Gasping almost as much as his labouring mount, the man gave his report. 'The keep's under attack, my lord, by the Welsh as far as I can see, and it's going hard for the defenders!'
Miles's expression, grim at first, slowly brightened into savage amusement. 'The Welsh, eh?' His lip curled. 'And in search of a little Norman hospitality. Well , why not?'
'My lord?'
Miles shook his head and rode to the front of the column, increasing the pace from a steady walk to a ground-eating lope.
The sun had moved almost an hour's position in the sky by the time they reached Thornford, and the defenders had reached a state of extremis.
Miles took in the scaling ladders clumped against the wall , the lack of men on them suggesting that most were engaged within the boundaries of the keep; took in too the broken section of the wall and heard on the breeze the sounds of desperate skirmish.
Turning his stallion, he swiftly addressed his men who were expectantly threading their shields on to their left arms and readying their weapons for a charge.
'You can see for yourselves what we're in for.
You are all experienced, you should know the ways of the Welsh. Watch your destriers' bellies, they'll slit them open if you force them to fight in close. Remember, a Welshman does not wear armour. He's vulnerable, but he's faster than you. Kill if you must to save your own skin, but if you engage in combat with any man who seems important, try to take him prisoner. Lives will be useful to barter for Cadwgan's favour and whoever takes a useful hostage will find himself handsomely rewarded. Understood?'
As they acknowledged this, Miles threaded his own shield on to his left arm, checked the secure fit of his helm, unlooped his mace from his saddle and with a yell , spurred his destrier into a gall op.
The Norman charge burst into the outer bailey creating mayhem among the attacking Welsh. A bare-legged hill man flew from the roan's shoulder and was trampled by the destrier following on behind. The mace caught a Fleming's face beneath the brow of his helm and crushed his cheekbone. He fell , screaming. The Welshman behind him tried to protect his head but was too slow and took a splintering blow to his temple. As Miles had said, very few of the Welsh wore armour and the Norman charge went through them like a hammer through a trough of ripe plums.
Miles felt a hard blow on his shield as he emerged into the daylight of the inner ward. He gasped as his left arm was jarred and in retaliation, launched a blow over his shield rim. A solid thud and a cry answered him. He reined his stall ion around and, amid the fighting and chaos, saw a bare-legged Welshman running towards a group of his comrades who were fighting furiously with someone they had surrounded. Bare-legged the warrior might be, but the pommel of his short sword was set with jewels, and his belt was tooled and gilded with gold leaf. A Norman helmet was set jauntily askew on his straggling black curls. With a yell of triumph, Miles rode him down.
The group of Welsh exploded outwards like ripples from a flung stone in a pool. One of their number rolled on the ground, clutching his ripped belly and screaming. Guyon followed through hard, iron shield-boss jabbing dangerously, sword swinging low at the enemy's unguarded legs. At his back, feet wide-planted, Eric's battleaxe hewed the air and any Welshman daring to venture within the path of the blade's glittering arc.
Miles's destrier ploughed into the Welsh and the mace narrowed the odds.
Guyon spat out a mouthful of blood from a cut lip and pressed forward. He was functioning on instinct now, not finesse, and it took him a moment to recognise his father's stall ion and even longer to realise that help, no matter how miraculously, was at hand.
Miles reined the destrier round to block the retreat of the Welsh noble he had marked. The young man's eyes darted between the plunging shod hooves threatening to brain him and the suggestively swinging mace. 'Throw down your sword and yield,' Miles commanded in Welsh. 'I promise you will not be harmed.'
Guyon cast a rapid glance around the inner bailey, saw that the advantage of the battle had swayed back in his direction, glanced further and saw that the forebuilding doors had been broached. Commanding a handful of his soldiers to follow him, he ran for the keep.
Miles looked towards his son and the Welshman thought he saw his opportunity and bolted for freedom. Miles spurred to block his path and the mace came down on the man's skewed helmet, rattling his wits round his skull and knocking him half senseless to the ground.
With a snort of disgust at the man's folly, Miles set about securing him from further attempts at escape.
Within the keep, Judith listened to the screams of men receiving a face full of scalding water, the war cries, the death cries, the thud of the ram, and felt sick to the soul with fear lest one of those screams was her husband's.
She had done all that was possible for her to do, short of joining the men on the battlements; indeed, she might have even dared that were she not so fettered by her responsibilities to the wounded and those within the core of the keep who looked to her for succour and guidance.
She knew their situation was desperate. The Welsh alone they could have fought off, but with Norman leaders the matter was not so sure.
Guyon had had to batter Thornford hard to take it and four days had not been long enough to shore it up to withstand the kind of punishment it was taking now. She could only thank Christ that she had left Heulwen at Ravenstow, for she had been in half a mind to bring her and only the doubt of what she might find here had made her leave the child behind ... perhaps to be raised an orphan.
Judith's belly heaved as she contemplated her future at the hands of Walter de Lacey should he prevail. She swallowed. What had Guyon said about panic? The room started to close in on her and the wounded man she was tending groaned and jerked. Chagrined, she apologised to him and finishing with the salve, reached for a roll of bandage. There was none and a swift investigation among the maids showed that there was very little left. She took a swaddling band from Helgund to bind the man and, relieved to have an excuse, left the hall to raid Lady Mabel's linen chest in the solar.
She was kneeling by the chest, cutting a tablecloth into strips with Guyon's knife, when she became aware of how much nearer the battle sounded to the keep. The shouting was no longer an amorphous muddle; she could distinguish actual words now and hear the blows and thuds of sword upon shield. From without there came a tremendous crash and then the screams of women and the grating screech of sword on sword. She ceased her task and rose to her feet, her breath catching in her throat. Weapons clashed together outside the curtain. She heard grunts of effort and a hissing curse, and tightened her fingers on the grip of her knife.
There was a solid thud, a grunt, and then a bubbling groan. The curtain clashed aside and she was confronted by Walter de Lacey, his mail shirt glistening like snakeskin as he breathed in heavy gasps. His sword was edged with blood and his eyes were aglow with triumph.
Her throat closed, but not before a whimper had escaped her lips. Rape and a living hell . She could see her future clearly imprinted in his voracious stare.
'You're not properly attired for a wedding, but you'll do,' he said with a smile.
'Keep away from me!' Judith snarled.
He shook his head at her. 'Is that any way for a wife to speak to her husband? It seems that I am going to have to lesson you into meeker ways.'
Sheathing his sword, he advanced.