Pagan's Daughter (30 page)

Please God, don’t let it happen. They’ll be so angry. They’ll cut us to pieces.

No. I won’t think about that. Be strong, Babylonne.

Be brave. This is only a siege. You’ve been in sieges before.

Thud!

‘No!’ Oh God. He fell. He fell from the ramparts. Oh God, I can’t look!

He’s dead, though—whoever he is, he must be dead. I can’t take him inside, either, because he’s too big for me to carry alone. Anyway, why bother? What would be the point? He’s dead, after all. And I have to do something
useful
. I have to . . . what? Get more stone? Yes. Get more stone. They need more stone, up there.

Someone else can take care of the wounded.

‘You! Girl!’

Who, me?

‘Bring water!’ It’s Lord Pagan. He’s already left me behind, his voice drifting over his shoulder as he runs heavily across the bailey towards the eastern wall. Ever since the breach was made, he’s been back and forth from fight to fight, covering every sudden attack or point of weakness, holding our defences together. ‘Get water! Wine! Anything to drink!’

Water. Wine. Yes. I can do that. The men are labouring hard in the hot sun; they’ll pass out, if they get too thirsty. But there’s precious little wine left, as far as I can tell. It will have to be water.

The well’s closer, anyway. Closer than the wine-cellar in the keep.

CRA-A-ASH!

A shower of stones, pattering down.
Ouch!
One stone must have grazed my hand, but it’s not bad—it’s not serious, just a scratch. Shouts and wails from every direction. From up on the walls, now.
Screams
from the walls. What’s happening? I can’t see . . .

Christ our
Lord
!

‘Run!
Run!
’ The wall’s coming down! ‘
Out of the way!
’

A colossal roar, like the end of the world. The ground shakes and
I’m going to fall
! No I’m not. I’m all right. But stones are whizzing past like bees, ricocheting off the ground—good
Christ
, that was close!

The keep. I must get to the keep.

‘
La Becede! La Becede!
’ someone’s shouting. It’s Lord Pagan. He’s turned back from the eastern wall. He’s running towards the keep, ahead of a small, armed phalanx, but suddenly the dust hits. It hits like a great, choking, rolling cloud of fog.

‘Ah! Help! I can’t breathe!’

‘
La Becede!
’ (Cough, cough.) ‘
To me, La Becede!
’

I can’t see
or
breathe. The stairs nearly smack me in the mouth. But these are the stairs to the keep (I’m here! I’ve reached it!), so all I have to do is follow them up. And the dust is already clearing. Lord Pagan is visible now: a faint silhouette behind me. He’s still calling and calling. ‘
La Becede!
’ Beyond him it’s all dust and frantic cries and the clash of weapons.

We’re lost. They’ve broken through.

Run!

‘Oof!’

Get out of my way, you dolt! Don’t you have eyes in your head?

‘Babylonne?’ It’s old Ferrand, the infirmary sergeant. I didn’t know that he was back on guard duty. ‘What is it? What’s happening?’ he says.

‘It’s a breach!’ (Don’t block the door, there’ll be people coming in!) ‘A full breach, the wall collapsed!’

Consternation. These are all garrison men, in here. Simple soldiers. They must have been sleeping off their night watch in the Great Hall.

‘What should we do?’ says one. ‘Should we go and fight?’

‘Ask Lord Pagan.’ He’s over there, see? ‘Lord Pagan will know.’

They all surge forward as one man, and it’s difficult squeezing through their tight-pressed armour. Scraping past their chain mail. There’ll be a retreat, I know there will. A retreat to this keep for the final rout, and after that . . . after that will come the massacre.

I’ll have to find a place to hide.

Not in the chapel. When the French arrive, I don’t want to be found up there among the Perfects and their patients. It would be instant death. The buttery will be the first destination of every hungry Frenchman, and as for the latrines—if I hide in the latrines, I’ll be dead before the French even reach me.

There’ll be fighting in the Great Hall. Fighting in the towers. The storerooms will be looted, and the cellars as well . . .

Where shall I go? What shall I do?

‘Babylonne!’

It’s Gerard de la Motta, come down from the chapel.

Great.

‘What’s happened?’ he croaks, pausing on the stairs. His skirts are stiff with dried blood. ‘What was that noise?’

‘The wall’s down.’

‘What?’

‘The wall’s down. We’re as good as taken.’

As if to confirm this, a distant, swelling sound reaches our ears. It’s like a thousand voices raised in triumph.

Gerard turns green.

‘Then—then we must pray,’ he stammers. ‘Come. Let us pray together in the chapel, and await God’s pleasure.’

You must be joking. ‘Not with my help, you won’t.’

He blinks.

‘You can reap what you’ve sown, my friend, but I was never a Good Woman, nor ever will be.’ So go and keep your own pestiferous company, and leave me alone! ‘You’ve always made that clear enough, you and all your friends—and my Grandmother, too. Who am I, but spittle on your boot-sole? A failure in all things, according to you—well, maybe that means I should look to another path. Find another place.’

‘Babylonne—’

‘And if I die, then so be it. But I won’t die with
you
! God preserve me from that!’

It doesn’t matter what I say, because we’re facing the final hours, now. We won’t last long in this place. How are we to hold it in the summer heat? There’s hardly any water. Even if we
can
repel them—huddled in our stone box, with the trebuchet pounding our walls—I’d give us three days at the most before we all die of thirst.

Bang-crack! THUD!

Activity behind me, in the Great Hall. And Lord Pagan’s voice, shouting orders. He must be smashing the outside stairs, or preparing barricades, or some such thing. I wonder if Olivier’s made it back? Dear Christ our Lord, please let Olivier be all right. Because if anyone can save the rest of us, he can.

Meanwhile, what am I going to do?

If I stand against the French with a pair of scissors, they’ll cut me down like oats. On the other hand, it would be a noble way to die. I don’t want to be dragged out of here like vermin, clinging to the walls, pleading for my life. I don’t want to be thrown down the well and stoned to death.

Oh, what am I going to
do
?

I can’t think. I have to think! And now I can feel tremors through the soles of my feet; are the French using a battering ram against the door, or is it the trebuchet again? There are noises, too: creaks and groans and shouts and long, drawn-out grunts and enormous
thuds
and a frantic hammering that makes my joints seize up and the spit dry on my tongue. I know what Lord Pagan is doing in the Great Hall. He’s holding the door, and he has all his force and might wedged against it. Because if it gives way, then we’re finished.

The French will slaughter us.

‘To me! To me!’ It’s Pons yelling. He’s pounding past me, up the stairs, waving his sword. With half a dozen blood-soaked archers scrambling along behind him. And a toothless old man. And who’s that? Is that
Dim
? Dim the snotball? He’s holding a
dagger
! (Where on earth did he get that?)

‘Babylonne! Quick!’ he gasps, beckoning frantically.

They must be heading for the roof. But they can’t want
me
, surely?

‘Come on!’ Dim cries, vanishing around the curve of the staircase.

Perhaps they do want me. I’ll be more use to them than that toothless old man. And here’s a sweating, shaking cripple—all blood and bandages—emerging from the chapel. He’s going to join the fight too. I can hear Pons, faintly, up ahead. Shouting orders.

I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to stop the French from smashing down the door of the keep. He’s going to fire at them from above. Drop things on them.

It’s not hard to drop things.
I
can do that. Here—let me past! Let me on the roof! I still have both arms. I still have all my teeth. I can fight as well as anyone.

‘How can I help? My lord?’ The light’s too bright, out here. I’ll have to shade my eyes. ‘Dim? Where are you?’

Tching!

An arrow, hitting the parapet beside me. The French must have occupied that part of the curtain wall over there, and now they have a clear shot of the keep, God curse them.

‘
Keep down
!’ roars Pons. ‘Raise your shields. Archers, look to the west!’

Shields? What shields? Pons has one—he’s fully equipped. He’s even tied a vambrace over the bandage on his arm. But the rest of us might have been scraped out of a butter tub—except for Guillaume de Minerve’s Catalan sergeant.

Where did he spring from?

Tching!

‘Fire!’ shouts Pons. A couple of archers release their bowstrings, aiming high. They’re shooting at the other archers. And look! The old man has found a plank of wood. He’s dragging it towards this parapet.

Down there, straight underneath us, I can see the French: a raging crowd of them, attacking the door of the keep. They break up suddenly, as a bag of crossbow bolts hits its target.

‘Ya-a-ah!’ screams Dim, in excitement. ‘Got ’em!’

The old man throws his plank, which spins as it falls. A Frenchman dodges it.

Quick! What else can we drop? We need fire. We need oil. We need boiling water. There aren’t even any
rocks
up here!

‘Bring sacks!’ Pons cries. ‘Crocks! Stools! Anything!’ And he’s talking to me.

Yes. Ammunition. That’s my job. Pons has turned back to his archers, now; he’s dividing them into two groups. Some are aiming high, some low. Dim has found an iron pot. His arms are so feeble that he can barely lift it.

He needs help.

‘Here! Dim!’ He looks up and grins. The dagger is stuffed into his belt, because he needs both hands.

So do I. This pot is heavy.

‘Up on the merlon!’ Dim gasps. ‘We can push it from there!’

Tching!
(
Damn
those arrows!) I can’t help staggering beneath the weight of this thing. But it’s up there at last; all we have to do is push it.

‘On the count of three.’ My voice sounds odd. ‘One, two, three . . .
go
!’

Suddenly the pot has vanished. There’s a
crunch
, and a scream, and—

‘Aah—aah .. .’
Dim groans. His face is pouring blood. He’s been hit by a glancing arrow.

‘Babylonne!’ It’s Pons. Beside me.
Using my name
. ‘We need more! Now! Anything you can, quick!’

‘But—’

‘
Go!
’

Yes. Go. I’ll go. But where? There’ll be nothing heavy enough in the chapel. The Great Chamber’s full of bolsters and blankets (too soft) and linen chests (too heavy)—

‘Babylonne.’ This time it’s Dim. He’s down at my feet. There’s blood in his mouth.

His dagger is shaking in his hand.

‘Take it,’ he wheezes.

‘What?’

‘In case . . . they come . . .’

In case they come? God help us if they do. But I’ll take it. Of course I will.

The buttery has knives too. And stone mortars. And firewood. Maybe I’ll try down there.

‘I’m sorry, Dim.’

I hate to leave him, but what else can I do? Pons needs me. He needs my help. Whoops! Nearly slipped in that vomit. (Who’s been puking on the staircase?) Those miserable, louse-ridden Perfects are busy praying aloud in the chapel, and I want to throw
them
off the roof, though they wouldn’t make much of an impact. Too skinny. Unless you tied them together in a bunch.

CRA-A-ASH!

The trebuchet. Please God that it didn’t hit anyone up on the roof—Pons especially. We need Pons. Pons needs me. Hell in a
harness
, what shall I bring him? I have to find something. I
have
to!

Buttery . . . buttery. Where is it? Over here. This way. Just off the Great Hall, round the back, down a few steps . . . and a little further down. But what’s that? Is that . . . is that . . .

Don’t tell me that’s steel on steel?

A clashing sound. Unmistakeable. There’s nothing new about the shouts or the groans or the thumps, but the ringing of metal from the Great Hall—it means blade against blade. It means hand-to-hand fighting.

It means that they’ve broken through.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Oh God. Oh God, they must have broken through while I was passing the chapel. Now they’re in the Great Hall, between me and Pons, and they’re heading upstairs, to stop him. And what can I do?

Nothing. I can’t help, now. I have to keep going. Quick, Babylonne, down to the cellar,
hurry
! You can do it. You can make it. Watch your step—don’t trip up—fast but not too fast.

They’re coming. They’re inside the keep. But here I am, I’ve reached the cellar, there’s no one around and . . . Where shall I hide? I’ll have to pick a good place, or there’s no point hiding. They’ll find me behind that coil of rope. They’ll find me behind the barrels. There’s not enough firewood left to conceal me. Those pots are useless.