'My lord, it's de Lacey,' he said curtly. 'He's got lightweight siege equipment and an army of Welsh behind him and he's about to storm the wall s.'

'De Lacey?' Guyon repeated. Beside him, Judith sat up, the sheet clutched to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her eyes filled with sleepy bewilderment.

De Bec wiped his hand across his beard and looked sick. 'We did not see them before. There was a thick mist at first light and they concealed themselves among a flock of sheep being driven up to the keep.'

'Sheep?' Guyon slanted his constable a look.

'Sheep?' he said again and gave a bark of bitter laughter at the irony. 'Do you think it is the same flock, perchance? Thirty pieces of silver?'

'My lord?' De Bec looked at him sidelong.

'h.e.l.l 's death, Michel!' Guyon shouted. 'He gets out over the wall without being seen and returns in the same wise. G.o.d in heaven. I ought to blind every last man on duty. It's quite obvious the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have no use for their eyes!' He flung back the bedclothes, tossed his sword on top of them and began swiftly to dress.

'Cadwgan's men, I suppose?'

'I do not know, my lord.'

'G.o.d's teeth, what do you know?'

De Bec swallowed. 'They came on us from the west, from across the border, my lord. I do not think they are part of the Shrewsbury force.'

Guyon pulled on his chausses. 'That doesn't make them any less likely to murder us all ,' he said in a voice that was husky with curbed temper. 'How far are we outnumbered?'

'About three to one, my lord, but half of them at least are little more than bare-legged Welsh rabble.'

'Don't underestimate them,' Guyon said sharply.

'They might look like peasants, but they fight like wolves, and a weakened keep, like a new lamb, is game for their sport.' He gave his constable a calculating look. 'They won't sit beyond a couple of days for a siege - it's all got to come on the first or second a.s.sault. If we can beat them back so that they lose heart, then we have a chance.'

'The women ...'

Guyon followed de Bec's gaze. Clothed by now in a clinging white wool en undertunic, her hair spilling to her thighs, Judith was a sight to rouse the l.u.s.t of any man in battle heat and rank offered no protection when Walter de Lacey was leading the a.s.sault.

Judith unsheathed Guyon's long knife from his sword-belt. 'I can look after myself,' she said quietly, holding the knife in an accustomed, confident grip.

Guyon opened his mouth to tell her not to be so ridiculous, but snapped it shut again. There was no point in warning her that most Welshmen were adept dagger-fighters and that she might strike once and succeed by dint of surprise, but not again. Probably she knew it already, but the die was cast and it was too late, whatever happened.

'The women will have to take their chance with the rest of us,' he said to de Bec as he struggled into his hauberk, feeling that it was a prison and punishment rather than security. He looked round at Judith again and held out his hand for his swordbelt. She fetched it and he stroked her cheek lightly with his knuckles.

'Organise the servants as best you can, love.

The women can care for the wounded and boil up whatever we have - pitch, oil, water. Let the men douse whatever is burnable and carry supplies to the battlements. I'll send you word in more detail when I've seen for myself how the situation stands. At all costs, Judith, keep them from panicking.'

She nodded more staunchly than she felt. Panic was like fire when it spread - difficult to contain and very destructive. She would have to make sure that everyone was kept far too busy to give in to its ravages, including herself. Her chin came up. She looked Guyon proudly in the eyes and he drew her against him, arm hard around her waist.

Her fingers tightened on his back, on the iron rings of war when not fifteen minutes before they had been resting contentedly on his warm, naked skin.

'Guy, have a care to yourself,' she whispered, suddenly feeling very frightened as it began to hit her. 'Don't go after de Lacey at the cost of all else.'

He released her to buckle on his belt. 'I'll take that as foolishness, not insult, Cath fach,' he said.

'I know what is at stake.' He latched the ornate buckle, hitched the scabbard, then kissed her again, this time lightly and tugged a strand of her hair.

She watched him leave, fear squeezing her heart. With icy fingers she braided her hair and pinned it out of the way. The fear intensified and with it came a rallying anger. She yanked on her overtunic, belted it and thrust the knife down against her left side. It was an act of bravado, but at least it gave her the confidence to stalk from the chamber like an Amazon and begin organising the half-hysterical servants into something less reminiscent of a chicken run with a fox amok within.

Guyon peered down from the wall walk battlements on a scene of utter chaos below and, tight-lipped, rapped out several commands. 'Get the sling stones to the wall and stop their pick before that section of sh.o.r.ed-up wall comes down... the same for the ram. And there aren't enough grappling hooks up here. De Martin, get one of the boys to fetch some up from the stores, and arrows too if we have them. Soak them in pitch and set them alight and see if we can get that mangonel.'

'Christ's b.l.o.o.d.y bones,' Eric cursed beside him.

'It looks as though half of Wales is howling out there.'

Guyon smiled grimly. 'Not quite,' he said, 'but enough to send us out of this world if they break through; de Lacey will make sure of that.' He donned his helm and his expression vanished behind a broad nasal bar and patterned bronze brow ridges. He stabbed a finger. 'The trebuchet wants moving over there. It's not a bit of good where it is now. Michel, see to it and you take that section of wall as your command. Choose the ten men that you think will best serve your needs.

Eric, come with me.'

'Do we have a chance, my lord?' Eric looked doubtfully at the ant's nest of Welsh below. They were preparing an a.s.sault by scaling ladder with remarkable rapidity and making no attempt to conceal their intentions. Walter de Lacey was present, out of arrow range, talking with several of his captains and va.s.sals.

'A fighting one, literally,' Guyon said, as he watched the small knot of men break up and take their positions. His eyes followed de Lacey with narrowed concentration before he turned and, hand on hilt, stalked to inspect the rest of the perimeter.

The attack came with the searing fury of a summer storm - fast and wild, and as difficult to contain. Stones and molten pitch were dropped upon the ram and boiling water was spouted down on the men scaling the ladders. An exchange of arrows swarmed the air. An arrow tipped off Guyon's helm as he strove with Eric and another knight to grapple loose a ladder.

Thirty feet long and set at an angle of about sixty degrees to the wall , they were extremely difficult to dislodge, particularly when loaded with fifteen determined, rapidly scrambling men.

'It's going!' panted Eric, face crimson with effort as he struggled for all he was worth. The foremost Welshman had reached the top and had begun straddling the wall , his round shield held before him, sword already swinging for Eric's throat. Eric was forced to duck and relinquish his hold on the grappling hook. Guyon swept beneath the Welshman's guard, slashing open his leather jerkin as if it were made of parchment, and kicked him back over the wall . He slammed his sword pommel beneath the second man's jaw, snapping him backwards and then kicked him off too.

The ladder sc.r.a.ped and grated on the stone as it started to slip. Another of the enemy reached the top and met his death on Guyon's blade. His cry mingled with the shrieks of his companions on the rungs as the ladder toppled sideways and crashed into the ditch below. There was no time to congratulate each other, or even to lean weakly against the stone to regain breath and stop their hearts from bursting, for ladders were up either side of the one just dislodged and from one of these the Welsh had gained the parapet and were dispersing along the wall walk.

For a time the fighting was so desperate that Guyon could scarcely hold his own without time to think of the defences elsewhere; when there was a lull in his section, it was only because the wall had broken on the other side and de Lacey was drawing men away to force the breach.

Guyon sprinted in full mail towards the new danger and was tripped by a wounded Welshman. A knife glittered. Guyon blocked the thrust on his shield and then slammed it into the man's face, rolled and regained his feet. Eric bellowed a warning. Guyon ducked and a hand axe connected with the side of his helm instead of splitting his face, and sent him to his knees. The second blow he caught on his shield, which splintered beneath the impact. The third never landed, for he backswiped the blade across his opponent's shins and brought him screaming down. But there was another to take his place, and then another, and he could not break through.

CHAPTER 30.

'I want the Welsh put out of the reckoning, Miles.'

Miles set down the destrier's hoof he had been examining and slapped the stall ion's powerful glossy shoulder.'

'Easier said than done, sire,' he said to King Henry. 'When we make war among ourselves, it is the time of their greatest profit.' He wiped his hands on his chausses and reached for his shirt.

'Perhaps I should have said the Welsh who are allied with de Belleme. The last thing I need when we march on Shrewsbury is for Cadwgan's rabble to come hurling out of Wales and attack from the side.'

Miles donned the garment and, hands on hips, signalled the groom to lead the destrier round so that he could a.s.sess how well the strained foreleg had mended.

'You want me to go to war against the Welsh, sire?' he asked with deceptive mildness.

Henry studied the stall ion's long, fluid stride. His lips twitched. 'I want you to negotiate with them, my lord - bring them to the trestle and make them see sense.'

Miles snorted. 'Anyone who sits at a trestle with you, sire, usually ends up being the meal,' he said drily.

Henry's smile deepened with appreciation and he made no attempt to deny the remark. 'They'll be susceptible to bribery. Offer Cadwgan whatever he wants - within reason. He's not particularly intelligent, but he's greedy and astute with it. With your Welsh connections and other skill s you should be able to persuade him off my back and on to de Belleme's.'

Miles looked wry. 'And what happens to be in it for me?' he asked. 'Apart from the warm glow of knowing that I am a loyal servant of my King?'

Henry pursed his lips. 'A dispensation perhaps?' he said, raising his eyes to Alicia as she came down towards them, a packet in her hands.

Miles's mouth tightened. He nodded to the groom and the horse was led away. 'When do you want me to leave?'

'As soon as you may. I want possession of Shrewsbury before the winter frosts stop the gra.s.s growing.' He turned to Alicia with a gracious smile. Her braids were still as black as midnight and she smelled wonderfully of attar of roses. 'Worth it, isn't it?'

Miles said nothing, but the tight line of his mouth was eloquent.

Alicia lowered her eyes before Henry. Of necessity he was occasionally a visitor, but she felt awkward before him and tried to keep their contact to a minimum. There had been desperate reasons behind her adultery. Henry's own need had been a simple, adolescent l.u.s.t.

Mischievously, Henry reached for her hand to kiss it, but she evaded him and placed the packet in his grasp instead.

'What's this?' he enquired.

'I do not know, sire. The messenger has only just ridden in.'

Henry looked at the seal. 'Your son,' he said to Miles as he broke open the wax and then quickly perused the contents. Alicia went to slip her arm through Miles's, seeking the rea.s.surance of his body.

'Hah! He's taken Thornford,' Henry said with satisfaction. 'Says he'll sh.o.r.e up and garrison and move down to Bridgnorth via Ledworth and Oxley to gather fresh supplies.'

'What about de Lacey? Is he dead or prisoner?'

Henry shook his head 'No. Apparently he slipped out before the last a.s.sault, to Shrewsbury so one of the garrison said, but Guy cannot be sure. De Lacey's wife and son are at Thornford, both sick of the b.l.o.o.d.y flux.'

'Does he mention a Welsh girl?'

Henry shook his head and pa.s.sed the letter to Miles. 'Some special concern of his? Didn't he have a Welsh mistress once?'

'De Lacey murdered her and her son and abducted her ten-year-old daughter to serve his l.u.s.ts,' Miles said brusquely. 'Her other child, Guyon's daughter, is being cared for at Ravenstow. By a hair's breadth, she was spared her mother's fate.'

'I'm sorry, I did not know.' For a moment Henry's expression was stripped of its customary aplomb to show pity and complete surprise.

'Guyon would not make a parade of it, sire,'

Miles replied. 'It was too deep and personal a matter and it happened little more than a month ago.'

Henry tapped a thoughtful forefinger on his chin.

'Perhaps, in view of what you have just told me, it might be as well if you take a detour through Thornford on your way to parley with the Welsh.'

'I was going to do that anyway, sire. He is my son.'

Henry smiled. 'Well , now you have the royal sanction, don't you? It's starting to rain. Let us go within and discuss what I want of Cadwgan in more detail.'

Miles stared in consternation at the serjeant he had sent ahead to notify Guyon of his imminent arrival, for the man was spurring his courser back towards the troop, not sparing the horse or himself in the late summer heat. Even if Guyon had returned to Ravenstow or already set out for Ledworth, there was no cause for this tearing haste unless there was serious trouble.

Gasping almost as much as his labouring mount, the man gave his report. 'The keep's under attack, my lord, by the Welsh as far as I can see, and it's going hard for the defenders!'

Miles's expression, grim at first, slowly brightened into savage amus.e.m.e.nt. 'The Welsh, eh?' His lip curled. 'And in search of a little Norman hospitality. Well , why not?'

'My lord?'

Miles shook his head and rode to the front of the column, increasing the pace from a steady walk to a ground-eating lope.

The sun had moved almost an hour's position in the sky by the time they reached Thornford, and the defenders had reached a state of extremis.

Miles took in the scaling ladders clumped against the wall , the lack of men on them suggesting that most were engaged within the boundaries of the keep; took in too the broken section of the wall and heard on the breeze the sounds of desperate skirmish.

Turning his stallion, he swiftly addressed his men who were expectantly threading their shields on to their left arms and readying their weapons for a charge.

'You can see for yourselves what we're in for.

You are all experienced, you should know the ways of the Welsh. Watch your destriers' bellies, they'll slit them open if you force them to fight in close. Remember, a Welshman does not wear armour. He's vulnerable, but he's faster than you. Kill if you must to save your own skin, but if you engage in combat with any man who seems important, try to take him prisoner. Lives will be useful to barter for Cadwgan's favour and whoever takes a useful hostage will find himself handsomely rewarded. Understood?'

As they acknowledged this, Miles threaded his own shield on to his left arm, checked the secure fit of his helm, unlooped his mace from his saddle and with a yell , spurred his destrier into a gall op.

The Norman charge burst into the outer bailey creating mayhem among the attacking Welsh. A bare-legged hill man flew from the roan's shoulder and was trampled by the destrier following on behind. The mace caught a Fleming's face beneath the brow of his helm and crushed his cheekbone. He fell , screaming. The Welshman behind him tried to protect his head but was too slow and took a splintering blow to his temple. As Miles had said, very few of the Welsh wore armour and the Norman charge went through them like a hammer through a trough of ripe plums.

Miles felt a hard blow on his shield as he emerged into the daylight of the inner ward. He gasped as his left arm was jarred and in retaliation, launched a blow over his shield rim. A solid thud and a cry answered him. He reined his stall ion around and, amid the fighting and chaos, saw a bare-legged Welshman running towards a group of his comrades who were fighting furiously with someone they had surrounded. Bare-legged the warrior might be, but the pommel of his short sword was set with jewels, and his belt was tooled and gilded with gold leaf. A Norman helmet was set jauntily askew on his straggling black curls. With a yell of triumph, Miles rode him down.

The group of Welsh exploded outwards like ripples from a flung stone in a pool. One of their number rolled on the ground, clutching his ripped belly and screaming. Guyon followed through hard, iron shield-boss jabbing dangerously, sword swinging low at the enemy's unguarded legs. At his back, feet wide-planted, Eric's battleaxe hewed the air and any Welshman daring to venture within the path of the blade's glittering arc.

Miles's destrier ploughed into the Welsh and the mace narrowed the odds.

Guyon spat out a mouthful of blood from a cut lip and pressed forward. He was functioning on instinct now, not finesse, and it took him a moment to recognise his father's stall ion and even longer to realise that help, no matter how miraculously, was at hand.

Miles reined the destrier round to block the retreat of the Welsh n.o.ble he had marked. The young man's eyes darted between the plunging shod hooves threatening to brain him and the suggestively swinging mace. 'Throw down your sword and yield,' Miles commanded in Welsh. 'I promise you will not be harmed.'

Guyon cast a rapid glance around the inner bailey, saw that the advantage of the battle had swayed back in his direction, glanced further and saw that the forebuilding doors had been broached. Commanding a handful of his soldiers to follow him, he ran for the keep.

Miles looked towards his son and the Welshman thought he saw his opportunity and bolted for freedom. Miles spurred to block his path and the mace came down on the man's skewed helmet, rattling his wits round his skull and knocking him half senseless to the ground.

With a snort of disgust at the man's folly, Miles set about securing him from further attempts at escape.

Within the keep, Judith listened to the screams of men receiving a face full of scalding water, the war cries, the death cries, the thud of the ram, and felt sick to the soul with fear lest one of those screams was her husband's.

She had done all that was possible for her to do, short of joining the men on the battlements; indeed, she might have even dared that were she not so fettered by her responsibilities to the wounded and those within the core of the keep who looked to her for succour and guidance.

She knew their situation was desperate. The Welsh alone they could have fought off, but with Norman leaders the matter was not so sure.