‘Then that’s their mistake. They’ve thrown away the advantage of surprise.’
‘Maybe the Vascons are planning to delay us or to wear us down,’ I objected.
Hroudland drew his eyebrows together in a scowl. He did not like his judgement to be questioned.
‘What makes you such an expert soldier, Patch?’ he demanded, his congratulatory tone suddenly gone.
‘One of their lads slipped through our defence earlier. He put a hole in that waterskin over there,’ I said and nodded to where the punctured waterskin hung limp from the side of the cart.
Hroudland shrugged.
‘So we’ll be thirsty for a while,’ he said, though I noted that his eyes flicked towards the other carts. Several of their waterskins were also dangling empty.
I lowered my voice so that no one else could hear.
‘The next water source is the far side of the summit ridge.’
Hroudland recovered his poise.
‘Then all the more incentive to fight our way there,’ he retorted.
While we had been speaking the column had advanced perhaps a hundred paces. I wondered how many more hours it would be until we were out of danger.
The Vascons attacked us twice more before the sun was directly overhead. Each time we succeeded in driving them off though we lost a dozen horses, lamed or disembowelled. Their riders now walked or, if they had been wounded, they rode on the carts. We had not suffered a single death and I began to think that Hroudland was right; we would manage to force our way along the road until we were safely over the pass.
Two miles later everything changed.
Gerin rode back past me, his face grim. He was on his way to report to Hroudland. I was close enough to overhear him say to the count, ‘We’re in sight of the ravine now. It looks very narrow. A dangerous place.’ There was a short pause, and then Gerin added, almost apologetically, ‘We could always leave the carts behind. We still have enough horses to carry everyone to safety if they double up. I’m confident we could slip through.’
Hroudland’s answer was delivered in a harsh whisper.
‘I thought I made it clear: I have no intention of abandoning the treasure we have won. Have the enemy blocked the roadway?’
‘Apparently not, though there’s a bend in the road and I can’t see the full length of the ravine,’ said Gerin.
‘Then the passage lies ahead, and we take it,’ Hroudland confirmed.
‘I will do my best, my lord. But I fear that is what the enemy want us to do,’ Gerin said. He spoke in a flat, resigned tone in contrast to his usual air of steely competence.
He returned past me, looking distracted and chewing his lip. I had a queasy feeling that he was right. We were doing what the Vascons had planned for us. Only Hroudland’s absolute self-confidence kept driving us forward.
The enemy left us alone for the time it took us to reach the point where the road narrowed to no more than four or five paces width, just before entering the ravine itself. To the right was a low cliff, not more than fifteen feet high. To the left a steep broken slope covered with rocks and small loose stones extended all the way up to the mountain ridge. I noticed the troopers casting worried glances from side to side. We were roasting in the summer heat and my mouth was dry. I summoned up some saliva and swallowed in an attempt to moisten my throat.
Two of Gerin’s troopers accompanied by Godomar broke away from the vanguard and went forward at a trot, presumably to scout the passage. They were gone for several minutes. When they returned and delivered their report, Gerin rose in his stirrups, turned and called back to the drovers behind him, ‘Close up! Keep moving! The road is partially blocked by a barrier of boulders at the far end. My men will clear the way for you.’
We continued forward, our little column more compact now as we reduced the distance between each cart. The narrowness of the roadway obliged the flanking cavalrymen to close in. My knee was almost touching the wooden wheel of the nearest cart.
‘Maybe we’ve reached the boundary of their territory,’ Berenger called across to me. He nodded toward the Vascons on the hillside who had been keeping pace with us. They had halted, and were standing and watching us leave.
‘Or they know that there’s a relief force on its way back from the main army,’ I said hopefully, though I did not believe it. There was something unnerving about the way the Vascons were holding themselves in check.
As Gerin and the vanguard entered the ravine, I paid close attention to the top of the low cliff to our right. I was expecting to see Vascon slingers or archers appear there at any moment.
I was looking in the wrong direction.
After the first of our carts entered the ravine, I heard a gasp. It came from a wounded trooper riding on the cart next to me. He was looking up the long, steep slope to our left. I followed his gaze. It was as if the mountainside was sloughing off its grey skin. The entire slope was alive and moving. Grey-clad men, hundreds of them, covered its surface and they were swarming down towards us. They were not hurrying, but picking their way purposefully among the boulders, converging on the roadway. They held spears and swords, and they moved with deadly earnest.
My guts turned to water as, behind us, the massed wolf-like howl we heard when the Vascons first attacked rose again. I swung round. The men who had been tracking us had now descended into the roadway. They were blocking any attempt at retreat.
‘Face left! Keep moving!’ Hroudland was bellowing. Most of us were still gaping at the sheer number of fighting men the Vascons had assembled.
Berenger was dumbfounded.
‘Some of them must be the men I saw yesterday. But where did all the others spring from?’
He had drawn his sword and now he looked down at the weapon in wonder as if he knew that it would be useless in the face of such overwhelming odds. Behind me I heard Eggihard’s voice, railing at Hroudland, shouting that he should have sent to Carolus earlier and asked for reinforcements from the main army. Even the oxen sensed that something had changed. The squealing of the wheels fell silent as they came to a gradual halt and stood meekly. We were halfway into the entrance to the ravine.
Hroudland changed his instructions.
‘Stand! Form a defensive line. Shift the carts to make a barricade!’ he roared.
But it was impossible. The road was too narrow. The drovers did not have enough space to turn and manoeuvre their beasts. The carts remained where they were, one behind the other. The Vascons had pushed us into the ravine like forcing a cork into the neck of a bottle.
Gerin squeezed his way past me.
‘It’ll take more than an hour to clear away enough boulders from their barrier,’ he reported to Hroudland.
Anselm, the count of the palace, was within earshot. He was sweating heavily, his fleshy face scarlet under his helmet and his fine chainmail covered in dust.
‘Is there enough of a gap for a rider to get through?’ he demanded savagely. His stallion, trained to battle, was tossing its head and pawing the ground nervously.
When Gerin hesitated with his reply, Anselm bawled to one of the troopers nearby.
‘You there! Change horses with me and get through to the main army. Tell them to send help!’
He slid down from his own horse, handed over the reins, and a moment later the man was galloping into the ravine on his fresh mount.
Hroudland had no time to react to this challenge to his authority. Our men were milling about in confusion. The close-packed carts were making it difficult to form up in a defensive line. He rode in among the troopers, pushing and shoving them into some sort of order. I glanced across at Berenger. He was sitting still, his eyes fixed on Hroudland, waiting to carry out his commands. I realized that Berenger would follow the count whatever happened, his faith unshakeable.
The swarm of Vascons on the mountainside merged into a single dense mass as they reached more level ground. Now they flowed towards us like a rising tide. They filled the roadway and lapped up the sides of the track until they came to a stop, some twenty paces away. There was neither semblance of discipline nor any plan of attack that I could see. Among their weapons were ugly-looking cudgels as well as their swords and short spears. A few held woodsmen’s axes. For an unhappy moment I was reminded of the homespun levies my father had assembled when our family fought and lost its last battle against King Offa and his Mercian men-at-arms. But the resemblance was false. These Vascons were hardy mountain men, not peaceful farmers, and they out-numbered us so vastly that it was clear to everyone that we had not the slightest chance of victory.