The Scarlet Lion(2)

***

The assault on the castle of Milli was not going well; indeed, it was a shambles. Eyes narrowed, William Marshal stared across the ditch towards the castle walls and cursed under his breath, his gaze clinging to the serjeants and soldiers toiling their way up the rungs of the scaling ladder like ants on a twig. Several of these ladders had been concentrated at one part of the wall as King Richard's forces attempted to storm the castle and seize it from its rebellious constable.



"Make haste, in God's name, make haste!" Jean D'Earley, William's former squire, now a knight of his company, danced from foot to foot, chewed his lip, and clenched and unclenched his fists.



The defenders on the battlements strove desperately to dislodge the ladders from the walls while the weight of their enemies was still sufficiently low down to make it feasible. Crossbow bolts, arrows, stakes, and boulders rained down on the attackers. Stricken men tumbled from the ladders into the ditch, some in silence, others screaming.



"It's going to fall, Christ help them!" Jean's voice was anguished as the defenders succeeded in lodging a crowbar between one of the ladder ends and the wall and began levering.



"My shield." William beckoned to his squire with a flick of his left hand.



The ladder slipped sideways and toppled, smashing its burden of soldiers into bank and ditch. The cries of the crushed and maimed rose in chilling twists of sound to join the clamour of battle. A few fortunates crawled and hobbled to safety, but many more lay broken and dying amid the splintered remnants of the siege ladder. Cheers of abuse and a fresh barrage of missiles pelted down from the walls in a lethal rain.



William thrust his hand through his shield grips. The legendary green and yellow Marshal colours faced the embattled walls, the painted scarlet lion clawing the foreground. Something had to be done and fast. If they didn't gain those wall walks, they were going to have to choose between sitting down to starve the bastards out or retreating to lick their wounded dignity…and King Richard had neither the patience nor the temper for either. He couldn't afford to wait and he couldn't afford to lose. William snatched a glance along the embankment to the royal standard. Standing beneath the wind-rippled red and gold banner, King Richard was plucking his auburn beard with one hand and gesticulating vigorously to his mercenary captain Mercadier with the other.



Armed with a fresh ladder, a group of serjeants and mercenaries charged across the makeshift bridge of planks spanning the ditch, prompting an increased storm of missiles from the walls. Most fell short or bounced off shields, but one serjeant was hit in the chest by a crossbow quarrel and another by a sling stone that struck his hand, shattering his fingers. Undeterred, the others planted the ladder's feet into the soft turf of the bank and slammed the end down on the wall.



A vigorous effort led by the Flemish knight Guy de la Bruiere was on the brink of success and the battlements boiled with activity at that section. William took his open-faced helm from his squire and settled it on his head, adjusting the nasal bar until it was comfortable.



"God's bones, the whoresons have got a pick," Jean cried with alarm.



William swore. Two defenders were leaning through a crenel space, manipulating a large siege pick, intent on using the vicious iron beak to snag themselves a victim. As he watched, they succeeded in hooking the front of de la Bruiere's surcoat, threatening to yank him from his perch. The burdened ladder thrummed ominously against the stonework, in serious danger of following its companion into the ditch.



William gave a peremptory signal to the knights of his mesnie. Covering himself with his shield, he dashed across the ditch planks and scrambled up the bank to the new ladder. Ordering aside the serjeant who had been about to set his foot on the first rung, he began climbing himself. He refused to think about the defenders above him and what they might be doing to try to dislodge the ladder, or topple him from it. He needed to take this section of the battlements and seize control of the situation before it became a debacle.



He felt the vibration of the men climbing behind him, adding their weight and stability; gambling their lives as he was gambling his own. His breath roared in his ears, muting other sounds. He didn't look down, just kept climbing rung to rung, gripping the rough ash staves, feeling their pressure against the soles of his boots. Grasp, step, grasp, step. Closer, closer. Almost there. As William readied himself, he felt the stave shudder under his hands and realised with a stab of apprehension that the defenders were about to succeed in prising the ladder off the wall. The detail spurred him into a burst of harder effort and his lungs began to burn. Reaching the final rung, he launched himself at the crenel gap, gained it, and leaped on to the walkway. He used his shield to beat aside the soldier trying to dislodge the ladder and drew his sword. Breathing harshly, he dealt with a serjeant brandishing a spear and brought down another man who took a wild swing at him with a spiked club. A glance showed him his own men scrambling on to the wall walk. Leaving them to secure the ground, William ran to tackle the defenders wielding the pick. A serjeant jabbed a glaive at his face. William beat the weapon aside on his shield and downed another soldier on the backswing of his sword. A gasping Jean D'Earley dealt with a second assault from the glaive. On the ladder, de la Bruiere had managed to cut himself free of his snagged surcoat; having gained the battlements, he was laying about with his sword.