“This is no siege, men!” he shouted. “To the death, now. No holding back. Foot follows the horses, no retreat. Whomever you kill, everything on him is yours. No plunder in the castle, only the village. But that, you may burn to the ground. And above all,” he shoved his helm on his head and bellowed, “Sauvage is mine.”
His horse reared up. Marcus lifted his arm and swept it down. The cavalry exploded like it was shot from a trebuchet, kicking heels and galloping hooves. The troops came running behind, thunder rolling into the valley.
They met in a violent clash of steel and flesh on the valley floor. Lances crashed into armoured chests, driving the men backwards off their saddles like sacks of bloody wheat. Their bodies hit the ground with dull thuds that rocked the earth. The cavalry made one determined, steady sweep through the ranks, then the swordplay began.
Long, polished blades swept at legs and heads, and men started screaming in pain and shouting to comrades. Horses reared up with red-rimmed noses, snorting foam. The foot soldiers rushed into the mix, slashing with pikes and swords. The sun glittered brightly on their wet, red blades.
Marcus spotted Sauvage from forty paces away. Sauvage had just clobbered one of the Endshire knights off a horse and spun his own huge, black destrier around when he caught Marcus’s eye too. He sat back hard in the saddle and lifted his hands to his chest, pulling the reins tight, his eyes never leaving Marcus. The horse swung around, snorting in fury and pawing the air.
Marcus smiled. Griffyn glanced over Marcus’s shoulder and smiled too.
Marcus jerked off his helm and spun to look over his shoulder. Bloody hell.
Hundreds of knights and horses, Sauvage pennants snapping in the wind, were hurtling down the hill towards his army. His entire army. It had been a trap.
The onrushing riders hit the wall of battle like a tidal wave, crashing up against its bloody shores with neighs and snorts and crashing steel. Marcus slammed his helm back on his head and spurred straight through the middle, towards Sauvage, who reined his stallion around in circles on a small rise of land, waiting for him.
“Well done,” Marcus said, nodding towards the fresh wave of death to the right.
“I will kill every one of you.”
“Call them off,” he said shortly. “We have to talk.”
Griffyn bent his elbow over the pommel of his saddle and leaned forward. “Every one of you.”
“I mean it, Griffyn. Stand them down. I have something. For Guinevere.”
Griffyn stared a moment, then stood in his stirrups and waved his arm in the air. His personal guard spurred towards him, Alex at their head. They moved with such triangulated force that the battle split open before them, like a sea parting. They skidded to a halt all around Griffyn. Twelve spears were lowered and aimed directly at Marcus’s head. Griffyn spoke rapidly to Alex, then turned back to Marcus.
“You first.”
Marcus cuffed his herald on the shoulder and the man bugled the retreat. Sauvage’s pages waved flags in the air, and within one minute, the fighting ceased. Each army backed halfway up different sides of the gently sloping hills and stood, panting and sweating, weapons lowered, watching the small figures at the centre of the valley floor.
“Bring Guinevere to us,” Griffyn ordered, his eyes never leaving Marcus.
Edmund spun and spurred his horse towards the castle, already hollering for Lady Gwyn.
Gwyn sat in the hall, helping to tear strips of linen into bandages. She only barely kept wrenching sobs at bay. Marcus’s army looked strong. Griffyn hated her.
A huge pile of table linens sat on the dais table. Ten or so women were sitting at the table on either side of her, cutting and tearing, speaking in hushed whispers. Children were scattered all around the hall, not speaking, not playing.
A cluster of boys hovered near the door, feinting at one another with pretend swords, looking as though they wanted to run out and join the fray. Three older knights, far past the age of combat, kept them from doing so, primarily by telling stories of older combats, legends that entranced the young boys. Lancelot. Sir Gawain. The Irish god-king Cúchulainn.
Gwyn directed food and drink to be brought out in abundance, although no one was eating. But she had no intention of rationing stores. For what? This was no siege. They would win, and there’d be no need for rationing. Or they would lose, and Gwyn didn’t plan on giving Marcus anything that was ripe or tasted good. Truth, she would poison the well herself if he rode under the gates.
A distant rattle drew her head up. It was outside, coming closer, getting louder. Soon, everyone in the great hall noticed it. People started looking around, murmuring.
Gwyn got to her feet. Her heart hammered. A loud crash reverberated through the hall. More clattering, loud, furious and fast, getting louder, coming closer. A shouted command: “Open!” Another crash, then a horse’s whinney that echoed to the rafters of the great hall.
“God in Heaven,” she exhaled.
A snorting, sweaty horse appeared at the top of the stairs. Astride sat Edmund, Griffyn’s squire. He’d ridden the animal straight up the outer stairwell, a suicidal act, rather than get off and waste the time to run inside.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Please God. Not Griffyn.”
Edmund shouted, “Come, my lady! He calls for you.”
She took one look at the line of women jamming up the narrow space behind the dais table, then scrambled atop and over the table. She fell to the ground on the other side, stumbled back to her feet, and took off running.