Stronghold

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Countess Madalyn had often heard it said that King Edward of England was a tyrant.

Her own people had no time for him, seeing only a despot and conqueror who betrayed his own chivalrous ideals with acts of cruelty and barbarism. But the English had a different view of their ultimate liege-lord. They regarded him as a great war-leader, but also as a font of justice. Any man, it was said, no matter how base, could approach King Edward and beseech him person-to-person. The king had reformed the entire legal system in England in favour of the lower classes. He'd installed a parlement at Westminster as a permanent institution. Clearly there were huge contradictions in his character. He was a pious Christian who'd already ridden on crusade once and apparently planned to do so again. He regularly sought diplomatic solutions to international crises; in the 1280s he was known as 'the peace-maker of Europe'. But he notoriously detested the enemies of his countrymen, and when he waged war against them it was a ghastly form of total war, designed to terrorise their populace into subservience.

Could she deal with such a man? Would he even grant her an audience, given what he'd done to Dafydd ap Gruffyd, whose rebellion twelve years ago had been rewarded with a particularly torturous fate; Prince Dafydd's body torn with pincers and hanged until half dead, whereupon it was disembowelled and hacked into quarters?

It was an onerous decision that she faced. But as she stood among the trees on the western bluff and gazed down on Grogen, she became increasingly certain what that decision would be.

The three giant catapults that Gwyddon had captured from the English were now in place on a plateau slightly lower down. Again and again, they lobbed huge, fiery missiles, each one of which trailed across the darkened sky like a comet and impacted on the fortifications with a flash like summer lightning. Night had now fallen fully, which gave the entire business a demonic aspect. The sky was jet-black, but at the same time red as molten steel. Liquid fire raged high on the battlements and streamed down the castle's outer walls. Sulphurous smoke, infernally coloured, belched from its arrow-slit windows. A cloying stench of burning mingled with the more familiar reek of decaying flesh.

Countess Madalyn's dead army seemed numberless as it trudged down the slope like some vast herd of mindless cattle, moaning and mewling as they crossed the southwest bridge and followed the berm path, finally entering the castle through its forced-open Gatehouse. She felt numb as she watched them clamber like ants up ladders and ropes, not just on the Constable's Tower, but all around the walls of the Inner Fort. Even from this distance, the ringing of blade on blade assailed her ears. From so far away, the screams of rage and death sounded like the squeaking of rodents, but there was no end to it. The English were still resisting, as the young knight had threatened they would. But surely they couldn't hold for much longer, and when every one of them was put to the sword, Gwyddon's abomination would be complete. King Edward the crusader would then have no option but to fall upon the Welsh as a nation of devils.

Countess Madalyn felt nothing — neither fear, nor remorse — as she turned and climbed into her saddle. Her bolsters were already filled with food and water. She also had a knapsack containing gold and jewellery as proof of her identity, which she concealed carefully among her saddlebags. Drawing a rough, homespun cowl over her head, she kicked her horse forward.

The hillside tracks would be treacherous in the dark. They were narrow, winding, overhung with low branches. But Countess Madalyn knew her native landscape well.

Her native landscape.

It pained her to think that way.

The Welsh were an indigenous part of these British isles, but they had their own culture and customs, their own beliefs, their own long tradition of self-governance. Why could their neighbours in England not see that? She knew that it wasn't the English themselves, but their rulers. Ever since the first Norman kings had created their powerful military state, they'd sought control over the entire island of Britain. For all their airs and graces, for all their pretensions to honour and courtliness, they were at heart a rapacious breed.

It frustrated her, maddened her.

And yet here she was, seeking to parley with one of those very same Anglo-Norman kings. In fact, it was worse than that — with one of the most fearsome and warlike kings that had ever sat on the Westminster throne.

Egging her horse on, she tried to shake these fears from her mind. This was about national survival, nothing less. Not just the survival of Wales in the flesh, but Wales as a spiritual nation. Gwyddon's way was the druids' way. She didn't despise him purely for that. The druids, she knew, had been stalwart friends to the Welsh in their battles against the Romans, the Saxons, the Danes. Everyday Welsh life was flavoured with pagan traditions, mostly of the more benign sort. But Gwyddon, in his overweening ambition, had unleashed a horror the like of which Christendom had never seen and could never tolerate. Even if he was successful, what kind of world was he trying to create where the dead commanded the living? And what would the view of the Almighty be — He, who had forbidden sorcery in all its forms, on pain of everlasting fire?

She rode on, more determined than ever to make a truce with King Edward. She was now descending a wooded brae, very steep and slippery with dew. The air was exquisitely cold in that way that only the air in March can be. Her horse steamed; her own breath puffed in moon-lit clouds. The avenues between the trees were damp, black corridors. Now that the roar of battle had fallen far behind, she heard nothing. Her horse continued to find its own way, with slow, tentative footfalls. Only when they reached level ground, did it increase its pace a little, but she resisted the urge to canter, unwilling to create unnecessary noise. She felt a growing conviction that she wasn't alone. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing nothing but the night. The woods had now thickened, dense clumps of hawthorn closing around her. With a thunder of heavy wings, a large owl exploded from a bough just over her head. Shocked, the countess reined her horse to a halt.

The owl beat its way off into the darkness. She glanced around again. Still nothing: meshed branches, deep shadows. Overhead, leafless twigs laced back and forth across a gibbous moon.

She urged her mount forward. Somewhere not too far ahead there was a mountain stream. Now that the spring thaw had set in, it might be running deeper than usual, but there was a footbridge that she could cross. On the other side of that, a canyon led through to open hillside, below which lay the Leominster road.

There was a crackle in the undergrowth close by. This time she didn't halt, but rode on determinedly. She fancied an indistinct shape was moving parallel to her, about thirty yards to her right. If she listened hard enough, she imagined she could hear a breaking of twigs, a trampling of leaf mulch. Her passage was so narrow that thorny fingers plucked at her, snagging her clothes, catching her cowl. Her mount snuffled loudly, as though nervous. She now sensed movement to her left as well as to her right. There was even greater crunching and crackling in the hawthorn. She dug in her heels, urging the horse forward. It began to trot, and she was forced to duck repeatedly as branches passed overhead.

"Easy, easy," she cooed to the animal. "We are almost at the stream."

It was a relief when she actually heard the waterway, babbling over its stones and pebbles. She wouldn't exactly be safe on the other side of it, but at least she could break into a gallop and put significant distance between herself and Grogen Castle.

And then something stepped out into the path in front of her. Even given the events of the last few days, it was the most horrible thing she had ever seen.

It had once been a man — that much was clear. But what it could be described as now God only knew. The right side of it was intact if somewhat discoloured, but the entire left side of it — its arm, leg, torso, shoulder, even the left side of its face — had been eaten down to the gleaming bones; either by rats or decay, or both.

Countess Madalyn had to stifle a scream of disbelieving horror.

The thing didn't lurch towards her. It simply stood there between the hawthorns, regarding her with its single lustreless eye. The moonlight glinted through the bars of its partly exposed ribcage. It was making its way to join the rest, she told herself. Of course it was. They had been drawn here from all directions. That was its only purpose; to join the siege. Somehow or other, Gwyddon's necromantic skill had implanted a sole directive in the worm-eaten skulls of these walking, teetering husks to capture Grogen Castle and destroy its defenders. It would not harm her.

So thinking, she urged the horse forward again. There was no room around the semi-skeletal horror, so she expected it to shuffle aside and allow her passage. But it didn't. When she was a yard or so in front of it, she again had to halt her animal, which whinnied and tossed its head nervously.

"Out of my way," the countess instructed in Welsh, though her voice was unsteady. "Out of my way! Don't you know who I am? I am your mistress, the very reason you walk on this Earth. You must obey my command."

It made no move to comply, though it tilted what passed for its head upward slightly, to regard her more closely. She had to fight nausea when she saw a black beetle wriggle out of the gaping eye-socket and scurry down the rotted cheekbone.

"You must do as I say! Move aside at once!"

In response, its jaw dropped to its chest; for a bemused moment, the countess half expected it to drop off entirely. Instead, the creature groaned — in utterly inhuman fashion. It was like the sound heavy wood makes when straining under pressure; a deep, reverberating creak. Yet there were fluctuations in it, alterations in tone. With hair-raising incredulity, Countess Madalyn realised that this thing, this cast-off human shell, was actually trying to speak to her. Slowly, chillingly, the half-groan-half-jabber rose to a peak of shrillness that was difficult to listen to.

Abruptly, the sound ceased, and the thing lurched forward with lightning speed, trying to grab at her bridle.

The horse shrieked and reared and, before the countess knew what had happened, she'd been thrown to the ground. The impact was in the middle of her back, and drove the wind from her. But her pain was numbed by her fear. Shielded by the horse, which careered back and forth, attempting to wheel on the tight woodland path, she leapt to her feet, gathered up her skirts and plunged into the undergrowth.

She ran breathless and blind, regardless that her clothes were torn by thorns. She fought through them all, tears and sweat mingling on her cheeks. She'd known all along that this would happen, that these blasphemous monsters would at last round on the Welsh as well; that they would seek to devour all God-fearing things, for theirs was a realm of darkness, devilry and decay. Even as these thoughts struck her, she tottered out into a clearing, from the other side of which more abominations were advancing. What appeared to be a young woman was approaching, a child walking on either side of her, holding her by the hand. The woman's head was missing from her shoulders, and the child on the left, a boy, had possession of it, carrying it in front of him by the hair. That head, though crudely hewn from its torso, was again trying to speak — perhaps trying to accuse her, the countess thought with dismay — the eyes rolling in its sockets, its lips opening and closing frenziedly, though all that emerged was glutinous green froth.

Screeching like an animal, the countess veered to the left, thrusting again through the thorny scrub. She ran headlong into a sturdy trunk, but rebounded from it, scarcely feeling the blow that she took across her chest. New alleys opened, but figures of lunacy were advancing along them. From all sides, she heard a grunting and mewling, a tearing and thrashing of twigs. But now she heard something else: water again, babbling over broken stones.

The stream. And now much closer than before.

Her heart thudding in her chest, she broke from the cover of the hawthorn wood, and found herself on a rocky, sloping bank. The stream lay directly in front of her, patinas of moonlight playing on it in liquid patterns. As she'd feared, it was deeper and broader than usual. She glanced to her left. Maybe a hundred yards away, the arched outline of the stone footbridge was visible. But even as she peered that way, crooked figures emerged from the trees to block her path. A hand alighted on her shoulder. A brief glance revealed the skin loose on it like a rotted glove, with bare bone fingertips pointing out at the ends.

The countess hurled herself forward, splashing into the water to her knees, her thighs, her waist. Even its icy chill couldn't shock her. Her booted feet slid on its slimy bottom and tripped over shifting stones, but she forged her way into the middle without looking back, her dresses billowing around her. The knowledge that she was now on foot, which would increase her journey-time ten-fold, and that she'd now be soaking wet on a raw, inclement night, meant nothing to her. All that mattered was to escape, to drive herself headlong from these nightmares made flesh that gibbered behind her.

The current in the middle of the stream tugged at her remorselessly, several times threatening to knock her under. She whimpered and wept as she fought it, at one point submerging almost to her shoulders. She prayed to the Virgin Mary for fear that God himself would no longer listen, beseeching the Holy Mother to have mercy on her and on her poor, mistreated people. When she reached the other bank, she had to crawl up it, exhausted, her hair hanging over her face in a stringy mat. And yet she knew those things would be close behind her — even now she could hear them splashing their way across, so she had to get to her feet and she had to continue running, though which direction to take from here she could no longer think.

"Alas, not everyone has the belly for war," Gwyddon observed dryly.

Countess Madalyn looked up sharply.

He was just to the left of her, perched on his saddle, a tall, hooded form silhouetted on the star-speckled night. More of his brethren were mounted up alongside him. Several others, also on horseback, approached from behind her. Behind them came the ragged shapes of the dead.

"Think you so?" Countess Madalyn said scornfully, panting as she climbed to her feet. "And yet here you are, far from the fury of battle."

"Battles in which men must suffer are a thing of the past, countess. At least… where my army is concerned."

" Your army, I see." She gave a wry smile. "But then your army can be anything you wish, can it not? Welsh, English… whoever will offer you the power you crave."

"So you're a student of politics after all, madam?" She couldn't see Gwyddon's expression in the darkness, but there was an irreverent sneer in his voice. "A pity you lack the vision to make it your advantage."

"And how long will that advantage last, Gwyddon? When my life finally ends, which will be soon enough in the eyes of Heaven, what advantage will I have when I stand before my maker? Surely you can't imagine that even if your gods control the universe, they would stand for this aberration you've created?"

He sighed. "Still you fail to understand. Whichever god rules this universe, madam — and I applaud your new open-mindedness, even if I'm not surprised by it — the Cauldron of Regeneration was his, or her, gift to us."

Gwyddon brought his horse forward a few paces, so that his face came into the moonlight. His eyes looked up as he pulled thoughtfully at his beard. When he spoke again, it was in a tone of veneration.

"I told you once before that the Cauldron was not forged by ogres at the foot of a bottomless lake. That was just a fable. In truth, its origin came when it fell to Earth from the stars, a glowing lump of unknown metal. Fashioned into its present form for functional purposes, its latent powers were only discovered by accident. Does that amount to sorcery, when it came to us from Nature?"

Countess Madalyn gazed at him, confused.

He smiled as he continued.

"Is the authority with which I control my minions the result of devilish magic, or merely a side effect of the wondrous object's proximity to my person? Like so many heads of my order before me — going all the way back to Myrlyn himself — I have grown up alongside the Cauldron. I have studied it, possessed it, absorbed its essence, made myself one with it… until now my mere thoughts will manipulate my monsters. Ahhh, I see you are shocked. Yes countess, it's true. Those pagan words, the very mention of which has good Christians like yourself cringing in fear… they are mere stage-dressing."

"You have deceived my people!" she hissed.

"When the English are finished, Countess Madalyn, your people will barely exist."

"Then you have deceived yourself."

He shrugged. "By denying to myself a truth that none of us can be certain of? Hardly. In any case, in the same way that you lack the belly for battle, I lack the knowledge for alchemy. It's a fact of life, but it doesn't concern me overly. The outcome will still be the same."

"And what will that be, Gwyddon — Armageddon?"

"Possibly, though obviously that wouldn't be ideal." He signalled to his priests, two of whom dismounted and approached her. "I still seek moderating influences in my life, if you're interested."

"I would rather die," she said.

"My dear countess… haven't you noticed? Nobody dies any more."