Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘We will talk,’ countered Caerdig harshly. ‘Call off your attack, Geoffrey, before any more of my men are slaughtered.’

As soon as Caerdig indicated that he wanted an end to the skirmish, Geoffrey called his men to order. He feared that it might be difficult to stop such raw recruits from killing once they started, and he was relieved when they did as they were told. He left Helbye in charge, with orders to call him if the raiders showed signs of regrouping, then he went to Caerdig. Hywel was already dead.

‘This should not have happened,’ Geoffrey said, dismounting. ‘What were you thinking?’

Caerdig shook his head. ‘I knew it was a mistake.’

‘Coward!’ shrieked Corwenna, throwing herself at her father with flailing fists.

‘She will see you all dead,’ Geoffrey said to the men who hurried to restrain her. ‘Lock her away where she can do no more harm.’

Still screaming, Corwenna was dragged off. ‘Goodrich is doomed. You have not won.’

Geoffrey’s blood ran cold when he understood what she was saying. He had been a fool to fall for such an obvious ploy.

‘Baderon’s men will attack our front while you assault us from behind?’

‘It was a stupid idea,’ said Caerdig bitterly. ‘We are raiders, ill equipped to tackle Norman horsemen. You had better go and face him. I do not think his heart is in this conflict, either, but Lambert and Corwenna have recruited war-like villains from both sides of the border with the promise of loot and grain. They are a bloodthirsty, undisciplined rabble, strengthened with Baderon’s professional troops. Together, they represent a formidable force.’

‘Do I have your word that you will not fight again?’ asked Geoffrey, reaching for his reins. ‘You will go home?’

Caerdig nodded. ‘We should never have left it in the first place.’

Geoffrey did not wait to hear more, knowing that Caerdig would not break his promise. Yelling for his men to follow, he climbed into his saddle and turned his back on the broken bodies in the clearing. One of his men had a cut arm, but they had otherwise executed a massacre with no loss to themselves. They rode fast towards Goodrich.

It was not long before the wooden palisade came into view, and he saw smoke issuing from inside. Fire arrows had been deployed, and he hoped the flames were being doused with the water and sand he had ordered to be placed around the bailey the previous day. Arrows showered in both directions, and it was obvious that the engagement had reached a stalemate: the attackers could not broach the walls, but the defenders could not drive them away.

‘Into the trees!’ he ordered his men. ‘Quickly.’

‘Will we attack?’ asked Helbye doubtfully, surveying the enemy with a practised eye. ‘Baderon’s horsemen alone outnumber us three to one.’

Geoffrey’s look silenced him – he did not want the men thinking the odds were insurmountable. He led the party along a forest track until they reached the place where he would have launched an assault against Goodrich. It comprised a spit of woodland that swept close to the castle and afforded good cover. Now he was going to attack the attackers.

‘Break off the moment I say,’ he whispered, lining up his men. ‘It is even more critical this time, because these are horsemen you are fighting, not foot soldiers.’

He waited until Baderon’s men were engaged in a futile swoop against the palisade, then he launched his own charge, feeling his throat crack as he screamed his war cry. Then he was out of the trees and thundering towards the enemy. Geoffrey saw the enemy scatter in alarm, then realize too late that they needed to meet his attack in formation. Baderon tried to rally them, but they were slow to obey. Geoffrey’s force slammed into them, and several went down immediately. Geoffrey engaged Lambert with a vicious blow to the chest, then swung hard with his shield, so the knight was forced to fall back. Then he recalled his men, watching with satisfaction as Lambert made the assumption that he was running because of inferior numbers. The enemy started to pursue with gleeful whoops.

He wheeled around when he felt Lambert’s troops were sufficiently strung out, and the tight formation of his own riders cut through them like a knife through butter. Bale was riding hard towards Baderon, a savage smile on his face and a couched lance in his hand. Baderon fumbled for his sword, but Geoffrey knew he would be too late. Geoffrey spurred his horse forward, and managed to come between them, raising his own shield just in time. Bale’s lance shattered under the impact, and so did Geoffrey’s shield. The blow was so violent that Geoffrey was hurled from his saddle. He staggered to his feet, cursing his reckless chivalry – a knight on foot was heavily disadvantaged, and Baderon was riding towards him. Geoffrey met his eyes and prepared to fight.

‘Retreat!’ yelled Baderon, wheeling away. ‘Back!’

And then the skirmish was over, leaving one of Geoffrey’s men severely wounded, and a number of Baderon’s dead on the grass. Those who had been unhorsed fled for their lives, while Geoffrey’s men whooped as they harried them, stopping only to claim riderless ponies as spoils of war.

Geoffrey arrived in Goodrich to the adulation of its inhabitants, who were even more pleased when informed by Helbye that Geoffrey’s military masterpiece was against a much larger force. Tempered by the knowledge that one of their soldiers was coughing his last and three archers had been wounded, elation was still the order of the day.

‘It is not over,’ said Geoffrey, his voice hoarse from yelling. ‘Caerdig will not fight again, but Baderon and Lambert will.’

‘They will not,’ predicted Olivier confidently. ‘They have seen what we can do. You should have seen Joan direct the archers on their first attack!’

Geoffrey winced. ‘I should not have left you to chase raiders in the woods.’

‘You should,’ countered Joan. ‘We can repel an invasion from one direction, but not two. Had Caerdig attacked at the same time as Baderon, we could not have coped.’

‘We need more arrows,’ said Geoffrey, quickly turning his thoughts to the future. ‘Tell the children to retrieve as many as they can.’

‘Man the gate!’ a guard yelled. ‘They are coming again!’

‘Already?’ groaned Geoffrey. He had hoped there would be more time.

‘Twenty horsemen!’ shouted the guard, as Geoffrey climbed to the main gate’s fighting platform to see for himself. ‘And they appear a damned sight better than the last lot.’

Indeed, they did. They carried lances and rode in a tight formation, suggesting they were experienced in battle, and their weapons and armour appeared to be well tended, even from a distance. Geoffrey’s heart sank, thinking such a force would make short work of his amateurs. Then he saw the leading horseman, and his spirits soared.

‘Open the gate,’ he ordered. ‘It is Roger.’

‘When Helbye told me about Baderon’s alliances, I thought things might turn nasty,’ said Roger, clattering into the bailey, before dismounting and clasping his friend’s shoulder. ‘So I recruited a few men to lend us a hand. I came back as fast as I could.’

‘You are just in time,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Is that why you left? To rally troops?’

Roger nodded. ‘There was no point telling you, because you would have tried to talk me out of it – not wanting me bloodied in your war, or claiming you do not have the funds to pay twenty mercenaries. But I am a wealthy man – I have not told you yet about my “visit” to Normandy, have I? I can afford to be generous to a friend.’

‘Where did you find them?’ asked Geoffrey. Roger’s warriors looked rough, cold and ruthless.