‘It’s going!’ panted Eric, face crimson with effort as he struggled for all he was worth. The foremost Welshman had reached the top and had begun straddling the wall, his round shield held before him, sword already swinging for Eric’s throat.Eric was forced to duck and relinquish his hold on the grappling hook. Guyon swept beneath the Welshman’s guard, slashing open his leather jerkin as if it were made of parchment, and kicked him back over the wall. He slammed his sword pommel beneath the second man’s jaw, snapping him backwards and then kicked him off too.
The ladder scraped and grated on the stone as it started to slip. Another of the enemy reached the top and met his death on Guyon’s blade. His cry mingled with the shrieks of his companions on the rungs as the ladder toppled sideways and crashed into the ditch below. There was no time to congratulate each other, or even to lean weakly against the stone to regain breath and stop their hearts from bursting, for ladders were up either side of the one just dislodged and from one of these the Welsh had gained the parapet and were dispersing along the wall walk.
For a time the fighting was so desperate that Guyon could scarcely hold his own without time to think of the defences elsewhere; when there was a lull in his section, it was only because the wall had broken on the other side and de Lacey was drawing men away to force the breach.
Guyon sprinted in full mail towards the new danger and was tripped by a wounded Welshman. A knife glittered. Guyon blocked the thrust on his shield and then slammed it into the man’s face, rolled and regained his feet. Eric bellowed a warning. Guyon ducked and a hand axe connected with the side of his helm instead of splitting his face, and sent him to his knees. The second blow he caught on his shield, which splintered beneath the impact. The third never landed, for he backswiped the blade across his opponent’s shins and brought him screaming down. But there was another to take his place, and then another, and he could not break through.
CHAPTER30
‘I want the Welsh put out of the reckoning, Miles.’
Miles set down the destrier’s hoof he had been examining and slapped the stallion’s powerful glossy shoulder.’
‘Easier said than done, sire,’ he said to King Henry. ‘When we make war among ourselves, it is the time of their greatest profit.’ He wiped his hands on his chausses and reached for his shirt.
‘Perhaps I should have said the Welsh who are allied with de Belleme. The last thing I need when we march on Shrewsbury is for Cadwgan’s rabble to come hurling out of Wales and attack from the side.’
Miles donned the garment and, hands on hips, signalled the groom to lead the destrier round so that he could assess how well the strained foreleg had mended.
‘You want me to go to war against the Welsh, sire?’ he asked with deceptive mildness.
Henry studied the stallion’s long, fluid stride. His lips twitched. ‘I want you to negotiate with them, my lord – bring them to the trestle and make them see sense.’
Miles snorted. ‘Anyone who sits at a trestle with you, sire, usually ends up being the meal,’ he said drily.
Henry’s smile deepened with appreciation and he made no attempt to deny the remark. ‘They’ll be susceptible to bribery. Offer Cadwgan whatever he wants – within reason. He’s not particularly intelligent, but he’s greedy and astute with it. With your Welsh connections and other skills you should be able to persuade him off my back and on to de Belleme’s.’
Miles looked wry. ‘And what happens to be in it for me?’ he asked. ‘Apart from the warm glow of knowing that I am a loyal servant of my King?’
Henry pursed his lips. ‘A dispensation perhaps?’ he said, raising his eyes to Alicia as she came down towards them, a packet in her hands.
Miles’s mouth tightened. He nodded to the groom and the horse was led away. ‘When do you want me to leave?’
‘As soon as you may. I want possession of Shrewsbury before the winter frosts stop the grass growing.’ He turned to Alicia with a gracious smile. Her braids were still as black as midnight and she smelled wonderfully of attar of roses. ‘Worth it, isn’t it?’
Miles said nothing, but the tight line of his mouth was eloquent.
Alicia lowered her eyes before Henry. Of necessity he was occasionally a visitor, but she felt awkward before him and tried to keep their contact to a minimum. There had been desperate reasons behind her adultery. Henry’s own need had been a simple, adolescent lust.
Mischievously, Henry reached for her hand to kiss it, but she evaded him and placed the packet in his grasp instead.
‘What’s this?’ he enquired.
‘I do not know, sire. The messenger has only just ridden in.’
Henry looked at the seal. ‘Your son,’ he said to Miles as he broke open the wax and then quickly perused the contents. Alicia went to slip her arm through Miles’s, seeking the reassurance of his body.
‘Hah! He’s taken Thornford,’ Henry said with satisfaction. ‘Says he’ll shore up and garrison and move down to Bridgnorth via Ledworth and Oxley to gather fresh supplies.’
‘What about de Lacey? Is he dead or prisoner?’
Henry shook his head ‘No. Apparently he slipped out before the last assault, to Shrewsbury so one of the garrison said, but Guy cannot be sure. De Lacey’s wife and son are at Thornford, both sick of the bloody flux.’
‘Does he mention a Welsh girl?’
Henry shook his head and passed the letter to Miles. ‘Some special concern of his? Didn’t he have a Welsh mistress once?’
‘De Lacey murdered her and her son and abducted her ten-year-old daughter to serve his lusts,’ Miles said brusquely. ‘Her other child, Guyon’s daughter, is being cared for at Ravenstow. By a hair’s breadth, she was spared her mother’s fate.’
