by Wayne Grant
”We have no proper equipment to storm this castle,” he began. “The walls are high and the gate is strong and there are at least fifty men in there to defend the place. Sir James says they will do their duty. Any man who joins me tonight runs the risk of dying before dawn. I ask you to consider that. As for me, there is no choice. My only child is trapped in there. She is my blood. She is my heart. And so, I must try. Who will join me?”
Beyond the walls of the castle, the boom of a battering ram could be heard as Sir Roger scanned the men’s faces. Oren Inness spoke up first.
“I have blood inside as well,” he said.
Standing next to Oren was Odo Kjeldsen. He spoke next.
“On a clear day, you can see the big peaks from here. We Danes lived up there until the Earl drove us out. It was Roland Inness who came to warn us and he it was who led us to safety. We did not come here from the Weaver to stand aside while he and his lady perish!”
There were murmurs of agreement from the Danes standing behind the old man. When they quieted, Sir Robin spoke up.
“The longbows will help, my lord, but you’ll need blades for the close work,” he said. “I can offer four swords, one battle axe and a giant with an ash staff.” John Little, who stood next to Robin and was a head taller, did a mock bow.
Finally, Friar Tuck spoke.
“I’m with you, Roger, come what may, but I cannot speak for these men,” he said gesturing toward the small band of local rebels he’d led for months. The men were farmers and tradesmen. They’d taken up arms against de Ferrers and were brave men, but not trained soldiers. Ambushing small patrols was one thing. Storming a castle was another. He turned and faced his band of twenty men.
“You’ve heard Sir Roger,” he said scanning the faces. “You’d be wise to go home now and live to fight another day. No man will speak ill of you if you do!” The monk paused a moment to let them consider their choice. “Those who choose to join us, stand to my right.”
Not a man hesitated. All shuffled over the monk’s right side. Tuck sighed. Desperation bred courage, but it also bred casualties. He wondered how many of these men would see another dawn.
He looked at Sir Roger.
“What’s the plan, my lord?”
***
The oak door of the keep was thick and reinforced with iron bands. Had the square fortress been manned by a score of men, they could have rained arrows and boiling water down on the men trying to breach that door, but only two men and a woman held the last refuge of Peveril Castle and they stood on the other side of it, waiting.
The oak did not yield to the relentless pounding of the ram, but the door’s iron hinges finally did. First the top, then the bottom hinge gave way and the heavy door, freed of its moorings, tilted drunkenly inward. The men on the landing hauled back the ram, drew their swords and moved cautiously forward. From inside the doorway they heard grunting noises and saw the door start to rise back to the vertical. Savaric Barca was first to realize the danger.
“Back!” he screamed as the thick door swung past the vertical and toppled onto the landing like a tree felled in the forest. One man leapt back in time, but another was pinned beneath the heavy door, shrieking in pain.
“Get him out of there!” Barca roared and men sprang forward to drag the injured man off the landing and down the stairs. The entrance to the keep had been designed to allow only one man at a time to enter. This was no surprise to Barca who’d taken keeps from Gascony to the Brabant. Sending swordsmen into such a confined space was wasteful. He turned to one of his lieutenants.
“Crossbows!” he ordered.
***
The plan was simple, in keeping with the inexperience of the men who would carry it out. A ram was fashioned from an oak beam dragged up from the village. It would be carried up to the castle by eight burly Danes who’d volunteered for the duty. Shields had been cobbled together to protect them as they banged away at the east gate.
Sir Roger did not expect the gate to fall to such a makeshift siege engine. It was meant only to hold the garrison’s attention long enough for Sir Robin and Tuck to scale the walls, leading thirty men and using four ladders the town folk had gathered.
The Norman knight had tasked the Danes not manning the ram with making it dangerous for any of the garrison troops to show their heads above the wall. If all went according to this simple plan, the force going over the wall would fight their way to the east gate and open it. Simple.
But old soldiers know that no plan stays simple once swords are crossed and Roger de Laval was an old soldier. He looked at the Danes gathered around the ram and the shield bearers. To his left and right men lay in the shadows, clutching swords and ladders that the day before had been used for climbing into barn lofts. He felt a twinge of guilt and prayed he wasn’t leading these men to their deaths. For himself, he’d much prefer to die rather than stand before Catherine de Laval and tell her he’d failed to save their only child.
He raised his battleaxe and ordered the ram forward.
***
The crossbow bolt hissed by Declan’s cheek as he jerked back from the narrow doorway.
“God, I hate crossbows!” he muttered as a second bolt careened off the back wall and almost struck him in the head.
Roland pointed to the stairs. The crossbows had made the alcove’s narrow confines indefensible. Declan nodded and bounded up toward the main floor where Millicent waited. Roland sprang across the opening as two more bolts passed just behind him. He ran up the steps to the next floor.
“Let’s see ‘em shoot around corners!” Declan said as Roland joined him on the landing at the top of the spiral stair. Below, they could hear men entering the alcove. Roland edged back down the steps. The stairs had been cleverly designed to hamper attackers. They wound around a thick stone column on the right that blocked the free use of any right-handed man’s sword arm. For a man facing down the twisting steps, the stone column acted as a shield for his left side while his right arm was free to thrust and slash at anyone trying to force their way up from below. His short sword was ideal for use in these cramped quarters.
He heard muffled voices below, but could not make out what they were saying. In the dim light, he waited for the first man to show himself on the stairs.
***
Oren Inness dropped his arm and the Danes loosed a volley toward the top of Peveril’s east wall. Two men, slower than their comrades, were struck down. Oren had waited to unleash the Dane’s longbows until Sir Roger led the heavy ram forward. Now his archers would keep up a steady hail of arrows to keep men’s heads down on the wall.
Crossbow quarrels leapt out of the arrow slits in the gatehouse walls, as the Danes muscled the heavy oak beam up the hill. The bolts peppered the oak shields Sir Roger had deployed around the ram and none struck flesh. As soon as the ram reached the gate, the biggest man among the Danes called out an order and the eight swung the makeshift ram back then drove it forward into the gate. It raised a resounding boom, but when it was drawn back, there was hardly a mark on the east gate.
Falling into a rhythm, the Danes hauled the beam back and smashed it into the gate again and again. Dust rose and there was some splintering of the thick oak, but the barrier was otherwise undamaged.
***
William de Ferrers was standing near the open door of the keep when the sound of the ram striking the east gate reached him. Savaric Barca was standing at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, directing his men forward when de Ferrers seized his arm.
“They’re trying to breach the east gate, Captain. You will take command there. I will finish this,” he said jerking his head toward the keep.
The Gascon hesitated. The Earl had been haranguing him relentlessly since they’d begun storming the keep. Taking a keep was a complicated task. Everything about such a building was designed to aid its defenders. Haste would get many men killed. But then, most of those who would die were the Earl’s own local garrison boys, so Barca shrugged and
obeyed. As he ran toward the east gate, he could hear de Ferrers cursing and ordering his men to advance up the stairs.
When the mercenary reached the gatehouse, he peered down at the ram pounding away at the gate. The simple oak beam carried by eight men didn’t impress him much, but he would take nothing for granted. As another blow struck the gate, he ordered four men off the wall and sent them to take up positions inside the arch of the gatehouse.
After all, who knew just how solid the gate itself was?
***
Thirty men lay flat on the hillside counting the booms from the ram. The tenth time it slammed into the gate, they rose and sprinted for the wall. Four ladders were carried along in the mad rush and with each was an experienced warrior who would be first on the rungs. As they reached the base of the wall the ladders were hoisted and propped against the parapet at the top. Four men were first up, climbing hand-over-hand toward the top of the wall.
Magnus Rask was first to reach the top. He was met there by two spearmen who thrust at his head. Only his shield saved him, but raising it left him with no hand hold and the impact of the blows pushed him off balance. He tumbled backwards, taking the next man on the ladder with him. They landed in a heap at the foot of the ladder. The men on the wall then flung it back down to land on top of them.
Further down the wall, Friar Tuck was barely able to cling to his ladder as he fended off one man with a sword and another with a spear. Whether through luck or skill, Sir Robin managed to make it over the parapet, but four men from the garrison surrounded him, penning the young knight into a corner.
Below, the ram continued to slam into the east gate, to little effect. Sir Roger watched as the men struggled to scale the walls and felt his heart sink, but he’d not order a withdrawal now. He stepped forward with his battle axe and began hacking at the unyielding oak of the east gate.
***
One of Barca’s lieutenants had taken charge of the assault on the keep and chose to ignore the railings of the Earl. He was an experienced man who’d stormed a keep before. He knew how treacherous it was to fight your way up from floor to floor. So he sent men to the stables to gather wet straw and started a fire in the alcove at the bottom of the steps. As the fire grew, he tossed the wet straw on the flames, sending up dense clouds of smoke. The stairs, extending to the very roof of the keep, created a natural draft, sucking air in through the doorway and sending smoke spiralling upwards and out through the opening to the roof.
Roland stood around the first blind curve of the stairs waiting for the first man to chance the steps. He’d wondered why there’d been a delay, then as he heard the crackle of a fire and saw the first wisps of smoke rise up, he understood. The smoke quickly grew denser and he retreated, coughing, to the main floor. The smoke followed him there, spreading thickly into the reception hall and swirling up the stairs toward the roof.
“Up!” he shouted and grabbed Millicent’s hand, leading her to the next set of stairs with Declan close behind. The smoke had already begun to spread through the second floor of the keep as they reached the landing above. They kept climbing until they emerged through an open hatch onto the roof, eyes red and lungs burning. With a dark column of smoke pouring out of the hatch and rising into the night sky, Roland rushed to the edge of the roof and looked down. A dozen men stood ready to rush up the stairs once the fire was doused. Off to his left, he could see fighting at the east wall, but was mystified as to what it meant.
He walked back to Declan and Millicent and handed the ruby-handled dagger to his wife.
“I believe you know how to use this,” he said. She nodded and took the weapon. Declan leaned on his broadsword and just nodded to him. They all knew. There was nowhere left to run.
***
Sir James watched the attack on the east wall with a growing sense of despair. He’d wanted to join it, but knew he couldn’t haul his aging limbs up a ladder or help with the ram. Now he saw Rask fall and Tuck fight for his life atop a ladder. At the east gate, no progress was being made. Here and there, men were falling and not rising. He knew why Roger de Laval had launched this attack and felt for the man, but to continue the assault now would be criminal. He set his jaw and marched up the path toward the gate where the big Norman was chopping at the gate like a mad woodsman.
“Sir James!”
The call came from behind him and he turned to see a boy running toward him. It took a moment for him to recognize Sir Roland’s young squire, the Irish boy. When the lad reached him he was gasping for air. He tried to speak but couldn’t form the words.
“Breathe, lad,” Sir James urged him gently.
Finn took a deep breath, then blurted out his news.
“It’s the Invalid Company, my lord!” he managed. “I saw their flag in the village!”
Sir James stared at the boy, unsure of what he’d heard.
“What was that, boy?”
Finn whirled around and pointed.
“There, sir!”
The Sheriff looked down the hill and saw riders emerge out of the darkness, galloping up from Castleton. The lead rider had one arm. The second man was missing a leg and held a banner high, the cloth snapping in the wind. On the black banner was a wolf’s head.
Sir John Blackthorne reined in by the Sheriff and leapt nimbly off his horse. He stared for a moment at the failing attack on the east wall, then turned back to Ferguson.
“We are here against the orders of our commander,” he declared, “but the Invalids have a history of mutiny. Perhaps we can be of some assistance. Shall we attack the fort?”
James Ferguson could only nod his head.
“By all means, sir!”
The forty-one men of the Invalid Company, clad in mail, armed with sword, axe and mace, dismounted and advanced up the hill toward the east gate.
***
Savaric Barca saw the riders arrive and knew instantly that these were no local rebels. All wore mail and were well-armed. Their numbers weren’t large, but as they moved up the hill, they walked with the easy gait of veterans, drawing their swords and raising their shields as they came. The easy fight at the east gate was about to become a life and death struggle.
Barca knew his duty. He would hold the east gate if he could, but he was paid to win battles, not to die in lost causes. For a moment he considered slipping away to the outer bailey, mounting his horse and riding away, but William de Ferrers still owed him a great deal of silver. He was not ready to ride away from that. He watched as the new men started up the ladders and bided his time. He would know when it was time to run.
That time came more swiftly than he imagined.
The garrison troops who’d held off the feeble first attack seemed to lose heart at the sight of these reinforcements. As Barca watched from the top of the gatehouse, he saw two men look over the parapet at the mail-clad warriors climbing toward them. One of the men took an arrow in the eye and was dead before he toppled off the wall walk. The second man gaped at his comrade, then turned and ran.
Barca knew that the sight of one man running might be enough to set off a rout. He hurried down the ladder from the gatehouse roof and ran into the bailey, in time to see two more men abandon the wall and flee back toward the keep.
“Hold yer positions, damn you!” he screamed up at the men still defending the wall, but that only served to add fuel to the spreading panic. To the right of the east gate he saw two enemy swordsmen gain the wall walk and advance on the men who’d cornered one of the first attackers over the wall. On the right, a huge man with some sort of long-handled axe came over the parapet. Four men stood between this giant and the gatehouse. As he moved toward them, they turned as one and leapt from the wall walk, landing in the bailey. Scrambling to their feet, they ran as though chased by the devil, despite Barca’s curses.
The Gascon had seen enough. The east gate was lost. He turned and ran for the keep. De Ferrers owed him money. It was time to save his investment.
***
“Fl
ee?” William de Ferrers looked at Savaric Barca and wanted to strike the man.
“Aye, lord. Your castle is lost. We must be gone or we’ll soon be dead I think.”
De Ferrers turned and looked back into the keep. Barca’s man there had just doused the fire and the smoke was quickly dissipating. A dozen of his own men stood ready to charge up the stairs and retake the keep, killing any who opposed them.
Roland Inness was up there, practically in his grasp!
Then he heard a scream and looked across the bailey at his own troops running for their lives. The east gate was swinging open now and men were pouring through it.
“Come, lord,” Barca urged.
De Ferrers cursed, but turned to join the Gascon. As the two men ran for the bridge to the inner bailey where the horses were stabled, two of Barca’s men fleeing from the unfolding disaster joined them. These were the last of the forty who’d sailed with the Earl from Saint-Malo three months before. Reaching the stables, de Ferrers quickly saddled his fine Breton stallion and together the four men rode out of the west gate, making for the wind gates and safety.
Justice for the Dead
The smoke billowing from the roof of the keep had begun to clear when Roland heard cheering from somewhere below. He ran to the east side of the roof and was shocked to see the east gate open and panicked garrison troops fleeing across the bailey. A tight knot of mail-clad men were pursuing them. One held a banner up. In the darkness, the black cloth of the flag was invisible, but the silver wolf’s head was unmistakable. He turned back to Declan and Millicent.
“We’re saved,” he said. The two rushed to the edge of the roof to witness this miracle for themselves.
“They disobeyed your orders,” Declan observed.
“God bless them for that,” murmured Millicent. She rubbed her eyes. The tears were from more than the smoke.
***
As they stumbled out of the keep, coughing from the lingering smoke, they saw Sir Roger de Laval bounding up the steps. The sight of his daughter standing at the top of the stairs brought the big knight to a standstill.
