LIX

 

 

Castel Mercheval – December, 1191

 

TANCRED DID NOT wait for his men to return before unleashing his wrath. He had heard their screams – heard them perish one by one – but it was God that told him of their miserable failure. They had erred, let down both him and their Maker, and so he had no compunction about the terrors he would bring down upon them and their foe. He would rain down fire and destruction until either his enemy’s body or his will to live had been utterly obliterated.

For the past hour, the trebuchet atop the southeast tower had flung huge rocks amongst the trees, cracking boughs and pounding into the underbrush. The mangonels on the gatehouse and battlements had thrown hot coals and flaming bales which left high, arcing trails of black smoke in their wake. And both had hurled great jars that exploded in plumes of flame as they burst against the earth and the trunks of trees. At Tancred’s insistence, the scorpion atop the gatehouse had joined the barrage, firing one bolt after another – some flaming – into the forest’s midst. For him, war was total, even against just one man. Their target had been a circle of some several hundred yards about the thin column of smoke that marked the clearing. That smoke had darkened and thickened as the cries echoed in the forest. Tancred ordered his men to target the sounds. They did so, athough he could see the reluctance in their eyes. The fear. He knew the source of it, even if it did not touch him: they feared they were slaughtering their fellows, murdering them.

He had put them right about that. At worst, he said, they were putting an end to their agony. And all was to be bent to their main purpose, no matter what the outcome. If he had to burn the entire forest down, and everything in it, he would. Better ten good men were sent to Heaven than one agent of the Devil went free.

Now, the smoke from their adversary’s fire had been completely obscured, the rough circle of once-thick forest around it smashed and broken, thick with smoke and – even in the rain and damp – glowing with flames. Tancred strode back and forth along the southern battlements over the main gate – now hot as Hell with the fires of the engines – urging his men on. He did not do so with words of encouragement. There were no words, and encouragement was not his way. Instead he paced at their backs like a restless corpse, glaring at them, lips curled back from his teeth in an unconscious sneer, the distant, leaping flames of the forest reflecting in his cold, dead eyes.

Long ago, Lucatz the Enginer had advised him – as tactfully as he knew how – never to allow the siege engines to remain primed. With the exception of the counterweight trebuchet, they should be readied only immediately before firing. It would not only reduce their effectiveness, but could also cause strained ropes and wires to snap with a lethal whiplash, or even cause the whole device to implode. Tancred had listened patiently, unmoved and unmoving, as Lucatz had explained. Then he said simply: “Make them stronger.”

Lucatz had stared at him for a moment, too timid to challenge the suggestion, then set about the task. But Tancred had seen the reluctance in him, too. The same weakness. None of them understood as he understood. Evil could strike day or night. Its agents were among us, looked like us. He had to be ready at all times. And when he struck, he had to do so with a hammerblow.

The creak of ropes, the clack of ratchets, the clatter of wood against wood and the distant thump and crackle of destruction had become merged almost into a melody, when a cry went up from the watchmen. Tancred flew to the parapet. A single chestnut courser – one of the serjeants’ – had emerged from the maelstrom via the road, and now galloped towards them, its reins hanging before it. Clinging about its neck was a single ragged figure, doubled up in agony, blood clearly visible even upon the familiar scarlet livery.

“Open the gate!” roared Tancred, and marched to the wooden stairway, his red cloak flying. This was the only living thing to have emerged from the forest. The man’s life was, of course, irrelevant – but he would have the soldier’s report before he died.

Tancred heard the great gates clank and squeak as the guards threw off the bar and heaved them open to admit the rider. He sensed that it was not yet over; that there would be more of Gisburne before the day was out. Part of him relished the idea. He wished to face him again. To look him in the eye as he met his doom.

As he alighted in the bailey from the stairway, he saw two servants struggling towards the dog compound near the stables, a great trough of steaming offal swaying between them. Behind the compound’s wooden bars, the hounds yelped and snapped.

Tancred stopped the servants with a hand. “No,” he said. Rooted to the spot, the two men stared back, terror written over their faces. “Not yet. Keep them hungry. We may have need of them.” Visibly relieved, the men set down their burden, wiped hands on greasy thighs, and hurried away. There were those, long ago, who had seen fit to point out that having a pack of dogs so close to the stables would spook the horses. Tancred had replied he had no use for horses that were spooked by dogs. They would become hardened to it, or they would be released from his service. By implication, it was clear to his questioners that the same applied to them.

When Tancred turned, the horse was already through the gate, its rider slumped flat against it, his body hanging half way down its flank.

Tancred recognised Aldric’s horse – he knew his horses far better than he knew his men – but as it drew to a halt before the stable block beneath the west wall, he sensed that something was awry with its rider. It was not Aldric, or anyone he immediately recognised. And, as a small knot of knights and soldiers gathered around to offer help, or to hear what they could from him, and the limp figure slithered further from his mount, the bloodstained surcoat rode up to reveal another beneath. Black.

There followed an explosion of unleashed fury. As it slipped and fell, the figure righted itself with sudden and unexpected grace, hauled at the saddle, and swung with ferocious speed at the surrounding throng. Blood and spit and shattered teeth flew as a sword struck one full in the face. Another collapsed as the blade swung back and came crashing down upon his collarbone, slicing six inches into his torso. A third was slashed across the throat and fell to his knees in a foaming crimson gush.

All of this happened before anyone could react. Now they reeled back, grasped for weapons, or remained paralysed – easy prey for the flashing blades.

Gisburne – Norman broadsword in one hand, Saxon shortsword in the other – first targeted those who would fight back. The sword flew from a knight’s grip, its ringing, spinning blade catching a serjeant upon the cheek. A cocked, loaded crossbow was battered sideways and went off, its bolt splintering a guard’s shin.

The circle drew back around him, Gisburne’s targets dwindling, until the remaining soldiers all stood about, staring wide-eyed at the demonic figure and the slaughter he had inflicted upon them. One of the guards, at a safe distance from the invader’s blades, levelled his crossbow.

Tancred’s hand pushed the bow down, its bolt discharging harmlessly into the ground. The crossbowman stared in bemusement as his master thrust him aside and advanced into the circle, drawing his sword. Gisburne locked eyes on Tancred, and gripped his weapons tighter – and for an instant, Tancred could swear he saw a smile flicker across that face.

The Templar found himself almost glad at this development. What Gisburne had hoped to achieve by this astonishing, foolhardy action was a mystery, but part of him – the part that was still human – could not help but admire the man’s boldness and tenacity. He knew it was the Devil that gave Gisburne strength, but there was a certain purity of purpose that Tancred found... pleasing. Tancred realised, perhaps for the first time, he respected purity above all else – even when it was the purity of evil. There was a clarity – an honesty – in its utter lack of compromise. They were two sides of a coin, Gisburne and he, their interdependence – their conflict – an inevitability. Yes, this moment had been ordained. The two of them, face to face. He felt a strange satisfaction at what was to come next.

“God wills it,” he said, and swung his blade.