Stronghold by Paul Finch

tell for certain. Over this distance, the gathering force was comprised of diminutive figures, none of whom could be seen clearly. There was the occasional glint of mail or war-harness, though most seemed to be wearing peasant garb, and tatteredpeasant garb at that. One or two - and at first Ranulf thought he was hallucinating - seemed to be naked. This sent a greater prickle of unease down his spine than their overall numbers did. There was now perhaps a thousand of them, but still more were appearing.
    "From the north too, my lord," someone shouted.
    Everyone looked, and saw processions of figures crossing the high moors to the north of the castle. They were thinly spread, moving in small groups or ones and twos, and, in many cases, limping or stumbling as though starved or crippled. They resembled refugees rather than soldiers, but all together there must have been several thousand of them. By the time they joined the countess on the western bluff, they'd be a prodigious host. Although the English held this bastion and were armed to the teeth, they were suddenly outnumbered to a worrying degree.
    "Still think you can buy and sell the Welsh people, du Guesculin?" Ranulf muttered.
    Du Guesculin couldn't answer; he had blanched.
    "They're still only peasants," Navarre scoffed.
    "If so, they're armed," Ranulf observed.
    "What are scythes and reaping hooks to us?"
    "I see real weapons," Carew said.
    Most of the ragged shapes were carrying implements, and though many of these looked to be little more than clubs or broken farm tools, others were clearly swords, axes, poll-arms.
    "Where the devil did they get their hands on those?" du Guesculin said.
    "Our artillery train maybe?" Ranulf glanced at Crotocus. "Wasn't it expected to arrive last night?"
    The earl didn't reply, but regarded the gathering horde with growing wariness.
    "My lord, this is some riff-raff," Navarre protested. "They won't assault this castle. How could they possibly expect to take it?"
    "What is that ungodly stink?" someone asked.
    A noxious smell, like spoiled meat, was drifting on the breeze.
    "Pig farmers, ditch diggers," Navarre said. "Which is all they are."
    "That, my lords, is the smell of war," the earl said abruptly. "Muster your men, if you please. Prepare for battle!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    Bells rang throughout the castle for most of that morning. Clarions sounded in every section. But Countess Madalyn waited in silence on the western bluff, as did her army, its disordered ranks eerily still. By eleven o'clock, the walls of Grogen Castle were bristling with swords, spears and arrows knocked on strings; every defender was fully mailed. Even the grooms and pages had been called up and given blades. And yet still nothing happened.
    Ranulf, on the south curtain-wall, with Gurt to his right and Ulbert to his left, wondered if this delay owed to some previously unseen notion of Welsh chivalry, but he soon dismissed the idea. More likely the countess was waging a mental attack before the physical one. She was letting it be known that she had no concern about whether the English were prepared to receive her or not; that she was undeterred by their readiness, their armour, their weaponry. The battle would only commence when she decided, for it was she, not Earl Corotocus, who was dictating this day's strategy.
    Of course, Earl Corotocus was never one to waste an opportunity. While the countess dallied, he'd prepared his defences to their utmost. Though his personal artillery wagons might not have arrived, the castle had several engines of its own, and these were quickly marshalled. On the Barbican, Carew and his men, under the direction of William d'Abbetot, prepared the trebuchet, swivelling it round on its colossal timber turntable so that it faced the western bluff, then stockpiling rocks and lead weights, some as heavy as four hundred pounds. It took three of them to load just one such missile into the sling, and half the company to pour sweat as they