“Clear the gate!” Sir Guillaume said. “Pull them clear!” He did not want his men to be shot by the crossbowmen outside the castle while they plundered the corpses of their armor and weapons, and so they dragged the bodies to the side of the yard. There were no wounded enemy that Sir Guillaume could see. It was the enemy that had shouted the call for no prisoners and the garrison had obeyed them. And now the attack was over.
Yet the danger was not past. There were still two bodies in the archway. Sir Guillaume knew the crossbowmen lower in the town could see into the gateway, so, using his shield to protect his body, he stooped and sidled into the arch and dragged the first body back towards the yard. There was no sign of Joscelyn and that was a pity. Sir Guillaume had dreamed of taking the Count prisoner for a second time, and then he would have doubled Joscelyn’s ransom, doubled it again and then doubled it a third time. Bastard, Sir Guillaume thought, and a crossbow bolt slammed high into his shield, banging the top edge against Sir Guillaume’s helmet. He crouched lower, grabbed the last man’s ankle and pulled, and the man stirred and tried to fight back so Sir Guillaume hammered the shield’s pointed lower edge into the man’s groin and the man gasped, then stopped struggling.
It was Robbie. Once Sir Guillaume had him in the courtyard and was safe from the crossbowmen in the town, he could see that Robbie had not been wounded. Instead he had been stunned, probably by an arrow that had struck the lower edge of his helmet and left a fierce dent in the thick rim, which had thumped onto Robbie’s skull and hurled him back. One inch lower and there would have been a dead Scotsman. As it was there was a very confused Scotsman who twitched in search of his sword as he realized where he was.
“Where’s my money,” Sir Guillaume growled, threatening Robbie with the Scotsman’s own sword.
“Oh, Jesus,” Robbie groaned.
“He’s no damned use to you. If you want mercy, son, ask me. Ask them!” Sir Guillaume pointed at the archers and men-at-arms who were stripping the dead and injured of their weapons, armor and clothes. Cross-eyed Jake was grinning because one of the enemy dead had been wearing a ruby ring. Jake had sawn off the finger and now held the jewel aloft in triumph. Sam, the proud new owner of a fine coat of German-made mail, came to look at Robbie. He spat to show his opinion of the Scotsman.
Robbie, tears in his eyes because of his humiliation, looked at the dead men, their undershirts laced with blood. Forty attackers had crossed the square outside the castle and over half of them were dead. He looked up at Sir Guillaume. “I’m your prisoner,” he said, and he wondered how he was supposed to pay one ransom to Lord Outhwaite in England and another to Sir Guillaume.
“You’re bloody not my prisoner,” Sir Guillaume said in crude English, then he changed back to French. “I heard the shout outside. No prisoners. And you might remember that when we do take prisoners, we don’t get ransoms. We just get pieces of parchment. Is that what honor means in Scotland?”
Robbie looked up into the savage, one-eyed face and shrugged. “Just kill me,” he said wearily. “Kill me and go to hell.”
“Your friend wouldn’t like that,” Sir Guillaume said and saw the puzzlement on Robbie’s face. “Your friend Thomas,” he explained. “He likes you. He wouldn’t want you dead. Got a soft spot for you, he has, because he’s a goddamned fool. So I’ll let you live. Get on your feet.” Sir Guillaume prodded Robbie up. “Now go to Joscelyn and tell that spavined bastard that he can pay us what you owe us and then we’ll leave. Got that? He pays the money, then you watch us ride away.”
Robbie wanted to ask for the sword that belonged to his uncle and concealed a precious relic of St. Andrew in its hilt, but he knew he would be refused and so, still dazed, he went back to the arch, followed by the jeers of the archers. Sir Guillaume bellowed at the crossbowmen in the town that the man coming out was one of their own. “Perhaps they’ll shoot you anyway,” he said to Robbie, then shoved him out into the dusk.
None of the crossbowmen shot at Robbie who, with an aching head and a throbbing groin, stumbled down the street. The survivors of the attack were gathered by the still smoking gun; some of them had arrows in their arms or legs. Joscelyn was there, bare-headed; his hair had been flattened by the helmet’s liner and his round face was slick with sweat and red with anger. He had been among the last to crowd into the gateway, had seen the chaos in front and had then been knocked over by an arrow strike on his breastplate. He had been astonished by the force of the blow, like being kicked by a horse, and the plate had a bright gouge in it. He had struggled up only to be hit by a second arrow which, like the first, had failed to pierce the thick plate, but he was knocked back again, and then the panic of the survivors had enveloped him and he had stumbled away with them. “They let you go?” he greeted Robbie who he saw had a dark bruise on his forehead.
“They sent me with a message, lord,” Robbie said. “If they receive their money,” he went on, “they will leave without more fighting.”
“It’s your money!” Joscelyn snarled. “So you pay them. Do you have it?”
“No, lord.”
“Then we damned well kill them. We damned well kill them all!” Joscelyn turned on Signor Gioberti. “How long will it take you to bring down the whole archway?”
Gioberti thought for a second. He was a small man, nearly fifty, with a deeply lined face. “A week, lord,” he estimated. One of his bolts had hit the side of the arch and ripped out a barrowload of stones, suggesting that the castle was in ill repair. “Maybe ten days,” he amended his answer, “and in another ten days I can bring down half the curtain wall.”
“We’ll crush them in ruins,” Joscelyn snarled, “then slaughter the damned lot.” He turned on his squire. “Is my supper ready?”
“Yes, lord.”
Joscelyn ate alone. He had thought he would eat in the castle’s hall this night and listen to the screams of the archers having their fingers cut off, but fate had decreed otherwise. So now he would take his time, reduce the castle to rubble, then have his revenge.
And next morning Guy Vexille and Charles Bessières came to Castillon d’Arbizon with over fifty men. It seemed that Vexille had failed to find his heretic but, for reasons Joscelyn neither cared about nor understood, he believed the man and his beghard woman would be coming to the besieged castle.
“You catch them,” Joscelyn said, “and the man’s yours. But the woman’s mine.”
“She belongs to the Church,” Vexille said.
“Mine first,” Joscelyn insisted. “the Church can play with her next and the devil can have her afterwards.”
The gun fired and the castle gateway trembled.
THOMAS AND HIS COMPANIONS spent a wet night under the trees. In the morning three of the coredors had vanished with their women, but fourteen men were left with eight women, six children and, most usefully, seven crossbows. They were all old bows with goat-leg levers to draw the string, which meant they were less powerful than the steel-shafted bows that used cranked handles to draw the cord, but in a fight the old sort were quick to reload and lethal enough at short distances.
The horsemen had gone from the valley. It took Thomas most of the morning to satisfy himself of that, but eventually he saw a pig-herder bringing his animals towards the woods and, shortly after that, the road leading south beside the stream was suddenly busy with folk who looked like fugitives for they were carrying huge loads and pushing handcarts piled with goods. He guessed the horsemen had got bored waiting for him and had attacked a nearby town or village instead, but the sight of the people reassured him that no soldiers were close and so they went on westwards.
The next day, as they took a high southern route that kept them away from the valleys and roads, he heard the gun in the distance. At first he thought it was a strange kind of thunder, an abrupt clap with no fading rumble, but there were no dark clouds in the west, and then it sounded again, and at midday a third time and he realized it was a cannon. He had seen cannons before, but they were uncommon, and h
e feared what the strange device might do to his friends in the castle. If they were still his friends.
He hurried, tending north now towards Castillon d’Arbizon, but forced to take care each time he came to an open valley or a place where horsemen might lie in ambush. He shot a roe deer that evening and they each had a morsel of the uncooked liver for they dared not light a fire. At dusk, when he carried the roe back to their encampment, he had seen the smoke to the northwest and known it came from the cannon, and that meant he was very close, so close that he stayed on guard till the heart of the night, then woke Philin and made him serve as a sentry.
It was raining in the morning. The coredors were miserable and hungry and Thomas tried to cheer them by promising them that warmth and food were not far off. But the enemy were also nearby and he went cautiously. He dared not leave his bow strung, for the rain would weaken the string. He felt naked without an arrow on the cord. The sound of the gun, firing every three or four hours, grew louder, and by the early afternoon Thomas could hear the distinct crash of the missiles striking stone. But then, as he breasted a rise and the rain at last ended, he saw that the Earl of Northampton’s flag still hung drab and damp on the keep’s high staff and that gave him encouragement. It did not denote safety, but it promised an English garrison to fight at his side.
They were close now, perilously close. The rain might have stopped, but the ground was slippery and Thomas fell twice as he scrambled down the steep wooded slope which led to the river that curled about the castle’s crag. He planned to approach the castle as he had escaped it, by crossing the weir beside the mill, but as he reached the foot of the slope, where the trees grew close to the mill pond, he saw his fears had been justified and that the enemy had anticipated him for a crossbowman was standing in the mill’s doorway. The man, wearing a chain mail coat, was beneath a small thatched porch that hid him from any archers on the castle battlements though, when Thomas looked up the hill, he saw no archers there. The besiegers doubtless had crossbows in the town and would shoot at any man who exposed himself.
“Kill him.” Genevieve was crouching beside Thomas and had seen the lone crossbowman across the river.
“And warn the others?”
“What others?”
“He’s not alone there,” Thomas said. He reckoned the miller and his family must have gone because the spill-way chute had been lowered and the great waterwheel was motionless, but the besiegers would not have posted a single man to guard the difficult route across the weir’s top. There were probably a dozen men there. He could shoot the first, that was no problem, but then the others would shoot at him from the door and from the two windows facing the river and he would have no chance of crossing the weir. He stared for a long time, thinking, then went back to Philin and the coredors who were hiding farther up the slope. “I need flint and steel,” he told Philin.
The coredors travelled frequently and needed to make fires every night so several of the women had flint and steel, but one also had a leather pouch filled with the powder made from puffball fungi. Thomas thanked her, promised her a reward for the precious powder, then went downstream until he was hidden from the sentry standing under the mill’s porch. He and Genevieve searched the undergrowth for small scraps of kindling and for newly fallen chestnut leaves. He needed twine so he pulled a strand from the shirt Genevieve wore beneath her mail coat, then piled some kindling on a flat stone, liberally sprinkled it with powder, and gave the steel and flint to Genevieve. “Don’t light it yet,” he told her. He did not want smoke drifting out of the almost bare trees to alert the men across the river.
He took the thicker scraps of kindling and bound them to the head of a broad-head arrow. It took time, but after a while he had a thick bunch of kindling that he would protect with the big chestnut leaves. A fire arrow had to be burning well, but the rush of its flight could extinguish the flames and the leaves would help prevent that. He wet the leaves in a puddle, placed them over the dry twigs, tied the twine off, then shook the arrow to make certain the bunched kindling was secure. “Light it now,” he told Genevieve.
She rapped the flint and the puffball powder flared instantly, then the kindling took and a brief, bright flame shot up. Thomas let the fire grow, held the arrow to it, let it catch and then held it an instant so that all the kindling was burning. The ash shaft blackened as he edged downhill until he could see the mill’s thatched roof.
He drew. The fire scorched his left hand so he could not draw to the bow’s full extent, but the distance was short. He prayed no one was staring out of the mill’s windows, said another prayer to St. Sebastian that the arrow would fly properly, and loosed.
The broad-head flew. It arched from the trees, trailing smoke, and thumped into the thatch halfway up the roof. The sound must have alerted the men inside the mill, but at that moment the gun fired in the town and that much greater noise would probably have distracted them.
He stamped out Genevieve’s small fire, then led her back upstream and beckoned Philin and the men with the crossbows to creep down to the wood’s edge. Now he waited.
The mill’s thatch was damp. It had been raining heavily and the mossy straw was dark with moisture. Thomas could see a wisp of smoke coming from where the arrow had buried itself in the dirty, ragged roof, but there were no flames. The crossbowman was still in the doorway, yawning. The river had been swollen by the rain and was pouring over the weir in a thick, green-white rill that would tug at the ankles as they tried to cross. Thomas looked back to the mill roof and thought the smoke was dying. He would have to do it all again, and keep doing it until he was discovered or the fire caught, and just as he was making up his mind to take Genevieve back downstream to find new kindling, the roof suddenly emitted a surge of smoke. It thickened fast, billowing up like a small rain cloud, then a flame appeared in the thatch and Thomas had to hush the coredors who had begun to cheer. The fire spread with extraordinary rapidity. The arrow must have carried the kindling into the drier layer beneath the dark, wet straw and the flames now burst through the black, moss-covered outer sheath. In only seconds half the roof was ablaze and Thomas knew this was a fire that would never be extinguished. It would set light to the beams, the roof would collapse, and then the mill’s great wooden workings would burn until there was nothing left but a smoke-blackened stone shell.
Then the men burst out of the door. “Now,” Thomas said, and his first broad-head seared across the stream and threw a man back through the door, and the coredors were loosing their crossbows that gave clicks as the cords were freed. The bolts clattered on stone, struck a man in the leg, and Thomas’s second and third arrows were on the way before the crossbows shot again. One of the men from the mill succeeded in scrambling away behind the burning building, doubtless going to alert the other besiegers, and Thomas knew time was short, but more men came from the mill and he shot again, saw he had put an arrow through a woman’s neck, had no time for regrets, pulled the cord and loosed again. Then the doorway was empty and he pulled one of the crossbowmen away from bank and told the others to keep shooting at anyone who showed in the doorway. “Cross now!” he called to Philin.
Thomas and the crossbowman negotiated the weir first. The stone sill was about as broad as a man’s foot, and it was slippery, but they edged across, the water fierce against their feet. Philin, his son on his shoulders, led the other coredors across as Thomas, at last gaining the town bank, sent an arrow into the flamelit interior of the mill. There were bodies by the doorway. Some still moved.
The woman he had shot looked at him with wide, dead eyes. A crossbow bolt hammered down from the wood which lay between the mill and the town wall above and the quarrel narrowly missed Thomas to splash into the mill pond, but then a white-feathered arrow hissed down from the keep’s rampart and slashed into the trees where the crossbowman was hidden. No more bolts came.
A woman slipped on the weir and screamed as she fell down its face into the churning white water. “Leave her!” Philin sh
outed.
“Up the path!” Thomas yelled. “Go, go!” He sent one of the coredors up first because the man was armed with an axe; Thomas had told him to hack through the small gate in the wall at the hill’s top. He turned to the crossbowmen over the river whose aim was now obscured by the folk scrambling up the town bank. “Come on!” he called to them, and though none spoke English they understood him well enough, and then a great crash sounded from the mill as a section of the roof collapsed and a gout of sparks and flames erupted from the fallen joists and rafters.
And at that instant the mill’s last defender came running from the doorway. He was a tall man, dressed in leather rather than mail, and his hair was smoking from the fire and his face, as ugly as any Thomas had ever seen, was fixed in a rictus of hate. The man leaped the barrier of dead and dying and for a second Thomas thought the man was charging him, but then he twisted away in an attempt to escape and Thomas pulled the cord, loosed, and the arrow plunged between the man’s shoulder-blades and hurled him forward. The wounded man had been carrying a belt which had a sword, a knife and a crossbowman’s quiver attached to it, and the belt skidded away in the wet leaves. Thomas thought that any spare missiles would always be welcome and so he ran to pick up the belt, and the man, who had to be dying, snatched at Thomas’s ankle. “Bastard,” the man said in French, “bastard!”
Thomas kicked the man in the face, breaking his teeth, then stamped down with his heel to break some more. The dying man released his grip and Thomas kicked him again, just to keep him still. “Up the hill!” he shouted. He saw that Genevieve had crossed the weir safely and he tossed her the belt with its weapons and quarrel-case, then followed her up the path towards the small gate behind St. Sardos’s church. Would the enemy be guarding it? But if they were, that enemy was in trouble, for more archers were on the castle’s tower now and they were shooting down into the town. They were standing, shooting, ducking down and Thomas could hear the sound of crossbow bolts banging into the castle’s stone.