Stronghold

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

There was no sign of Murlock as Ranulf stole up through the upper levels of the Keep. The big mercenary was most likely taking full advantage of this long, lonely duty by sleeping. As quietly as he could, Ranulf unlocked Gwendolyn's door, slipped inside and closed it again. The prisoner sat bolt-upright as he approached.

"My lady, can you write?" he asked.

"Certainly I can write."

"Then you must write a letter now." He handed her a folded parchment, an inkpot and a quill. "Hurry."

She took the items hesitantly. "I don't understand."

"I'll be leaving the castle just after midnight. There is a target we must destroy. But I will have another purpose. If I can locate your mother, I will plead for a truce."

"A truce?"

"My terms will be simple. If I return you to your mother unharmed, and hand over Earl Corotocus for whatever punishment she deems fit, she must allow the rest of us safe passage back to England. If you can write a letter vouching for my honesty, I will put it directly into her hands."

Gwendolyn hesitated, as though wondering whether this was some kind of trap, but finally nodded and began to scratch out a quick note.

"How many others are involved?" she asked.

"So far only me."

She glanced up, shocked. "How can I sway her, if only one man is to turn?"

"We have to try."

She put down her quill. "This is an impossible cause, and you know it."

"When men are prepared to make sacrifices, nothing is impossible."

"And will your friends sacrifice their loyalty?"

"In exchange for their lives, yes… maybe. For that's the choice they will face in due course."

She still seemed uncertain, but she recommenced writing. "For all your faults, sir knight, you don't strike me as someone who fears death."

"Maybe I don't any more. But there was something my father said to me before he died…" Ranulf shrugged and waved it away.

"What?"

"Suffice to say, something good must be dragged from the jaws of this catastrophe."

"Will your fellow countrymen define the betrayal of an overlord as 'good'?"

Ranulf couldn't conceal his conflicted feelings about this. The knightly code stated that duty to your lord should be the keystone of your life. Duplicity with the man who had clothed you, fed you, trained you, the man in whose service you were bonded was supposedly a grave sin — even if it was to the benefit of others. Judas Iscariot had handed Jesus to the temple guards because he worried that Jesus's preaching might bring Roman retribution on the Jewish race. It could be deemed that such an act was well intentioned, yet Judas had been reviled throughout eternity as the arch-traitor. And still — Ranulf again recalled his father's words: "Be true to your heart, lad. In the end, when all has come to pass, it'll be the only thing you can trust." And what his heart told him now was that Earl Corotocus had gone too far. In Gascony it had been slightly different — that had been a bitter war waged against an enemy who would stop at nothing to wrest control of English sovereign territory. But here against the Welsh, for all their oft-professed hatred of the English, it had gone too far. There had been too much blood, too much cruelty, too much terror. Little wonder the dead themselves were now rising in retaliation. And that in itself, of course, made all other considerations pale to insignificance.

"You haven't seen what's gathering outside, my lady," Ranulf finally said. "The customs we live by, the canons we've tricked ourselves into believing… they don't mean anything any more. The world has turned on its head. All that's left is the difference between those things we know to be right and those we know to be wrong."

She handed him the parchment. "Here's your letter. God speed you with it, for the sake of both our peoples."

He folded it, inserted it into a pouch — and froze. Gwendolyn glanced past him. They'd both heard a scraping sound as of leather or metal on the other side of the door. Ranulf looked around too and saw that the small hatch in the cell door was wide open.

Cursing, he raced across the room and barged out into the passage. Murlock was twenty yards off, walking quickly. When Ranulf started to run, Murlock started to run too.

Ranulf caught up with him at the top of the first flight of steps. Just as he did, the big mercenary swung around, striking with his dagger. Ranulf threw himself to one side and the blade flashed past, jamming point first into the wall and snapping. Then Ranulf was onto him. They tumbled down the steps together, clawing, wrestling. At the bottom, Murlock landed on top and for crucial seconds had the advantage. He pinned Ranulf down, clutching his throat with bear-like paws, head-butting him in the face. Ranulf struggled wildly, but only dislodged Murlock by driving a knee up between his legs. Murlock rolled away, gagging.

Ranulf got groggily to his feet. His nose, already broken once, was now broken again. Hot tears blurred his vision.

Murlock tried to crawl away on all fours. Ranulf lurched after him, grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back and fumbled for his own dagger. Before he could draw it, the mercenary slammed an elbow back, catching him in the ribs. Ranulf was mail-clad but the impact was agonising and the air whistled from his lungs. He tottered backward. Murlock spun around, this time drawing his scramsax and swiping with it. Ranulf dodged away, the keen but heavy edge missing him by inches, clanging on the brickwork.

Ranulf drew his own sword in time to deflect the second blow, forcing the mercenary to step backward to the edge of the next stairwell. Murlock lunged as hard as he could with his blade. Ranulf again parried and smashed his left fist into Murlock's jaw. It was as hard a punch as he'd ever thrown. Murlock's head spun right as bloody phlegm spat from his mouth; his very neck seemed to shift on its axis. Ranulf kicked him again, this time with a stamping manoeuvre on the side of his right knee. Murlock's leg buckled inwards and he gave a shill, bird-like squawk. With Murlock's guard now down, Ranulf hove at him a final time, slamming the pommel of his sword between his eyes.

The mercenary stiffened and toppled backward like a felled tree, bouncing end-over-end from one step to the next, his limbs splayed. When he finally came to rest at the bottom, he was face-down and motionless. Ranulf scrambled down after him. The blood from the mercenary's nose and mouth was spreading in a wide puddle. There was no hint of life in his apparently broken body.

Ranulf sat back on his haunches, panting.

Of course, even in this drear and filthy place, so much fresh blood would need to be cleared away if suspicion was not to be aroused. Ranulf sheathed his blade and got quickly to work. He dragged the body by its feet into a dungeon and dumped it in the dimmest corner, where he covered it with matted straw. Taking two more handfuls of the stuff, he went back outside and began to mop the floor.

"What if someone misses him?" came a nervous voice.

It was Gwendolyn. In his haste to catch up with the jailer, he hadn't thought to lock her in again.

"Go back to your cell," he said, scrubbing up the gore.

"But he'll be missed."

"The only time he'll be missed is when we retreat to this final refuge and, trust me, if we get to that stage it won't matter anyway."

"But I…"

"Go back to your cell!" he shouted. "I'll lock you in anon."

She scurried back up the steps.

"You may not believe it," he said under his breath. "But that's by far the safest place in this castle at present."

He heard her door grating shut as he continued to scrub the flagstones hard, conscious that time was running out. The hour was getting late and he was soon due to meet the rest of the raiding party in the courtyard.