Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

‘The scouts say there’s a castle ahead.’ He jerked a thumb to our right, to the northern side of the valley. ‘High up on those bluffs.’

I groaned. The ordeal of the day before had drained me as much as any battle, and I could not countenance the thought of having to fight now. ‘Will the castellan let us pass in peace?’

Aelfric shrugged. ‘I don’t think anyone asked him.’

‘Will Raymond attack?’

‘He’s a fool if he does. The castle’s perched up there like a crow’s nest. Cliffs on three sides, high walls all around, and probably a garrison ready to roll us straight back down the hill with rocks and boiling pitch. They’ve had plenty of time to know we’re coming.’

‘Perhaps they won’t see us in this mist,’ said Sigurd hopefully. Though he untied the leather cover from his axe soon afterwards.

The fog seemed to lift higher as we moved down the valley. It did little to relieve my spirits. The crest of the ridge to our right was still obscured, and I was constantly glancing up to reassure myself there were not hordes of Saracens waiting to slaughter us. Gradually our pace slowed and our column squeezed up on itself, until even in the lingering mist I could see the clustered banners of Count Raymond’s bodyguard close ahead of us.

‘If we get any nearer those horses they’ll be shitting on our heads,’ said Sigurd.

Count Raymond must have thought the same; soon one of his knights came riding back to order us to slow down even more.

‘You must not leave the pilgrims behind,’ he chided, shooing us back like chickens. His horse danced skittishly in the road. ‘If anything were to befall them-’ He broke off as startled shouts rippled back from the men ahead. ‘What?’

With a hiss and a blur of speed, something sharp and dark flew across the road and struck him square between his shoulders. The knight looked down, his hands grasping instinctively for the new limb that seemed to have sprouted from his chest. Blood dribbled out of the wound; then the weight of the shaft sticking from his back unbalanced him and he toppled from his saddle.

We did not stare for more than a moment. I flung myself at Helena and Zoe and dragged them to the ground, covering them with my body. Somewhere underneath me the baby squealed. I pulled my shield free and held it as a roof over us while I clambered to my feet. Sigurd was beside me, his shield in one hand and a small throwing axe in the other. His long battleaxe lay on the ground beside him. The other Varangians had formed a tight circle around us, crouching low as a ragged rain of arrows began thudding into the leather. When I had satisfied myself that Anna, my daughters and Nikephoros were safe, I edged my head around the side of the shield and peered out.

A loose cordon of Saracen archers had appeared on the northern side of the valley, a little way up the slope. They must have been lying in wait, for they could not have descended from the castle so quickly, but they did not seem to have come in strength. Not unless we had more unpleasant surprises awaiting us.

But the attack seemed to have been more a squall than a storm; it was already beginning to blow itself out. Either the Saracens had only intended to harass us or they had not expected the speed of our reaction: few armies ever can have matched the Army of God for discipline on the march. Ahead of us, Count Raymond’s men had begun a furious counter-fire of arrows, pinning down the Saracen archers while dismounted knights advanced up the slope, shields held aloft. In the face of such an onslaught, most of the Saracens turned and began scrambling up the hill towards safety. Many were too slow to reach it.

A young knight came sprinting up the road and squatted beside Nikephoros.

‘Count Raymond says we must climb this hill and capture the castle above.’ The youth gulped a quick breath, glancing over our shield wall. ‘He wants the Varangians to advance on his right flank.’

‘Capture the castle?’ Nikephoros echoed. ‘The count will never be able to hold his men together on that hill, and who knows how many men the Saracens have up there? You cannot even see it in that cloud.’

It was true: although the mist had lifted from the road, it still cloaked the upper reaches of the valley. As the retreating Saracens reached its height, they vanished into cloud.

‘It would be madness,’ said Nikephoros, voicing all our thoughts.

‘It is what Count Raymond requires.’

Nikephoros swore, looked up at the hillside once more, then turned to Sigurd. ‘Take your men and protect the count’s flank as best you can. Try not to get killed. And you,’ he said, staring at me, ‘find Count Raymond and persuade him to call off this lunacy.’

I looked down the road. The ordered ranks of the Provencal army had broken apart and were swarming up the hill like a flock of birds. Mounted on a bay horse among them, his body thrust forward in the saddle, was Raymond.

My heart sank. ‘Can I take some of Sigurd’s men?’

‘Take Aelfric and Thomas. And make sure you reach Raymond before he gets himself killed.’

The slope grew rapidly steeper as we climbed, and the air around us thickened with fog. Soon we could see little more than shadows — or occasionally a ball of golden haze where a shaft of sunlight struck through. We could hear the clash of arms and the screams of battle close ahead, but the fog hid all sight of it from our eyes. It was as if we had stumbled into some ancient battlefield, where armies of ghosts still waged a forgotten war. I held up my shield, wary of stray arrows.

A dark shadow came stumbling out of the mist — a Frank, his helmet cut open and blood streaming down his face. He clutched his head, one hand trying to staunch the blood while the other tried to wipe it from his eyes.

‘ Count Raymond! ’ I shouted at him. ‘Have you seen Count Raymond?’

He ran past us, stumbling down the hillside without answering.

We carried on, moving an arm’s length apart so we had free hold of our weapons. The mist no longer formed an impenetrable wall but was breaking up, pulling apart in shreds and coils. Some drifted along a few feet off the ground; others settled over the bodies of the fallen like shrouds. Soon even those dissolved, blown apart by a rising breeze as we came over a crest and looked out on the hilltop.

It was a lonely place to die, a small stretch of rugged, broken ground rising and narrowing to a promontory. A grey castle stood at its tip, its walls built so close to the cliffs that it seemed to sit on the clouds that filled the surrounding valley. It reminded me of the monastery at Ravendan. One corner of its main tower was missing, and a breach in the stone curtain wall had been filled with wood. Perhaps the garrison relied on lofty isolation to protect themselves, but they had underestimated the Franks. Raymond’s charge up the hill had overtaken many of the fleeing Saracens, and even as the last remnant squeezed through the open gate they had to turn to defend themselves from the Provencal vanguard. Archers tried to shoot from the walls, but the Franks repulsed them with a merciless bombardment.

‘The count.’ Aelfric pointed, though I had seen him too. He was still mounted, riding back and forth to avoid the darts and arrows that peppered the ground around him. He waved his spear in the air and urged his men on.

‘Should we deliver Nikephoros’ message?’ said Thomas. It was easy to understand the doubt in his voice. In their hasty repairs to the castle wall, the Saracens had left a pile of rubble at its foot to form a natural ramp to the mended breach. A company of Frankish knights had climbed it, and were hacking at the crude repair with axes and mattocks. Hewn masonry and wood tumbled from the gap, building their platform still higher. The defenders had at least managed to close the gate, I saw, though there too the Franks were pressing hard.