The men on the pickets fired volley after volley at the approaching force, but the enemy showed no sign of faltering. Whenever a ladder-carrier fell, another man took his place. When they reached the palisade, there was a collection of clatters and bangs as the ladders hit the barrier, followed by war cries. The first wave raced up, but most were shot down by the crossbowmen on the makeshift ramparts. The few that reached the top were cut down and toppled back to the side from which they’d come.
The attackers didn’t look like soldiers. They had proper weapons and wore patchworks of leather armour, but everything about them said they were a peasant levy. Gill wondered if they were a probing attack. It was what Gill would have expected from an experienced commander—some halfhearted attacks with expendable troops, to work out where the defences were strongest. However, the main body of the army was closer to the pickets than Gill would have expected if that tactic was in use. Instead, it looked like they were throwing their full force against this spot, in the expectation of a quick win thanks to their greater numbers.
He chewed his lip in agitation as he watched. Was it ever thus for commanders? Gill had never spent a battle behind the lines before. He’d always commanded infantrymen, starting with a small squad when he was a young ensign and working his way up to a regiment when he was a well-known captain. That had always put him in the thick of the action, focussed on his small slice of the battle, rather than the entirety. As much experience as he had, just like the king, this was all new to him.
The men kept coming, their weight on the ladders preventing the defenders from throwing them off. They were all shot or cut down, falling to the ground within reach of their goal. Gill could see the growing sense of confidence in the men behind the pickets. They were holding off the initial wave with light losses, and were starting to believe that they would be able to do so until the enemy had enough. Then the first man made it over the wall.
CHAPTER 26
The first man was cut down quickly in an act of overkill common among frightened and inexperienced troops—his body was hacked to fragments. His comrades only saw him going over the palisade and making it into the enemy compound—the goal for which they were all fighting. It was inspiring, emboldening. If they could have seen what happened to him on the other side, they might have thought twice. As it was, they had seen him go over, which meant they now believed it could be done. They came at the picket with renewed enthusiasm. When a second man cleared the barrier, Gill’s stomach twisted.
“We need to move the reserves to contain this,” Gill said. “We can take troops from the northern sections and build a second reserve unit if we need it.”
The king nodded. “Do it,” he said. One of his newly appointed adjutants scribbled the order on a notepad, tore off the page, and passed it to one of the runners, who set off as fast as he could.
There were a half dozen of the attackers on the picket now, with more men coming up behind them. The fighting spilled out into the compound as the defenders did their best to contain the breaches, but once the enemy started coming over the pickets and gaining a foothold, the king’s forces were in trouble. It wouldn’t take long for the reserves to reach the fighting, but this was the turning point. With the pickets breached, the defenders would either consider their last line of safety lost—and therefore, the fight lost—or they would double down to push their foes back. That they had not yet broken was a good sign. Gill hoped the fact that they knew the king was with them might embolden them some.
He felt as though his hands were tied, his role in this battle as unfamiliar as if it were his first. There had been times in the past when it had seemed as though he had become detached from his body and was watching things unfold from a distance, even though he was right in the middle of it all. This time, that was no mere feeling, it was exactly how things were. He was no general, and felt like a fraud pretending to be one.
“Permission to lead the reserves, Highness,” Gill said.
“I…” Boudain hesitated.
It was an unfair thing for Gill to do. If the king admitted to needing Guillot at his side, it would show weakness in front of the others. Yet because of his past experience, Gill would be at his most effective leading the counterattack, and far more useful in that role than he was in the belfry.
“Very well,” the king said. “Return to me as soon as you’ve pushed them back beyond the pickets.”
Gill nodded, then shoved past the messengers and the Count of Savin’s retinue to get down the stairs. The fresh air outside was as welcome as the prospect of moving onto familiar territory, even if it meant placing himself in danger. He found the reserves on the village square, preparing to move off to support the south wall. A young captain was trying to order them into a cohesive unit, but was struggling to impose his idea of military formation on a bunch of farmers who clearly had no idea what he was talking about half the time.
“I’ll take over here,” Gill said.
The captain shot him a look of relief. Guillot assumed that it was his first battle too, and that he was glad to be unburdened of the responsibility of saving the defence.
“What’s your name?” Gill asked.
“Jean-Paul,” the younger man said.
“Stay to the rear and urge the men on.”
He nodded and Gill turned his attention to the levy. He held out his sword to create a boundary. “Line up here and ready your weapons.”
The men jumped into action at the sound of a confident command. As soon as they were in some semblance of order, Gill ordered them to advance. He set the pace and, as he moved off, checked over his shoulder to make sure they were keeping up with him. He could hear Jean-Paul barking at them to move faster, which was having the desired effect.
The battle was hidden until they were clear of the village. The situation had worsened since Gill had come down from the belfry, with far more enemy troops within the pickets. They’d formed a pocket on the inside of the palisade, allowing more men to safely crest the top and get into the fight. Gill surveyed the field quickly. This situation required no tactical finesse. The task was simple—push the enemy back over the palisade.
“When I tell you,” Gill shouted, “I want you to roar for all you’re worth. Make them think you’re the angriest bunch of bastards this side of the Loiron.”
He led the men on at a brisk trot, keeping them moving too fast to consider the reality of what they were doing. Better that they were stuck in it before they had time to think too much.
“Shout!” Gill ordered. “Loud as you can!”
His men gave it their best as he ran them straight to where the defenders looked the thinnest. Battles like this were not so much about skill at arms as weight of bodies. There was enough space to stab with daggers and short swords, but anything larger was all but useless in such close quarters. If they wanted to get their enemy back on the other side of the pickets, they needed to kill enough people to make the survivors flee, or to physically push them back until they had no option but to retreat over the wall.