There was a slow bustle as it gradually dawned on the men that their ordeal might be coming to an end. A few stood dazed, not totally believing it.
"Move yourselves!" the earl shouted, his voice a whip-crack. "This window of opportunity may be brief."
Ranulf walked to the battlements. Despite the deal that had just been struck, he was surprised to see a long, meandering alleyway clearing through the mob filling the courtyard. It led from the base of the Keep to the ramp entering the Constable's Tower. Beyond that, he could see a similar space being made along the causeway. With a whinnying and clopping of hooves, horses, made skittish by the stench of their lumbering grooms, were brought from the stable blocks and led to the bottom of the steps at the Keep entrance.
"How can you agree to this?" Gwendolyn hissed at Ranulf, her eyes filled with emerald fire.
"It doesn't please you?" He was surprised. "This way, everyone gets what they want."
"Except justice."
"How much justice are you looking for? Most of those men who came here and violated your people are dead."
"And the one who commanded it? What will happen to him?"
Ranulf shook his head, peering over the parapet again. "I'm more concerned about what will happen to me. How much control does your mother have over these creatures?"
Gwendolyn glanced down as well. Only now did she really seem to focus on the army that had come to liberate her; she found it impossible not to cringe at some of the things she saw.
"There's a good chance," Ranulf said, "that once the earl is gone and the Keep thrown open, their vanguard will ascend to this roof before your mother does. Will they listen to orders from you? I find that doubtful."
Gwendolyn shrugged. "You've played your part in this tragedy, sir knight. What will happen to you will happen."
"Well that's encouraging…"
"What in the name of Heaven do you expect?"
"I want Corotocus punished too," he whispered. "It's because of him that my father died and my friend was murdered. If I survive this thing, I would like to be the one who follows him to England and exacts vengeance."
"And I should give you the means?" She snorted with derision. "You think that because you are slightly more enlightened than most English knights, that means I like you? Even for the small part you've played in the disaster that has destroyed my country, I loathe and detest you."
"You little ingrate!"
She turned pointedly away from him.
"Ranulf!" Corotocus said, returning. He'd now donned a full basinet helm with an open visor, and wore a fresh cloak and tabard over his mail. His longsword hung at his left hip and a two-headed battle-axe at his right. "I trust you aren't thinking of abandoning your post while we're in the process of leaving this place?"
"That's something you'll find out for yourself when you try to leave," Ranulf said.
"Very clever," Corotocus sneered. "But I know you, boy. And I know your conscience. If you let this girl loose or even neglect to guard her so that she gets loose of her own accord, there'll be nothing to stop her calling across the castle that she's safe. If we aren't away from here by then, these monstrosities will fall on us like mad beasts."
"My lord, why don't you just leave while your household thinks you're wonderful? Because when you get back to England, they'll begin to realise the depth of your defeat, and then you'll be regarded somewhat differently."
Corotocus chuckled. "Don't make the mistake of thinking this is over, Ranulf." He turned to Gwendolyn. "Nor you, you Welsh harlot! This affair isn't over."
Gwendolyn didn't deign to look at him.
"Your people have won the battle," he said, "but not the war. We'll be back, and there'll be the devil to pay. Now mind what I say, Ranulf. Neglect your duty here and these hell-hounds could fall on us when we're most vulnerable."
"Why tar everyone with your own brush, my lord? Countess Madalyn gave you her word as a noblewoman that you would have safe passage."
"No… Ranulf." Corotocus shook his head pensively. "No. That Welsh wizard gave me his word. I don't know what that means exactly, but it disconcerts me a little."
Corotocus moved away, descending the stair. Du Guesculin and the rest of the household filed quickly after him.
Puzzling over that final comment, Ranulf looked across the courtyard to the roof of the Constable's Tower, where Countess Madalyn stood as she had before against the battlements. She had not moved since he had first arrived here. Neither, as far as he had seen, had she joined the debates of her underlings, though that did not necessarily mean that she hadn't issued quiet commands to them, as she undoubtedly would in normal times. However, for some intangible reason, Ranulf now felt a creeping chill in his bones. Why was she so still? Why had she not led the negotiations herself? It was not Countess Madalyn's way, he was sure, to leave something so important to somebody else. But neither, he thought with a shiver, was it Gwyddon's way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Earl Corotocus understood the importance of appearance.
The new cloak and tabard he'd donned were thus far unsullied. The black and crimson of his household devices glittered in the dimness of the Keep's interior. He brushed as much grime, dust and blood as he could from his battle-scarred mail. He'd even fluffed the crimson plume projecting from the crest of his helm. When he reached the Keep's lowest level, he strolled fearlessly along the stone passage to its main entrance, his spurs clinking on the flagged floor, one gloved hand clamped on the hilt of his sword. The men — those living, who now cowered nervously behind him, and those dead, who waited outside in silent expectation — had to know without being told that Corotocus was of a superior caste. It was essential he cut a striking figure, so they'd realise immediately that, by his very nature, this was a man untroubled by the events of recent days, a man who took torment and destruction in his stride because it was part of his born duty to do so.
As well as appearance, Earl Corotocus also understood the importance of propaganda.
"The battle is now over and, because of me, you fellows have survived," he said, turning to his household in front of the main portal.
Their faces were milk-pale in the gloom.
"This time yesterday, you were staring annihilation in the face. But now I have bought your futures back for you. Remember that when you are far from this place. Each one of you here owes me more than he could ever repay in a thousand lifetimes."
"They'll gladly devote the remainder of this lifetime attempting it," du Guesculin replied.
Corotocus eyed them sternly, as if daring anyone to disagree. He straightened the edges of his cloak and turned back around. "Lower the drawbridge."
With an echoing rattle of chains, the timber gate was lowered. Daylight flooded in, making them all blink. The reek of death followed, thick as swamp mist; the men choked and gagged. Up until now they had not come face to face with so concentrated a mass of their enemy.
Earl Corotocus's face, however, showed neither disgust nor revulsion. He walked boldly over the bridge, his hollow footfalls resounding across the otherwise silent castle, until he had reached the top of the steps, at which point he halted and gazed down.
The dead gazed back, rank after close-packed rank. Straight away, there were those among them he recognised. Craon Culai, with his body so crushed that only his face was distinguishable; Odo de Lussac, burned almost to a crisp, a crossbow bolt projecting from his charred mouth; Ramon la Roux, an arrow still embedded in his heart. Even Father Benan was present; he seemed to have dressed himself in hanging rags, thick with blood and mucus, until the earl realised that these were actually remnants of his own flesh. Most bizarrely, the priest's iron crucifix protruded from the top of his skull, where it appeared to have been hammered into place. Others were indistinguishable even as human, horrible remnants of men and women who had died by axe, sword, spear or noose, or whose torn and forgotten husks had lain mouldering in the ground for weeks, feasted on by worms and maggots. Every sickly colour in the spectrum was represented: blue faces, white faces, green faces, black faces, yellow faces, purple faces. There were faces without skin, skulls without hair. Were it summer, the earl imagined this ghastly host would be engulfed in swarming flies. No doubt countless such vermin were already hatching from the clusters of eggs lodged in their pulped flesh and yawning sockets.