‘Reconnaissance party,’ Selby said. He called to the men in the outer bailey. ‘Shoot when they come within range. Make sure they keep their distance.’ Turning to the men by the catapult he said, ‘Wind her up.’
At two hundred yards the archers on the outer wall-walk began to shoot. Peter de Lisle was one of them. Selby nodded to the crew of the catapult, and the arm sprang into the air, hitting the crossbar with a hard thud. The stone shot flew straight into the middle of the oncoming horsemen, plucking one from his saddle and smashing him to the ground. The garrison shouted with delight, men punching the air, and Selby smiled grimly. ‘First blood,’ he said.
The archers were shooting well too, and several horses were down. The Marischal pulled his men back out of range and commenced a slow, deliberate circuit of the southern walls, right around to the river on the east side. They could see the enemy turning in their saddles to study the ramparts. ‘I didn’t think they would be this cautious,’ Selby said.
‘They’re not yet sure what strength we have,’ said Merrivale. ‘A bloody nose now could lower the spirits of the army, and make it less fit to fight.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Selby.
The reconnaissance party withdrew towards the Scottish lines. More smoke billowed to the east and south. The sky turned grey, deep orange sunlight falling across the plain. Little companies of light horse came sweeping past the castle, kicking up dust, darting at the walls from time to time in order to test the defences. The defenders ran along the wall-walk to keep pace with them, leaving the armoured dummies in place. The catapult wheeled on its turntable, trying to track the fast-moving horsemen. ‘They’re trying to tempt you into a sortie,’ Merrivale said quietly.
‘I know. I’ve played this game before.’
Archers came running behind the horsemen, using them and their dust as cover, halting and shooting at the walls. The defenders ducked for cover and shot back, and the catapult banged again, sending stone shot bouncing lethally through their ranks. In response came fire arrows, orange streaks hissing through the air and thumping into the outer palisade. Flames licked up the wooden wall, and men leaned out to pour buckets of water over them. One man dropped his bucket and fell back with an arrow in his chest, the first of the defenders to die.
The afternoon wore on. Slowly at first but then more thickly as the Scots pressed forward, bodies began to litter the ground outside the palisade. Showers of arrows flew into the outer bailey until they littered the ground like kindling wood, some still smouldering. The ramparts of the palisade were full of impaled arrows, standing out like a hedgehog’s quills. The defenders shot back, ducking in and out of cover, and more Scots fell, but still they came on. The palisade was burning in half a dozen places, and another man leaning out to douse the flames was killed. His comrades dragged his body back to the rampart, leaning it up in an embrasure along with the dummies. Even the dead were defending Liddel Strength now.
Late in the day came a pause, time for the defenders to rest their aching arms and backs and for waterskins to be passed along the ramparts. The catapult crew lowered a sling and began winching more stones up to the top of the tower. Merrivale went down to the chapel where Tiphaine had taken refuge. The chapel was, he reasoned, the safest place in the castle and she had Mauro and Warin to guard her. She was still exhausted and the sound of the fighting outside had torn at her nerves, but she still managed a smile when he entered. ‘Are we winning?’
‘We are holding our own,’ said Merrivale, ‘which is all that can be expected. Mauro, Warin, there is bread and cold meat in the kitchen. Take some food to the defenders.’
‘I will help,’ Tiphaine said, standing up with an effort. She held up a hand when he started to speak. ‘No, Simon, let me do this. Anything is better than sitting here, waiting.’
Liddel Strength, 7th of October, 1346
Evening
Two were dead; forty defenders still remained.
As the sun set bloody red beyond Solway Firth, the Scots returned to the attack. Waves of men came forward, Galwegians and highlanders, dragging stones and beams and the trunks of trees. Others carried bundles of wooden faggots. Men-at-arms on foot covered them, using their shields and armour to ward off the arrows flying from the palisade. Stone shot from the catapult cut bloody furrows through the ranks, but the Scots did not hesitate. Reaching the fosse, they threw their burdens into the ditch, trampling them down and piling more on top.
The defenders were ready. At Selby’s orders torches had been placed along the ramparts, and now men lit the wicks in jars of oil and threw them down onto the Scots. Heavy stones and more arrows followed. Men reeled back burned and bleeding, armour crushed and scorched, paint peeling from their shields. Some fell into the fosse and died, their bodies quickly covered by more stones and wood. On the ramparts men died too, three more killed by Scottish arrows hissing through the embrasures in the fading light.
The Scots had taken heavy losses, but they had achieved their object; the fosse had been filled in several places, broad enough for a storming party to cross. As night fell the enemy lit torches too, and Merrivale could still see the devices of the enemy, Brus’s red saltire, Carrick’s lion, Douglas’s heart, the red diamonds of Moray coming to the fore. He watched Peter tracking Brus, and knew he was shooting for Tiphaine’s sake; twice when the Norman came too close to the walls the boy raised his bow, and twice arrows thudded into Brus’s shield.
Selby ran down into the outer bailey, sword in hand. ‘This is it, lads. They’re coming.’
Fire arrows streaked through the air, and more flames licked up the face of the blackened palisade. Out of the fireshot dark came three storming columns, men-at-arms in testudo formation, holding their shields locked together over their heads like the shell of a tortoise. Stones rained down on them, burning oil made rivers of fire, but through the howling chaos they came, stumbling over the debris-filled fosse and hacking at the wooden palisade with axes and picks or digging away the foundations to undermine them. Men went down dead and wounded, but the rest stuck to their task.
The drawbridge slammed down. The postern gate opened. Selby ran through it, followed by a handful of his men-at-arms. Running full tilt, they slammed into the rear of the nearest testudo, hacking wildly with their swords. The Scots, not knowing how many men assailed them, broke and ran for safety. Hearing their shouts of alarm, the other two testudos fell back quickly as well. Selby and his men ran for the shelter of the postern; halfway across the drawbridge a flying arrow hit one of his men in the leg and brought him down. Shouting at the others to go on, Selby turned and dragged the wounded man to safety. The drawbridge rose, groaning and rattling. Slowly the flames on the palisade died away. Silence fell over Liddel Strength, washed in the bitter light of the rising moon.
Liddel Strength, 8th of October, 1346
Morning
Six dead; in addition to the three killed yesterday evening, another man had died in the night. Wounded in the neck, he had bled to death at his post. They propped him up in an embrasure alongside his comrades. There were thirty-six defenders left, at least half of them wounded to some degree.
The Scots had been quiet during the rest of the night, probing towards the palisade from time to time, just often enough to make sure the defenders were robbed of sleep. In the morning, Tiphaine and the two servants made porridge and carried bowls up to the men on the ramparts while Merrivale washed and bandaged their wounds as best he could. One man had been badly burned when an oil bottle had been smashed by a flying arrow. ‘I have some salve that will cool the skin a little,’ the herald said. ‘But there is not much left.’
‘Save it for the others, sir,’ the burned man said through clenched teeth. ‘God will ease my pain soon enough.’
‘They’re making ready again,’ said another man, his voice taut with strain. His face and hands were blackened with smoke, his breastplate dented where an arrow had struck him.
Merrivale looked over the ramparts. The
testudos were forming up again, solid walls of men-at-arms with painted shields, and behind each testudo was a forest of spears, blue and white banners waving above them. ‘Those are Galloway colours,’ Peter said.
‘Shit,’ someone muttered. ‘Fucking Galwegians.’
The Galloway spearmen, descendants of Norwegian vikingrs from long ago, were among the toughest and most feared troops in the Scottish army. Fiercely independent, they fought against Scotland as often as for her, but there was no mistaking their intent today. Trumpets blared and they heard the long moans of pipes inflating. Selby came along the wall-walk, the blade of his sword still crusted with dried blood. ‘Stand to. Make ready.’
The trumpets sounded again. Shouting, the Scottish men-at-arms ran forward, raising their shields above their heads to ward off the arrows and stones from the palisade. Some stumbled and fell but the rest ran on, crossing the filled-in fosse and hacking at the palisades again. The burned man collapsed with an arrow through his neck; Merrivale hauled him upright again, leaning the body against the ramparts. He saw Peter shooting fast and accurately, bringing down three of the enemy, others shooting as well, Scottish arrows thudding into the palisades or cutting the air around their heads. Another defender was down, then another.
A section of the palisade heaved; the Scots had cut through the foundations. Another minute and the timbers came crashing down, throwing two men into the courtyard just as the Galwegian spearmen came pouring through. Both staggered up, but were stabbed before they could run. ‘Get back!’ Selby shouted, and all the defenders who could move ran from the rampart and back to the gatehouse leading into the inner bailey. Merrivale held the gate, ushering the rest inside; Selby ran through last of all and he and Merrivale slammed the heavy gate and dropped the bars just as the first spearpoints thudded into the wood outside. The gate shuddered as the Scots hammered at it, shouting in anger, and then the shouts changed to screams as the defenders on the gatehouse roof threw stone shot down on their heads. They heard the Scots retreating.
Selby opened his visor and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘That was too damned close,’ he said.
Liddel Strength, 8th of October, 1346
Afternoon
They had lost six more men in the defence of the palisade; thirty were left.
The outer bailey was a no man’s land, with the English defending the inner wall and the Scots sheltering behind the smouldering, splintered remains of the palisade. Any Scot who tried to cross the bailey was quickly shot down; anytime a defender showed his head above the parapet, a stream of arrows arched towards him. Three more English archers were killed in these cat-and-mouse duels, but the defenders had the advantage of height and the Scottish archers suffered heavily; man after man was killed or wounded as he raised up to shoot. ‘They’re losing men a damned sight faster than we are,’ Selby said with satisfaction.
No one bothered to point out the obvious; they could afford to.
After an hour or so the Scots went quiet, some retreating to their camp, only a few still clinging on behind the palisade to prevent the English retaking it. Selby briefly considered a sortie to dislodge them, but decided against it; the palisade was too damaged now to be defendable, and he would suffer casualties he could not afford to lose. Silence fell, broken only by the buzz of flies feasting on the blood and the groans of wounded men. Once again Merrivale went around the ramparts with a pot of water and strips of linen, washing and binding wounds that would never have time to heal.
When he had finished he found Tiphaine in the stable, feeding the horses. The animals were uneasy, shifting in their stalls; they could smell the blood, he thought. She looked at him, bruises dark against her pale skin. ‘What will happen now?’
‘They will wait until darkness,’ Merrivale said. He pointed to the curtain wall around the inner bailey. ‘If that position falls, go to the chapel and stay there. I will join you if I can.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘If I had not been caught, we would neither of us be here.’
Merrivale smiled briefly. ‘In war, nothing ever turns out as expected,’ he said. ‘You have nothing for which to blame yourself.’
‘Yet I do blame myself,’ she said abruptly. ‘If we are about to die, I would like to know one thing before I go. The lady you once loved was called Yolande. That is also the name of the Countess of Béthune.’
‘Your guess is correct,’ he said. ‘She was the one.’
Tiphaine shivered suddenly. ‘She betrayed me to Brus,’ she said. ‘But I think it was inadvertent. I do not believe she meant me any harm. When she realised what she had done, she tried to protect me.’
‘Then I owe her my thanks,’ Merrivale said.
‘Do you? For what?’
‘For trying to protect you.’
They looked at each other in the strong light. Behind them the horses munched uneasily on straw. ‘Who is she?’ Tiphaine asked. ‘Besides the Countess of Béthune, I mean.’
‘She is called Yolande of Bohemia. She is the illegitimate daughter of Lady Yolanda of Mazara, a Sicilian noblewoman, and King Jean of Bohemia.’
Her eyes flew open. ‘King Jean, who was killed at Crécy? The one who threw you into a river, tied in a sack?’
‘The very same.’
‘You aimed high,’ she said after a moment.
‘I aimed for the stars,’ said Merrivale. ‘And the stars came down and crushed me.’
‘And Béthune? Why did she marry him?’
‘Having got me out of the way, her father was anxious to see her wed and forced her into the first suitable marriage he could find. Or so I have always thought. I could be wrong, of course.’
‘Don’t you care? Don’t you want to find out?’
‘Why? So I could steal her away from her husband and elope with her, as we once planned to do? That seems unlikely now, I think.’ He thought of her son back in Flanders; he would be about eight years old now. ‘She has too much to lose,’ he said.
Tiphaine looked out into the courtyard. Men were dragging tables and benches out of the hall, building a barricade around the entrance to the tower. ‘And now, we will never know,’ she said. ‘It is a pity. I would have liked to see the two of you resolve things, one way or another.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘I don’t think that is a good idea,’ he said. ‘I see Mauro and Warin going to the kitchen to prepare more delicious porridge. Shall we go and assist them?’
* * *
The orange ball of the sun slid down to the horizon and vanished. Night rolled across the plain and engulfed the castle, lit with torches burning along its ramparts. The twenty-seven defenders made ready. They had a shorter perimeter to defend now, and they still had a few inflammables and plenty of stone shot and arrows. The torches illuminated the inner bailey and dimly showed the first Scots gathering outside the walls. The ground trembled to the sound of marching feet, company after company massing for the assault.
First came the fire arrows, blazing like comets in the night. The walls of the inner bailey were of stone, not wood, but the fire arrows dazzled the defenders and forced them to take cover while the first storming parties ran through the gaps in the palisade. The catapult launched stone shot into their midst, knocking men over like skittles, but the rest charged on. At the bottom of the wall the testudos formed again, men at arms holding their shields over their heads while others burrowed at the foundations of the wall, holding on as long as they could until the deluge of burning oil and stones and arrows forced them back. Beyond the palisade they regrouped and came again, and again, until the cobbles of the courtyard were dark and greasy with blood.
The defenders suffered. Three more were shot and killed on the ramparts, and on the gatehouse roof two of the catapult’s crew were killed too, so there were not enough men to work the machine and the rest began throwing stone shot down onto the heads of the men who hacked at the gate and tried to force it open. Nearly all of the remainder were wounded now; Selby, always in the thick of t
he action, had half a dozen arrows protruding from his mail coat. Peter de Lisle was one of the few who remained miraculously uninjured, dodging along the ramparts, sniping at the enemy below, encouraging his older comrades to keep fighting. This is no herald, Merrivale thought, watching him, this is his father’s son. This is a captain of men in the making.
Around midnight the Scots drew back to rest. The Galwegians, who had borne the brunt of the fighting, had left more than thirty of their number dead in the outer bailey. Stones had been hacked out of the bottom of the wall and lay strewn around the courtyard, but the foundations were still sound. The wooden gate was badly damaged, however, and Selby’s face was grim as he examined the splintered wood. ‘This won’t hold for long,’ he said, hobbling back into the inner bailey, and he gave orders to pack the base of the tower with wood and straw and soak the lot in oil. He grinned at Merrivale, his face streaked with blood. ‘We’ll roast the bastards,’ he said. ‘Give them an early foretaste of hell.’
Merrivale glanced at his leg. ‘Sit down and let me take a look at you.’
Selby’s boot, when he pulled it off, was full of blood. He bandaged the arrow wounds in the other man’s leg and eased the boot back on again, and looked at the commander’s other wounds. ‘Never mind,’ Selby said. ‘There’s others worse hurt than me. Look after them.’ Stiffly, he climbed back up to the ramparts and looked down at the bodies dark in the torchlight. One of the Scots was still alive, crying of thirst and calling out for water. ‘Drink your blood!’ Selby shouted down, mocking him. ‘Your thirst will soon pass!’
Liddel Strength, 9th of October, 1346
After midnight
Five more defenders had died; twenty-two men remained.
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