Biting her lip, she eased over the edge. When her feet met a rung, Clare fixed her hand into the back of her gown. Down they went, each step agony. And down was easier than up.
"Lean on me," her cousin commanded as Elyssa almost fell into her arms.
Behind them, the doors rumbled as the men outside them forced the thick panels apart. On one side what was left of the bar tilted, its end jamming into the ground like a stop. On the other, the thick wood tumbled from its bracket, hitting the earth with a deep, hollow thud. It rolled far enough aside to allow one man to slip between the panels. Another followed him and, together, they pushed at the broken bar. One arched, a bolt in his neck.
"Go, my lady," Sir Gilbert shouted as he and those few he yet commanded raced toward the invaders. "Have them close the gate after you."
Braced on Clare's shoulder, Elyssa hobbled as swiftly as she could toward the inner drawbridge well behind the flow of women seeking safety. When she crossed the final barrier between her and Gradinton and Reginald, Elyssa released a disbelieving breath. She hadn't expected to live to reach the drawbridge. Her life now had but one purpose: to stand between Cecilia and Simon and those who meant to harm them.
“Stop,” she cried to Clare, "we must bring up the bridge."
She and Clare turned. Near the door three men surrounded Gilbert. They were all that remained of Freyne’s defense.
"Nay," she breathed, not wanting to leave them, but determination firmed. "You take that rope, while I take this one," she commanded Clare.
As Clare leapt to the opposite side of the bridge, two of Elyssa’s women returned to lend their aid. Between the four of them the bridge raised, the machinery caught, but none of them knew how to lock the winch. Through the arrow loop in front of her Elyssa could see the bailey. Gradinton's men swarmed near the gate, shouting as they tried to close what had just been pried open. A small group raced for the motte's gate, grappling hooks and a ladder in hand. Reginald led them.
"Knot them!" Panting against what her efforts cost her, Elyssa finished her task and grabbed for Clare's arm. "The keep. We haven't long, and I'll be slow to climb."
Before they'd reached the netting's end, they heard the first hook catch on the drawbridge's tongue. Women, dirty and bloodstained, called down for them to hurry. The ram creaked as it was drawn back once again.
"Go you first," Elyssa shoved one of the maids toward the ladder, and hie you after," she told the other.
“Lyssa,” Clare gasped in protest.
“Go,” she insisted, shoving Clare toward the netting. “It may take all of you to pull me up if I cannot climb.“
Clare did as she was told, then Elyssa set her foot to the hemp mesh. As the stuff sagged beneath her weight, her leg screamed in protest. She dragged herself up, her head swimming against the pain. The ram hit the door once more, and there was a terrible shriek as the hinges gave way.
"They're pulling down the inner gate," Clare cried, her voice barely audible over the shouting men and dying door. Elyssa caught hold of the ladder sides. Rough hemp burned her palms as she hauled herself another step. Freyne's outer door thundered to the ground.
"Pull up the netting," Clare shouted.
Women heaved the stuff upward, dragging it into the keep. Elyssa's stomach lurched as the netting swung, slamming her into the keep's side. Something struck her shoulder as it fell past her. Stars again popped into being before her eyes, and she wound her arms into the ropework, with only prayers to keep her from falling.
Just as she thought she'd lose consciousness, her body jolted as Clare and Johanna grabbed her, dragging her into the chamber. Another woman reeled the remainder of the ladder into the room. The door slammed. The darkness was instantaneous, sliced through by vague gray shafts of light entering through the arrow loops. Elyssa lay breathless oath a floor beyond movement.
"Bar the door," she gasped.
There was a rustling near the doorway that quickly became frantic. "My lady, the bar is gone," a woman shrieked in rising hysteria. Sobs broke out all around.
"Mary save us," Elyssa muttered, understanding what had hit her as she was being raised. "Are there any men in here?" she managed after a moment.
"Nay, my lady," Johanna answered, a quiver in her voice.
"Well then, did anyone think to bring a sword?" she asked, her voice harsh as deep worry filled her.
There was a moment's silence. Then, one of the older women freed a nervous titter, her voice echoing around the room. Another, this one but a girl, released a high-pitched giggle, but it sounded more like a sob than a laugh.
"I think not, Lyssa," Clare replied in despair.
"It’s quite a flock of ewes we are," she said bitterly, then rolled onto her back. She lifted her voice and called to the wooden ceiling above her. "Mother of God, we are trapped, defenseless in the keep. It’s long past time you repaid my devotion with action. I mean it. If I die because you failed me, it’s quite a discussion we shall have upon my arrival at your kingdom. Open the gates to our rescuers and spare these helpless children."
Gilliam's black brute easily kept pace with Passavant, a steed lighter than he. Crosswell's and Ashby's men followed Geoffrey and his younger brother, some mounted, some of them racing on foot toward Gradinton's camp. Graistan and Meynell brought up the rear. Cradled between one set of brothers and the next, rode Jocelyn and his chosen archers.
"They've cracked the gate," Gilliam bellowed, peering through the rain as they headed along the dry moat's edge for Gradinton's encampment.
Little could be seen of his brother, what with his chain-mail hood wrapped around chin and brow. The helmet with its protective nosepiece hid the remainder of his face. Gilliam shouldered his great kite-shaped shield and bared his sword as they passed the outer tents.
No less covered than his brother, Geoffrey drew his sword and lifted his own long shield onto his left arm. As good as it was to have it, the shield did little to protect his vulnerable right side. Ignoring this warning thought, he shouted back to Osbert, "We'll fight on through to the gate. Leave these men to Ashby."
Gradinton's men leapt at them from behind carts, tents, and barrels, seeking to drop as many riders as they could from their saddles. Thrusting out with his shield, Geoffrey knocked one man off his feet. Passavant screamed in rage, his massive hooves flying as he sought to vent his vicious nature.
"Drive them away from Crosswell," Gilliam commanded his own men, dropping back to aid them as they spread around Geoffrey's troop and attacked those trying to stop them. The foot soldiers raced to surround them. Swords clashed as the battle was joined.
His sword swinging, Geoffrey used knees and heels to urge his big gray onward when Passavant would have stayed and fought. Lifting himself, the massive horse brought all his weight crashing down those in front of him. Men fell, and he trampled them before leaping beyond their broken bones.
"Shields!" Osbert shouted.
Geoffrey raised his left arm until he was hidden by it. A bolt clanked against the piece, its trajectory saying it came from Freyne's walls. Jos freed a piercing whistle twice the size of him, and the archers he'd picked closed around him as they cut their way toward the dry moat's edge. By the time the next volley flew, more than a few men atop the wall cried out as Jocelyn's men sent them a deadly retort.
Gradinton was closing the doors on them. "To Crosswell!' Geoff roared, glancing left, then turning his head right to see. There was no one with him. Hinges popped as the doors moved. Iron shrieked, rising above the clash of swords and screams of men. Then one side caught.
Osbert joined him at the edge of the temporary bridge made of logs roughly wedged together. Across from Geoff, Freyne's doorway was filled with men desperate for refuge, while those already within were trying to drive them back from the doors and into battle. A moan of defeat woke from the bridge top. Rather than fight, all but one leapt into the ditch. That panicked soul tried to run toward them. He slipped and fell screaming to the moat's littered floor.
Qu
arrels hissed as bowstrings sang. Flames took light beneath the ram, fed by the oil Gradinton had spread. The fire did not take at first, struggling against the rain and sodden green wood.
Above Geoff, three archers clung to what remained of the gatehouse wall, their bows aimed at the ram, the tips of their quarrels aflame. Jos's troop sent two screaming off the uncertain stones, their bows tumbling with them. The last freed his shot, only to pay with his life.
Geoff threw himself from his saddle, picking his way as fast as he dared to the ram. Behind him, Passavant turned and began to charge any who came near him, not caring if they were friend or foe. Only after Geoff ducked beneath the peaked roof protecting the ram did he look to see who followed. 'Twas nigh on his whole troop.
"Do what you can to douse it," he commanded three of them. "The rest of you help me draw back the ram."
Gradinton had done his work too well; there was no way to prevent Geoffrey from using Baldwin's own machine against him. Those firing at them from atop Freyne's walls turned their bolts on Graistan and Meynell as they flowed over what remained of Gradinton's camp. When Jos's archers again made themselves felt, even these men retreated.
Geoffrey heaved along with the rest, then released the heavy tree trunk. With an echoing grate of metal it swung toward the already injured door, dealing a death blow. Iron squealed as the great hinges gave. One door broke free and dropped. The ground shook as it struck, the logs beneath Geoff shifting. Two of Crosswell's men lost their footing on the rain and oil-slick logs. Where one man caught the ram's brace to hold himself in place, the other slid over the edge and was gone.
The fallen door balanced upright for the briefest of moments, then listed. It crashed against the opposite side of the portal. Again, the logs shook, but held.
Geoff grimaced at the partially blocked entryway. If there was no way to keep anyone out now, Gradinton's men would be concealed at the opposite end. He waved Osbert and his men to the doorway and turned to warn the others. Gilliam and his men loped toward the gate, leaving the trebuchet toppled in their wake. Jos leapt up from his hiding place to follow his lord, his force at his heels. Only Graistan and Meynell, who yet chased down the last of those outside the walls, had not seen the smoldering entryway.
"To Coudray!" Geoffrey bellowed.
Atop his chestnut mount, Rannulf raised his sword in acknowledgment as Richard's brown gelding circled so his rider could see the brother who called. "The bridge is oiled and is afire," he shouted as smoke swirled around his feet then followed Osbert into Freyne's doorway.
"With your shield and mine, we can make our own concealment and protection. The others can pass between us, one by one, each adding their shield to ours," he told the knight.
Osbert grinned. "A corridor of sorts."
"Aye, but I'd keep you to my right if you will," he offered in wry amendment.
"My pleasure," the knight retorted.
Extending shields, they ducked beneath the door's confining overhang and worked their way through it. At the end, swords crashed against Geoff's metal panel, the impact nigh on knocking him to his knees. Keeping his shield tight against Osbert's despite the pounding, he waved another man forward. One after another added their shield to the new wall, until there were enough of them to explode into the bailey.
Men fell on them, driving Crosswell's force into a tight circle. Geoffrey landed a blow against some knight's shield, then retreated behind his own for the man's answer. As he did so, he glanced toward the motte where Elyssa must surely be. The upper chamber's door was shut tight, without ladder or stair leading to the door. Around the motte the wooden palisade stood, whole and unblemished, its drawbridge under attack by a small group of men and one knight. Triumph rose in Geoff; there'd be no hostages for Gradinton.
"Look how few they are!" Baldwin's call was a scornful bellow, his own sword working against one of Crosswell's commoners. The man fell beneath the nobleman's assault. "The bridge is afire, and they'll have no help from those they brought with them. Finish them, but for God's sake and mine do no damage to Coudray in the yellow!"
Geoffrey's heart clenched at this. If his brothers had not managed to cross the bridge, his few would most likely die trying to keep Gradinton from capturing him. This meant that Gradinton had not only cheated him of one family and threatened another by foisting his mad daughter onto him, he now sought to take his honor as well. Geoffrey had a right to die in defense of those he loved.
Rage so deep it was more ice than inferno roared through him. His need to destroy Baldwin grew beyond all bounds. "I'm for Gradinton," he told Osbert in astonishing calm, "and only death will stop me."
"I'm at your side," the knight assured him, even if Geoffrey couldn't see him on his blind side.
Together, they forced their way through the surrounding men. Their shields became battering rams, used to send men flying. Seeing the one they were ordered to preserve, Gradinton's men reluctantly fell back and let Geoffrey pass.
"Hie you all, come swiftly!" Gilliam's deep voice rang against the wall. "Set on them!"
Geoffrey breathed in relief. Now it was Crosswell and Ashby against Gradinton. Those around him had no choice but to turn and face the new men.
As quickly as the threat came, it was gone. Geoff wrenched his blade from the final man in front of him and swung around, seeking Gradinton. Baldwin and a group of twenty were backing toward the now lowered inner drawbridge, fighting off any who followed.
"Gradinton, I come for you," Geoffrey roared, starting forward. He forgot even Osbert in his need to meet Baldwin, blade to blade.
"Keep him here, but don't hurt him." With a jerk of his helmed head, Baldwin set half of those around him on Geoffrey.
"Coward!" Geoffrey shouted, his rage growing. Gradinton only hied himself toward the gateway that led him to the motte and the hostages who would save him.
Forced to a standstill by those around him, Geoff lifted his shield—meager protection against so many swords. As he drove his blade into one from deep within him came the feeling that someone raced toward his right. He swung his head to the side, lifting his sword in defense as he did so.
"Meynell and Graistan, Geoff," said Richard, calling back his brother's blow.
Never had his brother's voice been more welcome. "I'll have Gradinton," Geoffrey shouted to them as swords clashed in earnest.
"Take him," Rannulf commanded as he and Richard opened a corridor to the gate for him.
Geoffrey started for the inner drawbridge as Gradinton and his ten crossed it. There was now a ladder against the keep's side, the climber fastening it to the stair supports. If Baldwin raised that inner bridge, he'd buy himself time Geoff couldn't afford to lose.
"To Crosswell," he called out in new panic, loping after him.
Too late! The men were across, two reaching for the ropes. One stumbled back—bow shot. The other hauled on his rope from inside the gate's protective walls. Another bolt flew to pierce the rope, pinning the twisted hemp to the gate's side.
As he reached the bridge's foot, Geoffrey turned to see who followed. The fire in the ditch had taken life. Stinking smoke poured through the broken doors to fill the bailey, cloaking groups of men in its sooty clouds. Only the steady clash of iron on iron and cries of the wounded spoke of the continuing battle.
Crosswell's men came, but they were yet a distance behind Geoffrey. There was no time to waste. Those at the other side threw themselves into the gate's opening to discourage Geoff from passing. Shoulder braced against his shield, he ducked behind it and ran toward them. Sword moving even as he burst through them, he felled one then kicked him off his blade. Footsteps thundered over the bridge, following him, and his attack was quickly echoed by others. Ahead of him Gradinton and his few protectors had set their backs to the ladder's foot. Their shields were down, their swords at the ready.
Satisfaction roared through Geoffrey. Baldwin would stand and fight, not beg for mercy. Aye, he'd fight as long as he believed he might yet pry C
ecilia from her hidey-hole. If Baldwin yet dreamed of success, it must be Reginald on that ladder.
Geoff ran up out of the gateway and onto the motte's flattened top. Behind him, his men raised their voices in triumphant cry. They'd claimed the inner gateway as their own.
"Hold him," Baldwin shouted. "We've almost got her."
There wasn't a knight among the men that Gradinton set on him, "What sort of coward are you?" Geoffrey cried in outrage as he knocked the third man aside. "Fight me as you must!"
"What? And have you die on my blade?" Baldwin glanced upward, backing toward the keep. He sidled away from Geoffrey's first blow. "Nay, I'm not so great a fool as that. All I want is my granddaughter as custom dictates," he panted. "You've no right to keep my only heir from me."
"If I give her to you, you'll but make her as mad as you made her mother." Geoffrey swung wildly in his rage. Baldwin easily dodged the blow. "Take her from me, Baldwin. Kill me! Only in death will I give you my daughter."
Geoffrey reined in what boiled in him and dropped a blow onto Baldwin's shield. Filled with all the hate he carried for Maud's father, Geoff's blow drove Baldwin to one knee. Geoffrey rained blow after blow onto his raised shield.
"Rise," he shouted, "rise and meet me, you coward! You knew Maud was mad when you gave her to me! You foul son of a bitch, you knew! You used me."
At last the insults did what open attack could not; Baldwin roared to his feet, his sword swinging. "You blame me?" he demanded in an enraged bellow.
Their swords met, Geoffrey's shivering against the power of Baldwin's attack. He took the next two strikes on his shield. Their swords clashed once more, driving both apart.
From high above, women screamed. Baldwin glanced upward then grinned. "And now that I have what I came for, I'll be going."
Geoffrey looked up. The keep door was open, and Reginald forced himself between the women seeking to push him back. He caught one and sent her flying from the doorway. Her cry was abruptly silenced. She lay upon the motte's grassy surface, a broken tangle of skirts. Reginald disappeared into the chamber.
Autumn's Flame Page 28
