The Straw Men(56)

‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!’ The friar hurried to the door and flung it open. Rachael, red hair streaming, stumbled in a flurry of snow. Now and again she’d stop to help Judith: Samuel, Gideon and Samson followed, hastening towards the Garden Tower, gazing fearfully behind them. The Straw Men reached the friar, gasping and breathless.

‘Is it the bear?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, no.’ Rachael pointed back. Athelstan followed her direction. He could now hear the crash and slither of steel, the cries of men locked in deadly combat. The tocsin on top of Bell Tower boomed out as the beacon fire beside it flared into life. Athelstan urged the Straw Men into his chamber.

‘Get your breath back,’ he advised and went out on to the steps. Other bells were tolling. Fires flamed against the dark sky. Men-at-arms and archers hurried across out of Red Gulley where they had been busy helping the beastmaster. The roar of the lions only deepened the death-bringing din now clear on the freezing air. Officers of the garrison hurried about dressed in half armour, clutching an assortment of weapons. Athelstan went back into the Tower, closing the door behind him. He told the Straw Men to remain where they were but, chattering with fear, they begged him to stay with them. Judith particularly was beside herself with fear, crouching beside Rachael, who put a protective arm around her companion’s shoulder and drew her close.

‘She’s terrified of bears!’ Samuel explained. ‘That’s why she ran away from her father. Brother, what is happening? What should we do?’

‘I need to find out what is wrong.’ Athelstan pointed to the ceiling. ‘It’s too dangerous to leave.’ He crossed to the door and turned. ‘What did you see?’

‘Some hostile force,’ Samuel declared. ‘They appeared as if from nowhere.’

‘I’d best go up.’ Athelstan opened the door. ‘I . . .’ He broke off as three archers, war bows slung across their backs, cresset torches in their hands, burst into the stairwell. They pushed Athelstan aside with shouts that the fortress was under attack and that the alarm beacon on top of the Garden Tower had to be fired. They clattered up the winding steps, Athelstan and the Straw Men hurrying behind, and reached the top. The archers flung open the door which swung in the freezing, pummelling breeze. The Tower top was sanded for better grip, the pitch-smeared beacon already primed and soon lit, the leaping flames providing a welcome burst of heat. Athelstan hurried to the fighting platform beneath the crenellations and peered over. The tower baileys were now caught up in confusion. He could glimpse the royal beastmaster trying to seal off all entrances to St Thomas’ Tower. To the north, however, around the Wardrobe Tower, hastily gathered members of the garrison were being driven back by a well-organized phalanx or schiltrom of men armed with shields and swords, a screed of archers around them. The fighting looked intense, the enemy bowmen loosing at any who approached while their main battle group steadily advanced.

‘They are fighting to reach Beauchamp!’ Athelstan cried out.

‘The prisoner,’ one of the archers muttered. ‘It’s the Upright Men; they are after Gaunt’s prisoner. God save us.’ He added bitterly, ‘Whoever she may be, she will be the death of many a good man today.’ Athelstan grabbed him by the arm; the archer turned. Athelstan could tell by the look in the man’s face that he had said too much.

‘Don’t worry.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I will not report you. The prisoner? You have seen her?’

‘Brother, I trust you. I was in the escort which brought her from Dover. God save us!’ The man leaned closer. ‘Don’t you realize, Brother, those attackers are our brothers, peasants like me.’ He shook his head. ‘I have said too much.’

‘You have told the truth,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘God knows, my friend, we seem to live a life where right and wrong merge.’

‘They are breaking through!’ another archer yelled. Athelstan stared down. The attackers, tightly packed together, were pushing the defenders back. The danger had been recognized. Men-at-arms, hobelars and archers were gathering before Beauchamp to block its entrance. A futile move as the enemy was moving too fast, while the Tower archers dare not loose lest they hit their own, still closely engaged with the enemy.

‘What can we do?’ Rachael wailed.

‘What should we do?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘This is not our fight.’

A hunting horn brayed, followed by a trumpet blast. Athelstan hurried across to the other side of the tower. Loud cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow! Dieu Nous Aide! Dieu Nous Aide! Saint George! Saint George!’ rang out. Men-at-arms, armoured knights, hobelars and archers were now pouring into the inner bailey around Bell Tower. Crown standards and pennants blazed in a riot of blue, red and gold, the royal leopards clear to see. The unexpected reinforcements paused to arrange themselves into battle formation. Archers to the front and flanks, men-at-arms and knights to the centre, they moved forward, a mass of bristling steel. A trumpet blared. They paused. The archers raced forward, war bows strung. Up they swung and a rain of black shafts rose against the grey sky to fall like sharpened hail on the attackers. The Tower garrison, who’d first engaged the enemy, realized what was happening and swiftly retreated, leaving the enemy exposed to another hissing attack. Again and again the arrows rained down. The defenders of Beauchamp also moved forward. More trumpets shrilled. The mass of mailed men gathered just beyond Bell Tower surged forward. Athelstan breathed a prayer, a plea for the souls being so cruelly loosed from flesh and bone. The massacre had begun.