaught. Finally he reached the first mangonel, on top of which stood the chief engineer, still bellowing orders to his men. Without pause John Marshal rode straight at him, bringing his arm back in a wide arc, and the man’s head flew off his shoulders in between the space of two words. The Royalist forces cheered and surged further forwards, and soon all the engines had been seized, the bombardment stopped at last.

  Dame Nicola paused on her way across the courtyard and listened to the cheers coming from the south side of the castle. She stood still for a moment, listening. What was different? One of her men ran down from the south wall.

  ‘My lady, my lady!’ He skidded to a halt in front of her and she nodded for him to speak. ‘My lady, they have captured the siege engines!’

  Of course – that was it. She had become so used to the regular sound of the missiles that she had barely noticed when they stopped. For once heedless of dignity, she picked up her skirts and ran faster than she had in twenty years up to the parapet, a place which had been too dangerous to visit until a few moments ago. She looked out over the ground and saw a scene of carnage: blood and bodies and limbs everywhere, those of the damned engineers – served them right – and what were obviously the regent’s men starting to break the wretched machines to pieces. Standing atop one of the mangonels was an armoured knight – John Marshal, might the Lord bless him for the rest of his days. As she watched, he saw her on the parapet and somewhat foolhardily removed his helmet in order to bow to her with a flourish. Then he was gone, back into the press of men, back onto his horse, the enemy not yet defeated. But the bombardment had stopped! After enduring it for so long, she could scarcely credit it. They were going to win. They were going to drive those blasted French out of her city, and she would be able to start the process of rebuilding.

  She stopped herself from becoming too optimistic. Things were not over yet. For a few moments more she watched as Falkes de Breauté’s crossbowmen shot at the remaining enemy within range, cheering inwardly as each bolt found its mark in an adversary’s body. The weapons weren’t much use against the knights, of course, for their mail protected them against every shot but those at close range, but it was thinning the ranks of the bastards, and she gave thanks. After watching one final shot which lodged in the spine of a screaming footsoldier and left him writhing on the ground, she grunted in satisfaction and descended from the parapet.

  In the courtyard things were busy, as the wounded Royalists were being brought in. Now that the French were away from the immediate environs of the castle, it was safe to open the gate, so it made sense for the wounded to be tended here. She gave orders for her remaining garrison to help as best they could, while still keeping a sharp lookout on the walls for any stragglers among the French. As she surveyed the groaning men lying around her, she noticed Warenne’s spy helping one of the wounded. Warenne would do well out of this, despite his absence, for the man had done good work and the credit must go to the earl for putting him forward. The regent might even let him back into the Royalist camp, if he was lucky.

  She watched the man for a few moments, doing his best to stop a sergeant with a stomach wound bleeding to death; she had seen such injuries before and the man had no hope. She considered the spy again. No doubt Marshal had sent him back inside the safety of the walls, for he would be valuable, and he didn’t look like he would be much good in a fight anyway. But her supposition was obviously wrong, for as she watched, the man laid down the dead soldier and ran out of the gate and into the city. Foolhardy – no armour and only a dagger with which to defend himself – but that was his concern, not hers. She had plenty of other things to worry about.

  She sent a man for de Serland, who was at the north wall of the castle. She was feeling hopeful, but his news was not of the best. Chester’s men had been embroiled in some brutal fighting there and the result was still in doubt. The battle wasn’t over yet.

  Once more, Sir Gilbert raised his weary arm, bloody to the elbow, and brought it down on the head of the man who was trying to stab his horse’s belly. Since their charge through the west gate they had been involved in some vicious combat in the north-western corner of the city. The layout of the narrow streets had made it exceedingly difficult to fight properly, for they could only ride four abreast between the overhanging houses, and sometimes not even that. The French and rebels were in front of them at every step, and sometimes behind or above them as well, for they had seized the houses in that quarter, killing the citizens within or throwing them out into the street. There had been a number of fatalities which in Gilbert’s mind were regrettable. Just a moment ago he had stopped his horse and made it walk around the body of a small child – he couldn’t bring himself to step on it even though the mite was clearly dead already. But such things happened, and any deaths here would be a sacrifice towards the greater good of freeing the kingdom from the invaders.

  He flinched as the man next to him was struck by an arrow, but fortunately it rebounded off his helmet with a loud clang, and after shaking his head the knight appeared to be all right. Gilbert was now not in the front rank of the advancing force, having taken his turn as one of the leading four in the street, but having been replaced there by another. He looked sharply around him as they inched their way forwards, looking for any soldiers in the houses, so that he might send his troop of foot inside to flush them out. It was bloody and messy work, not his
idea of a battle at all, but it was working. The French were slowly giving ground along the high part of the city towards the cathedral, as the regent’s men spread out through all of the streets and cut their way forwards.

  Screaming sounded from a house to his right, and he immediately sent some men in. There was the sound of a struggle and they came out again to dump the body of an enemy soldier in the street. The screaming went on – it sounded like a woman, so there had probably been some violence in there. He couldn’t stop to find out. He wondered for a brief moment about the girl Edwin had told him about, and hoped that she was safe. He didn’t think that she would be in this quarter of the city – hadn’t Edwin said that she lived further south, down the hill? Anyway, he hoped for his sake that she might escape unscathed. He hoped also that Edwin, and Reginald for that matter, were still alive. He had little fear for his fellow knight, but Edwin was hardly able to defend himself, never mind take part in a battle, and it would be a shame if anything were to happen to him. Gilbert had grown quite fond of him over the last few days.

  Suddenly a patch of space appeared before him – the minster yard. The French had been pushed back so far that they were now in the north-eastern corner of the city. Gilbert could see their commander, the comte de Perche, trying desperately to rally his men in a group. There was a brief pause as the regent’s men also broke off the engagement to regroup, and then both sides faced each other across the open ground. There was a stillness. The air could have been sliced with a knife. Somebody would have to make a move.

  Perche rode round haranguing his men, trying to whip them up for a further fight. Then perhaps he realised that the best way was to lead by example, for he couched his lance and moved forward. There would be many men in the host who would love to have the glory of facing him, but before any of them could move, the regent himself burst forth from their ranks. Gilbert froze. The man was over seventy! What was he doing taking on such a young man in single combat? If he were to be killed, the blow to morale would be crippling.

  But it was too late. The regent lowered his lance and charged, as he had no doubt been doing on the fields of battle and tournament since long before Gilbert had been born. He thundered forward, aiming at the body of his opponent in a clear attempt to unhorse and capture him, rather than kill him, and Gilbert remembered suddenly that Perche was the regent’s cousin. So close were the factions that nearly everyone had some kind of relative on the other side.

  Was Perche surprised? If he was then he didn’t falter in his charge, but perhaps his concentration was broken. William Marshal was a legend, but he was still an old man, and there should have been no excuse for failing to unseat him. But Perche missed with his thrust, and the regent’s lance struck hard and true into the centre of Perche’s shield and shattered into flying pieces. The comte rocked back in the saddle and screamed – Gilbert couldn’t make out why, until he noticed the huge splinter of the broken lance which had flown up and pierced the eye slit of his visor. He reared up on his horse, unable to control it, spinning, shrieking, blood spurting from the wound. Yet miraculously he drew his sword and managed to strike a blow at the stupefied regent, still screeching and bleeding. The regent parried it easily, but didn’t make another strike himself. He didn’t need to; Perche’s sword dropped from his hand and he slid off the rearing horse to crash onto the ground, dead.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the French began to run.

  Edwin tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood coming from the man’s stomach, but in his heart he knew it was useless. He had retreated back inside the castle, as ordered, and had been followed by the first of what would probably be many wounded men. Some staggered in by themselves; others were dragged in by comrades who left them lying and ran back to the battle. One had landed virtually at his feet, and as Edwin tried to pick him up he realised it was the man Stephen, who had told Edwin about his brother on the night he’d arrived at the castle. Edwin sought to offer what help he could, but it wasn’t much. He tried to press his hands over the gaping wound, to stuff some of the man’s own padded garment into it, but the bright red blood soaked through with a frightening speed. Edwin gave up and knelt, taking Stephen’s hand and looking into his contorted face.

  He wasn’t old, not really, but some years older than Edwin, and he looked as though he’d seen many an encounter. But now he was frightened, knowing that death was near. He spoke in a rasping voice. ‘My wife – I don’t know what happened to my wife. She was in the town when it fell …’

  Edwin didn’t know what to say, only gripped the hand harder.

  The man spoke again, locking his eyes on Edwin’s. He sucked in a huge breath and screwed up his face in agony. ‘I’m going to die, like my brother …’ Edwin tried to calm him, to shush him into saving his strength, but the man was desperate to talk, to spend his last moments on earth communicating with the stranger who held his hand. ‘But I will pass into the Lord’s grace.’

  There was no point in trying to contradict him. Edwin nodded, and realised that he might be able to give some comfort after all. ‘You will see the gates of heaven, and your brother.’

  The man seemed to become more agitated. ‘But his head … will the Lord let him into heaven without his head? How will I know?’ His face became panicked and he writhed, as though he would try to move from his prone position. He fell back, gasping, more bright blood flowing over his body.

  Edwin put his other hand out to hold him down. ‘He will be there. He died in a just cause and the Lord wouldn’t deny him entry. You too will be forgiven your sins and the saints will welcome you.’ He prayed that it wasn’t a great sin to say so, for he didn’t know the man or what he’d done in his life, but he must at all costs give him comfort in his last agony.

  It seemed to have worked, for Stephen calmed, lying flat again and seeming to lose his remaining energy. His face already had the pallor of death. He spoke once more, voice weakening. ‘Yes. I will own up to my sins and not try to hide them. I shall go as I am. Alan will be there with his head intact, and I will recognise him when I see him …’

  Edwin actually saw the life light go out of the man’s eyes, and he sat for a moment before releasing his hand. He stared into the distance, words echoing in his head. He had been reminded of something, and now it was all becoming clear. He remembered exactly what Alys had said to him during their long conversation in the candlelight, and wondered why he hadn’t worked it out before.

  He knew what he had to do. Pausing to close the dead man’s eyes, he stood, took a deep breath, and ran out of the gate and into the city.

  As he ran he realised how incredibly foolish he was being. What in the Lord’s name was he doing, venturing out into a city which had become a battlefield, with only a dagger to protect him, and even that was not much use as he didn’t know how to use it properly. He must hope that the sight of the weapon would deter any casual attackers. If he were to be set upon by a real soldier then he would be dead anyway, so it didn’t matter. It also crossed his mind that he was disobeying a direct order from a member of the nobility, something he could never have imagined himself doing even a couple of days ago, but there were some things which just had to be done. He was in danger, he would be in some kind of disgrace, but he was in the right, and he held that sentiment firm as he ran through the streets, seeking to avoid the bodies and the blood where he could. He must protect her. Them. Her. His feelings were confused. Two things were for certain, though: firstly, there were soldiers everywhere who were crazed with blood; and secondly, he knew who had already mercilessly cut down two members of her family, and who might seek to strike again. She was in terrible danger.

  There was blood everywhere. Corpses lay grotesquely at every corner, not only fighting men but citizens, and some women and children also, those that hadn’t managed to escape the carnage. The fear grew inside him of what he might find when he reached the house, but he only increased his pace.

  As he neared the cathedral
the sounds of battle intensified, and suddenly there was a flood of men roaring past him, some dropping weapons as they fled. Others were still seeking to fight their pursuers, and turned to strike at those behind them. The streets were impossibly crowded, and Edwin was caught up in the maelstrom, carried along by the press of men. He gripped his dagger hard, but none of those around him sought to strike him, concerned as they were with the armed men behind them and the constricted way ahead. He had no idea who was who, but in the whirl he managed to catch a glimpse of a banner being held by one of the pursuers: the regent’s. They were winning. It was the enemy who were fleeing. Thank the Lord. That would increase all their chances of survival.

  The tide swept him down the steep hill. At the bottom they were joined by another group of fleeing men and horses, and Edwin sought in vain to avoid being flung into the crowd. It was to no avail, though, as the panic of those around him was too strong. He was surrounded by men paying no attention to what they were doing with the sharp steel in their hands, and by the flying hooves of horses that were equally panicked. He was kicked, punched, and felt a sharp pain across his upper arm as a flashing blade hit him. Finally he fell.

  As he hit the floor he felt the crowd start to move over him. Feet were all around him, on him, trampling him into the ground. He was going to die here, crushed. A small space cleared and he sought to roll into a kneeling position, but over him loomed the terrifying figure of a man on horseback, sword raised. With a terrible irony he noticed that the man wore the emblem of John Marshal, and realised that he himself bore no colours, the consequence of his secret mission. He was going to be killed by one of his own side. Dear Lord, forgive my sins and protect my mother.