‘What now?’ he said.
The man at his side was the same blue-eyed Englishman with the heavy falchion. ‘Now? They’ll concentrate all their efforts on the walls, and leave the damage inside the city to the two bigger ones over there.’
Baldwin looked to where he pointed, and saw al-Mansour rising over the field like a hideous gallows. He could almost imagine a man being hanged from that vast sling. It made the gorge rise in his throat. But then he saw something else from the corner of his eye. There, out at sea, was Buscarel’s cog, and even as he watched, the cog’s catapult swung up, and another rock was sent tumbling through the air.
‘They will not hit it, you know,’ Jacques said.
Baldwin turned with surprise. ‘My friend, what are you doing here? You should be at the Lazar Tower.’
‘I was aware of my post, yes,’ Jacques said with a very slight tone of impatience. ‘I have been sent to speak with Sir Otto. Sir Guillaume thinks that the ship will not succeed.’
‘Why? Buscarel is doing a good job, flinging his rocks. It’s only a matter of time before he has destroyed that damned machine.’
‘Damned it may be, my friend, but do not be confused. We will die before it, at this rate. There is need for us to take the initiative.’
One of Sir Otto’s men saw Sir Jacques, and hurried to take him over to the English Commander. Baldwin waited, watching them discussing something, both close to each other, glancing through gaps in the hoardings. Then there was a nod of agreement between the two, and they clasped their forearms in a display of trust.
‘Wait for me tonight, Baldwin, at Ivo’s house. You will come with us,’ Sir Jacques said, with that quiet smile on his face.
‘Where do we go?’
‘We ride to that damned machine, my friend. We shall go there and burn it and send it to Hell, where it belongs!’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
By mid-morning, Buscarel was pleased with the way that the catapult was working. They had thrown fifteen of the great lumps of masonry, and although the Muslims had tried to fire their darts in retaliation, it had availed them nothing. With the cog bobbing and dancing near the coast, it was impossible for them to hit her. She wove a frenetic course along the coastline here, where the water was good and deep, and then tacked to return the other way, the men frantically working the great machine all the while.
It was good to be on the water again, he thought as he looked up at the sails and saw how she was falling away. This would be the last shot from this tack, he thought, and called to the sergeant in charge of the catapult to get a move on.
The sergeant roared at his men to withdraw, then pulled the pin. The long arm swept up, the sling caught the lump of broken stone, and with a scraping rasp, the missile was hoiked along its channel and up into the air. The sling released perfectly, and the stone flew straight and true.
His heart seem to stop. From here, Buscarel could see the stone moving swiftly away from him, up into the air, and then seem to hang, like a hawk stooping, only to plummet. And all the time, the rock was moving perfectly in line with the hideous bulk of al-Mansour.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ he prayed. ‘Let it hit!’
There was a gout of sand, a spray of bodies, and al-Mansour was gone!
Buscarel bellowed with joy, his fist in the air, but even as he punched at the sky, he saw it was an illusion. The rock had hit men between him and that horrible device, but had missed it. Al-Mansour still functioned. As he watched, he saw the arm rise lazily, and fling a rock at the city wall.
Swearing to himself, Buscarel was hit with a dejection so intense, he could have thrown the oar from his sore armpit and gone to find his skin of wine. This was a fool’s errand. How they could hope to hit a machine like that at such a distance, especially from a moving platform like a ship. It was stupid at best, insane at worst. A waste of time and precious materials.
‘We go about!’ he roared at the men, but the noise of the creaking and whining timbers of the cog took his voice away.
Suddenly, a wave hit the hull and the vessel began a long, slow roll. No great problem — a cog like this round-bellied old sow was capable of weathering much worse seas than this. But then, when he looked at the deck, he realised his error, and the new danger.
‘Lash the ammunition securely!’ he roared again, and this time one of men heard him. Seeing his frantic wave, the ship-man glanced about him, and Buscarel could see the dawning horror on his face as the rocks began to move.
‘All of you! To the rocks! Tie them down!’ Buscarel shouted in despair.
The rocks which he had so carefully piled on his deck had been fired from the one side as he beat up the coast and sailing back, from the other. But now, the weight of rock was unbalanced. There was too much on the port side of the ship, and as the wave caught her, the rocks on the starboard deck began to move. The slow sea made her roll sluggishly, and he could see the strain on the lashings over the rocks as the ship edged further and further over, until he was hanging onto the oar in a desperate panic.
Up on the castle, the sergeant was hanging on to a rope, cursing and berating his men while they tried to rope down the rocks, but it was too late. With a sharp report, the first lashing snapped, and a snake of tense cordage flew back. Buscarel heard the scream as it whipped past a shipman, cutting through his body, and flinging him aside. Then the rumble of the shifting load could be felt through the deck. Buscarel gritted his teeth in horror as the entire load moved, and the cracking of the parting ropes sounded like the reports of thunder. The moving rock seemed quiet in comparison, a hollow grating as tons shifted with a terrible inevitability to port. And with every inch they moved, the ship’s ability to return to true was reduced, until suddenly she was too far over, and the rocks began to accelerate.
A pair of shipmen stood in the path of the avalanche. One scrambled, agile as a monkey, onto the top of the firmly lashed rocks at the port side, but the second was too slow. As he tried to follow his mate, a rock tumbled over and over, crushing his leg. His wail of agony made his companion stop, and Buscarel saw him gaze back with terror, then continue, leaving his companion behind. The trapped man glanced over his shoulder, and Buscarel saw the madness in his face as the next rocks engulfed him. His shrieks were soon silenced.
Buscarel tried to save the cog, hauling on the rudder to bring her around, thinking perhaps he could turn her port side to the sea, and that way have her forced upright. . but a final wave thundered into her hull, throwing her over with a squeal of tortured wood. As he leaped from the deck, hit the water and sank in, the cool brine stinging his nose and throat, he heard a distant sound and realised it was a cheer of glee from his enemy.
He had failed.
Back at Ivo’s house that evening, Baldwin ate an early supper. It was good to come home. He was so weary, it was hard to keep his eyes open, and the thought of heading straight for his bed was very appealing. At least in Ivo’s house there was peace. It was far enough away from the walls to be safe from most of the catapults, although it was impossible to shut out the noise of stones hitting the walls and other buildings. A constant rumble and thud came even here: the threnody of war.
Ivo was at the gate with Pietro. ‘How are you?’ he asked, looking at the young man with sympathy.
‘Tired,’ Baldwin said.
When he saw Lucia, sitting on the bench in the garden, he was struck by a sudden embarrassment. He had no idea whether she had welcomed his advances on the night of the burning chapel. What if the poor girl had been too scared to refuse him, with the fear of a slave for her master? Perhaps she had thought he would rape her if she tried to refuse his advances? That was a horrible thought.