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Lazare’s fingers on the hand cannon he is hefting into position grow still, and for one minute I fear he will strike her. “I thought you weren’t going to say it?”
She smiles sweetly. “I didn’t. I gave Beast all the credit.” That is how she bears it, I realize. She harries others to relieve the tension I know is coursing through her. “Is it ready?”
Lazare points behind him down into the gateyard. Beast had not wanted to leave the city without defenses and insisted we keep two of the catapults within its walls. Just behind their lowered buckets, wide, shallow metal bowls as large as wagon wheels sit over charcoal braziers.
“Excellent,” Sybella says. “But we are to save it for the infantry. Do not launch it too soon.”
Lazare rolls his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Do you have time to show us how to fire the hook guns?”
A long, slow smile spreads across his face. “That’s what I like about you—always willing to try something new.” He leads us back to the guns placed against the wall. They are not small. Some look like miniature cannon, while others are more complex. Lazare picks up one of the complex ones.
“The others take longer to load and are less reliable, so use these until you can’t. All in all, it’s fairly simple,” he says.
But it’s not remotely simple. He holds up one flask of powder. “This goes into the barrel, then the wad, followed by the ball. Then ram it all in nice and tight with this rod here. Next, take this powder”—he holds up a second flask—“and place it in the primer pan. This here hook holds a small piece of slow-burning cord—we call it a match. When you pull this lever, the cord touches the powder in the primer pan and then boom! Got it?” There is a challenge in his eyes—as if he knows it is far more complicated than that and wants Sybella to ask him to explain it again.
“We’ve got it,” Sybella says, grabbing the weapon from him.
“Oh, and this hook here is so you can prop it on the wall. They’re only good for about two hundred paces, so don’t waste it on targets farther away than that. And for the love of the Dark Mother, don’t go shooting our own men.”
Sybella looks as if she would like to use him for target practice, but sets the gun down against the wall and reaches for another one—to practice on.
By the time we have five of them loaded, a cry goes up from the eastern watchtower. I glance up from my work to see the standard-bearer. Behind his yellow and blue flag ride four knights in full suits of armor. Behind them ride more mounted knights, as far as the eye can see. Their visors are down, their horses lathered, as they gallop toward us. Any hint of humanity is hidden by the heavy metal that protects their bodies and those of their horses.
“Sweet Jesu,” I mutter.
“They will not expect to have to fight so quickly,” Sybella says. “The dance of chivalry allows for both sides to take their positions on the field before engaging, but Beast has chosen to force the fight on his timing.”
Down below us, Beast calls out, “Archers! Take your positions!” The Arduinnites disappear into the nearby trees, except for the thirty who will remain before our defensive line.
“Steady,” Beast reminds everyone. “Do not move until I give the order.”
The silence grows heavy as we wait for Pierre. One of the horsemen detaches from the rest of the unit and rides forward, Pierre’s lathered horse prancing as he catches the scent of the other stallions.
“You cannot think to fight with so few men,” Pierre calls out for all to hear. “Here are my terms. If Anton Crunard is among you, send him out and I will accept your unconditional surrender with no retaliation.”
“He does not recognize Beast,” Sybella whispers. “Or know about the destruction of the English fleet.”
“Or he is lying.”
No one makes any move to accept his offer. Perhaps they too know he is lying. Maraud’s horse paws at the ground, bringing him one pace forward. “If you are too afraid to fight,” he says, “simply say so.”
Pierre’s helmet swivels in Maraud’s direction. “You will pay for this. You have betrayed me, destroyed our can—”
“That was no betrayal—I never agreed to fight for you.”
Sensing his rider’s temper, Pierre’s horse rises up, pawing at the air. “I will cut out your heart myself,” Pierre says.
Maraud raps his gauntlet on his breastplate. “If you can find it.”
As Pierre swings his horse around to ride back to his waiting forces, Maraud calls out, “Hey, Pierre! Exactly how many balls do you have left?”
Guffaws of laughter erupt from our line as Pierre puts his spurs to his horse and gallops away.
Sybella nods in appreciation. “Invoke his intemperate fury. This boy of yours has some wits.”
Stupidly, I feel a glow of pride.
Pierre does not lead the charge himself, but gives the signal by bringing his gauntlet down in a swiping motion. His first assault surges forward, the three knights that rode with him in the lead. I wonder which—if any of them—is Maraud’s father, or if he is already dead, killed by Pierre for Maraud’s escape.
The five hundred knights riding toward us do not slow down, or fall back, or veer to the left or right. Indeed, as they draw closer, the knight in the center stands in his stirrups and raises his helmet’s visor. From the ramparts, it appears as if he is looking directly at Maraud. With their gazes locked, he rides forward, never checking his stride. He is the first to reach the ditch hidden by branches and brambles, the first to pitch forward into it, his limbs flailing and his horse’s legs tangling with his own.
The other knights are too close to turn back. They, too, ride forward, plunging into the ditch and the sharpened spikes that wait there. Shouts of surprise, screams of terror, the crunch of bone and metal fill the air as scores of knights go pouring in after them, like water over a cliff.
Those in the vanguard take the worst of it. Behind them, the riders veer to the left and the right, hoping to avoid the ditch. But Beast and Maraud have thought of that and have more waiting for them on either side. More screams, more clashing and crunching as the first line of attack is swallowed. I can no longer tell if the thudding that reverberates through my body is the thunder of the assault or the heartbeats of all the dying.
A few are lucky. Their horses throw their riders over their heads so the men avoid being crushed by their own mounts’ bodies in the fall. Others are luckier still and are tossed completely over the ditch, landing on the far side—but are met by Arduinna’s arrows.
It takes mere minutes, but by the time it is over, the casualties of the first assault are horrific.
The second line of assault approaches much as the first, riding toward us at full speed. Beast calls out, “Pikesmen!” The two hundred conscripts step out from behind the mounted knights and take up position just behind the Arduinna archers. They jam their pikes into the ground and brace their bodies. As the second assault draws closer, the riders try to veer around the ditches but are met with hundreds of arrows pouring out of the trees, forcing them toward the trenches. The half that manage to avoid the ditches and arrows are met by the pikesmen. The force of the cavalry’s impact drives them at least six feet back, but the pikes do their work.
While the second line of cavalry is nearly finished off, Lazare mounts the culverins to the ramparts. By the time the third wave of cavalry comes galloping toward us, they are ready. “Now!” Lazare calls out. Down the line, four charbonnerie touch their hot wires to the hole in the powder chambers. Within seconds, four explosions erupt in rapid succession, clouds of white smoke rising up. The cannonballs hurtle into the oncoming cavalry, knocking a dozen men from their horses but creating additional chaos as the horses bolt, men rear back, and the ground shakes beneath their feet.
It takes them a moment to regroup. Whether because their ears are still ringing from the blast or because they are reluctant to continue forward, I don’t know.
When they do, a second round of culverins go
es off, creating as much damage as the first, reducing the number of charging knights by half. And then they are too close for us to use the cannon without risking our own men.
With his cavalry in ruins, Pierre signals to his infantry. They shout out their battle cry and charge. Our own infantry starts to regroup in order to meet them.
“Get back!” Beast shouts.
“Ready, ready, now!” Sybella says.
Lazare shouts to the charbonnerie below. “Now!” There’s a whack and a thump, followed by the ringing of metal as two bowls of burning sand and bits of metal go arcing over the wall, over our own men, who have drawn back against it, and straight into the oncoming infantry. Earsplitting screams follow as a molten barrage of metal and sand rains down upon them, searing their skin and finding its way down their clothes.
Our own men cheer. Between the pits, the culverins, the arrows, and the catapults, we have reduced their numbers by at least half, possibly more.
A wiser commander would draw back, regroup, take some time to find a tactical way around the defensive position Beast has set up. But Pierre is not that commander. With every field assault, his temper and determination grow more entrenched.
But once there are no more tricks up our sleeve, Pierre’s forces advance again, and although their numbers are greatly reduced, it is still more than two to one.
The clash is deafening.
Beast charges into the fray with a bloodcurdling battle cry, the sound of it surely sending a chill through all who hear. As he rides, he swings his longsword in one hand and his battle-ax in the other. He surges forward to the closest knight, his great sword nearly severing the man in two. Another knight tries to approach from behind, but Beast swings his battle-ax blindly, connecting with a sickening blow that sends the man tumbling from his horse.
The battle lust has fully come over Beast. He not only moves fast, but his blows look like they have the force of three men. Although he is faced with a wall of knights, he goes doggedly forward, leaving devastation in his wake. Within minutes, he is surrounded by the bodies of the fallen and is in danger of being boxed in by their corpses. He does something with his knees, his horse rearing and then leaping over the fallen, trampling a few to get clear of the mound.
Beside me, Sybella says, “Ready?”
“Ready.” I place my hands over my ears as she triggers the latch to bring the cord down to the priming pan. There is a hiss and a sizzle as the small round bullet is discharged in a thick cloud of white smoke. It strikes one of Pierre’s knights, punching through his armor and knocking him from his horse.
“It’s a hit!” I turn to congratulate Sybella just as she rises to her feet, rubbing her rump. “That poxy bastard did not tell me the powder would kick so hard,” she grumbles.
