unarmed folk maimed in a morning. Cut up before our very eyes like so much meat at a shambles. And for what? So that this monstrous King can demonstrate to us that he is serious about punishing those who defy him.’
I could taste last night’s greasy mutton soup, sour at the back of my throat.
‘That would doubtless be our fate, if we were to fall into the King’s hands,’ said d’Aubigny. ‘Even under a flag of truce.’
‘You see, Alan, surrender is not an option,’ said Robin.
D’Aubigny left us a few moments later, and Robin and I stared out over the town below. I could see that while a goodly number of the houses had been burned to the ground, some efforts had been made to stamp out the fire. And many dwellings, shops and warehouses remained. There were rough-looking men in mail and leather armour strolling along the high street. The cathedral’s doors were wide open and a constant stream of men was heading in andout – some of them leading horses. I blinked in shock. He is using this venerable House of God as a common stables, I thought. His cavalry mounts are shitting and pissing in the space where generations have offered up their earnest prayers. Is there no end to his depravity?
‘How long will the outer walls hold?’ I asked Robin.
‘A week, maybe two, at most,’ said my lord.
A stone, perhaps lighter than the others, flew right over the outer bailey wall and crashed to pieces against the lower part of the keep. I flinched.
‘But it’s not the trebuchets that concern me the most. See there!’ Robin pointed to a low wooden structure, a plain box about the size of a villein’s cottage, on the sloping ground due south of us, behind and a little to the left of the siege engines and about three hundred yards away. It looked innocuous. I knew it was not. As I watched, a pair of burly men with long-handled shovels over their shoulders, as small as a child’s toys at that distance, came out of the mouth of the box, chatting casually to each other.
‘They are mining the walls?’ I said. ‘Already?’
‘John wants this castle – and as fast as possible. Winter is coming, Alan, and though his men are snug in the town, you know what happens when an army stays in one place too long. So, yes, he’s already mining under our walls.’
I did know. Disease seemed to hover about all large gatherings of men, although no man could say why. An army that stayed put for some months could lose a third of its strength to the bloody flux, slowly bleeding their lives away through their ever-running arseholes, without the besieged enemy even raising a blade to them.
‘Christ,’ I said, letting out a long breath. ‘He has overwhelming force; we cannot surrender; and he will have battered apart or undermined our walls in a week or two. We are all dead men.’
‘You should have stayed in London, Alan,’ said Robin. But then he favoured me with a grim smile. ‘Come on, old friend, we’re not deadquite yet. What do you say to a cup of wine and game of chess?’
The wine was sour and well-watered to make it go further, and I was trapped and soundly beaten on the chessboard by Robin in a shamefully short time. In truth I could not concentrate. Even in the great hall, the noise of the trebuchets battering the outer bailey was a constant irritation, alarming, jarring, a pounding pulse that counted down to our doom. Robin, damn him, was thoroughly cheerful as he destroyed me in the second game we played, too. When the bell rang for dinner and all the knights who were not on duty gathered at the long trestle table in the second part of the divided hall by the big wall-set fire, I had another unpleasant shock, for the meal we sat down to was as meagre as any I have eaten: a watery stew of carrots and onions, a few slivers of cheese, rough maslin bread that seemed to be half sawdust and more of the sour wine.
‘Oh,’ said Robin casually, when I mentioned it, ‘we have almost run through the stores since
I could taste last night’s greasy mutton soup, sour at the back of my throat.
‘That would doubtless be our fate, if we were to fall into the King’s hands,’ said d’Aubigny. ‘Even under a flag of truce.’
‘You see, Alan, surrender is not an option,’ said Robin.
D’Aubigny left us a few moments later, and Robin and I stared out over the town below. I could see that while a goodly number of the houses had been burned to the ground, some efforts had been made to stamp out the fire. And many dwellings, shops and warehouses remained. There were rough-looking men in mail and leather armour strolling along the high street. The cathedral’s doors were wide open and a constant stream of men was heading in andout – some of them leading horses. I blinked in shock. He is using this venerable House of God as a common stables, I thought. His cavalry mounts are shitting and pissing in the space where generations have offered up their earnest prayers. Is there no end to his depravity?
‘How long will the outer walls hold?’ I asked Robin.
‘A week, maybe two, at most,’ said my lord.
A stone, perhaps lighter than the others, flew right over the outer bailey wall and crashed to pieces against the lower part of the keep. I flinched.
‘But it’s not the trebuchets that concern me the most. See there!’ Robin pointed to a low wooden structure, a plain box about the size of a villein’s cottage, on the sloping ground due south of us, behind and a little to the left of the siege engines and about three hundred yards away. It looked innocuous. I knew it was not. As I watched, a pair of burly men with long-handled shovels over their shoulders, as small as a child’s toys at that distance, came out of the mouth of the box, chatting casually to each other.
‘They are mining the walls?’ I said. ‘Already?’
‘John wants this castle – and as fast as possible. Winter is coming, Alan, and though his men are snug in the town, you know what happens when an army stays in one place too long. So, yes, he’s already mining under our walls.’
I did know. Disease seemed to hover about all large gatherings of men, although no man could say why. An army that stayed put for some months could lose a third of its strength to the bloody flux, slowly bleeding their lives away through their ever-running arseholes, without the besieged enemy even raising a blade to them.
‘Christ,’ I said, letting out a long breath. ‘He has overwhelming force; we cannot surrender; and he will have battered apart or undermined our walls in a week or two. We are all dead men.’
‘You should have stayed in London, Alan,’ said Robin. But then he favoured me with a grim smile. ‘Come on, old friend, we’re not deadquite yet. What do you say to a cup of wine and game of chess?’
The wine was sour and well-watered to make it go further, and I was trapped and soundly beaten on the chessboard by Robin in a shamefully short time. In truth I could not concentrate. Even in the great hall, the noise of the trebuchets battering the outer bailey was a constant irritation, alarming, jarring, a pounding pulse that counted down to our doom. Robin, damn him, was thoroughly cheerful as he destroyed me in the second game we played, too. When the bell rang for dinner and all the knights who were not on duty gathered at the long trestle table in the second part of the divided hall by the big wall-set fire, I had another unpleasant shock, for the meal we sat down to was as meagre as any I have eaten: a watery stew of carrots and onions, a few slivers of cheese, rough maslin bread that seemed to be half sawdust and more of the sour wine.
‘Oh,’ said Robin casually, when I mentioned it, ‘we have almost run through the stores since
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