Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

With Roger at his side, he assessed the troops massing just out of arrow range. They formed a vast inverted U, with horsemen on each side, and a huge company of foot soldiers in the middle. Behind, watching from the vantage point of a knoll, were Baderon and his commanders. The Lord of Monmouth sat astride a dark bay. Lambert was on his right, identifiable by the fair hair below his helmet, and Hilde was to his left, atop a white pony. Corwenna was well to the front, however, head bared to reveal her auburn mane. She was standing in her stirrups, yelling. Even from a distance, her voice was clear and strong, and her words met with cheers.

Meanwhile, Goodrich’s defenders watched in horrified silence as rank after rank filed forward, armed with spears, battleaxes and shields. Just when Geoffrey thought the last had arrived, more appeared, until the fields around the castle gleamed silver with weapons and armour.

‘Lord!’ breathed Olivier. ‘We cannot withstand such a number. We shall be slaughtered.’

Roger clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘But you and I will take a few with us, eh? We shall meet in Paradise and exchange stories.’ Olivier looked terrified, and Geoffrey suspected Roger’s illusions about him were soon to be shattered once and for all.

‘We are well defended,’ said Joan firmly, although Geoffrey knew she spoke only for the benefit of the troops.

Geoffrey jumped from the platform and strode to where Bale waited with his warhorse. Durand was with him, dressed in something suspiciously like one of Father Adrian’s habits. Geoffrey could not find it in his heart to condemn Durand for donning clothes he hoped might see him spared. He was caught in the middle of a battle that was none of his making.

‘Remember what you promised me,’ Geoffrey said to Joan. ‘You cannot lead an attack yourself.’

She touched his cheek, her hand shaking. She was frightened, although her face betrayed no emotion. ‘Dear Geoff. But go, and let us pray we live to see each other again.’

He took the reins from Durand. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to his old squire. ‘You should not be here.’

‘No, I should not,’ agreed Durand fervently. ‘I knew it was a mistake coming here. Violence follows you, but this time you have excelled yourself. I do not envy Bale for what you are going to make him do today.’ He glanced at the squire. ‘Although he looks more than eager to begin.’

Bale was armed with an axe and a sword. Both were honed to a devastating sharpness, and the dull light in his eyes indicated he was ready.

‘You should hide,’ Geoffrey said to Durand, watching Roger prepare his mercenaries to engage the masses outside. ‘Remember the passage I told you about, which leads from my chamber to the woods? Go down it if we are overrun. Then tell the King what really happened.’

‘Very well,’ said Durand, terrified. ‘But let us hope it will not be necessary.’

With a great whoop, the gate was flung open and Roger hurtled out, his warriors streaming behind him. They flew across the space separating the invaders from the castle and, when the enemy broke ranks to meet them, Geoffrey signalled for his archers to begin their deadly attack. Roger tore among the front ranks with his broadsword, men falling around him like timber. Baderon’s troops fell back, and Geoffrey held his breath, half-expecting Roger to forget the plan in the heat of battle. But, still hacking at hapless stragglers, Roger yelled a retreat.

Geoffrey heard Lambert order his men to pursue Roger and watched as they obeyed, shields raised to fend off the deadly hail of arrows. As per his instruction, Roger veered to the right, towards Baderon’s right flank. The speed of the change confused the enemy, and some scattered, getting in the way of others trying to press forward. Roger wheeled away again.

Geoffrey ordered the gates opened a second time and led his own men out, yelling for them to keep in formation and not break ranks. He made a feint at the horsemen on the left, who had seen what happened to their comrades and were ready. They surged forward, but Geoffrey abruptly changed direction and aimed for the swarming foot soldiers, making sure Baderon’s left followed him.

Roger’s identical manoeuvre was completed simultaneously, and suddenly there were four separate units of horsemen – Geoffrey’s and Roger’s, plus Baderon’s left and right – converging on the hapless infantry. There was instant confusion, and more foot soldiers were crushed under the hoofs of friends’ horses than were killed by Goodrich’s men. Then Geoffrey’s and Roger’s forces met and formed a single unit, slashing with swords and axes.

With little room to move, and men behind pressing against those in front, it was sheer slaughter. Geoffrey lost count of the men who fell by his sword. The battle cries and horses’ whinnies almost drowned the clash of weapons. His hands were slippery with blood, and the faces that swarmed towards him blurred as he fought on, standing in his stirrups and using both hands to swing his sword. The rich, earthy stink of blood was sickening. Then, as the yell came for Baderon’s troops to retreat, a horseman appeared, aiming a series of heavy blows at Geoffrey.

‘You brought us to this point!’ screamed Lambert. His eyes were glazed and he was splattered with gore from head to foot. ‘And you killed my brother!’

‘On my honour, I did not raise my hand against Seguin!’ shouted Geoffrey. ‘Can we not, even at this stage, stop the slaughter and negotiate?’

‘It is too late!’ yelled Lambert bitterly. ‘Baderon is not in control: Corwenna is, and she will not rest until Goodrich is destroyed. It is what happens when you make alliances with rabid dogs – and there are few more rabid than her. I wish I had never set eyes on the woman.’

Before he could say more, there was the crash of a battleaxe, and Lambert toppled from his saddle, blood erupting from a huge gash in the back of his head. Behind him, face split in a diabolical grimace, was Corwenna.

Her face was splattered with blood, and it was clear that she had been at the heart of the slaughter. Her eyes were wild, and she was more ecstatic than Geoffrey had ever seen her. She drove her horse forward and raised her axe, aiming for his head. He raised his shield and launched an attack of his own, jabbing hard under it with his sword. Corwenna gave a screech of outrage as the blade bit into her thigh, and brought the axe down with all her might.

Caught at the wrong angle, Geoffrey’s shield split into several pieces, but before she could take advantage, several vicious swipes of his sword drove her back. With the heat of the moment compounding his mental exhaustion, he made an appalling blunder, jumping from his saddle to grab a replacement shield from a corpse. It was an inexcusable mistake that left him infinitely more vulnerable: no knight willingly left his horse during battle.

Corwenna, who was no match for him under normal circumstances, grinned her delight and came after him with a series of hacking swipes. Fortunately, it was easy to evade them, as she held her axe high up on its handle, restricting its reach.

‘Why did you kill Lambert?’ Geoffrey demanded, trying to make the crazed woman lose concentration.

‘He was weak,’ she snarled, swinging her axe, as he dodged away. ‘Like Baderon, who does not fight, but directs the battle from where it is safe.’

Several of her men hurried to help, and soon three blades were stabbing at Geoffrey. Before they could skewer him, he ducked under the belly of Corwenna’s horse and out the other side, grabbing one of her legs to haul her off. She fell, kicking and spitting. He ran to his horse and scrambled into the saddle. When her men saw Geoffrey remounted, they melted away, unwilling to face a Norman on horseback. Corwenna hesitated for a moment, but then followed them, also unwilling to pit her life against such unattractive odds.

‘Back to the castle!’ Geoffrey yelled. He and Roger had done all they could, and it was time to retreat before they started taking serious casualties.

‘I can get her!’ screeched Bale, his face smeared red and eyes alight.

‘Her cavalry have regrouped!’ Geoffrey shouted back. ‘They will cut you off if you move forward, so retreat. Now!’

Most obeyed, although one man charged ahead regardless, guided by some primal part of his mind. Geoffrey saw him surrounded by foot soldiers, then dragged from his horse. He did not wait to see more. He wheeled his horse round and yelled for his men to follow. Baderon’s riders, eager to avenge their losses, thundered towards them, and Geoffrey saw that it would be a close-run thing as to whether they reached the gate in time. But a rush of arrows drove back the pursuit, and Geoffrey and his men streamed through the gate unhindered.

‘That worked,’ said Olivier, his voice unsteady. ‘But even though their dead litter the ground, we seem to have made no appreciable impact. There are still more of them than leaves on the trees.’

‘There are not,’ snapped Geoffrey, afraid the men would hear and lose heart. It was a hard enough battle, without the soldiers becoming demoralized. ‘We have severely damaged their horsemen.’

But when he clambered up to the platform, he saw that Olivier was right. Although there were many dead and wounded on the battlefield, their loss had made no dent in the main fighting force. It was then that Geoffrey knew for certain that they would never win; the odds were simply too great. Roger came to stand next to him.

‘I did not think my life would end somewhere like this,’ Roger said. He also recognized a lost cause when he saw one. ‘I thought I would die an old man, in bed with a vigorous whore on top of me.’

‘You still could, if you took your men and rode south,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I doubt Baderon will follow. Take Joan.’

Roger sniffed. His face was splattered with blood and his surcoat was drenched in it. ‘She will not leave. Durand would come, but he is the only one.’

‘Have you considered surrender?’ asked Walter weakly from behind, clearly appalled by what he had seen. ‘They may spare our lives if you give them the castle.’

Roger laughed. ‘You think they will let us give up now? You are a fool, boy!’

‘I will offer them money,’ said Walter desperately. ‘Send Giffard to tell them I will pay handsomely for safe passage. I have a chest of coins.’

‘Why would they spare you, when they can have the coins regardless?’ asked Roger.

‘Then I shall hide in the cellars,’ said Walter, ‘and come out when all the fighting is over.’

‘If you do, you will burn when the castle is fired,’ warned Geoffrey. He saw Durand nearby, his face white with fear. ‘Collect the women and children – and Walter – and lead them down that passage. Keep them hidden until nightfall.’

‘But we will be without protection,’ objected Durand uneasily.

Geoffrey nodded. ‘But we cannot win this fight, and it is only a matter of time before the enemy breach the walls.’

Durand swallowed hard. ‘Very well.’

Geoffrey clapped him on the shoulder, aware that his hand left a bloody streak on his habit. Durand asked a few questions about the tunnel, and what might be done to conceal it after they had gone, and then left. Geoffrey breathed a prayer for his success.

‘Now what?’ asked Olivier shakily. ‘We cannot repeat your manoeuvre, because they have already adapted. I think the next attack will be in several places at the same time.’

‘It is what I would do,’ said Geoffrey. ‘With a concentrated push to smash the gate. Then, once they are inside, we will have to retreat to the keep.’

‘Here they come again!’ yelled Roger. ‘They do not want to give us time to recoup.’

‘Aim for the rider on the piebald pony!’ shouted Geoffrey to the archers. ‘It is Corwenna.’

Fire arrows streamed across the walls, some falling harmlessly, some landing in places where they started to burn and others thudding into the people running to douse them. Men with ladders moved forward outside.

Geoffrey ran to the northern wall, where invaders were already swarming the ramparts. He snatched a bow from a dead archer and shot off several arrows, but the raiders were protected by the shields they held aloft, and they were too many to deter with bows. One of Geoffrey’s archers yelled that they were almost out of ammunition, and a howl of enemy glee from the east told him the gate had been breached.

‘So soon?’ he whispered, appalled.

‘It was opened from inside!’ howled Roger. ‘We have been betrayed!’

Yelling for everyone else to retreat to the keep, Geoffrey joined Roger and his mounted mercenaries in brutal combat with the first of the invaders to stream in. Gradually, the press of men forced the defenders back until they were in the narrow space between stables and kitchen. Geoffrey’s foot soldiers rushed to aid them, and the bailey was a hive of skirmishes, ringing with war cries, screams of pain and the clang of desperately wielded weapons.

A group of enemy soldiers recognized Geoffrey’s surcoat and launched a concerted attack to separate him from his troops. Slowly, they drove him into the kitchen. Geoffrey was tiring, but suddenly, Durand appeared. The clerk slipped a knife between one man’s ribs and, with better odds, Geoffrey dispatched two more. The remainder fled.

Durand watched dispassionately as the man he had stabbed choked on his own blood.

‘There,’ he said, glancing at Geoffrey. ‘I do not want you dead. Not yet, at least.’

Geoffrey dropped his hands to his knees and tried to catch his breath. Durand’s words slowly registered in his fatigued mind. ‘Not yet?’ he gasped. ‘What do you mean?’

Durand waved his arm outside the door. Recognizing the danger too late, Geoffrey moved forward, but Corwenna and half a dozen of her followers were already racing into the room. He could only gaze at Durand in horror.

‘What have you done?’

‘I have backed the side that will win,’ replied Durand calmly. ‘I always do. You said yourself you could not defeat Baderon, so do not blame me for changing my allegiance. I am simply being practical.’

Geoffrey was dumbfounded by the enormity of Durand’s betrayal. He saw his old squire regarding him with complete lack of emotion, and several facts came together in his mind as he watched Durand turn to Corwenna.

‘There is a tunnel that leads from the keep to the woods. Geoffrey wanted me to smuggle his civilians down it.’

Corwenna’s face curled into a gloating sneer. She beckoned to one of her men, ordering him to find the passage and kill anyone attempting to use it. Geoffrey felt sick.

‘Now we shall make an end of this,’ said Corwenna. ‘I will take your head and show it to Joan. It will be the last thing she will see; then we shall be free of the Mappestone curse. My Rhys will be avenged, and I will dance on your grave, just as I do Henry’s.’

Geoffrey thought about the fallen cross. ‘I might have known.’

‘Fight me, Geoffrey,’ she urged, eyes glittering madly. ‘Just you and me.’

He regarded her warily, wondering whether he had misheard. He was a trained knight, and there was no way Corwenna could defeat him, no matter how filled she was with hate. ‘Just you and me?’