30 - King's Gold (54 page)

Baldwin looked around one last time in the grey pre-dawn light: there was nothing to be seen yet, but he knew that the fog could conceal hundreds of men, and here in the castle they would have no idea of their presence until the enemy launched an assault.

He passed the guard on the wall over the postern gate. The man had been up late, to judge from the look of his bleary eyes. He leaned against the battlements, casually watching the swirling mists, and Baldwin was content that at least he was awake, if not as alert as he could have been. Below, when Baldwin glanced into the court, he saw another man at the alleyway, picking his nose assiduously.

There was nothing more he could do, he thought. He turned and was about to walk down the stairs when he heard something.

It was faint – a metallic ‘snick’ from outside the castle. On the misty air, the sound was leaden. There was no perception of direction, not with his deaf right ear, and Baldwin turned his head so that his left ear was projected towards the noise. Nothing. It could have been his imagination, but he didn’t think so. Baldwin turned his head again so that he faced the wild heath once more. His eyes studied the mists as though he could penetrate them with his fierce glare.

And then there was a swirl as a breeze moved them, and he saw through the mists a column of men.

‘Guards! Guards! Alarm!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice, even as the mists began to clear and he saw the massed men outside the castle.

Simon heard the roar of his friend’s voice through the blanket of sleep that had so fully bound him. He tried to leap from his bench, only to stumble over his clothes on the floor. Quickly pulling on his chemise and tugging on his hosen, tying them quickly, he shrugged himself into his aketon, and thrust his feet into boots before buckling his sword about his waist.

Outside, the shouts were increasing, and he stood taking stock. The guards and men-at-arms were already pelting over the court to their allocated places, most of them looking the worse for wear after the feast last night. One youngster was throwing up at the corner of a wall. Simon gave him a buffet over the back of the head. ‘Get to your place, boy!’ he snarled. The sight and stench of vomit made him want to puke too. He had drunk far too much last night. His head was thudding painfully, and the thought of fighting in this condition did not fill him with confidence.

The men on the wall were already hurling abuse at the men below, one or two throwing rocks. There was a supply of stones left over from the mason’s works, and these were employed to good effect. Three men had crossbows, and they were calling down for more bolts to shoot. Simon was about to bellow for men to fetch them, when he saw two of the labourers grab bags of rocks and some staffs, and hurry up to the wall.

Simon had enough to think of. He was crossing the yard when he glanced up at the wall. To his astonishment, he saw fighting. Then, ‘Watch out! We have them inside already!’ he shouted as he ran to the wall himself. Some of the labourers had taken their sticks and knocked down the men from the walls. One crossbowman was thrown to the court, landing on his head. He didn’t move again.

Now Simon looked about him, he saw other little groups fighting, and he stood in the midst of the mayhem, sword in hand, trying to see which men were fighting for the castle, which were against it. It was almost impossible. Then he saw a man dart down that alley towards the postern, and felt his scalp crawl at the thought of more men entering.

He ran without thinking, and was at the alley as the man reached the gate. He had already shoved the key in the lock, and Simon gave a hoarse cry and threw himself forwards. The fellow darted to one side, but then he had a knife out. He had the look of a fighter, and Simon was wary, aware of his own slowness this morning. His sword-tip did not waver, and he thrust quickly, only to see his blade miss the mark. Back to circling. Simon panted slightly, his mouth open as he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the fellow.

There was a crunch on his head, and he slumped in the same moment, falling to his knees. Behind him, he heard a man cry to the other to open the postern, and Simon fell, rolling over, recognising John standing over him, a great truncheon in his fist. It was fortunate he had not grabbed for a sword, Simon thought as he succumbed to the blow and felt the waves of nausea washing through his body. They seemed to rise from his feet with a tingling, pins-and-needles sensation until it reached his belly. He rolled over again, to the base of the wall, and was heartily sick even as he heard the postern flung wide and the triumphant roar of the enemy’s troops as they poured in.

On the walls, Baldwin had no idea what had happened to Simon, but when he saw the labourers attack the crossbowmen, he realised the danger posed by the masons and labourers, and shouted to Edgar, who was even now running up the stairs to the wall.

‘No! Edgar, watch the stone workers! There are traitors among them. Stop them!’

Edgar said nothing, but lightly sprang down to the ground again. There was a mason with a sword beating at a man-at-arms, and as Edgar passed him, he casually rammed the pommel of his sword into the man’s head. The mason collapsed.

Baldwin saw his sergeant walk to the masons’ area, and on his way, he collected Senchet and Harry and a bemused Hugh to join him. They seemed keen to help, and Baldwin hoped that they would not show themselves traitors too. He heard a loud roaring, and realised too late that it must be the exultation of men entering the castle. Peering over the wall’s edge, he saw that already thirty or more men were inside, and he swore with bitter futility at the sight. He was the wrong side of the castle to get to Sir Edward. The great keep was across from him here, and he would not reach it before the men below, no matter how fast he ran.

He must do
something
!

Harry stood nervously with Senchet as the masons glowered back at them. Edgar appeared unconcerned by their anger, and eyed them with an easy nonchalance, his sword swinging lazily in his hand, but to Harry the sight of twenty or more strongly built men who were used to handling large rocks and heavy hammers was deeply troubling.

When the rush came from the postern gate, all changed in an instant. Edgar heard the pounding of feet, and was immediately off towards the tumult. Harry and Senchet took a look at each other, and then back at the masons.

‘What now?’ Harry said.

One mason pointed at the fighting at the gate. ‘Fellows, if those bastards get in here, they will undo all our work. Who’s with me to protect the castle?’

Senchet grabbed a hammer, and weighed it meaningfully in his hand. ‘Friends, I think you should stay here.’

The mason who had spoken looked at him contemptuously. ‘You aren’t going to stop me protecting my works, boy. Out of my way.’

And behind him the other labourers grabbed weapons and rushed towards the gate. Soon Senchet could see them grabbing at the men attacking, hurling them to the ground and beating them with hammers.

‘My friend,’ he said to Harry, ‘I think soon we shall have a chance to help ourselves.’

Sir Richard had been at the hall seeing whether the little serving wench could rustle up some breakfast when the first roars came from the yard, and he stood, torn between hunger and duty, before sighing sadly and turning from the room.

At the stairs he saw the fight degenerate into a number of smaller battles. There were the small clusters on the battlements, and he saw Baldwin opposite, fighting like a berserker, while there were groups of men-at-arms brawling and bellowing in front of the gates, and then he saw the masons and labourers slam into the side of the fellows who had entered by the postern, led by Edgar, and nodded approvingly.

His maid appeared beside him with a platter. She almost dropped it as she took in the scene outside, and he caught the cold chicken leg before it could fall. ‘Careful,’ he admonished.

‘They’re storming the castle!’

‘Aye,’ he agreed pensively. ‘Think they are, at that.’

He gave her a quick kiss. ‘Lock the door, little flower. I’ll be back in a while,’ he said, gently pushing her inside and closing the door. He waited until he had heard the bar fall into place at the other side, and gave it an experimental push to make sure it was secure, before descending the stairs, sucking the meat from the bones. His sword was still in his hand, and as he passed a pair of fighting men, he peered into their faces. One was recognisable, the other unfamiliar, so he waited until there was a suitable moment, and brought his gloved fist round to the man’s face. He felt bones snap and shatter, and looked down with wistful irritation at the mangled chicken in his fist. ‘Bugger.’

Continuing to the keep, he had to pause while three men passed in front of him, herded by the grinning Edgar. All were armed, but none dared confront the man-at-arms. It was apparent that Edgar needed no aid. He was happily slashing and thrusting with speed and agility. There was a shriek, then a whimper, and one fell. Edgar advanced on the other two with renewed vigour, and as Sir Richard watched, a second collapsed with a sigh as Edgar’s blade punctured his breast. The last man dropped to his knees and threw his sword away, and Edgar tutted then smashed his pommel into the man’s skull before going in search of fresh targets.

Sir Richard found a group of four at the keep’s door. They were all unknown to him, so he wandered over to them. ‘Tryin’ to get inside?’ he enquired.

There was no word from them. All turned to him and he found himself faced by three swords and a war-hammer. His sword was already up, and the third man to spin spitted himself on the point. Sir Richard pulled it free as the fellow tumbled, sobbing, hands to his belly, and knocked the second sword away, slashing back to cut off the man’s hand with the sword still gripped tightly in his fist. The man with the hammer sprang away, and Sir Richard lifted his brows enquiringly at the remaining swordsman. He looked at Sir Richard with the terror making his face clench, and then he dropped the sword and slid slowly to the ground.

Sir Richard stared down at him in bafflement. ‘Fellow’s fainted,’ he muttered, and pushed him aside with his boot. Then he lifted his fist and beat on the timbers. ‘Hoi! It’s me, Sir Richard de Welles. You all right in there? Eh? Speak up, man? Are you all right, I say?’

There was a muttered response, and Sir Richard glanced around. ‘Open up. There’s no danger for a while.’

He heard a thud or two as the heavy bolts were pulled aside, and then the door opened and he slipped inside. ‘Lock it again,’ he ordered. ‘How’s Sir Edward?’

The three men at the door gazed at him uncomprehendingly and he grunted to himself before striding off to see for himself.

Sir Edward of Caernarfon had heard the noise of battle from the first, and now he stood in his chamber with a feeling of panic. Sir Ralph was with him, and Gilbert, and the two stood resolutely at his side.

There was a loud rapping at the door, and he felt his heart leap into his throat, but then he heard the welcome bellow of Sir Richard. ‘Sir Edward, you all right in there?’

‘Yes,’ he cried. ‘Sir Richard, what is happening?’

‘A force come to break into the castle,’ Sir Richard shouted. ‘Don’t know why.’

Sir Edward felt a chill at those words. Sir Richard no fool, was reminding him that there was no guarantee that this attack was destined to save him. It could be for another reason entirely – to kill him. It was certainly not past Sir Roger Mortimer to arrange for his death by sending men to sack the castle. He would not care about the loss of life that ensued.

‘What should I do?’

‘Stay where you are,’ Sir Richard said. ‘With luck we’ll hold ’em off.’

When Sir Richard had finished speaking, he went to a window that gave a view of the courtyard, and the scene that met his eyes was a shock. The main gates were wide, and there was a rabble of men outside, some on horseback, milling about. He heard a crashing thunder, and knew that already some men were attacking the door to the keep. With all the masons’ tools, he knew it would not take too long before the door gave way.

He scowled at the thought, then strode to a door which led to the spiral staircase in the wall. Climbing quickly for a man of his build, he went to the topmost wall and stared about, trying to assess possible methods of concealment or escape, but could see nothing.

Baldwin, he saw, was still on the battlements. His companions had almost all fallen, and only two survived with him of all the garrison and labourers who had joined him. As he watched, three lunged forward, and Baldwin stepped back, feinted, and stabbed. One of the attackers gave a shrill scream, dropped his sword and clutched his throat.

‘Good man,’ Sir Richard said approvingly, but his eyes were already studying the rest of the battle, and it was quickly apparent that there was little hope of escape. The courtyard was held by the enemy, and there was no sign of Edgar or the others fighting to defend the castle.

Then he saw Edgar, a dark, rushing figure carrying a ladder; he set it against the battlements and then swarmed up it, to run at the men holding Baldwin at bay. He gave a cry Sir Richard could hear distinctly from the top of the tower, and soon Baldwin was relieved. The last attackers were driven off. Sir Richard saw Baldwin pointing and staring down into the yard, and when their eyes met, he waved. Baldwin waved back.

In the castle there was the sound of breaking timbers as doors were smashed open, and a few wisps of smoke showed where some men had broken tables and stools just for the pleasure of destruction. A bellow of delight told that one man had discovered the undercroft where the wines were stored. Sir Richard returned to the door to Sir Edward’s chamber and stood outside.

He had enjoyed his life. It had been moderately long, and he was happy enough. If he could serve Sir Edward now by dying in his service, it would be no bad thing. He was ready enough to die. Since the death of his wife many years ago, raped and killed by a servant he had trusted, he had felt as if he had lived on too long. And to die in the service of a fellow’s liege lord was always good. Better than living as a coward.