Simon Beaufort - Deadly Inheritance

‘It is not safe,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘You are not Isabel and fitzNorman, who know the area and evoke sympathy as a blind woman and an old man. You will be caught and treated as spies.’

‘Well, I will not stay here,’ said Walter defiantly. He glared at Roger. ‘ He might try to stab me when Baderon attacks and pretend I was struck by the enemy.’

‘Aye, lad,’ said Roger. ‘I just might.’

‘Thank you,’ said Giffard, as he sat with Geoffrey at the midday meal. The knight had little appetite, his nerves stretched taut from the imminent attack.

‘For what?’ he asked. ‘Proving what you did not want to hear? That Agnes did try to kill the Duchess, and that Walter was not only party to the plan, but provided her with the means to do it?’

‘You showed they did not succeed,’ said Giffard.

‘But they wanted to, and only failed because they used the wrong poison. That is almost as bad.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Giffard. ‘But I feel happier now that I have the truth – living with uncertainty was far worse. I feel safe, too: they will not try to hurt me now. Not after what Roger said.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘But if they send gifts of yellow plums, you should not eat them.’

‘I doubt they will send me presents,’ said Giffard. ‘I am going to ask the King to place Agnes in a convent, and Walter will not become a man of significance without her. Their brush with power is over.’

‘You should eat something, Geoff,’ advised Roger, who was himself enjoying a sizeable portion of meat. ‘It is unlike you to refuse food. What is wrong?’

‘This situation,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘God knows we have seen battles before, but there is something deeply wrong about this one. I barely know what it is for, other than that Corwenna wants it.’

‘Do not dwell on it, or it will sap your concentration,’ advised Roger. ‘If the enemy is as numerous as we fear, then we need all the resources we can muster – including your wits.’

Reluctantly, Geoffrey accepted the bread Roger shoved into his hands, but he had taken no more than a mouthful before there was a shout. Geoffrey was on his feet in an instant, running across the hall and clattering down the stairs to the bailey, Roger at his heels.

‘They are here!’ called the white-faced man from the main gate’s fighting platform. ‘And there are thousands of them, stretching as far as the eye can see.’

‘Hundreds,’ corrected Geoffrey, scrambling up on to the fighting platform and trying to conceal his alarm at the size of the army Baderon had mustered. ‘Not thousands.’

With Roger at his side, he assessed the troops massing just out of arrow range. They formed a vast inverted U, with horsemen on each side, and a huge company of foot soldiers in the middle. Behind, watching from the vantage point of a knoll, were Baderon and his commanders. The Lord of Monmouth sat astride a dark bay. Lambert was on his right, identifiable by the fair hair below his helmet, and Hilde was to his left, atop a white pony. Corwenna was well to the front, however, head bared to reveal her auburn mane. She was standing in her stirrups, yelling. Even from a distance, her voice was clear and strong, and her words met with cheers.

Meanwhile, Goodrich’s defenders watched in horrified silence as rank after rank filed forward, armed with spears, battleaxes and shields. Just when Geoffrey thought the last had arrived, more appeared, until the fields around the castle gleamed silver with weapons and armour.

‘Lord!’ breathed Olivier. ‘We cannot withstand such a number. We shall be slaughtered.’

Roger clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘But you and I will take a few with us, eh? We shall meet in Paradise and exchange stories.’ Olivier looked terrified, and Geoffrey suspected Roger’s illusions about him were soon to be shattered once and for all.

‘We are well defended,’ said Joan firmly, although Geoffrey knew she spoke only for the benefit of the troops.

Geoffrey jumped from the platform and strode to where Bale waited with his warhorse. Durand was with him, dressed in something suspiciously like one of Father Adrian’s habits. Geoffrey could not find it in his heart to condemn Durand for donning clothes he hoped might see him spared. He was caught in the middle of a battle that was none of his making.

‘Remember what you promised me,’ Geoffrey said to Joan. ‘You cannot lead an attack yourself.’

She touched his cheek, her hand shaking. She was frightened, although her face betrayed no emotion. ‘Dear Geoff. But go, and let us pray we live to see each other again.’

He took the reins from Durand. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to his old squire. ‘You should not be here.’

‘No, I should not,’ agreed Durand fervently. ‘I knew it was a mistake coming here. Violence follows you, but this time you have excelled yourself. I do not envy Bale for what you are going to make him do today.’ He glanced at the squire. ‘Although he looks more than eager to begin.’

Bale was armed with an axe and a sword. Both were honed to a devastating sharpness, and the dull light in his eyes indicated he was ready.

‘You should hide,’ Geoffrey said to Durand, watching Roger prepare his mercenaries to engage the masses outside. ‘Remember the passage I told you about, which leads from my chamber to the woods? Go down it if we are overrun. Then tell the King what really happened.’

‘Very well,’ said Durand, terrified. ‘But let us hope it will not be necessary.’

With a great whoop, the gate was flung open and Roger hurtled out, his warriors streaming behind him. They flew across the space separating the invaders from the castle and, when the enemy broke ranks to meet them, Geoffrey signalled for his archers to begin their deadly attack. Roger tore among the front ranks with his broadsword, men falling around him like timber. Baderon’s troops fell back, and Geoffrey held his breath, half-expecting Roger to forget the plan in the heat of battle. But, still hacking at hapless stragglers, Roger yelled a retreat.

Geoffrey heard Lambert order his men to pursue Roger and watched as they obeyed, shields raised to fend off the deadly hail of arrows. As per his instruction, Roger veered to the right, towards Baderon’s right flank. The speed of the change confused the enemy, and some scattered, getting in the way of others trying to press forward. Roger wheeled away again.

Geoffrey ordered the gates opened a second time and led his own men out, yelling for them to keep in formation and not break ranks. He made a feint at the horsemen on the left, who had seen what happened to their comrades and were ready. They surged forward, but Geoffrey abruptly changed direction and aimed for the swarming foot soldiers, making sure Baderon’s left followed him.

Roger’s identical manoeuvre was completed simultaneously, and suddenly there were four separate units of horsemen – Geoffrey’s and Roger’s, plus Baderon’s left and right – converging on the hapless infantry. There was instant confusion, and more foot soldiers were crushed under the hoofs of friends’ horses than were killed by Goodrich’s men. Then Geoffrey’s and Roger’s forces met and formed a single unit, slashing with swords and axes.

With little room to move, and men behind pressing against those in front, it was sheer slaughter. Geoffrey lost count of the men who fell by his sword. The battle cries and horses’ whinnies almost drowned the clash of weapons. His hands were slippery with blood, and the faces that swarmed towards him blurred as he fought on, standing in his stirrups and using both hands to swing his sword. The rich, earthy stink of blood was sickening. Then, as the yell came for Baderon’s troops to retreat, a horseman appeared, aiming a series of heavy blows at Geoffrey.