Paul Finch - Stronghold

Gwendolyn clamped her mouth shut, but blinked fiercely, determined to eradicate any tears caused by the gusting wind. She was determined the English would not think her afraid. The earl gazed back to the Constable's Tower, but saw no obvious consternation. Countess Madalyn was close to the battlements, watching intently, but the priest who had spoken — the one called Gwyddon — was conferring with his henchmen, almost casually. Finally there were nods of agreement from the priests, and they wrestled forward two figures of their own, placing them in embrasures as well. By these prisoners' livery — a surcoat of blue and white chevrons and a crimson tabard bearing three golden lions — they were Walter Margas and Davy Gou.

Corotocus and his men were startled to see that any of their comrades had been taken alive, though both prisoners were streaked with char and ordure. They stood boldly, their chins upraised, but shivered with pain and fear. If Corotocus had been close enough, he'd have seen Margas's cheek hanging in a bloody flap, exposing his clenched molars.

"An awkward situation," du Guesculin said quietly.

Corotocus gave him a withering look, before turning to his other men. Two of his household archers were still in possession of their longbows and had quivers containing a few arrows each. He signalled them.

"Make sure your aim is good," he said.

At one time, such a cryptic order would have left them bewildered. But under these circumstances, there seemed no question about what was being demanded of them. Both bowmen stepped forward, knocked arrows and let fly. They had had much target practice over the last few days. Perhaps this explained why both shafts hit cleanly, one striking Margas in the middle of his chest, penetrating to his heart, the other catching Gou in the throat, sinking to its feathers.

The two corpses crashed from the parapet, turning over and over as they plummeted into the courtyard.

There was no word of complaint from Corotocus's men, all of them having moved unconsciously into that dark, soulless realm where the loss of any life is a price worth paying if it might save your own.

"Have you any more for me, countess?" Corotocus laughed. "I have plenty of arrows."

"Such is the reward for blind loyalty," came a weary voice.

Corotocus spun around. Gwendolyn looked too, surprised to hear a familiar tone.

Ranulf trudged forward from the door connecting with the lower levels. His face was haggard, damp with seat. His clothing and the blade of his drawn broadsword were both spattered crimson. Corotocus in particular looked stunned. He glanced past Ranulf through the doorway behind, at which Ranulf chuckled.

"Don't waste your time looking for Navarre, my lord. He's already in Hell. Which is where you'll soon be."

"Archers!" du Guesculin shouted.

The two bowmen stepped forward, fresh arrows knocked to their strings.

"So this is the great marcher baron!" Ranulf scoffed. "Who, even when his world has come to an end, sends other men to fight for him."

"You betrayed us, Ranulf!" Corotocus growled, pointing a shaking finger.

"That's not how I see it."

"You would have delivered us all to those things."

"No!" Ranulf said, pointing back. "I would have delivered you!" He turned to the rest of the company. "Would any man here object to that, if it meant that you would be saved? Are the bonds of fealty so tight that, on this man's orders, you would strike blow after blow against the innocent and then take his punishment for him?"

There was no response.

There were still one or two honourable knights among this wretched band — men who had held vigils, gone on quests, ridden in the tournaments wearing the colours of fine ladies. But all were now grizzled, begrimed, stained over and over with their own gore and the gore of others. They were more like sewer rats than men. Reduced to this forlorn state, perhaps it was no surprise that none seemed willing to side with him. The only safety they knew, and it was a slim one at that, lay with their overlord.

"If you fall defending this stronghold," Ranulf asked them, "what do you think will happen to Earl Corotocus when the king arrives? He may be punished for stirring up a hornet's nest the like of which the world has never seen. But what will that punishment involve? The confiscation of estates? A money fine? You meanwhile will be dead! Everyone you ever served with will be dead! Or worse — enslaved for eternity by satanic magic, forbidden entry to God's kingdom."

"You speak treason" someone cried, fear making him angry. "Not just against the earl, but against the king."

There were mumbles of agreement. Others too began to shout and hurl abuse. Ranulf hung his head tiredly. He didn't suppose he could blame them. Most here owed everything they had to Earl Corotocus. They knew no other life.

"He is indeed a traitor," du Guesculin said, venturing forward now that he could see there was no fight left in this rebel. "But he sins not just against the king. He's allied himself to these demons… to Lucifer himself."

Ranulf shook his head with contempt. "You're a liar, du Guesculin. You're the worst liar of all, because you've seen what this madman's cruelty and tyranny has brought, and still you side with him."

"For crimes against God there can be no forgiveness," du Guesculin retorted. "Archers…"

"Wait!" Corotocus shouted. After initially seeming afraid, albeit very fleetingly, he'd now re-assumed his air of lordly confidence. When he spoke again, it was in an even, almost affable tone. "I don't necessarily share that view, du Guesculin. That certain evils cannot be forgiven. God does not share it either."

"My lord, I…" du Guesculin protested.

"Silence!"

Corotocus eyed Ranulf as he walked around him. Ranulf still had his broadsword and could have cut his overlord down at a whim. At this proximity, even two flying arrows couldn't have prevented it. But as always — and Ranulf cursed himself for this — he felt it important to know what Earl Corotocus was about to say next.

"Did you really slay Navarre?" the earl asked. He sounded impressed.

"It was the easiest but worthiest accomplishment of my life," Ranulf replied.

"Hmmm. I understand your feelings. He was a difficult fellow. He always felt challenged by you, of course. At least it's been settled in the honourable way."

"You're out of your mind, la Hors."

"Possibly, Ranulf, possibly."

"You should kill me now, my lord, because when I'm able to I will surely kill you."

"Let's not be too hasty. There's a method even to my madness." The earl put a thumb to his chin as he pondered. "Seeing as you've accounted for Navarre, I'm afraid it now falls to you to complete his final task."

"I don't take orders from you any more."

Corotocus sighed. "I see. Well, answer me this… do you wish what remains of our company to die? Do you wish them torn apart on these ramparts, or trapped in this place until they're forced to feed on each other? Is your hatred of me so irrational that you would sacrifice what's left of your comrades to so ghoulish a fate?"

Ranulf glanced at the rest of the men. Their expressions had changed, the hostility of a few moments ago replaced by an intense, childlike fear.

"There may be one or two worth saving," he said.

Corotocus laughed. "And it won't be difficult for a warrior like you to do it." He moved back to the battlements, looking down towards the Constable's Tower, where Gwyddon and the other druids were still in debate. "As you can see, Ranulf, we've reached an impasse. But I have a plan to break it, one that will save all our lives. Unfortunately, when we leave here… someone will have to stay behind to keep charge of this hostage. Navarre didn't know it, but he was due to be volunteered."