Alinor (53 page)

"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 at breakfast, 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 softy.

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 the 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 thing. 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 dropped 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 to 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.

Jamie and two other northerners were up now. They had taken over Sir Robert's and Owain's positions and freed those two to come to Ian's aid. It was on his side that the pressure and danger were greatest. There was neither time nor space for niceties of technique. Ian merely protected himself with his shield on the left, while his right arm rose and fell as regularly as if he were working a pump handle and with about as little aim. A man screamed; another fell.

"Cry quarter," Ian shouted. "You will be spared. Cry quarter!"

"Yielded," a man whimpered.

"Throw your weapons over the wall," Geoffrey ordered, "and get out of the way."

The offering of quarter, shouting the offer as a battle cry, had been planned to take the heart out of the rebellious castellan's men. In general the idea was a good one, but it had its drawbacks. Each man who yielded increased the crowd and blocked the space that Ian's fighting men could occupy. Nonetheless, the offer had to be made before rage and bitterness aroused stubborn resistance in the defenders. A body gave softly under Ian's foot and nearly overset him.

"Get the dead out of the way," Ian shouted at Geoffrey.

The boy was intelligent enough to know that his master did not expect him to lift the weight of a man and armor over his head alone. This was a "message." He slid back, past the crouching, yielded man to pass Ian's order to the men-at-arms who were now coming over the wall. They began to pull the fallen men out from under the feet of the fighters and toss them over the wall. One man screamed as he went over. The men-at-arms were not investigating the difference between dead and wounded too closely; if the body lay still and had weapons, it went over. Geoffrey shuddered, but he did not interfere. His business was to get back to his lord so that he could carry further commands.

The harsh order had another effect. Men who were slightly wounded and who might have fought on, showed an increasing tendency to throw their weapons away. Soon there was no comparison in the will to fight between defenders and invaders. For the invaders there was little choice. Once upon the wall, it was more certain death to try to go down the ladder than to fight. For the defenders, quarter was protection. Once yielded, if they saw the invaders taking the worse, they could escape down the ladders without much fear that their unyielded comrades would waste blows or arrows on them.

The pressure behind Ian was growing greater than the pressure ahead of him. Owain, thrusting around his master from behind, could still use his sword, but Ian was doing more damage with his shield than with the blade, because he had so little room to strike. Inexorably, as much by weight as by skill, he was pressing closer and closer to the door into the tower. Sir Robert smashed his sword hilt into the jaw of the man opposing him, stepped forward the width of the body, and was pressed sideways so that he faced the inner edge of the wall.

"There is fighting in the bailey," he shouted. "We have breached the wall."

The defender who had thrust Sir Robert sideways hesitated, with his sword raised for a blow, and also looked over the wall. What he saw gave him no comfort. He threw down the sword and cried aloud, "Yielded."

After that, what resistance was made was a mere token. Before the men of the first wave up the ladder felt the need to stop and breathe, they had won to the door and down the steps of the tower. In the guard room at the base, the fighting would be more determined, Ian thought. There were a number of men standing to the defense of the drawbridge mechanism. Ian measured his opponents warily. They were fresh and, he decided, ready to make a last stand. These were probably relatives of the castellan or squires grown up in service, not to be bribed into yielding by offers of quarter.

"Geoffrey!"

"Here, lord."

"Tell Sir Alfred, or whoever else you can reach, to make all haste into the other tower and open the portcullis."

It was surprisingly quiet in the tower, the thick walls blocking the shouts and clang of arms from the bailey and from the walls above. Geoffrey's boots on the sanded stone floor could be heard clearly as he took to his heels. Ian also heard the heavier steps of men-at-arms coming down the stairs into the tower base.

"Coward," one of the defenders cried passionately, "you will overwhelm us with numbers."

Ian laughed. "I do not extend the courtesies of honor to thieving dogs who steal from children and widows."

A cry of rage answered Ian's contempt, and the knight leapt at him. Ian laughed again. It was what he had wanted. Others surged forward after the leader, and the solid ring of defenders was broken. Ian's men charged forward also, some to engage and fight, but others worked over the handspikes holding the drawbridge up. The sound of the blows used to loosen the spikes pierced the rage of Ian's attacker. With a shriek of anguish, he realized he had been taunted into his own defeat. Unwisely, he glanced toward the winch he was supposed to defend. Ian laughed one last time and caught his opponent's neck where the turn of the head opened a space. The armor was good; the head was not sheared away, but the man was dead in the next instant anyway, and Ian had to wrench fiercely at his sword to free it from the collarbone.

There was, in fact, no particular need for haste in freeing his weapon. The man who lay dead at his feet was the castellan's son, and the others were going down rapidly. Soon the noise of the drawbridge descending was reinforced by the screeches of the portcullis going up. Geoffrey came pelting back with word that the castellan himself was also dead. He had been at the breach in the walls and had been killed in the bailey. No one had bothered to close the forebuilding, and so far as Geoffrey could see in his hurried trip back, there were no defenders there, so that the keep itself, if not already taken, was open to anyone who wished to walk in. Ian shook his head and stepped out into the bailey. Behind him, he heard Jamie mutter "Stupid bastard," in the coarse northern dialect.