Duel at Araluen Page 20

  “Stop them coming through,” she said.

  Coughing in the thick smoke, their eyes weeping, the men shuffled out onto the small landing by the door, spears in hand, and stood ready. A gust of wind sent a tongue of fire curling through the barrier and they hastily moved backward, up the stairs. Then, as the flames subsided, they moved down again, standing ready for the attack that must come at any minute.

  Cassandra felt a cold hand of fear clutch her heart. Once the barricade was down, the way would be clear to the ninth floor as well. She turned and saw Ingrid standing nearby, a pike in her hands. She beckoned the girl over.

  “Take three or four men up to the ninth floor and barricade the doorway onto the stairs,” she said. “Nail timber beams across it, then pile tables, chairs, beds and cupboards against it. We’ve got to stop them coming through there once the barrier down here burns through.”

  Already, she was preparing herself for the fact that she would have to retreat with her men to the ninth floor. The internal timber stairs that led upward from the eighth floor could be quickly dismantled when they did.

  There was a loud crash as another section of the barricade gave way in an enormous shower of sparks. An armored man stepped through the gap, a massive war hammer in his hands. He had used the heavy weapon to smash through the burned-out section. Now he moved toward one of the spearmen who barred his way, swinging the hammer in a horizontal arc. The spearman gave ground desperately, crabbing across the stairs back toward the doorway. The armored man followed, but failed to see another defender on his left side. The second defender was one of the archers, but he had armed himself with a long spear. Now he drove the heavy head into the attacker’s side, which was exposed as he followed through on the hammer strike. The spearpoint hit stout chain-mail armor and was deflected. But, even though it didn’t penetrate, the force was enough to crack two of the attacker’s ribs and send him staggering, the hammer falling from his hands. As the archer readied his spear for another thrust, a second attacker stepped through the gap in the barrier, his sword swinging in a diagonal sweep. With a startled cry of pain, the archer fell back on the steps, his spear clattering on the stonework as he dropped it.

  Cassandra came to a sudden decision. She was losing men, and more and more of Dimon’s troops were forcing their way into the gaps that were appearing in the barrier. Her men were outnumbered and there could be only one outcome to this battle. They might kill a lot of Dimon’s men but, in the end, superior numbers would tell in a simple face-to-face battle like this. There was only one course open to her: retreat to the ninth floor and pull up the stairs.

  “Get back! Get back!” she yelled to the defenders on the stairs. “Shut the door and barricade it! Fall back!”

  There was only one man remaining from the three she had waved out onto the stairs a few minutes previously. He stumbled back through the smoke and embers. Ready hands dragged him through the door, then the door itself was slammed shut and the heavy locking bar dropped into place.

  “Barricade it!” Cassandra yelled. “Tables, chairs, anything you can find! Pile it up against the door and then get up to the ninth floor.”

  Her men went to work with a will, hurling furniture against the door. After a few minutes, she decided they’d done enough to delay the enemy sufficiently, and she led the way to the internal flight of stairs that led to the ninth floor, yelling at the top of her voice.

  “Grab as many spare weapons as you can! Then get up the stairs to the ninth floor.”

  They gathered up spears, pikes, swords and bundles of arrows from the weapon racks, then staggering under their burdens, made their way up to the next floor. Cassandra, standing by the bottom of the stairs, urged them on, looking back fearfully at the door. She could hear heavy blows being rained on it. Some of the lighter items piled against it toppled and fell to the floor. They had only minutes before the door gave way.

  “Keep moving!” she yelled. “Get up the stairs!”

  The last man shuffled awkwardly up the steps, burdened by an armful of pikes and spears. She looked at the door once more, saw it shudder inward under another series of heavy blows. There was a gap now between the door and the doorway on the right side. As she watched, it widened a little more.

  She turned and ran up after the last of her men. As she came level with him, he dropped four of the pikes he had been carrying and stopped, trying to retrieve them.

  “Leave them!” she shouted, shoving him upward. She stooped and picked up two of the pikes and followed him, emerging breathlessly onto the ninth floor. She looked around, saw Ingrid, who nodded to her and pointed to the door, where a pile of heavy items blocked the way. Cassandra knelt and peered down into the floor below. The door moved again, and the furniture piled against it shuddered and moved back a few more centimeters. The room was already thick with smoke, but now more began swirling through the narrow gap around the edge of the door. She gestured to the wooden steps she had just ascended. They were held in place by two curved brackets that fitted flush to the floor. The rails were secured by metal spikes.

  “Pull these spikes out!” she shouted, and her men leapt to obey. One of the spikes jammed and she looked around, saw a man standing with a battleax in his hands and pointed at the wooden bracket.

  “Smash it!” she said. “I want these stairs down!”

  The axman stepped forward, steadied himself and swung at the rail. The ax bit deeply into the wood but failed to break it.

  “Again!” she screamed. She could hear the sound of the piled furniture at the eighth-floor door toppling and moving, could hear more heavy blows against the door and the shouts of the men on the stairs as they sensed they were close to winning this battle. The axman swung again and this time the rail splintered, leaving the wooden stairway unsecured.

  “Push it loose!” she ordered. She shoved the head of one of the pikes she had been carrying under the top stair and began to lever it up and out. Others joined her and suddenly the entire staircase—really nothing more than a giant wooden ladder—slid back over the empty space and fell to the floor below with a resounding crash. One of the side supports cracked under the impact. It didn’t matter, she thought. Dimon’s men couldn’t put the stairs back in place while she held the upper floor. Their only access now was via the main spiral staircase.

  She flattened herself on the floor, leaning down through the square hole where the steps had been until she could see the doorway. As she watched, the piled furniture collapsed and the door swung inward, stopping when the gap was thirty centimeters wide. A renewed shove from the other side pushed it completely open, and the attackers flooded into the eighth floor, the first of them staggering as the door suddenly gave way.

  They stopped, puzzled for a few seconds as they found nobody barring their way. Then one of them looked across to where Cassandra’s head and shoulders were visible, peering down at them.

  “There they are!” he yelled, and led the rush forward.

  “Clear the way, my lady,” said a voice behind her.

  She turned. It was Thomas, the senior archer. He stood ready with his bow, an arrow nocked to the string. Understanding what he intended, she rolled hastily to one side. Thomas stepped forward, drew back the arrow, then aimed through the square hole in the floor at the massed attackers below and released. Before the arrow found its mark, he nocked and shot another. Two shrill screams came from below and he shot again. There was another cry of pain. Then a rush of feet below told her that the enemy troops were seeking cover from the deadly arrows. She smiled her thanks.

  “Good shooting, Thomas.”

  He nodded to her, eyes still intent on the hole in the floor as he searched for another target. Cassandra looked around, saw a large wardrobe standing against the wall.

  “Bring that here,” she said, and four men took hold of it, dragging it closer to the hole where the stairs had been.

 
“Topple it over and slide it across the hole,” she said. The thought had occurred to her that if Thomas could shoot down through the stairway aperture, those below could hurl weapons up through it—possibly more of the oil bladders that had destroyed the barricade on the stairs.

  Grunting with the effort, two of the men shoved the wardrobe over so that it crashed on the floor. Then all four took hold, and they slid it across the hole, blocking it. The volume of shouting and threats from below was reduced dramatically.

  Cassandra rose to her feet, dusting herself off. Then an idea struck her.

  “Let’s take a look at that doorway,” she said, hurrying across the room to the door that led into the main stairwell.

  Ingrid and her men had done a good job. Several heavy beams were nailed across the door, and a selection of beds, tables, bookshelves and chairs were piled against it to reinforce it. Cassandra nodded approval, then looked up at the ceiling. As she had recalled, the pipes from the cisterns above, designed to stop the tower from burning, led across the ceiling at this point to several outlets at the top of the wall. She pointed to one of them. It was a lead pipe and could be cut and bent easily.

  “Move that pipe so it can flood the door,” she said. “Make a hole in the top of the door to accommodate it. If they try to set fire to the door, I want to be able to put it out.”

  Her men set to work, cutting the pipe, then making an aperture in the top of the doorway so they could direct water out and down the door itself. They were none too soon. They had barely finished when she heard footsteps outside the door, then the sound of flint and steel as the men there struck a flame. Through the narrow gaps in the door, she saw an orange light spring up outside, smelled the thick stench of oil and pitch.

  “Now!” she called to one of her men, who was standing by the drain cock from the cistern to the pipe. He spun the valve and water gushed out of the pipe, flooding down the outside of the door. She heard men cursing in surprise, then saw the flames go out. She let the water run for a few minutes, soaking the door, then turned it off.

  “Keep an eye on them,” she said. “If they try lighting it again, open the valve once more.”

  She moved wearily away from the door, found a chair that hadn’t been used in the barricade, and slumped onto it, wondering what she hadn’t thought of. Thomas, who was her senior man now that Merlon was dead, approached her diffidently. He was loath to disturb her, particularly with bad news. She noticed him hesitating and smiled wearily.

  “What is it, Thomas?”

  He cleared his throat nervously, then spoke. “You’ll need to ration the food, my lady,” he said. “We left most of our supplies downstairs. We’ve barely enough to last us for three or four days up here.”

  She shrugged fatalistically. “Don’t worry about it. We may not last more than three days.” A few days ago, when they had held control of the stairs, her archers could shoot down into any attackers and hold them off with little fear of retaliation. They had no tactical advantage here. All they could do now was stave off Dimon’s attempts to force his way into their retreat.

  It was a simple arm wrestle, and Dimon seemed to have found men who would keep fighting on, no matter how many casualties they took in the process. Probably, she thought bitterly, he had promised them riches. He could certainly afford to.

  Eventually, they would break down the door into the stairwell. They’d plug or divert the water and burn their way in. She looked around desperately. They needed a fallback position. She pointed to the wall opposite the door.

  “Build another barricade near the wall,” she told Thomas. “We’ll fall back there if they break in.” When they break in, she thought to herself. But before Thomas could move, a deep voice countermanded her order.

  “No, Cass. Defend the door. It’s your best chance.”

  She looked around, startled, to see her father, dressed in his shirt and trousers, and carrying his long sword, moving toward her. With a stab of guilt, she realized she had forgotten all about him.

  “Dad!” she said in alarm. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  He smiled grimly at her. “I’m fine, Cassandra.” And in truth, when she looked at him, he did look better. There was color in his cheeks now, and the lost, shadowed look in his eyes was gone. Perhaps the challenge of fighting against the invaders had stirred his spirit and given him new vigor. His leg was bandaged and he was still limping, but he pointed the long sword back toward the door.

  “Stop them there. It’s your best chance. They can only come at you two at a time through the doorway and they’ll be in each other’s way on the stairs. If you try to fight them back there”—he indicated the spot where she had ordered Thomas to build a second redoubt—“they’ll be able to come at you from all sides. Hold the door and trust that Horace is on his way.”

  She realized he was right. She looked at Thomas, who was regarding her inquisitively. She nodded. “Do as the King says, Thomas. Get the men ready. We’ll stop them at the door.” She smiled sadly at her father and rose from the chair. “And for goodness’ sake, will you sit down? You may think you feel better but you’re still not healed.”

  Her father returned the smile and sank gratefully onto the chair she had vacated, his injured leg held stiffly out before him.

  Thomas shouted his orders, and her men began to form up at the door, weapons ready. They’d keep the attackers out for a while, Cassandra thought. But she didn’t have enough men to hold them back indefinitely. Sooner or later, superior numbers would tell. The attackers would sweep them aside and take control of the ninth floor—as they done with the floor below.

  * * *

  • • •

  On the floor below, Dimon was exultant. They had finally driven Cassandra back into her last possible refuge. Now that she was fighting at close quarters, and was fighting blind behind the blocked doorway, her archers held little threat for his men. Now, he told himself, it was only a matter of time before he had her at his mercy.

  He smiled at the thought, then turned as there was a small commotion at the door. A soldier was looking wildly around for him, his chest heaving with the effort of having run up from the fourth floor. From his lack of armor, Dimon recognized him. He hadn’t been part of the current attack, but was one of the men from his original group. As he watched, the man caught sight of him and hurried across.

  “My . . . lord!” he said, still panting heavily. “There . . . are . . .” He stopped, breathless, and Dimon gestured angrily at him.

  “Calm down. Get your breath. There are what?”

  “Men, my lord. Soldiers. Sir Horace and his men. They’re at the gate.”

  29

  Dimon went down the stairs at a run.

  He reached the fourth floor, then made his way out through the ironbound door onto the battlements overlooking the massive castle gate. His heart sank as he saw the body of mounted men drawn up on the parkland facing the drawbridge. Behind them, two ranks of archers stood ready, although they were currently out of bowshot. Another group of about twenty men were formed up loosely beside the archers. He saw the huge, multicolored round shields and horned helmets and cursed quietly. Skandians, he thought, wondering vaguely where Horace had found them.

  “They must be the Heron’s crew,” he muttered to himself, although there seemed to be more of them than he had seen when they had arrived at the castle several weeks before.

  The soldier who had alerted him to the newcomers’ presence looked at him curiously. “What’s that, my lord?”

  Dimon angrily dismissed his question. He was counting the enemy. There seemed to be about sixty of them—a few more than he had in his own force, counting the losses they had sustained during the engagements with Cassandra. But at least the enemy were outside the immense walls of the castle, and he was safe inside.

  Sitting on his battlehorse a little ahead of the troopers was an unmistaka
ble figure. Tall, broad shouldered and with his distinctive round buckler slung over his left shoulder, Horace was easy to recognize, even if he hadn’t been accompanied by a rider bearing his standard—the green oakleaf.

  Dimon looked to his left. One of his men was leaning on the battlements, a crossbow propped against the wall beside him.

  “Can you reach him with a shot?” he asked.

  But the man shook his head. “He’s no fool, my lord. He’s out of range. Besides, if I try to shoot, I’ll draw twenty or so arrows from those archers of his. They outrange me—and they rarely miss.”

  And that, thought Dimon, was probably the real reason for his reluctance to shoot at Horace. Coward, he thought, scowling at the man, who steadfastly ignored his contemptuous look.

  As Dimon turned his attention back to the force outside the gate, he saw Horace bring the buckler round to his front and urge his horse closer to the walls. There would be no chance of shooting him now, Dimon thought. Horace had the reflexes of a cat, and he’d stop any crossbow bolt before it could hit him.

  The tall knight stood in his stirrups and held his cupped right hand to his mouth.

  “Dimon!” he shouted, his voice carrying clearly to the battlements. “Show yourself, you treacherous snake!”

  Dimon started in surprise as he heard his name called. How did Horace know that he was in command of the rebels? He hesitated to answer.

  “Dimon! Show yourself!” Horace called again, his voice echoing off the granite castle walls.

  Dimon shrugged mentally. There was no point in pretending that he wasn’t here. Horace obviously knew what had happened. There was a stone step beside the battlements, and he stepped up onto it and shouted back.