Paul Finch - Stronghold

He froze with fear and disbelief as he stared into his opponent's face. Though smashed and wounded, though bloated from its immersion in the icy depths, and despite the brown river water gurgling from its gaping mouth, that face was horribly familiar.

"Ulbert!" Corotocus choked. "Ulbert, don't you recognise me, your lord and master?"

What had once been Ulbert FitzOsbern clearly did recognise Corotocus. For the grotesquely distended lips, which had once spoken only words of wisdom to the nobleman, now curved into a most fiendish grin.

Corotocus shrieked madly, insanely, as his former vassal tightened its one-handed grip on his throat, and, planting its other hand on top of his head, plunged him back beneath the water. And this time held him there.

When Gwendolyn opened her eyes, her jaw ached abominably. At first she was disoriented, her vision blurred. She tasted blood and realised that she was wringing wet all over.

Confused, she sat up on a bed of damp vegetation. As she hung her dizzy head, it gradually occurred to her that the suffocating stench of death had dissipated. Instead, there was a fresh woodland fragrance. In fact, it was more than fresh. A soft rain was falling.

"The rain?" someone said, as though reading her befuddled thoughts. "Damn it… the rain!"

"What?" Gwendolyn glanced around. "Where am I?"

Her vision swam into focus. There were trees on all sides, many lush with catkins. She was sitting among young ferns, springy and bright green. Ranulf stood a few yards away. He held out cupped hands with which to catch the rainfall. When they were full, he sniffed at them gingerly.

"The rain," he said again. "I think it's in the rain!" He turned to look at her, so dumbfounded that her wakening had made no impact on him. "Have you smelled it?"

Gwendolyn shook her head. "The only thing I can smell, is…"

Her nostrils wrinkled as she detected a slight fetor. But it didn't take long to trace it to her tabard, which was streaked with a foul, sticky residue of human waste. It smeared her face as well. Good Lord, it was even in her hair. Now that she looked at Ranulf closely, she saw that it coated him as well, not that he seemed concerned.

"Where are we?" she demanded.

"A Welsh forest, Lady Gwendolyn." He regarded her sternly, as if finally realising that she'd come round. "The sort of place your druid friends would feel very at home. Do you not feel at home with them?"

"The castle, I…"

"The castle is that way." He pointed into the woods behind them. "About two miles, I'd say. I'd have got further, but I've been fighting continually for the last few days, I've barely eaten and even your sylph-like form became heavy after a time. You see, even the most gallant of us knights have our limits."

"You still haven't released me?" she said, incredulous.

"You broke the truce. What do you expect?"

"Are you mad?" She jumped to her feet, though it briefly made her dizzy again. "It was over, it was all over."

"On the contrary. It's only just beginning."

"You poor English fool. My people will keep coming after me."

"It could be you flatter yourself, my lady."

"You think they did all this for nothing?"

Ranulf shrugged. "If all they want is you, go to them. I'm not stopping you. You're not my prisoner."

She looked bewildered. "Then why am I here?"

He tore up a handful of ferns and commenced scrubbing the slime from his clothing. "Believe it or not, I brought you here with me for your own protection."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you hadn't been so busy plotting the death of Earl Corotocus and his household, you might have seen what was really happening back there."

"I'll lie for you," she said, backing towards the trees. "I'll tell them I fled the castle on my own. I'll pretend you are among the dead. It's the best I can do for you."

"Go ahead."

"They may want to know how I escaped."

"Through the garderobe sewer." He threw the filthied ferns away and grabbed up some more. "We used it before to launch a raid. The ropes were still in place. It was not difficult."

She nodded, but was unnerved by his oddly matter-of-fact attitude. "You should return to the English border quickly. It's the only hope you have."

"It's more hope than you have, if you're heading where I think you're heading."

"You're quite wrong about this." She tried to make her voice more confident than she suddenly felt. "I've seen what they are. I know it's hideous, an aberration. But I am Gwendolyn of Lyr. They will not harm me."

"Really? You don't sound too sure."

"My mother commands them."

Ranulf laughed, but it was a wry laugh, lacking humour. "Your mother is merely their figurehead. She can easily be replaced… and sooner rather than later she will need to be." He eyed her carefully. " You would suffice in that role as well, I suppose, until such time as you too needed replacing."

"This attempted trickery is unbecoming to a knight, even an English one."

"If you wish to go, go. I'm past caring." He turned and strode off eastward. "Fare you well."

Frustrated and frightened, Gwendolyn hurried through the trees after him.

"You can't expect me to go to England with you?" she said, having to trot just to stay level with him.

"I don't ask you to. The likelihood is that you wouldn't be safe there either. Not for long. None of us will."

"You just resent that the Welsh have found a way to fight back."

"The Welsh!" he hissed, suddenly rounding on her. "The Welsh no longer exist! Did you or did you not see that?"

Despite everything, she was taken aback by his ferocity. His eyes blazed; spittle seethed at his lips. It was as though some intense emotion that he'd been bottling up inside had suddenly burst free.

"T-that's… that's not true," she stammered. "My mother…"

"You mother has joined them!"

There was a long, dull silence, during which Gwendolyn's look of slow-dawning horror gave Ranulf no pleasure whatsoever.

"Probably against her will," he said, "though I doubt that's any consolation to you."

"What do you mean she's joined them?"

He strode on. "What do you think I mean?"

She ran after him again. "You're lying!"

"Go back and find out for yourself."

"Are you telling me my mother is dead?"

"I'm sorry to have delivered it so brutally."

"Sir knight, stop if you please! I command it, stop and talk to me!"

Reluctantly, he halted and swung around to face her.

"I asked…" She stumbled over the words, her lovely green eyes brimming with tears. "Did… did you actually see this?"

Ranulf didn't need to speak. His harrowed expression said it all. Gwendolyn wept for a moment, though, perhaps remembering her noble lineage, she managed to get hold of herself again with remarkable speed.

"What… what am I to do?" she finally asked.

"What are any of us to do?"

Tears ran freely down her cheeks again, but she shook her head defiantly. "I must still go to my people."

"Then come with me." He pointed towards England. "Like it or not, your people lie this way now."

A few days ago, she'd have endured unimaginable torture rather than admit such a thing. But since then she'd seen for herself the ghoul-like creatures that had brought death to the English interlopers. Though it was from on high, she'd witnessed the ferocity with which they'd beat and strangled and torn their enemies. She'd heard their inhuman groans, their demented screams. Above all, of course, she'd smelled them — the maggot-riddled carrion that passed for their flesh. Did she really wish to ride at the head of so hellish a horde? It was highly unlikely — nay, it was impossible to imagine — that her mother would be willing to do so, for all her rage and anguish at the crimes committed by the English.