Swordland Page 7

  Both his knees were skinned, as were his knuckles, but otherwise he was uninjured. He did not have to wait long before he heard the men below steel themselves for the attack. Bare-chested, FitzStephen steadied himself on the steps with a deep breath. Picking up Cressy’s shield, he threw the guige around his neck and then hoisted both spears. The curve of the walls hindered the use of the long weapon if held in the right hand of an attacker, but helped the defender. To make it easier to use, he broke one spear in half over his knee so it could be used to stab over his shield and into the face of his attacker without impediment.

  Suddenly Bernard de Lisieux came around the corner and climbed quickly over the two bodies. FitzStephen roared and launched the longer spear at his uncovered ankles. It skittered across the steps towards its target but he did not wait to see if it struck home, instead he charged down the stairs to meet Lisieux shield to shield. They crashed together with a grunt, faces just inches apart, but this time his opponent was immoveable as his numerous fellows pushed hard on his back with their shields, forcing FitzStephen slowly backwards step by step.

  ‘You bastard, submit,’ said a gasping Lisieux. ‘You can’t bloody win!’

  FitzStephen gritted his teeth and struggled back. ‘Any time you’re ready to give in, Lisieux, I’ll forgive you!’ Bernard snorted grimly but both men went quiet as the contact pressure built up between them, requiring all their energy. The Constable chanced a glance at their shuffling feet. Lisieux had no protection on his lower limbs and FitzStephen took his opportunity, raking his shortened spear down Lisieux’s shin, tearing the bindings on his legs, piercing his vulnerable foot and slamming the spear into the stone step with a high-pitched crunch. Lisieux opened his mouth wide in agony and screamed loudly as FitzStephen dragged the blade free of his flesh.

  FitzStephen saw his chance and did not hesitate as he stabbed his weapon over his shield rim and into Lisieux’s open jaw as he bellowed. He felt his weapon strike through bone and sinew, killing his opponent immediately, and he took a pace backwards to let the dead man fall before snarling forward to engage the next attacker over Lisieux’s body. He did not have time to steal a glance over his shoulder, but he was aware that he was just a yard from the door of the solar. He was running out of space. Heaving even harder than before, FitzStephen strained against his enemy, hoping again that his advantage on the higher steps would be enough to defeat this next enemy.

  Suddenly a lance streaked across the shoulder of his opponent and struck him in the cheek. His spear dropped from his grasp as his hand shot to his face. Blood immediately welled at the wound and FitzStephen growled in pain and anger. He instinctively took another step backwards. His adversary whooped at the injury and pushed even harder. FitzStephen scrambled uselessly against the tide that washed him backwards. His back thumped into the solar door.

  Another spear came over the head of his challenger and thumped into the wooden door close to his left ear. Inside the room Richildis yelped. FitzStephen knew he was out of options and summoned his last reserve of strength, drawing his father’s dagger from its sheath at his side. Swearing emerged from his mouth like a scream and he reached around the locked shields and buried the knife in the man’s neck, simultaneously heaving the spearman away from the door and slipping through. Richildis screamed when she saw him, but he ignored her and braced the door with his shield and shoulder.

  ‘Richildis, get into the anteroom,’ he ordered. ‘Lock the door and do not open it for anyone.’ The small room hid his most prized possessions, but he knew that it would not stay unknown for long. There was nothing else that he could do for his mistress.

  ‘Robert,’ she wailed and moved away from their bed, ‘I love you.’ She closed the door and FitzStephen heard it lock from the inside. With one final look he turned back to the solar door.

  ‘Traitors,’ he whispered and panted, ‘bastard traitors.’

  Their first impact with the door nearly knocked him off his feet as the oak panels jumped inwards but he managed to steady himself and hold fast. More collisions rattled the heavy oak and FitzStephen grimaced as the rim of his shield bumped against his injured face. Then suddenly the pressure relented for a few moments giving FitzStephen the chance to pull a chair over to wedge the door shut further. All he could do now was pray for a miracle.

  The first strike of the axe on the other side of the door splintered one of the door panels and might have killed him if he had not moved. The second blow tore out a small chunk of wood close to the latch. A spear tip appeared between the edge of the oak door and the wall of the room and tried to lever the door open. A hinge at the top of the door sprang loose and clattered to the ground. FitzStephen used both hands to power the door shut. But there were too many men on the other side trying to force their way inside.

  Blood from his face wound mixed with his sweat and stung his eyes before dripping on his bare chest and feet. He was sliding backwards on the loose carpet on the wooden floor. He was unable to hold the door shut.

  FitzStephen was keening now, a steady stream of curses and indistinct words that spilled from his mouth as he desperately fought to keep the door shut. But then they were through the gap, growling and shouting, all shields and steel and colour. FitzStephen fell backwards with the force of their entry and grabbed his shield to take the first strike of a spear. The blow forced him backwards and he landed roughly on his bed, hurting his leg on the heavy wooden frame. His attacker, Herluin de Exeter, fell too and became ensnared in his own shield straps, taking out of the fight for long enough for FitzStephen to force his way free of the tangle of canopy, and deflect another thrust from the nearest foe, Odo of Cirencester. The sudden move threw Odo off balance and sent him stumbling into the corner, where he clashed his helmeted head off a wooden peg upon which FitzStephen’s armour would usually have been hanging. The warrior turned quickly and raised his spear again, but FitzStephen didn’t give him a second and deflected the point over his head with his shield and, in the same motion, slammed the rim of the willow board into the man’s face, noting the sound of the devastating crunch.

  ‘Quincy,’ he screamed as he spun around, ‘where are you?’

  Four warriors were now in the room and FitzStephen went on the offensive, scooping up Richildis’ small garment chest and flinging it across the room where it smashed into one man’s blood-speckled shield. It was all instinct now, a brawl in the tight confines of the solar. Without thinking, FitzStephen spun around to face another miles who attacked from his right and he raised his shield to take a sword strike. Immediately he felt a spear pierce his left thigh and he yelled in distress, as he shoulder charged the enemy to his front. He turned just in time to meet young Gervais FitzPons’ second spear thrust with his shield. The boy, all rage, slid forward to meet the Constable’s fist and fell backwards on the floor. FitzStephen lurched away from the bed, unable to find his balance on his uninjured right leg as he sprawled towards the far end of the room and slammed into the wall with a curse.

  ‘Robert!’ Richildis screamed and he turned to see his mistress being held by the neck by a bloody-nosed Odo.

  ‘Submit,’ Odo shouted. ‘Submit or she dies!’

  FitzStephen snarled and jumped forward at his traitorous miles. Such was his desire to save Richildis from the sword at her side he did not see Sir Roger de Quincy perched in the smashed doorway. Nor did he see Quincy’s fist which reached out and punched him full in the throat. Silver stars appeared before his eyes and he dropped to his knees, gagging and fighting for breath. The fight was over but he managed to raise the shield one last time to defend his head from another sword blow which came from his left.

  ‘No,’ Quincy shrieked, ‘we need him alive!’

  ‘Fine,’ Odo said as he ripped FitzStephen’s shield from his hand. ‘But he doesn’t have to be conscious,’ he said as he raised his own shield and brought it down with a sickening thud. FitzStephen crumpled to the ground.

  A woman’s screams punctured his daze and he roll
ed from his shoulder onto his back and groaned loudly.

  ‘Bastard,’ he coughed, spraying blood and spittle into the air and onto his own chest and the rush-covered floor. It was Richildis’ yell which had awoken him and he felt the presence of many men around him, arguing loudly. They all went silent as he spoke and tried to sit up. ‘Traitors,’ he moaned again and worked his way onto his elbow.

  One of the men walked over and violently kicked him into silence. ‘Shut … up … you … bloody … bastard,’ he swore with each staccato strike. ‘I should cut your throat. You’ve broken my bloody nose!’ cried Odo of Cirencester.

  FitzStephen realised that only a few seconds had passed since the fight in the solar, though he had been dragged downstairs to his hall. He looked up at his captor, still in full mail and sporting a bloody and misshapen nose.

  ‘I broke your nose?’ FitzStephen croaked. ‘Well, it’s not like I could make you any uglier,’ he joked. Odo pulled back his arm ready to strike but was prevented as Sir Roger de Quincy strode cheerfully into the hall from the solar, rearranging his tunic and hauberk at his trouser line.

  ‘The bitch screams loudly enough, eh?’ he joked with the miles who stood guard over the Constable. ‘It’s as if she didn’t enjoy it,’ he exclaimed with a short giggle.

  FitzStephen said a silent prayer for Richildis, hoping that she still lived after the ordeal to which Quincy had subjected her. He finished with a short appeal to God for his soul. He didn’t hold much hope for his life. He tried to sit up again but failed and so instead attempted to gauge the damage that had been inflicted to his body. He managed to pull open his left eyelid, which was still wet with blood, but the other would not move because of the severity of the swelling. Naked and bound, he was hurting all over, covered in blood and mud from the floor. Someone had urinated on him but he did not think he had any broken bones. He thought of Walter ap Llywarch in St Padarn’s Priory. He remembered Einion’s curse.

  ‘Now to the business of saving our lives,’ Quincy announced brightly above him. ‘Don’t worry lads – all they want is the murderer FitzStephen. Pick him up and bring him down to the barbican.’ He stomped off towards the door and out of sight. Duly, he felt the armoured hands reach under his armpits and hoist him to waist height.

  ‘Up you get, Sir Robert,’ said a voice on his left as FitzStephen hung limply between the two men. ‘Oh, Jesu, someone has pissed on him.’

  The one on his right gave him a shake but received no answer. FitzStephen heard him turn to ask his friend: ‘Maybe he’s dead?’ He gave him another shake. ‘Are you dead?’

  FitzStephen managed to peel open his good eye and flop his head back onto his shoulders. ‘Still alive,’ he managed to croak as the blood seeped between his teeth. He received a laugh and a painful slap on the back from the two traitorous milites.

  His feet unsuccessfully scrambled for purchase on the reed-strewn floor as they dragged him out of the keep and down the motte towards the flying bridge. Passing by Rhygewarch’s body he could see Roger de Quincy was already halfway down the bridge, walking behind two of his henchmen. FitzStephen felt the anger rise in him and pictured shaking free of his keepers, grabbing a sword, and charging down the stretch of wooden planks to fillet his enemy.

  ‘Don’t even bloody think about rushing him,’ the guard on his left said as he felt FitzStephen’s body bristle and tighten. ‘We need you alive so the bloody Welsh can kill you.’

  FitzStephen’s bare feet bumped painfully off every step as they proceeded down the flying bridge behind Quincy. Blood dripped from the end of his nose as his head dangled and his chin bashed on his chest. After a few seconds he felt the mud and grass of the bailey under his feet. Many of the families of the castle were standing outside their houses watching their lord’s appalling demise. All were silent except for FitzStephen’s own men who lined the street closer to the gates. As his guards dragged him towards the barbican, the traitorous milites shouted taunts and obscenities at their fallen leader. Mud hit him in the face and chest. His guards laughed along with their comrades until they too were hit by the filth and they shouted at their compatriots to stop. FitzStephen let his chin drop to his chest, exhausted and beaten. Eyes to the floor, his minders dropped him in a pile of hay and tied his hands to a rung on the side of the guardhouse. Left alone, he opened his one good eye and tried to wipe the blood, sweat, and mud off his face with the inside of his sweaty forearm.

  Wulfhere’s red-spattered body was beside him. His fixed eyes were open and staring at the cloudy November sky. The Englishman’s balding head had almost been cut off by a sword strike that had taken him in the back of the neck and shoulder. Under him was the earl’s banner which had flown from the keep and now lay covered in mud, blood, and reeds. FitzStephen had no more energy left to cry or rage for poor Wulfhere but sat looking at the grisly mess that had been his friend. He whispered quiet thanks for the older man’s loyalty which had brought about his untimely demise. He finished with a prayer to St Maurice watch over the soldier’s soul.

  ‘Accept him to your table, Holy Maurice …’ he began but he could not find the words. Still staring at Little-Fingers, he sniggered hopelessly and sarcastically as his thoughts turned back to the disaster. He rolled away from his friend and let the back of his head bump off the wooden wall of the guardhouse. Even though his nose was swollen and stuffed with dried blood FitzStephen could smell the herb garden, just yards away from him behind the kitchen. It was odd that such a delightful sensation wafted around Aberteifi after the horror that had befallen him in the keep. In spite of the mortal terror that threatened to overwhelm him, FitzStephen’s one good eye began to close as exhaustion took hold. Within seconds his head lolled and he was asleep.

  Sir Roger de Quincy laughed loudly as he kicked FitzStephen between the legs as he slept. His former commander, naked as the day he was born, cried out sharply and rolled away from Roger’s next blow making Quincy’s companions cackle even more noisily behind him.

  ‘Hit him again,’ roared pig-faced Theobald Laval.

  ‘Put it away, FitzStephen,’ Roger joked at the unclothed man. ‘We like prettier women than you! Richildis, for instance,’ he sneered and all his cronies laughed again.

  FitzStephen rolled into the foetal position at the corner of the guardhouse and refused to answer his enemy. He steeled himself for further blows.

  ‘What? No jokes?’ Roger laughed again and spat on him before stomping off in the direction of the gate followed by his closest conspirators. They each had a swing at their former master as they passed by. William Ferrand, now fully armoured in Quincy’s entourage, meekly tramped after the group without looking once at his former lord.

  ‘Pick him up,’ Ferrand said to two archers, ‘and bring him with us to the allure.’

  ‘Traitor bastard,’ FitzStephen coughed behind him as he was hoisted to his feet again and his hands untied.

  The rungs of the ladder were rough on his sweaty hands as he climbed onto the wooden palisade which swung away from him in either direction to encircle the fortress of Aberteifi.

  ‘Get on your knees,’ Gervais FitzPons ordered him as he clambered slowly onto the barbican. When the knight refused he received a clout to his jaw. Sir Roger de Quincy didn’t move as FitzStephen collapsed. He simply stared out over the village chewing on his upper lip.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Roger?’ asked FitzStephen.

  ‘I am getting out of here,’ Quincy replied and shaded his face from the sunshine. ‘I am getting these people out of here too,’ he corrected himself quickly.

  ‘You will hand me over to Rhys? You think that will end the siege?’ He shook his head. ‘He wants this land, Quincy, not my life …’

  ‘Jonah,’ Roger accused FitzStephen with a finger pointed at his chest, ‘that’s who you are – Jonah, and I am throwing you to the ocean to save the good men of this fortress and their families.’ He said it loudly so that anyone within earshot could hear him.

  But
FitzStephen knew Sir Roger de Quincy and he snorted back a laugh. ‘You don’t care a pinch for them, Roger. You just want to save your own skin.’

  Roger sighed and, finding Gervais, Theobald, and Ferrand out of earshot, turned towards FitzStephen for the first time. ‘You’re right – I hate this place,’ he confirmed through gritted teeth. ‘I hate the weather, I hate the food, I hate the piss-poor wine, and I hate boring garrison duty. I hate the Welsh,’ he laughed morosely with a shake of his head. ‘I have barely slept a night since coming to Aberteifi,’ he spat the name as if the word alone was disgusting. ‘I have to get out of here. Death haunts my dreams nightly …’

  FitzStephen, who had grown up on the March, had heard the same tale told a thousand times by newcomers to the dangerous frontier, but he felt no sympathy for Quincy. He had come to the March unprepared for the type of war that the Welsh fought. Here vicious bandits and rebels would appear out of nowhere and attack in fury before disappearing into the dawn. Every breaking twig in the dead of night could signal another attack; every howl from the darkness, a new threat. This was the frontier and no one was safe.

  ‘Not how your father described it?’ FitzStephen mocked, enjoying Quincy’s discomfort.

  ‘Shut up,’ Roger said, lashing out with a backhand to his face, but without real conviction. FitzStephen was right about his father. Saher de Quincy’s description of war was of noblemen riding through meadows on beautiful chargers, ready to meet on equal terms in warm climes and fight it out like proper knights.

  ‘At least in England noblemen are treated with proper civility,’ Roger said. ‘They do not choke on blood pouring from arrow wounds and lie dying in the mud as I have witnessed.’ Roger paused, his eyes flicking to meet FitzStephen’s as a shiver of fear rolled across his shoulders. ‘They do not have their throats cut as they kneel in prayer in a monastery …’