"I repeat, Countess Madalyn," Earl Corotocus boomed. "Your forces will never enter this last bastion. They will dash themselves to pieces on its walls, or decompose until they are bones and slurry before the slightest breach is incurred."
Corotocus knew they'd understand this. Time was the one thing an army of the dead lacked. The earl's men, who had only been able to stock enough supplies for a couple of weeks at the most, would eventually die famished or parched. But the besiegers would rot. It seemed an even bet which would be the quicker process.
"You cannot storm us!" The earl's confidence grew as he continued to bellow down to them. "My mighty mangonels will make no impact on these impregnable walls, even if you could manoeuvre them into a suitable position. As you can see, the only possible ingress is via the west or south drawbridges. Maybe you think you can batter these down and create bridges of your own, as you did at the Gatehouse? But I defy you to try, countess. In both cases, the buildings closest to these bridges, the baronial State Rooms and the North Hall, are made from timber and wattle, and have thatched roofs. That was a deliberate ploy by the designers of this castle. I need only have flaming arrows shot down upon them and those structures will burn to ashes. Part of your army will be consumed. The rest will remain as they are now, helpless even to get close to us."
The earl looked around at his men. They were huddled behind him, maybe thirty in total. They were a craven looking bunch: wounded, filthy, red-eyed with fear and exhaustion. Knights were indistinguishable from men-at-arms. Even so, they regarded him with awe. They had come into this place knowing it was their last refuge, believing it would only delay the certainty of death. But now their master's words gave them hope. Could it be that he was speaking truthfully? Had he again plucked them from the jaws of disaster?
He turned back to shout again. "Your only option, Countess Madalyn, is to withdraw. Return your army to the soil from whence it came and await the king's judgement, which I assure you will be fair."
He was surprised when the voice that called back was not Countess Madalyn's, but that of a man. It was deep and melodious, with a Welsh accent and a strong note of authority.
"Earl Corotocus, Countess Madalyn no longer deems you a worthy negotiator. All of your former promises proved to be false."
"Who speaks?" the earl shouted.
"You must produce a different spokesman."
"Who speaks, I say?"
"I am Gwyddon, Countess Madalyn's senior counsellor. You no longer have a part to play here, Earl Corotocus. Until you produce someone whose word we can trust, you and your men remain under sentence of death."
"You insolent dog!"
"Which sentence to be carried out at the first opportunity."
The earl rounded on his men, scarlet-faced. "Bring her forward!"
Gwendolyn of Lyr, her head held proudly, was brought out from the bedraggled ranks and led to the parapet, where the earl ordered her to stand in one of the embrasures. She was pushed so close to its brink that her toes curled around it. Once there, he had her hands twisted behind her back and bound to an iron ring set into the stonework. Of course, this small safety measure could not be seen by the figures on the Constable's Tower. All they saw was a girlish figure, naked save for a red and blue harlequin cloak, standing on the edge of extinction.
Again, Corotocus shouted across the courtyard. "You think I won't cast this child down, countess? Surely you know me better than that?"
"Mother!" Gwendolyn called in her native language, certain that none of her captors would understand her. "Do not listen to them. They will not risk it. They have just secured…"
Corotocus himself leapt up alongside her and thrust the tip of his dagger under her chin. "Silence, you little harridan!" His Welsh was imperfect but adequate. "Hold that tongue, or I'll slit it down the middle and leave you with two!"
Gwendolyn clamped her mouth shut, but blinked fiercely, determined to eradicate any tears caused by the gusting wind. She was determined the English would not think her afraid. The earl gazed back to the Constable's Tower, but saw no obvious consternation. Countess Madalyn was close to the battlements, watching intently, but the priest who had spoken — the one called Gwyddon — was conferring with his henchmen, almost casually. Finally there were nods of agreement from the priests, and they wrestled forward two figures of their own, placing them in embrasures as well. By these prisoners' livery — a surcoat of blue and white chevrons and a crimson tabard bearing three golden lions — they were Walter Margas and Davy Gou.
Corotocus and his men were startled to see that any of their comrades had been taken alive, though both prisoners were streaked with char and ordure. They stood boldly, their chins upraised, but shivered with pain and fear. If Corotocus had been close enough, he'd have seen Margas's cheek hanging in a bloody flap, exposing his clenched molars.
"An awkward situation," du Guesculin said quietly.
Corotocus gave him a withering look, before turning to his other men. Two of his household archers were still in possession of their longbows and had quivers containing a few arrows each. He signalled them.
"Make sure your aim is good," he said.
At one time, such a cryptic order would have left them bewildered. But under these circumstances, there seemed no question about what was being demanded of them. Both bowmen stepped forward, knocked arrows and let fly. They had had much target practice over the last few days. Perhaps this explained why both shafts hit cleanly, one striking Margas in the middle of his chest, penetrating to his heart, the other catching Gou in the throat, sinking to its feathers.
The two corpses crashed from the parapet, turning over and over as they plummeted into the courtyard.
There was no word of complaint from Corotocus's men, all of them having moved unconsciously into that dark, soulless realm where the loss of any life is a price worth paying if it might save your own.
"Have you any more for me, countess?" Corotocus laughed. "I have plenty of arrows."
"Such is the reward for blind loyalty," came a weary voice.
Corotocus spun around. Gwendolyn looked too, surprised to hear a familiar tone.
Ranulf trudged forward from the door connecting with the lower levels. His face was haggard, damp with seat. His clothing and the blade of his drawn broadsword were both spattered crimson. Corotocus in particular looked stunned. He glanced past Ranulf through the doorway behind, at which Ranulf chuckled.
"Don't waste your time looking for Navarre, my lord. He's already in Hell. Which is where you'll soon be."
"Archers!" du Guesculin shouted.
The two bowmen stepped forward, fresh arrows knocked to their strings.
"So this is the great marcher baron!" Ranulf scoffed. "Who, even when his world has come to an end, sends other men to fight for him."
"You betrayed us, Ranulf!" Corotocus growled, pointing a shaking finger.
"That's not how I see it."
"You would have delivered us all to those things."
"No!" Ranulf said, pointing back. "I would have delivered you!" He turned to the rest of the company. "Would any man here object to that, if it meant that you would be saved? Are the bonds of fealty so tight that, on this man's orders, you would strike blow after blow against the innocent and then take his punishment for him?"
There was no response.
There were still one or two honourable knights among this wretched band — men who had held vigils, gone on quests, ridden in the tournaments wearing the colours of fine ladies. But all were now grizzled, begrimed, stained over and over with their own gore and the gore of others. They were more like sewer rats than men. Reduced to this forlorn state, perhaps it was no surprise that none seemed willing to side with him. The only safety they knew, and it was a slim one at that, lay with their overlord.