Rhiannon (18 page)

The trouble was, as Simon could see when he darted out to
shoot and slid back, that there were nearly a thousand men opposed to his
fifty. Four or five to one was about equal force for an assault, since the men
on the walls had so great an advantage. However, here they were outnumbered by
many more than that. Either someone had given good advice and Henry had taken
it for once, or the king’s own impatience had worked out the correct answer. No
reserve was being held back. All Henry’s forces were in action.

The density of bolts from the attackers was greatly
inhibiting the effectiveness of Simon’s archers. There was so continual a rain
of quarrels that the men could scarcely find a chance to loose their own
arrows. Simon himself was hit both times he stepped forward to shoot. His mail
was superior to that of his men; one quarrel did not bite and the other slid
along his upper arm, nicking the skin but doing no other damage.

Sheltered by the curtain of crossbow fire, the assault
forces were busily laying their spanning devices over the brush, logs, and mud
with which portions of the moat had been filled. Simon’s men cursed and grew
more daring, trying to pick off the crews who were working. Although they made
a few hits, the cost in injuries to themselves was too high, and Simon shouted
for them to let be and take care. Once the assaulters started to climb the
ladders, the crossbowmen would have to stop shooting or they would hit their
own men. Then Simon’s men would have the advantage again.

More warily now, the archers continued picking off a man
here and there, cleverly trying for those in charge of the working parties or
men who were doing crucial tasks. The caution, coupled with the accuracy and
deadliness of the great Welsh bows, paid well. Only one man was wounded badly
enough so that Simon directed he be carried down. Many others were lightly
hurt; with their injuries bound they were able to continue to fight.

Those among the attackers struck by the wide, barbed head of
a longbow shaft were not so fortunate. The narrower head of a crossbow bolt
could be drawn out with little further hurt; the longbow arrow had to be pushed
through or cut out. If it was pulled out, the flesh was torn in a wide swath
because the broad back-sloping barbs caught and held wherever they entered.

Despite the efforts of the archers on the walls, the
spanning devices were set and ladders began to rise. Two out of three of
Simon’s men laid aside their bows, picked up stout, hooked poles, and began to
try to push the ladders over. This was tricky work, since the crossbowmen shot
as hard and fast as they could to prevent it. Fortunately, as the defenders
bent low in the crenel openings, they exposed less of themselves as targets.
Those who had retained their bows continued to shoot at the men trying to raise
the ladders.

As rapidly as the ladders rose, they were tipped over. Here
and there one remained upright long enough for some men to mount. When they
were about halfway up, the crossbowmen in that area began to slack their fire.
That permitted more daring efforts to overturn the ladders, and Simon could
hear the cries when the efforts were successful, the ladders tipped, and the
men fell.

Now Simon could see that some of his men were deliberately
waiting until the ladders were half-full. He weighed the danger and the profit
and then shouted for the other teams to do the same. There was a chance that
the men would misjudge their timing and so many would get up on the ladder that
it would become too heavy to overturn, however, the few assaulters that could
get up on the wall from one or two mistakes could be swiftly dispatched. On the
other hand, dropping the men in the moat would eliminate most of them. If they
fell on the blocked portions, they would break their bones; if they fell into
the water on either side, burdened with their armor, they would drown.

Because the opposing army was large, discouragement did not
come quickly. As fast as ladders were pushed over, others rose. Some were
broken, but more were ready to replace those splintered. Eventually one
remained upright in Simon’s section and a captain swung through a crenel
opening, thrusting with his sword and spitting an unwary Welshman. With a shout
of joy, Simon snatched up his shield, drew his sword, and rushed forward to
engage. This was his business, and he dispatched it well and swiftly, knocking
aside the man’s shield with his own and taking him in the neck with his sword.

One of Simon’s men dragged the corpse out from under his
master’s feet and with the help of a companion tossed it over the battlement.
Meanwhile, Simon had engaged the second man. While they traded blows, another
of Simon’s Welshmen leaned daringly from a crenel opening about ten feet away
and began to pick off the climbers on the lower part of the ladder. Simon dispatched
his second opponent, who was also tossed over. He was not dead and screamed as
he fell.

More shrieks drifted up as others fell from the ladder.
Several of the bowmen had taken cues from the one initially shooting at the
climbers. A third man put his leg over the crenel opening, thrusting his shield
smartly outward to push away a man-at-arms who struck at him with his sword.
This move was successful, but unfortunately for him Simon was on the side and
took his leg off at the knee. He screamed and continued to do so as he, too,
was thrown over the wall. By then the load on the ladder had been sufficiently
lightened that the men with thrusting poles could topple it.

Simon wiped his sword on his surcoat, no other cloth being
immediately available, and resheathed it after an alert glance up and down his
section of wall assured him there was no further danger of anyone getting up
from a ladder. He was aware that the rain of crossbow bolts was much
diminished; quarrels must be running out. In fact, it seemed that the attack as
a whole was tapering off. Almost as soon as Simon was aware of the thought, he
heard the blare of horns calling a retreat.

It was only then that Simon realized he was soaking wet with
sweat. That seemed odd, for mornings in September were chilly enough, and aside
from the little time he had been engaged with those men who had reached the
battlements, he had not been exerting himself violently. Only it was not
morning. Simon looked stupidly at the sun blazing down from the southwest. Two-thirds
of the day had passed, and he had not been aware of it.

Recalled to the anxiety that had occupied him just before
the attack began, Simon looked again toward the southwest, but lower. The siege
towers had been withdrawn to a safe distance. Simon sighed, thinking of the
captain who had led his men onto the wall and was now dead. Geoffrey was always
at the head of his men also. Not Geoffrey, Simon prayed.
Dear God, not
Geoffrey. I will never be able to go home again. How could I look into Joanna’s
face? I should have been beside my brother, not supporting those who opposed
him and enjoying myself.

With that fear, his own physical discomforts began to press
on him. He became aware that his mouth was dry with thirst and his stomach
ground with hunger. That was nothing, but if he sent a man to have food and
drink brought up, he could also ask about Geoffrey. Before he had a chance to
act on this idea, he saw serfs running from the kitchen quarters bearing loaves
of bread and rounds of cheese. Others followed more slowly, lugging huge
kettles of soup or stew and barrels of beer. Resignedly Simon sat down and
rested his back against the wall. It was not likely, anyway, that anyone would
have any sure word of Geoffrey for him.

They ate on the walls, watching the king’s forces while the
serfs ran back and forth bringing new arrows from the store of weapons,
replacing any broken thrusting poles or dulled or damaged weapons for the
smiths to start working on, and gathering the spent crossbow bolts to refill the
quivers of their own crossbowmen. The leeches came around to wash and bandage
the lightly wounded and direct the worst hurt to be taken down for treatment.

Simon had seen it all before, and after a while he stood and
looked out toward the king’s camp. There seemed to be a conference taking place
there, but it was too far away for Simon to tell who attended it. All that was
clear, then, was the result. The massed men broke up and drew away. Apparently
there would not be another assault this day—or the defenders were supposed to
believe that it would not be renewed.

But it was no device to deceive. Simon stayed until the
clang of cooking pots and armorers came faintly from the camp, indicating that
there really would be a period of quiet. He then chose a few men, all unhurt,
and ordered them to watch closely for any hint of a surprise attack. The other
men were to try to sleep, as it was quite likely the next attack would come at
night. Those on guard could amuse themselves by firing burning, pitch-headed
arrows at anything they hoped they could set afire.

Having done his duty, Simon went down and joined the other
leaders in the hall. Richard was listening to reports and it was quite clear
that they had sustained very little real damage. They were still in excellent
condition to withstand anything the king could throw against them. As soon as
he could, Simon made his way to Richard, waiting impatiently for him to be free
of business for a moment. When he could, he asked about Geoffrey, naming his
arms, but Richard had not seen him at all. The siege tower he had faced had
been commanded by the Earl of Ferrars.

“If you mean the demon with the lion and Danish ax on a
green ground, bend sinister,” Philip Bassett said, “I have this to thank him
for.” He pointed to an ugly bruise on his forehead. “But you need not worry. He
is in the most excellent health, damn him.”

“No, do not damn him,” Simon protested, laughing with
relief. “I am sorry for your bruise, but he is my brother.”

“And you could not cozen him into joining us instead of
opposing us?”

Simon blinked at the idea of cozening Geoffrey, who could
think rings around anyone else he knew. Joanna might manage it, but no one else
could. However, all he said was, “He is the king’s cousin, Salisbury’s
bastard.”

It was easier to explain Geoffrey’s attachment by a blood
tie than to get involved in his belief that the friends of the king could
eventually bring him to reason. Philip Bassett was of fiery temper and would
not appreciate Geoffrey’s desire to convince rather than force, but he would
understand the bond of blood.

“Well, then, I will not wish him ill,” Bassett agreed wryly,
“since he is dear to you, but I hope he will be sent elsewhere—or that I will.
He is not large, but he is a terror! He cost us more men than all the others
put together and actually came across and held a piece of the wall for a time.
There were moments when I thought he would win his way to the tower door. It
was only the call to retreat that drove him off.”

“I thank God he came to no harm,” Richard said with a sigh.
“Geoffrey FitzWilliam is a fine man.” His mouth quivered and his eyes grew
bitter. “God’s curse and all the ill we are doing each other should fall on the
Bishop of Winchester, who has brought us to this pass. May his body bear the pains
of all the wounded, and his soul the weight of the sins and hate he has forced
upon us all.”

“Amen,” Simon said, but the pain in Richard’s face called to
him and he said, “But there is no hate between me and Geoffrey. You must not
think that. Where there is love, there is also understanding. We each honor the
other that he holds to his principles.”

“It is all the fault of the Bishop of Winchester,” another
man said. “If the king had kept to his natural advisers—we of the old
barony—instead of turning to a man long absent from this realm and steeped in
foreign ways—”

“Yes, and that is what we must enforce upon Henry,” Philip
Bassett said hotly.

Because he was thinking of Geoffrey, Simon was inspired to
unaccustomed tolerance and understanding. “It would be better to convince the
king softly than enforce,” he said. “Henry has a long memory.” An uncomfortable
silence followed this all-too-true remark, but Simon was still thinking of
Geoffrey and his last conversation with him. “Yet we may all come scatheless
out of this, if it can be shown that what we have been saying a moment ago is
true—that the causer of the trouble is Winchester, that on him the blame should
fall, and when he is gone all men will be at peace and return to their duty.”

Richard could not help smiling at Simon, whose youthful face
was so much in contrast to his sage advice. “It is my purpose,” he said. “I
only wish you could tell me how to bring it about.”

Simon nodded. “But I can. Geoffrey gave me the answer. He
said to me that the king only likes apples that drop into his hands. If they do
not, first he kicks the tree and then, having hurt his foot, he blames the last
person who mentioned apples to him—”

“What is this nonsense of apples and trees,” Philip asked
irritably, taking literally what Simon said.

However, Richard was staring at Simon with deep interest.
“Lord Geoffrey is a wise man,” Richard said, “but it will be a neat trick to
know when the apple should drop so that the blame does not swing back to the
tree. It is, after all, possible to fetch an ax to obtain apples.”

Although it was pretty stupid to consider killing a tree to
get at its apples, Simon made no protest because he felt it would be typical of
Henry’s behavior. He only shrugged and nodded, adding Geoffrey’s final caution.
“Even if the moment be right, it may not serve its purpose perfectly. Henry is
not so light-minded that one or two disappointments will make him change his
opinion of a man he has trusted from childhood.”

“You are right about that too,” Richard sighed. “However,
all this is not to the point at this moment. First we must be sure the apples
are not shaken loose by kicking the tree.”