Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Ranulf!’ His henchman started awake. Corbett was already putting on his war belt, picking up the arbalest. ‘Ranulf, do you have a horn, anything?’

‘What is it? I have something somewhere.’ Ranulf leapt off the bed. ‘It’s in my room. Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’

‘Tinkers, travellers, chapmen. Ranulf, think! During the last few days a number of them have drifted into the castle.’

‘Oh, St Michael and all his Angels,’ Ranulf breathed, pulling on his boots and picking up his own weapons.

Corbett pushed him through the door and down the steps. The bolt to the outer door was stuck and he caught his hand pulling it back. Once in the yard, Ranulf would have run across to his own chamber, but Corbett pulled him back.

‘It’s too late for that. Au secours !’ Corbett shouted, using the alarm signal for any military camp.

‘ Au secours! Au secours !’ Ranulf echoed the shout. Slipping and slithering they raced across the yard.

Men-at-arms and archers, faces heavy with sleep, struggled awake and came out of the small cottages built against the walls of the inner bailey. They tried to challenge Corbett but the clerk was already racing across the cobbles, down to the second drawbridge. As he thundered across that into the first ward, he realised it was too late. The main portcullis was raised, the drawbridge was going down, and a group of armed men clustered in the murky light. One or two held torches, and there was the scrape of steel even as the piteous cry came from the gatehouse. Men-at-arms on the parapet walks above him were alarmed, roused by the clatter of chains and the crash of the drawbridge as it fell. The sentries were caught by surprise; they didn’t know whether to face the danger in the yard below or the horsemen and carts which seemed to erupt from the darkness, thundering across the lower drawbridge. Corbett, Ranulf by his side, hurried across the cobbles.

The door to the Hall of Angels was open, a shaft of light in the darkness. Sir Edmund and his officers came hurrying down, half dressed in armour, swords drawn, helmets on their heads. Corbett glimpsed something moving out of the corner of his eye and turned, sword and dagger out. He recognised two of the chapmen he had glimpsed the other day. Now they carried no bundles; one held sword and dagger, the other, hurrying behind, was slipping a bolt into an arbalest. Corbett met the first in a clash of steel whilst Ranulf hurled himself at the bowman. A violent, vicious fight. Corbett was aware of a bearded face, glittering eyes, the foul smell of the man and the curses he muttered. He was a poor swordsman lunging with dagger; turning slightly sideways, he left his chest exposed and Corbett thrust in his sword even as Ranulf, clutching his opponent’s crossbow, shoved it against his stomach whilst driving his dagger straight into his face. His assailant collapsed, blood gushing out. Ranulf danced behind him, clawing back his head so as to slit his throat.

Similar fights were already breaking out in the inner ward; individual duels, men rolling on the ground whilst the attackers surged through the main gate, massing in the bailey. A truly frightening force, they wore no armour but leather jerkins or long robes slit at each side. On their heads the pelts of foxes, badgers, wolves and bears. Well armed and organised, they were led by a line of crossbowmen, with fighters coming out from the flanks ready to take advantage. They had their backs to the gatehouse and were now advancing to the second drawbridge, whilst others were hastening up the steps to attack the guards and sentries on the parapet walks. As they edged forward Corbett realised that their main strength was on their right flank, and ignoring the whistles of the bolts and quarrels, he pointed towards the Hall of Angels.

‘They intend to take it,’ Sir Edmund, his face already cut, agreed.

‘I’ll defend that,’ Ranulf whispered.

Sir Edmund was now bringing his own archers into play. A ragged line of arbalests, they did little good, being far too slow, but at least they halted the advance of the enemy. Behind this line, ignoring the hideous cries of the wounded, Sir Edmund and his officers tried to impose order. Ranulf, surrounded by a group of men-at-arms, was already protecting the steps to the Hall of Angels. Sir Edmund now drew back, sending forward more crossbowmen and, behind them, a line of men-at-arms with long oval shields and spears. At first Corbett, fighting for breath, body drenched in sweat, his ears dimmed by the raucous noise, thought Sir Edmund was acting foolishly, panic-stricken, unable to plan. However, line after line of Welsh longbowmen, marshalled by their officers, came slipping across the inner drawbridge and formed in kneeling lines with gaps between their ranks. The pirates, displaying their black and red banners and reinforced by fresh forces from outside, edged forward, ready to rush Sir Edmund’s crossbowmen and the ranks of mailed men-at-arms. The outer bailey filled with these garishly garbed mercenaries. As in all battles Corbett could make no sense of it, only the sounds of shouting, men writhing on the ground, clutching at blood-gushing wounds, a body toppled from the parapet. He became aware of the enemy bowmen trying to shoot above their heads.

‘Sir Hugh!’ Both he and Sir Edmund were now protected by lines of men kneeling and standing before them, their shields out against the sickening thud of crossbow bolts. ‘Sir Hugh!’ Sir Edmund gasped. ‘When I give the order you must run! You must not stop, and if you fall, God help you!’

A similar order was passed along the ranks. The enemy lines drew closer, their archers doing terrible damage. Sir Edmund gave the sign, a shrilling trumpet blast, and the castle defenders turned and fled, Corbett retreating with the rest. He passed men in leather jerkins, small and dark, hair tied back, straining on their great bows, quivers hanging from their sides, one arrow notched, another in their mouths. Two rows were kneeling, and in between them two further ranks were standing. The smell of sweat, leather, and that strange oil used to keep their yew bows supple was all around them. Corbett hastened through, wary lest he knock against one of these archers now bringing their bows down. The enemy, taken by surprise, stopped, baffled by these stationary ranks of men, the mass of barbed arrows, the long cords pulled back. A few moments of silence, then one of the enemy, face painted, head shrouded in a sealskin, leapt forward whirling an axe.

‘Now!’ Sir Edmund shouted.

‘Loose!’ a master bowman in the rear rank shouted. Corbett heard a sound something like the strings of a thousand harps being plucked, followed by a whirr as if some giant bird was fluttering its heavy wings. A black shower of shafts hung for a second against the lightening sky. The sight took Corbett back to a mist-shrouded valley in Wales and English men-at-arms in their red and gold livery falling like ripening corn under a deadly hail of barbed shafts. It was the same here. The first wave of attackers seemed to disappear, stagger back and fall; the rest, disconcerted, halted, presenting even easier targets for the second shower of arrows which fell thick and fast. The inner bailey became full of men staggering away clutching at arrows in the face, neck and chest; others lay still on the freezing ice. Corbett had witnessed the deadly effect of the massed ranks of longbowmen, yet he was still amazed at the speed and violence of such an assault.

The archers were now turning under the direction of their officers, moving into a horseshoe formation to sweep the entire bailey with their volleys. The speed of their arrows, their accuracy and the closeness of their foe wreaked a telling, devastating effect. The ground became carpeted with dead and dying. The attackers had no choice but to retreat. The Welsh archers advanced to shouts of ‘Walk! Loose!’ followed by that ominous thrumming. The pirates became disorganised. Some of their leaders were killed. Even as they retreated, the deadly hail continued. Panic set in, and the ranks broke and fled, desperate to reach the main gate. A few of the archers strung their bows and followed, a mistake as the enemy turned with sword and club. The archers were no match for these desperate men and their skill in hand-to-hand conflict. Sir Edmund summoned them back. Trumpets and hunting horns sounded through the air as the Constable called for the horses to be brought out and saddled for the chase.