She threw open the door with a scream, and hurried out, the jug still in her hand. ‘Rape! Rape! He’s tried to rape me!’
The guard turned, his mouth wide open. For an instant his task was forgotten, and she saw that Ben too was gaping at her, but her son, her lovely Esmon, was not so stupid, and he was already at the guard. There was a confused grapple, and then Annicia saw that the whole of the man’s head appeared to explode. Shards of something flew from the crown of his skull, warm stuff spattered her face and hair, and the crossbow’s bolt struck the timbers of the ceiling, penetrating and staying in the wood while the guard, already dead, toppled slowly and then fell.
In the corner, the other guards tried to hold the servants back, but they were forced to cover their prisoners while keeping an eye on Esmon, who had now taken the bowman’s sword. Facing the threat from Esmon as well as all the servants, the two guards exchanged a glance, and then bolted for the door.
‘Mother, you stay in here!’ Esmon called, and ran after them. Ben watched him, but was incapable of movement. He sat like one already slain. His fear petrified him and made him remain in his seat. Even as Esmon snatched up his own sword from the doorway where the guard had made him set it, as he struggled and hauled the bowstring back until it caught on the nut, Ben could not move. When Esmon had the bow cocked, he went back to the guard’s body and found the small pouch filled with steel-tipped bolts. He took a handful, placed one in the groove of the crossbow and went to the door. Outside, he saw the men guarding his father.
With a shout, he ran down the steps to the yard, bow in one hand, sword in the other. A guard by his father’s side realised something was wrong and turned. Esmon gave an incoherent roar and pointed the crossbow at him. He fired, still running, and saw the bolt fly, true to his aim, through the man’s throat. A red mist burst from the man, and he grabbed at his neck, gurgling as he started to drown in his own blood. Then Esmon was on the next guard.
He saw Baldwin move as soon as the first guard fell, thrashing as he tried to breathe. Another guard had turned to face Esmon, and Baldwin took his arm, spun him around, and hurled him into a third. He dropped to the dying guard and took his knife, whirling as a guard tried to stab at his back; he leaped back, and the sword whistled near his breast, and then he closed swiftly. The man tried to reverse the action of his sword, but he was too slow and Baldwin was already slashing upwards with his knife, inside the man’s ribcage, a ferocious glare on his face as the blade sheared through the man’s viscera, his blood drenching Baldwin’s hand.
There was a crack behind him, and when he turned, he saw a guard on the ground, his face bloody where Hugh’s staff had cracked full-force into his nose, but then he saw that more men were pouring from the gatehouse towards them. Brian was up on the wall, watching in a fury as he saw his men falling. In his hand was a crossbow, and he raised it. Baldwin took a deep breath, convinced that the bolt would strike him, but the machine wasn’t pointing at him. The string thrummed, and Baldwin saw the blur as the steel-tipped death flew through the air.
It hit Esmon on his left shoulder as he was lifting his sword to parry a heavy blow. Its massy weight smashed through his bones, locking his arm and shoulder in place, and with the impact, shards of bone exploded onwards, splinters tearing through his lungs and slicing through veins. He knew he was dying as soon as he felt the terrible shock of the impact, and when he looked down and saw the bolt’s wooden shaft protruding from his shoulder, he gave a bellow of fury and rage, like a bear tired of the baiting, and hurled himself onwards, determined to kill as many of his enemies as he could before he died.
‘Sir Ralph!’ Baldwin said. ‘Come with us!’
‘My son!’
‘Leave him – he’s dead.’
‘No! He can’t be!’ Sir Ralph cried. ‘Esmon!’
‘That’s your man, Sir Ralph, he’s your enemy!’ Baldwin shouted, pointing to Brian, who was desperately trying to recock the crossbow. ‘Do you want to die here, now, or come to safety and kill your son’s murderer? Will you avenge Esmon’s death or wail and gnash your teeth until you’re killed in your turn?’
He grabbed Sir Ralph’s shoulder and half dragged the man back towards the keep. ‘Come on!’
Simon was fighting another man, and he heard Baldwin’s cry even as he saw Hugh manoeuvring behind his opponent. There was a loud crack, and the man disappeared. ‘Hugh!’
‘Sir Baldwin’s over there,’ Hugh pointed, and Simon nodded, running after them.
Coroner Roger saw the way that Brian turned, shouted, and then took aim. There was nothing he could do to stop the man firing, and he glared at his men. Two of them had strung bows, and he shouted, all but unintelligibly, that they must fire on Brian. In a couple of moments the bows were in action and two yard-long arrows sped to him.
Brian was fortunate. In the moment that the arrows were fired he had loosed his second bolt at Esmon, missing as Esmon avoided a sword thrust, and before they struck, he bent to reach for a fresh bolt. One arrow thumped into the stone of the wall behind him, and he ducked a little lower as the second hurtled past him.
At his side, the gate’s watchman muttered, ‘Fuck! These bastards are getting serious!’
Brian chuckled. The blood was singing in his veins, and he felt more alive than he had done in weeks. ‘Make sure the gate stays barred,’ he grinned and dropped down the ladder to the yard.
Esmon was dying. He rested on his sword, the point sitting on the ground, panting while two men watched him warily. They were trained fighters. Seeing he was soon to die anyway, they saw no point in risking their own lives while he still had a spark of energy left. They would move in when he was past defence.
Brian gave a dry, humourless laugh. He dragged back the string on his bow, set another bolt in the groove, and shot Esmon through the heart.
Baldwin and Simon slammed the door shut. It was made of good, new, light-coloured oak, and the bars too were fresh and clean, as though they had recently been renewed. Simon slid them from their housings in the wall, dragging them across until the timbers fitted into the slots on the opposite wall.
They were in a rib-vaulted cellar with a loop in the east wall that gave a dim illumination to the room. Stairs within the thickness of the wall near the door led upwards, and the four men hurried to climb them as weapons began to hammer on the door.
Upstairs was a smaller chamber. This was about seven yards long, four wide. There was a loop over the barred doorway, a fireplace in the eastern wall with another two loops, and a fourth in the northern wall.
‘Rats in a trap,’ Baldwin breathed.
‘Yes, but we can make their lives difficult,’ Simon said, staring about for a weapon which might be dropped on the heads of the men attacking the place.
‘There’s nothing,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘I didn’t want that rabble having access to too many weapons in case they decided to mutiny.’
‘That was wise,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps it would have been wiser still not to allow them into your castle?’
Sir Ralph said nothing. His eyes held a strange kind of wildness which Baldwin had not seen before, but then he had not seen men witness their sons being shot down before them. His heart went out to Sir Ralph. He disliked the man, detested the way he had behaved, and yet he could sympathise with his present appalling situation.