James Patterson - The Jester

Arrows whooshed down from above. Our warriors stopped in their tracks, arrowheads ripping viciously through their chests and necks. Hands clutched the exposed tips.

Our roar was replaced by a thudding terror, followed by groans and death cries. “Aagh… Aagh… Aagh…”

I stumbled over a Languedocian writhing on the ground, an arrow protruding from his knee. To my left, a man in the skins of a shepherd spun around, his eyes rolled back, holding both ends of an arrow through his jaw. Men fell to their knees, howling in pain, praying, or both.

“ Don’t stop,” I heard Daniel shouting. “Get behind your shields. You must make the wall.”

The sweeping advance, narrowed to a crawl, continued. I saw Odo and Daniel and Georges in the first charge. Twenty yards from the wall.

Above us, soldiers stood and fired. Lances were flung in reply. Some defenders clutched at their chests with a yelp and fell over screaming, dropping from the walls.

Dozens of ladders were thrown against the walls, the men climbing up. Defenders reached over to push them off.

“Bring in the cats,” I shouted, as waves of boiling tar splattered down on us, followed by screams and the smell of sizzling flesh. Advancing ranks pressed into us from behind. Those in the front tried to climb the walls but were met with burning pitch and lances. They toppled back into the arms of the men behind them, spitting blood or swatting at their blistering skin.

The tall cats were pushed up to the front. For a moment, they provided a refuge from the smoldering pitch, which sizzled on the moist, stretched skins. Under this protection, men with a ram backed up and battered the gate over and over. Crossbows were fired from directly above. A man next to me, not [398] wearing a helmet, had an arrow pierce the top of his scalp. From behind, the mangonels continued, and an enormous boulder crashed into a tower. A cloud of smoke shot up and when it cleared, the top of the tower was caved in and mangled body parts fell away from it like branches.

Screaming and panic reigned everywhere. “Where is the mead table?” someone staggered by asking, completely befuddled. “God save me,” wailed another, holding in his hand his other arm. In the furor, I lost touch with anyone I knew.

The once-shiny walls of Borée were soaked with mud, pitch, and blood. I had no idea if we were winning or in the midst of being routed.

Many yards away, I spotted Odo leading a charge up a ladder. He wrestled in a tug-of-war with the lance of a defender, then Odo won, pulling his opponent over the edge.

Then another defender reared up and ran the point of his lance into the smith’s leg. I screamed. Odo arched back in pain. He wrenched the lance out of the defender’s grasp and frantically tried to pull the blade out of his leg.

“Odo!” I yelled, but the roar of battle made every shout indistinguishable from the others.

I watched him take two Borée soldiers by the tunics, then fall back against the wall, swarmed over by a wave of men. I tried vainly to fight my way along the wall to get to him, but the line would not yield.

Arrows rained down from above with terrifying force. Men were huddling under shields, starting to cry, realizing they were trapped. Where was Odo?

Those of our men who made it up the ladders were hurled backward or run through as they tried to fight their way forward. I realized we were losing. I could see the will in the men begin to bend.

Then a voice cried, “ Look out!” A huge wave of rocks crashed down on us from above. One of the cats collapsed under the weight, pinning the men with the ram.

[399] “The towers themselves are coming down,” someone yelled. “Get back or be crushed.”

But it was not the towers. Stephen’s soldiers were toppling bins of heavy stone over the edge.

The men began to push their own comrades back. I could not stop it. My eyes were singed by pitch; I was coughing amid clouds of dust.

I tried to spot Odo, but he had disappeared.

“Go back, go back!” I heard panic rippling down our line.

“Stay!” I yelled at the top of my voice, and so did Daniel. “Don’t quit the fight now! Don’t give up ground!”

But I realized we had lost. The rear of our line finally broke, men heading away from the walls at a dead run. Then the first ranks, suddenly exposed, fell back. A shout of joy came from the defenders.

Nausea rose in my gut as the men peeled away, running for their lives. They were farmers and cobblers and woodsmen, not trained soldiers.

I trailed the field and scanned for Odo, arrows whizzing by my head. But the smith was nowhere to be found. The ground was piled with bodies. I could not believe our losses. I staggered back, finally out of arrow range. A horrible moaning came from the field, wounded who would soon die. Grown men wept and muttered desperate prayers.

I saw Georges limping on the shoulder of Daniel, both men as white as ghosts.

“Have you seen Odo?” I asked them. They shook their heads and stumbled on.

I turned back toward the castle. Men on the walls were cheering. They were shooting arrows at anything that moved. My best friend was still out there. What was once a blossoming field was now a swamp of blood.

Not a single man had made it over the walls alive.

Not one.

Not Odo.

WE HAD LOST!

Alphonse hurled down his sword, unable to speak, as were so many others. Georges threw himself onto the ground, spent and drained. Father Leo did his best to comfort everyone, but his face was as desolate as any.

“You men must not let down your guard,” Daniel yelled. “Stephen may send his horsemen to finish the job tonight.”

His warning, however real, seemed a million miles away. Darkness was falling. Mercifully, as if its black cloak offered some reprieve. Our soldiers sat down around fires, exhausted, rubbing salve on their burns and other wounds. Some wept for their friends; others thanked God that they were still alive.

“Did anyone see Odo?” I looked around. I had known Odo since I was a boy. Alois and Georges merely shook their heads.

“He’s a wily sort,” Georges finally said. “If anyone could make it back, it’s him.”

“Yes,” Alphonse agreed, pretending to be optimistic. “He was s-so close in, he probably just d-ducked behind the walls to steal a keg of Stephen’s best mead.”

“Many died today.” Daniel sighed, spreading out a map of Borée. “We can’t spend time on one more.”

“The chatelain is right.” Ox nodded. “Thirty of my men are dead, maybe more.”

[401] I looked in the Languedocian’s eyes. “Your men were brave to join us. But this is not your fight. I release you from your pledge. Go, take the rest home.”

Ox stared back as if insulted. “Who said anything about going home?” He cracked a toothy smile through his beard. “In Languedoc, we say a good fight doesn’t even begin until some blood is on the floor. God gave us all two arms, but hell, one’s just for scratching our balls, anyway.”

Around the fire, we all started to laugh. Then the din subsided. Georges shrugged. “So, what do we do now?”

I looked at the men, face by face.

“Continue the fight,” Alphonse said. “Stephen massacred our town. That’s why we came here, no?”

“You’ve grown a lot of spunk, lad.” Georges sniffed. “But tomorrow it could be you who’s left moaning out there.”

“Keep pounding the walls,” Daniel insisted. “By the river, they are not as fortified. We can hit them with our mangonels all day. Sooner or later, they’ll cave.”

Father Leo cut in, “Maybe soon, word from the King will come?”

“It is autumn,” Daniel pressed. “You were in Antioch, Hugh. You’ve seen that a siege is not determined in one day. Stephen has scorched his own earth. They couldn’t have stockpiled food and water for the entire winter.”