Ellis Peters - The Virgin in the Ice

Cadfael was just reflecting ruefully on this hush when it was abruptly shattered, blasted apart with a violence that made him jump almost out of his skin. Reverberating across from the summit came a loud metallic clanging like a great, ill-made bell, stroke on jarring stroke beating out a merciless peal that went on and on, piercing, demanding, a pain to the ears. Back among the trees men started to their feet, and ventured as near as they dared to the open, to stare across at the castle, and within the stockade, no less, arose shouts and bellowing and clamor that told Cadfael this music was none of theirs, had not been planned, was neither welcomed nor understood. If something had gone wrong within, then something profitable might yet be made of it without.

The din was coming from the top of the tower. Someone up there was industriously thrashing away at a shield, or a gong of some kind, however improvised. Why should any man of the garrison be sounding so furious a tocsin, when no attack had been threatened? And the noise had provoked other noises within the stockade, muffled and wordless but unmistakably angry, dismayed and vengeful. A great voice that could only belong to de Gaucher was roaring orders. Surely all attention had been diverted from the enemy without to the unexpected onslaught within.

Cadfael acted almost without thought. There was an undulation in the rock surface halfway to the stockade, a narrow black blot breaking the uniform whiteness. He broke from the shelter of the trees and ran for it, and dropped full-length along it, where his black habit could lie motionless and pass unremarked if anyone was still keeping guard. He doubted if they were. The relentless clanging continued tirelessly, though someone’s arm must be beginning to ache by this time. Cautiously he raised his head to watch the serrated crest of the tower, clear against the sky. The rhythm of the discordant bell faltered and changed, and as it halted for a moment Cadfael saw a head peep cautiously out between the merlons. There were ominous splintering, crashing sounds now, dulled by the thick timbering of the tower, as though someone was wielding an axe. The head appeared a second time. Cadfael waved an arm, black sleeve plain against the snow, and shouted: “Yves!”

Doubtful if he was heard, though the clear air carried sounds with meticulous accuracy. Certainly he was seen. The head—it barely topped the parapet—craned into view recklessly for a moment, to shriek in shrillest excitement: “Come on! Bid them come on! We hold the tower! We are two, and armed!” Then he vanished behind the merlon, and none too soon, for at least one bowman within the stockade had been watching the same serrated outline, and his arrow struck the edge of the embrasure, and stuck there quivering. Defiantly the clangor from the tower resumed its resolute beat.

Cadfael picked himself up from his niche in the rock, regardless of danger, and ran for the trees. At least one arrow followed him, but fell short, somewhat to his surprise when he heard its shuddering flight extinguished in the snow behind him. He must still have a better turn of speed than be had thought, at least when running for his own life and many others. He plunged breathless into cover, and into the arms of Hugh Beringar, and was aware by the stir and quiver all along the fringe of the trees that Hugh also had employed these few minutes to good effect, for his lines were drawn ready for action, waiting only the urgent word.

“Set on!” said Cadfael, puffing for breath. “That’s Yves sounding for us, he says he holds the tower. Someone has reached him, God known how. No danger now but from our delay.”

There was no more delay. Hugh was away on the instant, and into the saddle before the words were spent. He from the left and Josce de Dinan from the right broke from the trees and drove in upon the gates of Alain le Gaucher’s castle, with all their foot-men streaming full tilt behind them, and a file of torches spluttering into life after, to fire the fringe buildings within.

Brother Cadfael, left unceremoniously thus, stood for a while to get his breath back, and then, almost resentfully, resigned himself to the recollected fact that he had long ago forsworn arms. No matter, there was nothing in his vows to prevent him from following unarmed where the armed men led. Cadfael was striding purposefully across the open expanse of snow, torn up now by many hooves and many feet, by the time the assault converged in a spear-head to hurtle against the gates, and drive them in.

For all the industrious din he himself was making, Yves heard the charge of the sheriff’s men, and felt the tower shake as they hit the gate like a sledge-hammer, and burst the holding timbers in a shower of flying splinters. The clamor of hand-to-hand battle filled the bailey, but about that he could do nothing; but here the very boards under them were heaving and groaning to a fury of axe-blows from below, and Olivier, sword drawn and long legs spread, was holding down ladder and trap against the onslaught. The ladder heaved at every blow, but while it held its place the trap could not be raised, and even if it should be breached, only a hand or a head could be first exposed, and either would be at Olivier’s mercy. And at this extreme, Olivier would have no mercy. Braced from crown to heel, he bestrode the enemy’s entry, balancing his weight, sword poised to pierce or slash the first flesh that offered.

Yves dropped his aching arm, and let the steel helmet roll away from between his feet, but then, with a better thought, scrambled after it and clapped it on his head. Why refuse any degree of protection that offered? He even remembered to stoop well below the parapet as he flexed his cramped hand, took a fresh grip on the hilt of the sword, and plunged across the roof to embrace Olivier, and plant his own feet on the rungs of the ladder that held them secure, to add his weight to the barrier. There were already splits visible in the wood of the trap, and splinters flew both above and below, but there was nowhere yet that a blade could be thrust through.

“Nor will be,” said Olivier in confident reassurance. “You hear that?” It was the roaring voice of Alain le Gaucher himself, echoing hollowly up the dark spaces of the towers. “He’s calling off his hounds, they’re needed more desperately below.”

The axe struck once more, a mighty blow that clove clean through an already splintered board, and sent a long triangle of shining blade into view beneath the ladder. But that was the last. The striker had trouble freeing his blade again, and cursed over it, but made no further assault. They heard a great scurrying down the stairs, and then all was quiet within the tower. Beneath, in the bailey, the whole enclosure was filled with the babel and struggle and clamor of arms, but up here under the starry calm of the sky the two of them stood and looked at each other in the sudden languor of relief, no longer threatened.

“Not that he would not make the same foul use of you,” said Olivier, sheathing his sword, “if he could but get his hands on you. But if he spends time on hewing you out of your lair, he will already have lost what your throat might save. He’ll seek to fight off this attack before he troubles you again.”

“He will not do it!” said Yves, glowing. “Listen! They are well within. They’ll never give back now, they have him in a noose.” He peered out from behind a merlon over the confused fighting below. All the space of the bailey seethed and swayed with struggling men, a churning, tumultuous darkness like a stormy night sea, but lit by fiery glimpses where the torches still burned. “They’ve fired the gatehouse. They’re leading out all the horses and cattle—and fetching down all the archers from the walls… Should we not go down and help them?”