Pagan's Daughter (28 page)
God, if only I could see!
Now the shouts are coming from farther afield— from the French camp, no doubt. It’s a furious uproar, as clear as the toll of a bell in the stillness. But whatever’s happening, it’s happening beyond the range of my restricted outlook. All I can glimpse is a handful of dark figures, disappearing from view.
This is intolerable. I can’t stay here. And I don’t have to any more, because this room is empty. Completely empty. They’ve all headed for the parapet.
I think I’ll follow their example.
‘Ah, no, no!’ someone yells. (That doesn’t sound good.) No one’s bothering to be quiet, up here on the walls; stepping out onto the ramparts, I’m greeted by a torrent of wails and protests, every one of them aimed at the French below. The archers are taking up their positions, one to each crenel; Olivier paces back and forth behind them, stopping every fifth or sixth step to check his targets.
‘Hold,’ he says. ‘Steady . . .’
‘They’re dousing it,’ croaks Pons. ‘They’re dousing the fire.’ He’s leaning out into space, as if he wants to throw himself off the battlements. ‘It’s not taken hold!’
‘Come on,’ Lord Pagan murmurs. ‘Come on, Loup.’
I still can’t see anything except the backs of the men in front of me, and the flushed sky beyond. Something’s gone wrong with the raid—that much I can tell—but what, exactly? Is there a fight? A chase?
‘Come
on
!’ Lord Pagan yelps, hammering at a stone merlon with his mailed fist. ‘Jesus
Christ
our Saviour’s blood!’
‘Hold fast!’ Olivier cries sharply, his hand outstretched in a quelling motion as he addresses the archers. ‘Wait for my command!’
‘Look.’ Someone points. ‘Is that him?’
‘It’s him!’ Pons swings around to address Olivier. ‘He’s retreating!’
Who is? Why? I must see. I
must
see! They’re all so intent on the action, they won’t notice if I join them, will they? Perhaps if I squeeze through over there, near Lord Pons . . .
‘
Hurry
!’ Guillaume shrieks—but not at anyone up here on the ramparts. Olivier’s voice rings out (‘Covering fire!’ he bellows) and the score of archers move as one. It’s a beautiful thing to see: as beautiful as it is terrible. Twenty arms drag together on twenty bowstrings; the
twang
of their combined release sets my teeth on edge. ‘Again!’ shouts Lord Pagan, and there’s a space directly ahead of me. If I get down low and dodge Pons de Villeneuve’s dancing feet, I’ll be able to peek over the top of the parapet.
‘No!
No!
’ he screams. A roar of despair springs from every throat. The bows creak once more, drawn tight at Olivier’s command. What is it? What’s happening? Pons is praying—he’s actually praying aloud—and he has no idea that I’m curled down here at his feet because he’s ready to tear the stone parapet apart with his bare hands; he’s in utter torment, his scars a stark white against his wet, red face.
Another shower of arrows is released (it’s an indescribable sound) and at last I’m here. At last I can raise my head enough to look down, and it’s all so confusing . . . what’s going on?
There’s a lot of smoke over by the trebuchet. A lot of people, too. The first golden beams of sunlight are gilding the treetops, and crows are wheeling overhead.
Close by the foot of the walls, in deep shadow, a knot of tumbling, twisting men is attracting more combatants— they’re running in from all over, waving weapons, shouting, gesturing. The knot itself is very tight, full of vague shapes that could be anyone or anything; it’s hard to distinguish each from the other. But suddenly there’s a rent in the crowd, and somebody falls, rolling, and a dozen blades are raised against him— they come down as he tries to shield himself, making a sound that jabs me in the gut. It’s like hewing wood . . . Oh God. I can’t watch this.
‘Who is it?’ Lord Pagan groans, before his voice is swamped by other voices. ‘I got one! I hit one!’ cries an archer. Guillaume says, ‘The fire’s out.’ Pons is cursing furiously, weeping all the while. But Olivier’s hard, clear tones cut through the commotion like a hot knife through fat. ‘Mark that ballista!’ he instructs. ‘They’re mounting a ballista, look! Keep your heads down!’
It’s hard to keep my head down. I don’t want to look, but something draws my eyes back towards the field of fury below. That poor man (not Loup, please God) is being dragged away from the base of the walls. He’s as limp as loose guts, and soaked red; one of his forearms is dangling on a stringy piece of sinew. Around him his bloody killers skip and hoot, throwing taunts up at us, the fiends, the scum, God curse them!
‘Fire!’ shouts Olivier, and—hah! Now you’re not laughing, are you, my fine friends? Now you’re
running
aren’t you? With the arrows nipping at your heels!
I wish I had a stone, I could
brain
that blond.
‘Mark the ballista,’ Olivier warns. ‘Mark it, now—is it out of range?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ comes the reply.
‘Then mark it only. We don’t have long. They’ll get their elevation, soon.’
‘My lord!’ It’s the steward. ‘Look over there!’
Over where? Oh no. No, it can’t be. They’re stringing up bodies. They’re stringing them up in a tree, like meat, but they’re too far away . . . I can’t make out the faces . . .
‘Oh, Christ in Heaven!’ Pagan moans, bowing his head. Pons hurls curses over the parapet as the archers take aim. But the French are retreating to a safe distance—all save those whom the arrows have already found. One or two lie still, down below. Half a dozen are struggling away from us, limping or crawling or draped over their friends.
‘Fire,’ says Olivier, coldly.
Twang
go the bowstrings. Swish go the arrows.
One of the walking wounded falls.
‘We need our own ballista,’ Lord Pagan croaks. ‘That’s the bishop, way over there, I’m sure it is. We could hit him, with a ballista.’
What did you say? The
bishop
? Where?
‘Fulk, you mean?’ asks Olivier.
‘There. Look there,’ Lord Pagan’s pointing. At what? The tents? They’re all in shadow—the sun’s not high enough. Damn it to Hell, I can’t see! But what’s this, staggering out of the crowd near the trebuchet? A man. It’s a naked man, white with smudges of black and red. His hands are loose. He’s unsteady on his feet.
Everyone falls silent. Everyone.
Even the French.
He’s stumbling towards La Becede. His face is a mass of blood, but now that he’s closer, it’s clear that his hair is black beneath all the red.
‘It’s Loup,’ Pagan whispers.
No. Oh no, it can’t be. Not Loup.
No!
He swerves, and a lance pokes at his side, nudging him back onto his original course. Beside me, Pons stiffens.
‘They cut out his eyes,’ says Olivier flatly. He turns to the man next to him. ‘Bring rope,’ he orders. ‘Quick.’
They cut out his eyes. He’s blinded.
I can’t bear it.
‘’Ware that ballista!’ someone exclaims, pointing at the giant crossbow. ‘They’re turning the winch!’
‘Heads down,’ says Olivier. Yes. Heads down. My head is down, shielded by stone, because I can’t look. I can’t even see through all the tears.
But nobody else pays attention to Olivier. They’re standing on tiptoes, shouting with all their might.
‘Loup! This way! Loup!’
They’re trying to guide him.
Lord Pagan gasps, ‘They’ll never let him go! They’ll never wait for him to get to us!’
‘He won’t see the rope,’ Pons adds, his voice cracking. But here’s the rope (it looks like a full league of plaited tow) and a dozen hands reach for it. Though it seems enormous, Pons is right. No blind man could find a dangling rope—or climb it even if he did find it. Especially with that ditch in the way.
WHUMP!
‘Ow!’ What was
that
? Something sharp hit my cheek. I’m bleeding!
But not much. Just a little.
‘Heads
down
!’ Olivier roars, and everyone ducks. Of course. I understand. The ballista fired a bolt, and the bolt hit stone. I must have been scraped by a flying stone-chip.
‘Loup is bait,’ says Olivier, breathlessly. (To Lord Pagan?) ‘They’re trying to keep us up here.’ He’s hunkered down so low that I can see his face, and it’s not what I expected. It’s bright—flushed—with eyes keen and sparkling. ‘Bring rocks!’ he hisses. ‘Stay on your knees and roll them over here!
Now!
No—not you, Bernard. You and your brother wait for my signal.’
Rocks. All right, I’ll bring rocks. Where are they? Oh. I see. Piled up by the door. Someone’s already reached them: the man with no ears. He’s dragging a broken building-block from the top of the pile. Shoving it ahead of him, towards the battlements.
I can do that.
‘What the hell?’ says Pons. He’s staring straight at me with bloodshot eyes. (Now that everyone’s on my level, I was bound to get noticed.) ‘What are
you
doing here?’
‘I can bring rocks.’ Please—
please
let me help! ‘I’m strong enough!’
‘Get out.’
‘But—’
‘Go!’
WHUMP!
Another bolt hits the wall, fired wide and striking stone harmlessly, a long way below us. It distracts Pons, though; he turns, and grabs one end of the rope as the other end is cast over the parapet. Four other men do the same, without much regard for the French ballista.
Perhaps they know exactly how long it takes to winch back a bolt.
‘A rock to each crenel, quick!’ Olivier rasps, flapping his hand at us while he peers over the edge of the wall. What’s he doing? What’s his plan? He’ll get a bolt in the brain if he’s not careful, waving his head about like that. Lord Pagan, too. Lord Pagan’s silhouette must be clear against the sky.
‘They’re coming!’ Pagan squeaks. ‘Loup will never reach us! They’ll stop him before he gets to the walls!’
‘Let them come,’ Olivier replies.
‘But—’
‘Let them come closer.’
‘
Loup!
’ Pons bawls.
‘There’s a rope! To your right!’
Oh God. I understand now. The French have sent Loup back to us so that we’ll stay up here, clear targets for their ballista. But Loup’s drawing close, now, and the French are getting uneasy. They’ll advance to retrieve him, and then—
‘
Now
!’ yells Olivier, heaving.
THUMP! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
Half a dozen rocks hit the ground far below. There’s a terrible shriek. More rocks follow the first barrage. Olivier whirls to address Bernard and his brother. ‘Fire!’ he cries. ‘Quick, while you can!’ The two archers jump to their feet, taking aim. The terrible shrieking continues.
WHUMP!
Another bolt from the ballista—and someone falls! The steward falls, beside me! ‘Loup!’ Pons wails. ‘We hit Loup, oh God!’ There’s blood spilling onto the ramparts, but Pons doesn’t see. He grabs Olivier’s arm. ‘Loup’s dead!’ Pons cries. ‘We killed him!’
And Olivier says, calmly, ‘It’s good that we did.’
Oh Lord our Saviour, preserve us in your mercy. I can’t be here. I can’t do this.
Isidore, help me. Where are you?
I can’t stand it any more.
This man is doing better than I would have expected. It’s a good sign that he can actually suck egg from my spoon. Yesterday I thought that the final fever had hit him, but he’s much improved, today.
