Page 81 of Hers To Command
“Throw the pitch!” Henry cried, even though it was an order he hated to give. “Set the ram alight!”
The dark, heavy liquid, heated to boiling, went pouring over the side in a thick, stinking stream. Henry briefly closed his eyes as the screams of the men below filled his ears. The flame arrows whizzed over the wall, and the smell and smoke from burning pitch and wood and flesh rose in the air.
He leaned over and saw, to his even greater dismay, that the pitch had fallen to one side of the ram instead of hitting it directly. Several men lay on the ground, writhing in agony, or not moving at all. More of Roald’s men, sensing victory, dashed forward to pull the ram back, ready for another blow.
Henry swore and ordered his men to heave more rocks over the wall. There was one good thing, if such a thing could ever be accounted good: because Roald had thought to use the captured men of Ecclesford to man the ram, he hadn’t provided any kind of cover for them. Now his mercenaries were just as vulnerable to anything that came over the walls of the castle.
Roald’s archers moved closer, keeping up a barrage that forced Henry and the others to stay behind the merlons. Behind the archers, Henry could see the main bulk of his force lying in wait, Roald or De Mallemaison surely among them even if he couldn’t see them.
Despite the efforts of Henry’s men, the ram struck the gate again. Once more the wall shook—but this time, he heard the sickening sound of shattering wood. A shout went up from the men in the yard, and at the same time, Roald’s men started to run toward the castle.
The gates were breeched. As Roald’s mercenaries rushed forward, Henry forgot that he was wounded, forgot that he was weak, forgot he was in command. All he knew was that he must drive back the invaders, by himself if necessary.
The blood rushing through his body, even his pain overwhelmed by the need to protect Ecclesford, he drew his sword with his good right hand and turned to run down to the courtyard.
“No, my lord, you must not!”
He glared at the soldier who blocked his way, the one who’d hesitated. “Coward, out of my way!”
“You promised!”
That was no man.“Mathilde?What are you—!”
He cried out in horror as she suddenly uttered a little shriek of alarm and pitched forward into his arms, an arrow in her back.
“HOW MUCH LONGER?” Roald demanded as he sat on his horse beside De Mallemaison, glaring at the Scot who’d been summoned from his command of the workers undermining the castle wall.
“Using captured men makes for slow progress,” the Scot replied with a shrug.
“It had better be soon. We’re nearly through the gate. Go back and tell them if they haven’t finished and started the fires by the time I get there, their bodies will be with the kindling when we set the material alight.”
The Scot nodded and turned on his heel to return to his command.
“I don’t trust that fellow,” Roald muttered as he watched the soldiers on the wall walk of Ecclesford toss down more rocks.
“I don’t trust any of ’em,” De Mallemaison said, his gaze on the castle. “We’d better get in today, or I’m leaving. This is taking too much time.”
“What else have you got to do, besides collect the debts of merchants? We’re nearly there, and there’s plenty of gold inside,” Roald countered, Mathilde’s warning about De Mallemaison’s selfish motives coming to haunt him again. What if the bitch was right and he had made a terrible mistake involving this vicious mercenary in his efforts to claim his rights?
She couldn’t be—and her attack on De Mallemaison ought to make the brute more keen to defeat her and the rest of his enemies in Ecclesford. “Don’t you want your vengeance on Mathilde?”
De Mallemaison scowled. “Not enough to risk my life.”
“Risk your life? Are you mad? Once we get inside the walls, the battle will be over. That garrison is no match for our men.”
“They were a match before,” De Mallemaison grumbled.
“That was when they had that bastard Henry to lead them, and like you, I’m sure he’s dead.”
De Mallemaison’s answer was a noncommittal grunt, which did nothing to assuage Roald’s doubts.
Maybe the man hadn’t killed D’Alton. Maybe that Norman was only wounded. Maybe not even that. Perhaps he’d been a fool to believe De Mallemaison when he said he’d killed him.
Maybe he should have accepted Mathilde’s offer and gone back to Provence while he could.
De Mallemaison barked a laugh, startling Roald out of his distressed reverie. “They missed. Threw the pitch and missed, the fools.” His scarred face twisted with a grin. “I’ll stay. Now if only those oafs would finish at the wall.”
Roald managednotto sigh with relief.
