Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  He looked to the other side along the wall and then farther out. There were not quite so many still bodies as he had hoped, but there seemed to be rather more limping and crawling away than he expected. Some of those would not fight again. Unfortunately, that was a nothing. They were still badly outnumbered. And that thought turned his ear to the groans and sobs that drifted to him along the wall.

  “Geoffrey.” He watched the boy struggle upright, supporting himself against the wall. As soon as he was sure the effort would not topple his squire unconscious, he said, “Go and see how Owain does. On your way, count the dead and the wounded who will not be able to fight again. If Owain is whole, bid him from me to send up the women with water and bandages—food and ale for the men also. If he is hurt, go yourself, but return to where you went down and, when you come up again, finish your count of the dead and wounded. As you pass, order the servingmen to carry down the bodies of the dead. They are to put them out of sight—in the storeroom of the keep would be best. The enemy also.”

  Geoffrey started to sheath his sword, which was still in his hand.

  “Wipe it first,” Ian said sharply. “Any dead man’s shirt will do. If you sheath it bloodied, it is like to rust or, worse, to stick to the sheath so that you cannot draw again in haste when needful.”

  “Sorry, lord,” Geoffrey muttered.

  He knew that rule, of course. It was one of the earliest things he had been taught about the use and care of his weapon, but this was the first time he had practical need of the lesson. The mixture of pride, horror, excitement, fatigue, fear, and sickness had driven it—and everything else—out of his mind. As he started off around the wall, Geoffrey could only hope he would remember how to count. He was not sure, if Lord Ian had asked him his name instead of addressing him by it, that he would have remembered that.

  Now, adding to his confusion came anxiety. He was worried about Owain. What if Sir Peter had turned on him or deliberately failed to turn aside a blow from him? There had been no gratitude in Sir Peter’s face when Lord Ian told him Owain would serve as his squire, since his own were gone. It had been clear enough, from Owain’s lack of protest and his expression of grim satisfaction, that his real business was to make sure Sir Peter did not weaken his section of the wall by a halfhearted defense or premature yielding.

  Owain was safe enough, however, even somewhat less exhausted than Geoffrey, because the attack on the rear had been lighter. That section was well away from the easy entrance of the great gates at which the ram had been battering. Scaling ladders had been used, but only enough men climbed them to ensure that no help could be sent to those who defended the forepart of the walls. Owain nodded at Geoffrey’s message and walked a little way with him.

  “Tell our lord that Sir Peter is firm enough in defense—or has been so far. He has not tried to rid himself of me, and he has done his best to shield me as I have done to shield him. Of course, I do not know whether this is a feint to convince us that he is true—but I think not. I do not think he is clever enough for such an idea. The only thing I do not like is that he is not trying to shield himself. I think—I think he would be well pleased to catch his death upon these walls.”

  They parted, and Geoffrey continued his round and his sad count. Ian was still standing when he returned, breathing much more easily, but staring anxiously toward the enemy camp.

  “Pass the word,” he said to Geoffrey as soon as he saw him, “no man save the sore wounded may leave the walls for any reason. Even if he must piss or shit, he must do it here. I think they will come on us again while they are still hot and eager and while they think we are disordered.”

  Geoffrey walked the few yards to the first knot of men-at-arms and repeated his message. He did not fear it would become garbled in transmission from one group to another. Men who cannot read and write have excellent memories for the spoken word and could repeat much longer and more complex orders word perfect. One of the men nodded, repeated the order, and set off to pass it further along. Geoffrey returned to Ian, to whom he gave Owain’s comment on Sir Peter and then the count.

  “Nine are dead, two of them only serving men, so we may count seven. Three more are like to die shortly and may be dead already. I think you must count ten dead, my lord.”

  Ian nodded. That was somewhat worse than he hoped, but not so bad as it might have been. His eyes, however, remained fixed upon the scurrying groups of enemy below. Geoffrey expected that and went on without urging.

  “The wounded are even harder for me to judge, my lord. I would say fifteen cannot—or should not—fight again. Two that claimed to be sore hurt I think are malingerers. I spoke them softly in the ear and reminded them that if the keep were taken, everyone in it, even the women, would be slain. But the kind that will cry out ‘death’ for a scratch cannot, I think, be counted upon for much.”

  “Mayhap not, but you spoke the right words to draw from them the best of whatever is in them,” Ian approved, glancing around for a moment to look at Geoffrey’s face.

  To expect the best of a man often brought just that from him. So had Simon reclaimed him from hell; and Geoffrey had also answered well to that method. Geoffrey’s mind worked well and swiftly, even fuddled with pain and tiredness; and he had suffered no sickness in this fighting. Perhaps he will never match me in inches, Ian thought, but he may well match me in fighting skill—and not long from now.

  “On the other hand,” Geoffrey continued, smiling a little at the praise but intent on transmitting the necessary information, “there are three that insisted to me they were little hurt and could fight again, but I judge either that they do not yet feel their hurts or are of such spirit that they do not wish to yield. I counted them in with the sore hurt, my lord. I did not order that they be carried down, but those three will die, I judge, if they strive again.”

  Ian shook his head. “There you judged wrong. You should have sent them down. I will tell you why. It is true that if we lose, we all die, but I have some hope of succor. If we can hold the walls for a few days only, my Welsh vassals may come or Lady Alinor may come, or my northerners may come. Remember, Sir Peter set free my men-at-arms, and they will fly for help. Thus, those men might live if we live. Nor do we lose all if we lose the walls. If we are beaten back from them, we will fight in the bailey, and then we will close ourselves into the keep itself and fight. That would be time enough for those three to die, if needful.”

  “I see. I will remember. If there is time, I will go send them down.”

  There was no resentment in the voice, merely thoughtfulness. In this, Ian thought, Geoffrey was a shade better than Owain. The older squire always bristled a little under criticism, even when he knew that his master was offering instruction through that path. Ian knew Geoffrey could be resentful enough; he did not lack spirit. But he was not resentful about such things. Geoffrey would be a fine man. Then he passed his hand over his face tiredly. Geoffrey might never have the chance to be a man at all. There could be no doubt now. Lord Gwenwynwyn’s men were forming for another attack.

  By midmorning, before the assault had been launched against Clyro, Salisbury had managed to make Alinor’s men thoroughly unhappy. They all admitted that it was not like their lady to summon them and not be waiting to give them orders, or at least send a messenger to explain her delay. An hour before dinner the word went out to the men to make ready. They would move to Clyro Hill after they had fed. One party, under Sir Walter, would wait at Clifford to explain if Lady Alinor came there. Then she would be free to join them at Clyro, send orders as to what she wanted done, or recall them to Clifford. Meanwhile, the bulk of the men, plus Salisbury’s own household retainers, would lie in hiding to discover what they could and be ready to attack.

  Due west of Clifford, in the woods a little south of Painscastle, the Welsh force was taking a much-needed rest and a hasty meal while Lord Llewelyn’s scouts tried to determine whether they could safely take the track that ran past Painscastle to Clyro. They could move
much more swiftly over that than through the woods, but Llewelyn and Ian’s vassals were uneasy and suspicious. It seemed impossible to them that they had traveled diagonally almost across Powys and had not been challenged once. Of course, they had carefully skirted each stronghold, but it was not their secrecy of movement that had kept them safe. Scouts had ranged outward cautiously and had reported many keeps closed and silent, as if braced against attack while they were denuded of defenders.

  The only answer to that puzzle was that Lord Gwenwynwyn had summoned his men. If so, an army lay in wait for them. The question was—where? One said that Painscastle was the obvious place. They would be allowed to pass, and then attacked from the rear. Another suggested that the force might be split in two. They would, indeed, be attacked from the rear at Painscastle, but the purpose would be to drive them forward into the arms of the waiting party, which would cut them to pieces while they were disordered with trying to run or to reverse themselves and fight.

  Alinor listened to the arguments in silence for a time, her expression growing more and more dissatisfied. In talking of tactics, these idiot men had forgotten what had started this affair. “My lords,” she said at last, “I know little of Wales and nothing of war, but what you say puzzles me greatly. Unless spies have reported our movements—which you tell me you do not think likely—why should Lord Gwenwynwyn think we came this way at all. How could he have known our route, which we did not know ourselves, enough days in advance to summon his army to Painscastle? Why should he even bother to set spies? If I was the bait for this trap, there is one place he knows we must go.”

  “Do you think we will find him openly encamped around Clyro?” Llewelyn asked a trifle sarcastically.

  “Perhaps not openly, I do not know, but it is at Clyro you will find him. He would be a fool to split his force when he does not know how many come with you, and he would be a worse fool to try to guess which road you would take. You will find him at Clyro, perhaps hid in the woods, but what I fear is that you may find him inside the keep. Where else could Sir Peter seek protection from me and where else could he better lay a trap for you?”

  It was a thought they had not considered, and Llewelyn ground his teeth at the idea of Owain being a hostage in his enemy’s hands. Alinor’s suggestion did not still the argument, but it was given strong support by the scouts, who reported that Painscastle was as still as the other keeps and, more important, there was no sign on the road or in the nearby woods of horses or men converging upon the place. What they had seen of animal droppings was on the road and, they judged, two days old.

  “Let me be bait,” Alinor then offered. “My men and I will ride out along the track. The scouts can follow alongside. If we are attacked, you can come to our rescue.”

  That brought a unified howl of protest. Sir Guy held his mouth, as if he were considering the problems that would be his lot, but really it was a useful device to smother his laughter. His lady wished to make all speed. She had decided there was no danger from Painscastle. No doubts of her ability to judge such matters troubled her. Having decided, she called the men “coward”—not in plain words, which would arouse anger and stubbornness, but by indirection. To her subtle insinuation there could be but one reply. When the rest period was over, they moved out and, half a mile west of Painscastle, out of sight of the keep, they moved onto the well-marked track to Clyro.

  From opposite directions but only a few minutes apart, the English and Welsh approached Clyro Hill with the greatest caution. Long before they were in sight of the keep, however, both groups realized their stealth was a total waste. Crashes and screams and thinly, the clang of metal against metal came to them. Quite obviously, no one at Clyro Hill was going to pay much attention to new arrivals if they did not make an effort to be noticed. At present they—whoever they were—were fully occupied.

  “Who? Who?” Lord Llewelyn asked of no one, merely voicing his shock and frustration.

  From the edge of the woods beyond the border of arable land at the foot of Clyro Hill, they could now see that a violent assault on the keep was in progress. Tiny figures climbed ladders that wavered and swayed, as men on the battlements tried to push them off. Once they saw the toy men at the bottom of one of the ladders throw up their hands, scream, fall, crawl away. They could not see the cause of the action, but most could guess. From the keep, burning oil or hot sand had been poured down upon the attackers.

  The gentlemen were puzzled. Plainly, this was not the first assault. The smoking ruins of the battering ram told of at least one previous attempt. The positions of the oil spouts should have been noted and the ladders moved away or, if that was too dangerous, new ladders set up. But that was not their concern—unless the failure to move the ladders was really evidence of the stupidity of the attacking battle leader. If it was, the attacker was not Lord Gwenwynwyn. Incautious and spendthrift of his men’s lives he might be, but not stupid.

  To Llewelyn’s “Who?” there could be no answer from where they stood, yet they could not come closer without knowing whether they wished to attack or join the forces assaulting the keep. Applied to, Alinor was for once at a loss. No banners showed; it was not the kind of battle in which banners could be of any use. The distance was too great to permit the reading of devices on the shields. One of her castellans, she was forced to admit, was brave enough, bull-headed enough, and stupid enough to urge his men to remount assault ladders from which they had once been driven by hot oil.

  “But,” she added desperately, “I do not believe Sir Giles would let Sir Henry do anything that foolish, and, besides—look, Lord Llewelyn, some ladders have been moved or abandoned. See where those dead men lie?”

  “We must decide and decide full soon,” was Llewelyn’s only reply. “The defense is failing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Stooping and dodging, Owain paused briefly to thrust his sword through a man’s back as he slid over the battlement. He did not wait to finish the work, if it needed finishing. He ran when he could, fought when he had to, wove and sidled when the press of battling men blocked his path. They were either saved or dead, but Owain did not know which, and he could only carry word of what he had seen.

  “Lord Ian,” he called at the top of his voice.

  He could not see his master. Here near the gate and the stair down into the bailey, the attack was heaviest. A moment of panic choked him. If he could not see Lord Ian, who stood a head taller than most other men, perhaps his lord was already sore wounded or even dead.

  “My lord! My lord!” Owain shrieked, striking with the flat of his blade at a man he knew to be their own, in an effort to make him move so he could struggle past.

  Greater violence erupted at the center of the group. One man fell, another jerked back. The red and silver of Ian’s shield flashed briefly; a third man toppled sideways. The man-at-arms blocking Owain struck and then shifted to the side so that Owain could slide through. His eagerness almost undid him, for he set his foot upon a body that was not dead. A hand grasped his ankle. Owain swung his sword downward in a vicious blow, no longer caring whether it was friend or enemy he struck. More than one man’s life hung upon his message.

  His frantic effort seemed to spur the men around him. For a few minutes the battle raged with such violence that Owain could not have found breath to speak even if he had been beside Ian. Then, there came a little pause. Men were still pouring up the ladders—three had been set close together at this vulnerable spot so that the oil and throwing stones were exhausted—but they were grouping to attack rather than running singly into combat.

  Ordinarily, Ian would not have permitted that. It was far more dangerous to fight a coherent group than individual men. However, two factors held him back from urging his men to attack. The defenders were so exhausted, that the few moments’ respite might be of greater benefit to them than the increased danger from a concerted attack. The narrow space on the wall prevented too large a group from being effective in any case. More important
than that to Ian was the sound of Owain’s voice. Only a matter of crucial importance could have brought Owain from his post.

  “My lord,” Owain gasped, “an army comes. We saw them from the back. They come from the east. Many men, and steel armed.”

  Rigid, with muscles tensed to combat exhaustion, Ian’s expression did not change. His dark eyes were fixed upon the men grouping for attack. This news was either salvation or death—but there was no way to determine which. Then through the dull glazing of pain and fatigue, fire lit Ian’s eyes. Since death was sure no matter what they did, if this was a reinforcement for their enemy, there was no reason to hold the walls. They could ride out and meet their fate—and the fate might be salvation. It was very unlikely that support for Gwenwynwyn would come from the east—unless this was part of the king’s work, and the army was his mercenaries. An army from the east should be either Alinor’s men or his own northerners.

  “We live or we die,” Ian said and smiled. “It is hard upon us now. Owain, go down, taking with you any grooms you can find, and saddle horses for as many men as you think can ride.”

  “We go out, my lord?”

  “We must go out. My men left believing me a prisoner. If those who come, come to save us, how will they know that those who attack are not also striving to save us?”

  “But if we open the gates—”

  “We will lose the walls and bailey—but we will do so anyway. And if we are not within to be slain, Gwenwynwyn will do no hurt to the wounded or the servingmen and womenfolk. They would be killed only to silence them on the how and why of our deaths.”

  “Lord—” Geoffrey’s voice was muzzy.

  Ian turned his head sharply, relief lending even more animation to his face. Owain had not seen his lord because Ian had been stooped over, dragging his younger squire to safety, or what safety he could provide for him. “Lie there,” Ian said. “Do not stir. Look and see if you can find where you are worst hurt.”