With no warning, Thurstan and a large contingent of noblemen, knights, and mounted men-at-arms came thundering across the land on horseback, sending the serfs fleeing in fear for their lives toward the safety of the stone fortification. Riding on a shaggy steed beside Thurstan was Mordea, with her long, frizzy hair flowing out wildly behind her. A large gray wolf ’s pelt had been wrapped about her darkly cloaked shoulders, beneath which she wore a breastplate that protected her stout chest.
Upon letting the frightened serfs into the courtyard, Vachel ordered the drawbridge to be lifted behind them to forestall the entrance of the rabble following on their heels. He then selected several of the best riders from among the serfs and bade them to arm themselves with swords and pikes before leading the group through the lower passageway to the postern portal whence Abrielle and Nedda had previously been abducted. Since that occasion, the lower depths had undergone beneficial changes, part of which included a stable wherein a few of their fastest horses were kept in stalls near the outer door, allowing the keep’s inhabitants to promptly give chase should miscreants attempt another abduction. From there, Vachel sent several mounted riders racing off in different directions with the hope that they would be able to alert their allies and persuade them to come in haste and lend their assistance in defeating the unprovoked aggressors who now sought to take possession of the keep. But most of the northern lords had long memories, and they would most likely believe that the Scots should be swept from England.
Holding a flag of truce, Thurstan rode forward alone, garbed entirely in black except for a metal breastplate covering his chest. He reined in his horse within hearing range of the men on the battlements.
“For most of you within the castle, we have no quarrel. If you surrender yourselves, you will not be harmed. But the lords of Northumberland will not allow Scotland this incursion into our land. We mean to hold this castle for England.”
Vachel stood with his legs wide, his hands braced on his hips, and shouted, “I speak for Lady Abrielle, the rightful lady of this castle, as you well know. Though its lord may be a Scot, the castle and lands are for England, and Lady Abrielle stands firm on this matter. Cease this violence at once, before innocent men are killed.”
Thurstan rode away, lowering his flag, having made his attempt at peace. Uneasily he told himself he would have been content with their surrender, but some deep part of him relished the thought of earning his prize, fighting for what he believed was his. And with the modest army he had amassed with the help of his neighbors, the siege would be a glorious one.
On the battlements, Vachel and Cedric stood side by side, watching Thurstan depart.
“Keeping it for England, is he?” Cedric said darkly.
“He cannot possibly think we believe such nonsense,” Vachel replied, “although apparently the rest of Abrielle’s neighbors do.”
“Do ye believe the castle is ready?”
“We could have used more time, but Raven has been diligent in seeing to the preparations. No doubt he sensed the coming unrest.”
“Or at least the animosity of these border lords,” Cedric added, shaking his head. “How go the women?”
“Well. Elspeth and Abrielle have assigned everyone tasks to keep them busy—less chance for an outbreak of panic to spread. They’re readying arrows, preparing for injuries, and of course seeing to food and drink for weary men.” Vachel hesitated. “Think you that Raven will return in the middle of this? I rather hope he stays away until it is over and we are victorious.”
“I know not what King David has planned for him,” Cedric answered. “But I know my son, and if he has heard of Thurstan’s attack, he will come. But until then, we know what we have ta do.”
“My thanks for your help,” Vachel said.
“This is a battle that affects your family and mine.” Cedric clapped his shoulder.
Cedric selected the best archers from those same ranks and positioned them within the battlements for the purpose of dissuading the soldiers who were seeking to lay floating bridges across the stream. In a matter of moments, arrows began raining down upon the intruders, who promptly dove behind whatever tree, rock, or barrier offered protection.
Cedric strode behind the serfs, urging them to aim true and make every arrow count. He was quick to praise their skills, buoying their resolve to defeat the aggressors perhaps even more than their disdain for Thurstan could. Though such deeds would be in defense of the keep, killing a freeman set the serfs a-jitter, knowing they could suffer various degrees of punishment for that offense. They were wont to look to Cedric for guidance. His soothing brogue calmed many, assuring them that their new lord, Raven Seabern, would expect them to protect their lands and families. His assurances did indeed result in a truer sighting, for in a matter of moments, there were many within the enemy’s camp who had either been killed or seriously wounded beneath the unrelenting onslaught of arrows.
Upon espying Thurstan’s soldiers laying out reinforced planks for the purpose of crossing the moat, Vachel recognized the need to discourage them. He directed the serfs to prepare hot cauldrons of rendered fat to be dumped upon those who would soon be making an effort to scale the stone walls. Leaving the Scotsman to carry on with such tasks, Vachel began directing other defensive measures for the security of the keep, of the sort that he had ofttimes used during the Crusades. He also called for a pair of recently constructed catapults to be loaded with large stones should there come a need.
Even while those within the edifice were involved in preparing their defenses, the enemy was wont to evidence their confidence that they’d be there for some time by setting up camp beneath the protection of the trees just beyond the clearing. At the fore of the moat, they brought up battering rams which they obviously meant to utilize in their assault upon the drawbridge. Thurstan could be seen directing those who had ridden in with him. He swept an arm about as he motioned for his men to bring up one of a pair of wooden bridges to the fore. Upon standing the first half on end on the far shore, they allowed it to fall into the stream. Buoyed by the many animal bladders filled with air, the piece barely dipped beneath the surface of the water.
A volley of arrows rained down upon the intruders from the archers occupying the battlements, wounding a goodly number of the enemy before they managed to raise the shields that had been slung over their backs. In a few moments, another group of men, bearing another section of the bridge, scampered to the far end of the first, whence they allowed the piece to fall into place across the remaining half of the moat, only a step or two away from the narrow spit of land that remained in evidence beneath the raised drawbridge. The original bridge was of such heavy and enduring quality that it was almost impervious to axes and such weapons. Nevertheless, men bearing large bundles of dried reeds and other flammable plants began rushing across the two sections in a quest to pile up what they bore onto the section of earth showing beneath the raised drawbridge.
Their intentions were obvious. Since the original drawbridge was too heavy and sturdy to hack asunder in any reasonable length of time, they were obviously going to attempt to burn it down to gain entrance into the keep. Several of Thurstan’s men were already being supplied with lighted torches in preparation.
Vachel sent a half-dozen serfs scurrying in haste to the kitchen to bring back cauldrons of scalding water. By the time they returned to the battlements, the brigands were already igniting the dried bundles that had been heaped up against the bottom of the drawbridge. The contents of the huge pots, borne on sturdy poles by pairs of serfs, were promptly dumped onto the burning bundles as well as upon those bearing the torches. Upon being drenched with scalding-hot water, the brigands ran screaming in agony across the makeshift bridges even as more cauldrons of water were being dumped on the burning reeds.
Inside the keep, Abrielle, Elspeth, Isolde, Cordelia, and the women who normally worked in the kitchen continued to fill huge cauldrons, this time with rendered fat. The fire beneath the cauldrons was nearl
y roaring with the intense heat they had created, but it hastened the melting of the lard until the latter began to bubble and spit. Slightly smaller kettles were then filled and borne by strapping serfs to the battlements. The contents were dumped forthwith upon those in the process of scaling the ladders. Agonized screams readily accompanied the descent of those drenched by the scalding oil, and though others sought to take their places, recurring waves of fat cascaded down upon anyone who tried. Only by diving into the moat could the aggressors find any relief from the agony of their seared flesh, but some were so badly burned that they were unable to pull themselves onto dry land or attempt to tread water. Many slipped beneath the surface of the water without notice.
Long poles with cross-planks affixed to the ends served to provide the serfs with some degree of safety as they pushed the ladders away from the niches into which they had been temporarily lodged. Maidservants also scurried to throw bucketfuls of water onto flaming arrows that had lodged in wooden areas of the keep. The miscreants obviously saw nothing to fear from the women’s efforts until they began to feel the searing pain of boiling liquids soaking into their own clothing. The burns caused many to fall away from their makeshift ladders, screaming in pain. The water in the moat proved almost as effective as the scalding liquid that had been thrown down upon them, for the chilled winds that buffeted them quickly penetrated their soaked clothing as they sought to drag themselves from the moat.
Soon another flurry of flaming arrows began to assault the battlements and the walkway around the keep, obviously with the hope that they would prove successful in setting afire some of the oil their adversaries were wont to throw down upon them. Wave after wave of arrows bombarded the battlements as well as the defenses that had quickly been erected to ensure the safety of those taking shelter within the edifice. In spite of the relentless urgings and demands that Thurstan made on his men, the serfs fighting for the keep proved even more tenacious. Under the capable direction of Vachel and Cedric, they were wont to believe there was a good chance they’d be able to defeat the foe and send Thurstan off with his tail tucked between his legs. They were well motivated to fight on to the death if need be. Better to battle valiantly and die trying to protect themselves than to be subjected to whatever cruelty Thurstan and Mordea intended to lay upon their hides should they seize the keep.
At last night fell, and darkness forced a suspension of hostilities. Both sides saw to their wounded and rearmed themselves. Inside the castle, optimism reigned, for few had been seriously hurt; supplies could last for many weeks, if not months. Three more days passed in much the same way, Thurstan’s forces attacking, Vachel and Cedric leading the defense.
On the fourth evening, Abrielle’s optimism had become merely a show for her people, who had been fed and calmed. She herself could not contemplate sleep, as it was becoming more and more difficult to fight her sense of fear and sadness. She went out into the courtyard and climbed up into the battlements above the curtain walls. There the stars were pinpricks of light across the sky, and the moon hung low like a white grin laughing at them.
Vachel was patrolling the walkways with the soldiers, bolstering spirits, keeping a grim eye on the enemy encamped some distance away. When he espied Abrielle, he came to her and swept his own cloak about her. She had not even realized that she was cold until she was enfolded in comforting warmth.
“You should be resting, my dear,” Vachel said.
“As should you.” She allowed him to put his arm about her, to pull her against him, but his presence could not ease the pain in her heart. “Innocent men on both sides are dying because of me,” she whispered, her throat raw, her eyes surprisingly close to tears.
“Nay, that is not true, daughter. Men are dying because of the greed of one man, who has swayed many fools to a false cause. They cannot see beyond their fear.”
She leaned near the embrasure to see out over the dark countryside. Dozens of campfires dotted the horizon. “How long do you think this will go on?”
He shrugged. “Until the northern lords come to their senses and see Thurstan for his true motives.”
At night, with the sound of battle a distant memory, there was a deceptive peace over the land. All Abrielle could hear was the murmur of male voices carried on the wind, the babble of the stream below—and the faint clash of weapons.
She stiffened at the same moment as her stepfather. “What was that?” she asked.
“Battle,” he said grimly. “But at night? And it is not near our walls. Does someone attack our enemies?”
One by one, soldiers came to stand against the battlements, to peer into the distance, to speculate with cautious voices. Abrielle’s eyes hurt from the strain of trying to see, but she thought the sounds were getting closer. More than once, she saw fire glint off metal, heard several shouts.
And then came the thunder of a horses’ hooves, and the shout of a man’s voice as he neared the castle.
Abrielle did not need to see who had shouted to know in her heart who it was moving through the darkness and danger to reach her side, and she cried out, “Raven!”
CHAPTER 20
Not an hour before, Raven had worked himself through the lines of his enemies. He had crept by stealth, past campfire after campfire, and patrols that were looking toward the dark horizon rather than to the earth itself. And through it all he kept his mind sternly focused on the moment at hand, never letting his thoughts stray from his next footstep, his next handhold, not daring to think of the one thing he wanted to think of most, his very reason for being there, lest it cause him even a second of delay.
He had come ahead of the regiment he’d summoned, men loyal to Stephen, ’tis true, but willing to fight an injustice and settle the uneasy countryside. Raven had left his own men-at-arms a league distant, knowing he could get through the enemy lines more easily and quickly alone.
Get through he must, and would, no matter who stood in his way, for on the other side of the wall that was now in sight lay what mattered to him most in the world, more than he’d known was possible, and a million times more than she was willing to believe…Abrielle. He would not see her harmed, nor any of those she loved. And it angered him enough to make him even more dangerous than his reputation just to think of what this siege had already put her through.
When he was within sight of the castle walls lit by torches, he heard the first shout of warning, and then the echoing cries of alarm. He had been discovered. He jumped to his feet, unsheathing his claymore as he ran, cutting down the first guard without even breaking his stride. Several more came at him, swords raised, but there was fear in their eyes, too, as if they thought him dangerous because of what he dared. He veered toward the hobbled horses, cut a line, and then vaulted onto the animal bareback, urging him into a gallop toward the castle.
His plan to approach the walls and be let in secretly at the postern gate was no more. He was leading too many enemies for the guards to risk opening the door. If he had to ride away, he would fail Abrielle, which he would not accept.
Just as the castle walls rose above him, a man ran out of the darkness, startling the horse, which reared wildly. Raven was already tumbling backward to the ground as he heard a woman scream. After landing heavily, he rolled to his feet, claymore still clutched in his hand.
Thurstan de Marlé was alone before him, sword held with purpose and skill. “Raven Seabern, you must win your way past me to enter this keep. We claim it for King Stephen.”
“’Tis obvious my wife disagrees with ye on the ownership of the castle,” Raven said. He could hear soldiers gathering around him, noises and shadows in the dark. “So ye’ll attack me in force, will ye?”
“Nay, right now let this be between you and me,” Thurstan said, then raised his voice. “The rest of you stay back.”
“And if I win, do I receive the dubious award of their swords in my back?”
“You can have free passage into the keep. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
And with that, Thurstan attacked. His advance was immediately met with a deft stroke of the claymore that left a deep cut across his arm. It did indeed unsettle his firm conviction that he was the better swordsman. Soon it was all he could do to hold ground against the Scotsman’s unrelenting advance. Rising cuts from the back guard continued to propel him ever backward in a desperate attempt to avoid the menacing strokes of the claymore. In turning the hilt and bringing the point in a position to strike again, Raven left his adversary astonished out of measure by the skill he displayed. Even when Thurstan sought a more aggressive approach with a hanging guard, he found himself again amazed by the deftness with which the Scotsman parried his attack. Beads of sweat were now dappling his brow as he strove to halt the other’s blade and keep it from snuffing out his life. His own sword seemed no less than paltry in comparison, and yet, with each passing moment, his arm grew increasingly weary from its weight. He could only wonder how the Scotsman had the strength and stamina to wield the much heavier weapon with unyielding proficiency.