Richard’s voice rang out hoarse but clear. “God be with us!” The king moved naturally though he’d not raised a sword in battle in more than a year. Downward cuts again and again. Wide circular swings. His sword found steel, found flesh, blow after blow. A knobbed club came at his head, but he sensed it and pivoted, his blade ripping across his enemy’s torso.
Stephan cursed, his strikes and Henry’s beating a harsh rhythm. Side by side, they confronted threat after threat. Stephan thrust at a soldier, twisted to fend off a second. Henry’s moves mirrored his, but came a second later, his sword piercing the first man’s throat. As Henry turned, sunlight glinted off a sword meant to slice into Stephan’s back. Henry blocked the blow, but his adversary caught his sword. The man was powerfully built, broad-shouldered, with a dark gleam in his eye. He forced Henry backwards. Henry’s muscles burned and he stumbled, smacking the ground and groaning through gritted teeth. His attacker shrieked and charged, sword raised. Trembling with rage, Henry thrust his own blade upward. It pierced mail and gambeson. His attacker’s eyes turned lifeless. Blood dribbling from his mouth, he collapsed on top of Henry.
Henry couldn’t move. He fought for a breath. The stench of shit and sweat mingled with the copper scent of blood and filled his nostrils. He shoved the corpse away and struggled to rise. A friendly hand found his and Stephan pulled him to his feet and pounded his back.
Without warning, trumpets blared. Screams of the dying and war cries surrounded Henry, the noise deafening. And then the drums began to thunder.
Please, no…not the drums.
Bile rose in Henry’s mouth and he forced back the urge to vomit. Sweat stung his eyes, but he could see them—Saracens. In the hills. Mirroring the army’s march.
“Behind you!” Stephan shouted and brought him back from the past.
Henry jerked around. He willed his aching arms to wield his sword. “For the king,” he bellowed and blocked the deadly blow. Stephan caught the attacker behind the knees and sent him sprawling to the ground.
“For England,” Stephan shouted and charged toward King Richard’s position. Henry followed, leaping over dead bodies, lashing out at any enemy in his path.
The battle raged. Long shadows crept across the outer bailey. A trumpeter blasted a call from the castle keep. Enemy soldiers broke from the hand-to-hand combat and scrambled towards the barbican.
“They’re falling back,” someone cried.
Taunts and jeers aimed at the king’s men flowed from the wall walk.
But it wasn’t done just yet. With the defenders retreating, crossbow bolts flew again. A knight to Henry’s left cried out, lurched backwards, his armor pierced.
“Shields!” Henry called to others nearby. He picked up one left by the dead and crouched down, covering himself and the wounded knight. Another knight helped him drag the man towards the outer gate. Sweat coated Henry’s flesh beneath his armor. His hair stuck to his neck. Thank God the sun slipped lower. Bolts struck around him, thumped off his shield. But thank God the traitors retreated. Thank God…
At the gate, Henry turned round to look for Stephan. Heart thudding in his chest, he watched exhausted men stumble past him. Finally, Stephan emerged from the shadows bloodied from head to foot. He walked beside a man whose arm was nothing but mangled, shattered bone. Behind them, rivulets of blood cut through the field. Blood…so much blood.
King Richard had come up next to Henry and surveyed the bailey. Stephan was maneuvering around corpses when a curse rang from the castle and a bolt sizzled through the air. Stephan cried out, his leg buckling beneath him.
“No!” Henry shouted, the word barely from his mouth as the king fired his crossbow and struck the enemy bowman.
In three long strides, Henry rushed to Stephan’s side. Stephan paled and collapsed into Henry’s arms as blood pooled on the ground by his leg. Henry pressed his hand where the quarrel had lodged to stanch the flow of blood. He rested his forehead against Stephan’s and whispered, “You will live.”
“Let me help.” It was the king. Richard knelt beside them and lifted Stephan’s chin. “My lady mother will be looking for you, Sir Stephan. Do not disappoint her.”
Henry thought he saw Stephan manage a smile, though tears blurred his vision. He wrapped his blood-smeared arm around Stephan’s waist and lifted him with the king’s help. After they trudged through the rubble of the gate, Richard waved them off to houses down the road where the wounded were being treated. Henry stayed through the night with Stephan, fell asleep at his side, and woke when the sound of hammers echoed through the streets.
*
Richard had ordered gallows built at the north end of Castle Road and just beyond crossbow range. The gibbets on the newly constructed platform were visible from the battlements of the castle. Two ropes laced through the crossbeams. A sergeant carted a crate up the stairs. There would be hangings today. It sent a clear message to those holding out within the garrison. Defy the king? This will be your fate.
But it hadn’t been the construction of the gallows that awakened Henry. The last of the siege engines was near completion. Crowds gathered to watch the king’s engineers reposition the machines. Massive boulders had been loaded into the sling of one. The beam snapped, launching a test missile. Henry cringed, still unnerved by the sound. Clenching one fist at his side, the other wrapped round the hilt of his sword, he stiffened, loosing a long slow breath as the boulders sailed across the azure sky. He was prepared for the horrendous boom. Rock collided with the curtain wall. Dirt and shards of stone flew into the air and a resounding cheer rose from the onlookers.
Watching from his headquarters, King Richard signaled. The bombardment began in earnest. One boulder after another sailed towards the castle.
“It’s like Acre all over again.”
Henry turned to Tuck, surprised he’d not heard the man approach. “Leastwise it’s not so hot. And there are no Saracens ready to charge when we breach the walls.”
Tuck conceded those points with a nod. He gestured towards knights outside the headquarters. “Looks like they’re dressed to celebrate.”
Tuck was right. “Not a hauberk in sight,” Henry said. Bloodied mail gone, the men wore brightly-colored tunics and surcoats and looked like they’d be attending a feast day celebration.
The Earl of Chester approached Henry. “I heard Stephan was wounded yesterday.”
“He’s abed in the hospital down the street. The king suggested he should recover to avoid Queen Eleanor’s wrath.”
The men around Henry laughed. “If I had an ale, I would offer a toast,” Chester said.
Tuck loosed his wineskin from his belt and handed it to the earl. Chester laughed, raised the flagon, and toasted Stephan’s health, King Richard, and the queen. He swallowed back a gulp of the brew and then passed it round.
Henry took a drink, grimacing at the bitter taste. He swiped his hand across his mouth and eyed the battlements, still defiantly flying Count John’s banners. Chester saw his frown and clasped his shoulder. “The king says we’ll not fight today. God willing, the stone throwers will send a message,” Chester said and strode towards the headquarters.
A loud crack and a mournful echo resonated from the castle walls. The weapons scored direct hits, one boulder striking the keep itself. Henry prayed the garrison would surrender before the walls crumbled and the Lionheart’s men breached the gate. The king might hold the outer bailey, but taking the middle and upper baileys would cost many more lives.
Smoke drifted skyward from the charred remains of the middle bailey’s gate. “When did we fire the barbican?” Henry asked.
Tuck shook his head. “Not us. The garrison set it ablaze during the night. Who knows how their minds work.”
The king’s axes would have one less gate to smash. Were they daring King Richard to storm the barbican? Henry had seen the ones at Winchester and Wallingford set with arrow slits and murder holes overhead. God forbid the king should lead a charge and be doused with boi
ling oil or caught in a crossfire.
“Mayhap they shall be of a different mind after the hangings,” Tuck said.
Henry stared at the gallows, shivering when another boulder smashed into the castle. Dust and dirt hung in the air like smoke, the gallows eerily visible through the haze. The men were cheering again, but neither he nor Tuck joined in. Henry felt nothing but dread and decided if there was to be no fighting, he’d spend the day at Stephan’s side. He started to bid good day to Tuck when Robin came trotting up the road.
“You and Stephan—meet me at the Trip tonight.”
“Stephan cannot be there.”
Robin glanced past Henry looking for Stephan. Eyes narrowing, he frowned and clasped Henry’s arm. “God’s wounds. Do not tell me…”
“He is in the healers’ care,” he said, pointing down the road to the house-turned-hospital, “struck by a bolt to the leg.”
Relief swept across Robin’s face, but Henry could see his mind whirling, re-thinking his plan. Henry eyed him curiously.
“When this ends,” Robin said, “there will be work yet to do.”
Henry looked from Robin to Tuck and back again. “The French threat across the sea?” he asked.
“There is that.” Robin’s blue eyes sparkled.
“Does he always get that look about him?” Tuck asked.
Henry grinned, shaking his head at Robin. “What plan are you working now?”
Robin’s brows rose, but he shot away. Halfway to the king’s headquarters, he called back, “Both of you, tonight, at The Trip.”
Henry counted the hours by the pounding of the stone throwers. The ground shook. He could feel it through his bones. When they stopped, he listened, expecting…what? In Acre the trumpets would blare and the drums beat a signal to the Saracens in the hills. Even the bravest amongst the king’s army there grew anxious waiting for the enemy’s next move. But here? Only God knew what the castle garrison would do.
He envied Stephan sleeping through the bombardment. At his bedside now, Henry studied his lover’s face. Color had returned to his cheeks and the sheen of sweat was gone, his fever broken.
Stephan stirred. “Did they surrender?”
“From the sickbed and you ask about the garrison?” Henry smiled. “You must be well on your way to recovery. But you’ve missed nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Stephan started to speak, but choked on his words. Henry lifted his head and offered him a drink. He sipped at the watered ale and grimaced. He shoved the flask away. “That is nasty.”
Henry crinkled his nose, but it was from the stench of the wounded and dying in the room, not the ale. Corking the wineskin he said, “I’ll bring something better from The Trip.”
“You’d better.” Stephan tried to push up and fell back with a groan.
“You aren’t going anywhere.” Henry adjusted the pillow behind Stephan’s head. “There shall be time to drink and cavort with your friends later.”
Stephan placed his hand on Henry’s and squeezed it. The look that crossed between them had enough tinder to start a fire, but it was more than passion that filled Henry’s soul. Stephan had held him through the nightmares. He had loved him long before Henry could admit his feelings, had stayed away after Alys’ death all the while knowing he might never have Henry. He had been a friend first. And always.
Taking a long slow breath, Henry tapped the side of the bed. “I hear the king may wait until tonight to launch the Greek fire.”
“That would send the garrison a fright. But I say the king won’t use it. And the stone throwers will go quiet.”
“You’re so certain?”
“He’ll not want to cause more damage to the curtain walls. It would be costly to repair. Tell Allan to take bets on that. He’ll make a fortune.”
Henry chuckled, and then turned serious. “I keep thinking of Allan. If they discover him…”
“His instincts are sharp. Don’t think of him.” Stephan lowered his voice. “I’d rather you think of me.”
Henry leaned close, a smile on his lips. “One of you is enough to worry about.” He palmed Stephan’s hand and then wandered outside. A beating drum joined the call of the trumpets in a march that reminded him of a funeral dirge. People swept up the road to gather for the hanging. He’d be expected there. His skin crawled. They are traitors. Like the men he killed in the outer bailey. Englishmen who would kill him, kill Stephan, other English loyal to King Richard. The gallows awaited them.
Henry scrutinized the keep looming on the motte. This is your fate. Surrender, damn you, surrender!
Robin stood with Huntingdon’s men far closer to the gallows than Henry preferred. Drawing up next to him, he watched the two condemned soldiers captured during the previous day’s battle. Both had hair the color of Stephan’s. Dried blood streaked their faces, one round with pudgy cheeks; the other squarish with high cheekbones. Their tunics were bloodied and filthy with mud.
The castle defenders watched from the battlements, swords and lances raised defiantly. Their jeers couldn’t be heard over the incessant din of the music. Robin’s face was a mask. The others around them grinned and gawked, prayed or cursed.
The trumpets suddenly ceased. The tempo of the drums increased, echoing back at them from the castle walls. When the heralds blasted four short notes, King Richard emerged from his headquarters accompanied by his half-brother Geoffrey, the Archbishop of York, and Hubert Walter, his justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury. Will Marshal and Chester walked in step behind them along with the Earls of Ferrers and Huntingdon. The men proceeded to a dais built directly across the street from the gallows. When they were in place, the drums quieted.
Despite the outraged protests from the defenders on the wall walks, the hangman placed a noose around the neck of each prisoner. Henry looked at the priest standing at the edge of the platform. He’d already confessed the two men. His lips moved in prayer though Henry could not hear a word he uttered. The condemned man on the right prayed too, his eyes clenched tightly. The other stared at King Richard. Was that remorse on his face? He’d given his loyalty to the wrong man.
*
On the castle wall walk, Allan shielded his eyes, intent on watching Richard’s face though he was too far away to see him clearly. The king’s crown shimmered in the sunlight. Atop the keep, Ralf Murdac shouted curses at the Archbishop of Canterbury. The constable had already been excommunicated for defying Richard. Allan figured a curse or two against a high bishop of God wouldn’t make much difference to the salvation of the man’s soul. William de Wendeval stood next to Murdac, denouncing the king as fake. Allan shut out their heckles and the profanities spilling from soldiers on the battlement around him. His eyes focused on the ropes looped through the gibbet. The ropes swung violently, just like the day his da was dragged kicking and screaming to his death.
Richard unsheathed his sword. He aimed the blade at the constables, and then lifted it towards the heavens. Voices died on lips. A great quiet descended over the land. Banners flying from the parapets drooped, the sharp March breeze stilled as if ordered by the king.
The downward slash of Richard’s sword cut the silence and the crates beneath the condemned men’s feet were kicked. Allan stiffened, teeth clenched, as the men dropped. The traitors dangled, gagging and kicking, and finally stilled.
A lone crow soared over the castle keep from the west. It landed conspicuously atop one of the stone throwers. Allan expected a great roar of protest, but the men defending Nottingham Castle simply stared. Was this their fate?
*
The king inspected his great war machines. He watched the crews adjust the length of the pull and the aim of the shot. Crossbowmen from the garrison tried to use them for target practice, but their bolts fell short. Richard signaled, and, with a snap, the long throwing arm groaned. Missiles arced across the sky, slamming the wall of the middle bailey. Dust and debris shot into the air as the bombardment resumed.
Richard paced behind the crews, offer
ing encouragement, asking questions. Chester tried to draw him back to the headquarters, but Richard wanted none of the drudgery of talking business or discussing the argument between his half-brother Geoffrey and the Archbishop of Canterbury. He dismissed his entourage, and only under protestation did he allow two squires with shields to stand between him and the castle walls.
The siege engines pounded the castle relentlessly, proving Stephan wrong. Henry had every intention of chiding him about it. He stopped at the hospital before his meeting with Robin at The Trip, but Stephan slept away, oblivious to the deep rumbles and the window shutters rattling.
Robin had shed no light on his plan so Henry was surprised when he and Tuck found the thoroughly drunk knight in one of the upper rooms of the tavern. “You are drunk.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Robin in his cups.
Robin hunched over a mug, his brown hood pulled up over his head. A fire glowed in the brazier casting light onto an empty pitcher of ale. He stood, swaying, and called to one of the serving wenches. “More ale!” He sat down hard and pounded the seat next to his own. “Sit.”
The tavern was crowded with boisterous knights. Many were as drunk as Robin and not one paid a mind to his outburst. Yesterday’s battle was on their tongues. Death to the garrison, a toast to the good aim of the stone throwers. Someone called for bets to wager when the wall might crumble. Henry looked round, almost expecting to see Allan.
Exchanging a glance with Tuck, Henry shrugged and took a seat across from Robin. “I thought you wanted to tell us something.”
Robin picked up the pitcher of ale and stared at it. “I had dinner with the king. We can drink to the constables’ wise decision.”
“They’ve surrendered?”
Robin’s voice slurred. He chuckled. “They sent two men to identify the king. Do you know what the king said to them?”
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 43
