‘Old Templar trick,’ Savage explained.
Now armed, they gathered at the gate that led back out into the outer courtyard of the castle.
‘When we go out, keep your shields high and make for the stairs to the battlements,’ MacHuylin said. ‘The most important thing is to try to spot where the crossbows are and goad them into shooting. When they do, be ready with your shield. Once they shoot, get the hell up those steps as fast as you can go and get the bastards before they reload.’
The men with him all nodded their agreement.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
With that, they all charged back out through the gate, spilling into the outer courtyard of the castle. As he ran with them, Savage hoped for two things: not to feel the piercing impact of a crossbow bolt and that the earl and justiciar were not already dead.
36
Back in the banqueting hall, it had not taken long for the earl and justiciar to realise something was wrong.
Once de Thrapston turned the key in the door, locking them in with the musicians and the women, they both turned and strode back down the hall towards where the minstrels still sat, looking worried.
From behind several of the tapestries around the walls, men emerged. They had been hiding to avoid going outside with the rest. The earl recognised Alain FitzWarin, Thomas Ui Cahan, Patrick de Lacy and various kinsmen of theirs, along with a couple of other local knights. All in all, there were ten of them.
‘What’s the matter, FitzWarin?’ the earl said. ‘Too scared to go out and fight with the rest?’
FitzWarin gave a nasty grin. ‘That’s rich coming from you. Shut your mouth, de Burgh. Your time in power here has come to an end.’
‘Traitor,’ the earl hissed, his voice dripping with contempt.
‘Traitor?’ FitzWarin shook his head. ‘To who? Not my family, my countrymen. To you, maybe. But then who are you to demand the loyalty of anyone?’ He turned to Ui Cahan and said, ‘Get that door open and go and get King Domnall’s men and the assassins. We’ll keep the earl and the justiciar here until you come back.’
Ui Cahan nodded and he and three other knights ran to the hall door. They lifted one of the benches on the way and began using it as a battering ram against the stout timbers of the door.
‘What are you going to do with us?’ the justiciar demanded.
‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ FitzWarin said. ‘When the assassins arrive they will kill you. While they are at it we’ll help the Tyr Eoghan warriors kill your women.’
Most of the women in the hall – except those whose men folk were carrying out the coup – dissolved into frightened screams and huddled together in a clump near the dais on which the musicians sat. One, however, did not join them. Countess Margaret de Burgh walked defiantly to the dais and stood between Alain FitzWarin and her husband the earl. Her grey eyes held FitzWarin in a challenging glare.
‘You need assassins to do your dirty work, Alain FitzWarin? You are a coward indeed,’ the countess said.
FitzWarin returned her gaze with undisguised contempt. ‘We are unarmed, your ladyship. Perhaps you would prefer we strangle you and your husband like common criminals?’ With that, he swept his hand in a scything arc, the back of it smacking into the countess’s right cheek, dealing her a blow that sent her sprawling sideways onto the floor.
‘Bastard!’ the earl shouted and punched FitzWarin in the face, sending him falling backwards in turn.
Patrick de Lacy, a large-boned young knight, stepped forward and launched a kick that sent the earl sprawling onto the dais as FitzWarin rolled back up to his feet.
‘Let’s kill them now,’ FitzWarin shouted.
*
In the outer courtyard, MacHuylin, de Sandal, Eamonn Albanach and Congal MacArtain ran towards the steps to the battlements, their shields raised in the hope of warding off the deadly crossbow quarrels. Jordan, Blanquet and de Thrapston ran with them, heading for the same set of steps. Savage and the rest of the men charged to the battlement steps on the opposite wall of the castle.
Within moments of them emerging from the gate, they heard the loud snap of crossbows being loosed. MacHuylin just caught sight of a shadow of movement on the battlements above and raised his shield in that direction. A crossbow quarrel clanged noisily off the metal boss, bucking the shield and sheering away at a right angle. To his left, Henry de Thrapston gave a cry and fell to the ground, clutching with his left hand at the feathered end of the quarrel that now protruded from his right shoulder.
‘Now! Run! Before they reload!’ MacHuylin shouted and he pounded up the steps to the battlements.
*
Outside the great hall the seneschal stood, sword in hand. He saw how the doors bulged outwards with every blow dealt by the men inside. From the way the hinges were straining, Thomas de Mandeville judged that a couple more blows and the doors would give way. Quickly, he pushed the key into the lock and turned it so the door was no longer locked. The door rattled again from a blow from the inside. He waited, judging the moment when the men inside would be about to hit the door again, then pulled the latch lever and leapt aside.
The men inside swung the bench with all their might against the door. The unlatched door sprung wide open and they all shot through the doorway and sprawled out onto the courtyard, the four men falling to the ground tangled in the bench.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ the seneschal demanded.
The terrified look on the face of Thomas Ui Cahan as he beheld the seneschal standing over him brandishing a sword told de Mandeville all he needed to know. Without mercy he chopped down. Ui Cahan raised an arm to protect himself but the sword clove his limb in two halfway down the forearm, continued on its way and sliced deep into the supine man’s chest. Ui Cahan gave a loud groan as his lifeblood gushed out onto the cobblestones.
The other three unarmed knights scrambled to get to their feet but before they could all rise de Mandeville had already impaled one of them through the back with his sword blade, making sure he would never rise again. The two who managed to get to their feet fled as fast as they could into the darkness.
De Mandeville rushed into the hall.
*
Savage and the remaining knights had no problems reaching the far wall of the castle. They quickly scaled the stairs to the battlements and made their way along them until they drew close to the first-storey doorway into the castle gatehouse. He had a lot of men with him, but the narrowness of the battlements and the door were designed specifically to negate an enemy’s advantage in numbers. They were stretched out in single file along the battlements and would have to attack the doorway one at a time.
As he neared the door and prepared for the attack, Savage fervently hoped that Jordan and Blanquet’s diversionary attack on the far side of the gate tower would be a success.
*
MacHuylin was onto the first crossbowman while he was still cranking the handle to reload his bow. He had a man with him to protect him and he came at MacHuylin with his spear, intending to skewer the big man through the chest. With surprising dexterity for one so large, MacHuylin sidestepped the attacker so the spear point went into thin air instead of his bowels. He grabbed the spear shaft with one hand and head-butted its owner, who staggered backwards off the battlement, stepping into thin air. With a startled cry he tumbled backwards and landed with a crunch on the cobblestones below.
The crossbowman had now managed to load the crossbow but was still raising it to shoot when MacHuylin’s sword smashed the weapon from his hands. A second thrust went deep into his stomach and he collapsed onto the battlement ledge.
MacHuylin looked around to see the rest of the attackers disappearing into the darkness at the far end of the battlement, where it joined the north tower.
‘Damn it, why won’t they fight?’ the galloglaich roared. His blood was up, his eyes stared from his head and his lips were drawn back from his teeth. He had tasted blood and now all he wanted was more.
‘Come on. We’ve put them on the run,’ the Seneschal of Connaught advised. ‘It’s more important we recapture the gatehouse now and get that portcullis open.’
MacHuylin nodded and they made their way back down the steps.
*
Inside the great hall of the castle, Thomas de Mandeville saw all the women were huddled at the far end of the room. A group of men were struggling in front of the dais on which the musicians were huddled. Alain FitzWarin had leapt onto the fallen earl, raining punches down on the man on the ground. The hulking form of Patrick de Lacy loomed toward Countess Elizabeth, a wicked grin on his face as he cracked his knuckles. Behind them stood four other knights.
Without warning, there was a loud, discordant “bong” as one of the musicians stood up and smashed a harp around the back of Patrick de Lacy’s head. The big knight staggered forward from the blow as the musician, Guilleme le Poer, grabbed a handful of the brass strings from the destroyed instrument that now were arrayed around de Lacy’s head. Within a second they were wound around his neck and le Poer was throttling him. The wire of the strings bit into his hands but he held on grimly as de Lacy struggled and thrashed to get air. Behind him the other four knights closed in.
The seneschal knew it was time to act and sprinted down the hall. He leapt onto one of the trestle tables that still stood and charged down its length. When he reached its end he jumped off and came on the four knights from above and behind, his sword slashing a vicious blow that carved a red stripe across the backs of two of them. As they screeched with unexpected pain, De Mandeville kicked the third one forward onto his face and drove the point of the sword into the back of the fourth. As the man collapsed, the seneschal tugged the blade out of him and rushed onwards.
Alain FitzWarin sat astride the earl on his chest, both hands locked around de Burgh’s throat. Surprised by the sudden screams of his companions, he looked up just in time to see the blood-splattered seneschal coming at him like an avenging fury.
‘No, don’t,’ was all he had time to say before de Mandeville’s blade scythed through his neck and FitzWarin’s decapitated head bounced across the hall floor.
*
Out on the opposite battlement to the one on which Savage prepared for the assault on the gatehouse tower, Syr Raymond Jordan and Syr Roger Blanquet waited to begin their diversion. Through the darkness came the clang of a sword being bashed against a shield boss, very deliberately, three times.
‘Right,’ Raymond Jordan said, grasping the hilt of his sword and straightening his helmet. ‘That’s the signal. Let’s go.’
He turned away from Blanquet to advance towards the gatehouse tower. Suddenly a strong arm snaked like a python around his neck and squeezed, cutting off his air supply. Another strangely scented hand clamped hard over his mouth. Whoever was holding him forced him to turn to face back along the battlements.
Now two figures stood behind him. One was Blanquet and another was a figure swathed in black who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. To Jordan’s horror he saw a bright, curved knife, its metal blade glittering in the dark. Before he could react the knife was plunged into his chest, going in below his ribs in two quick stabs. First he felt as if he had been punched hard, then bright crimson pain exploded in his chest as his heart was pierced.
The arm around his neck was withdrawn and quick as a flash the knife slashed Jordan’s throat, severing both windpipe and jugular. Hands then grabbed his ankles and heaved his rapidly dying body over the battlements into the maw of the black sea below, which hungrily swallowed him.
The two dark figures on the battlements looked around quickly. Blanquet nodded to them and one of them gave a low whistle. The door at the end of the battlements that led to the gatehouse opened and men began running out of it towards them.
*
On the opposite battlements, Savage raised his sword and charged at the door of the gatehouse tower. He reached it in moments and kicked it open, howling like a demon. Swinging the sword wildly, he plunged through the doorway into the tower, hoping momentum would carry him through. To his surprise his blade met thin air. Once through the doorway he stopped and saw the gatehouse was empty. Then he was nearly knocked off his feet by the rest of the knights who jostled in behind him, all equally amazed to find no one there to resist them.
‘Where are they?’ Brian MacArtain demanded.
Savage raised his sword and pointed to the opposite door of the tower, which lay open. ‘They’ve run out that way,’ he said.
At that second MacHuylin barged his way into the gatehouse to see it was empty.
‘Where the hell were Blanquet and Jordan?’ he shouted. ‘They should have been on the other side of that door.’
‘Let’s see shall we?’ Savage replied. ‘Some of you get the portcullis up. The rest of you come with us.’
As Brian MacArtain and a couple of other men began cranking the lever that inched the heavy portcullis back up laboriously to reopen the castle gate, Savage, MacHuylin and the rest exited the tower by the opposite door and jogged along the battlements in pursuit of the castle’s attackers. Halfway along the battlements outside Savage caught sight of something at the base of the wall below and stopped.
‘There’s where one of them went,’ he said, pointing to the corpse of Raymond Jordan that lay sprawled on the rocks below where the sea had vomited it back up.
They recommenced their way along the battlements, hurrying yet cautious, aware that there was still one crossbowman lurking somewhere in the darkness.
From behind them came the sound of shouting. MacArtain had got the portcullis up enough for the justiciar’s troopers to scramble underneath and they were now pouring into the castle, filling the courtyard below.
‘The tide has turned,’ Savage said. ‘The castle is ours again.’
‘Now let’s hunt down those dogs,’ MacHuylin said.
‘Look!’ Eamonn Albanach said, pointing upwards.
They followed his gaze and saw figures moving on the roof of the north tower that earlier had been Savage’s prison. In the light from the torches in the courtyard below they could see a rope was tied to the flagpole on the castellated roof of the tower. The rope stretched downwards at a slant out of the walls of the castle. Savage followed its line to where it eventually met the sea and a boat that rocked on the waves. In the moonlight he could make out men straining at the boat’s oars, pushing the boat away from the castle and keeping the rope taut. Down the length of the rope they could see men climbing, their arms and legs locked around the rope and their bodies hanging over the waves as they made their way to the boat.
‘They’re getting away!’ Savage shouted. ‘How do we get up there?’
‘Follow me,’ MacHuylin said, leading the way down the steps into the outer courtyard. They ran across into the inner courtyard and up onto the seaward battlements, approaching the tower from the opposite side from which Savage had gone in before. On this side, the tower had a set of steps leading up from the battlements onto its roof.
By the time they arrived on the rooftop of the north tower none of the attackers remained in the castle. As they looked down they saw the boat that bobbed on the waves below was now jammed full of men. Three were still making their way down the rope. It would not be long until they too made it to the safety of the boat. Everyone in the tower knew that launching boats in the dark to try and catch them was futile. By the time anyone made it to the harbour, made ready a ship and launched they would be long gone.
‘They’ve got away God damn it!’ Savage growled.
MacHuylin reached inside his cloak and pulled out the big meat cleaver he had earlier taken from the castle kitchen.
‘Not all of them,’ he said and chopped down on the rope, severing it from the flagpole. The rest of the rope went slack and dropped into the sea. The three men who had been climbing down it fell screaming, arms flailing, into the cold, black water.<
br />
37
Savage spent what remained of the night asleep on the floor of the great hall. Despite the excitement of the previous day, he was untroubled by nightmares. He was too tired for any sort of dreams. As soon as he lay down and pulled a fur rug over himself, sleep triumphed and he lay oblivious to the noise around him as servants cleaned up the blood and aftermath of the battle.
He did not get the rest he hoped for, however.
Not long after dawn the doors of the hall were flung open and the chill, iron-smelling sea air rushed in to bite and annoy exposed ears, noses and toes. Syr Thomas de Mandeville, the earl, the justiciar, Connor MacHuylin and Eamonn Albanach strode in. None of them had slept, but neither did any of them show any signs of grogginess. They had spent the night in conference, discussing the attack in the keep.
De Mandeville cleared the remaining detritus of last night’s feast from a table and dragged it to the top end of the hall. He meant to make this his centre of operations for the day.
Savage rubbed raw eyes and vainly tried to brush the straw he had been lying in from his hair. For several moments he stared at the roof, wishing he could just roll over and sleep on, but he knew he could not.
The welcome sight of Henry de Thrapston, his arm now bandaged in a sling, entered the hall.
‘I’m glad to see you are all right,’ Savage greeted him.
‘Just a scratch, old boy,’ de Thrapston replied, but his weak smile and pallor, still grey from the pain of the physician’s work to extract the crossbow arrow from his shoulder, belied his bravado. ‘This came for you. A messenger left it at the gate,’ the keeper of the castle said, his voice shaky as he held out a roll of parchment with his good arm.
Savage raised an eyebrow and unrolled the letter. Immediately he recognised the jumbled nonsense of a message encrypted using the Caesar cipher. He looked around the hall to see if Guilleme le Poer was still around but there was no sign of him.
Lions of the Grail Page 26
