Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [273]
Harold peered out towards the rock-strewn plain. Though his eyes were well accustomed to the dark, and he could sometimes make out vague shapes in the distance, he could not detect any sign of movement. He strained his ears, but heard nothing. It seemed almost unnatural, this smothered, black silence. He waited tensely.
Yet despite the tension, he could not help it if his mind strayed once or twice. He found himself thinking of his family. It was for them he was doing this, after all. Even if I am killed tonight, he thought, the sacrifice will have been necessary. It was worth it. He remembered the meetings with the Justiciar, and with Tom Tidy. The fellow from Dalkey had been brave enough, in his way. Harold was glad that the Justiciar had not made him disclose the source of his information, so that he’d been able to protect the Dalkey man. He’d been very discreet. He hadn’t even mentioned Tidy to his wife. So unless Tidy had told his secret to someone else, he should be safe.
He felt a nudge at his elbow.
“Listen.” Walsh’s voice, very low, beside him.
Horses. Somewhere out there in front of the gate. Harold heard them now: a faint sound of hoofs, a snort. How many? Impossible to know. Not less than a dozen, he thought; but it could be a hundred. This was it, then. O’Byrne had come. “Get the men mounted,” Walsh whispered. “I’ll keep watch.” Harold turned and hurried down from the wall. As he did so, he thought he heard the sound of footfalls coming towards the gate. Were they bringing ladders to scale the walls? A moment later he was running round the castle yard, hissing the order to mount, while one of his men called out softly, “Torches.”
They were well prepared. Nobody spoke. Even the horses seemed to know that they must be silent. The men on the gate had their orders. The foot soldiers had been waiting in Walsh’s hall. Each carried two torches which they would now be lighting at the big brazier in there. On the order, they would rush out, handing a torch to each rider; then they would either race up to defend the walls or stream out of the gate after the cavalry. Walsh would make that call.
Harold waited as the moments passed. He was at the head of the mounted men, and he’d be the first man out of the gate. He felt his horse quiver, and patted its neck softly. He was still trying to hear what was happening outside, but the castle walls did not let through much sound. He looked up to where Walsh had been standing. He thought he could make out his shadowy form up there, but he wasn’t sure.
Bang! The sudden crash at the gate took everyone by surprise. Harold’s horse reared and he almost came off.
“Battering ram.” Walsh’s voice, quiet but distinct, from the wall. “Get ready.”
“Bring torches,” Harold called quietly. A moment later the lights appeared on his right and came streaming towards the riders.
A second crash. The gate shuddered, and there was a sound of splintering wood.
“One more,” called Walsh, and Harold signalled to the men on the gate. All the riders had torches now, including himself. “Walls are clear,” called Walsh. There was a brief pause.
And then came a third, shuddering crash at the gate.
“Now!” cried Harold.
The attackers outside did not have a proper battering ram, which would have been suspended on rope slings. All they had was a large, thick pole with which they had been taking cumbersome runs at the gate. And they had just started back to make a fourth run when, instead of remaining barricaded, the gates suddenly opened and a stream of cavalry with blazing torches came charging out and bore down upon them. It was a terrifying sight. Dropping the battering ram, they scattered into the darkness.
Harold rode forward. The torches were everywhere, swooping in the air, darting hither and thither on the