With renewed determination, the four turned their handles faster than before, and Elea didn’t take another breath until she heard the wooden gate hit the stones. Panting, she slumped down, one hand still on the handle of the winch. A bullet flew over her head, where she’d been standing only a moment before. Another hit one of the other men right in the eye. He stepped backward, tumbling off the landing and falling to the stone floor below with a sickening thud. If Elea had eaten anything that morning, she would have lost it now.
Father Camran yelled, “Get down, Simms!”
The man appeared to be in shock, still looking at the remains of his fallen friend. Father Camran crawled over to help him, but by the time he reached his leg, a shot hit Simms in the middle of his back. He crumpled to the floor like a puppet. Elea fought back a second round of nausea. Cannonballs and musket shots were now falling like black rain onto the courtyard green.
“At least they cannot go through the gate,” she said.
Father Camran shook his head. “That’s not going to hold them for long, Your Majesty.”
If Nora were here, she would have known what to do. She’d trained with the captain of the guard and a Sanian sword master. She’d studied warfare like Elea had studied languages. But Breton verbs were not going to help her now; possibly Father Camran could.
“What do we do now?”
He bit his lower lip. “We need gunners in every arrow loop. They need to protect the gate. It’s made of wood and our greatest weakness. We are done for if they get inside the castle walls.”
Elea nodded slowly. “I’ll go and wake the guards; they’ve sworn an oath to me.”
She got on her knees and offered her hand to the head groom. He did not take it. Then she saw why: blood was seeping from a wound on his shoulder. He’d been hit and he hadn’t told her. Elea did not know much about warfare, but she did know that you had to stop injuries from bleeding too much. Lifting her skirt, she ripped off the bottom of her petticoat, then tore it into strips. She wrapped them tightly above the wound on his shoulder. He might lose the limb, but he wouldn’t bleed out. She tied the last strip around the wound itself.
Father Camran put his good hand on her arm. “Get the ladies from the kitchen, the maids, anyone else ye can find to drop hot liquids and rocks from the murder holes. Leastwise, that’s what they did more than a hundred years ago, the last time the castle was attacked. . . . Mother Walsh will know what to do.”
“I’ll send someone to help you as soon as I can,” Elea promised.
Her heart was beating as loudly as the drums as she crawled down the stairs and back to the courtyard. Glancing around, she saw Mother Walsh taking shelter underneath the stables. Bullets continued to rain down in the courtyard. Elea skirted around the outside of the buildings until she reached the head cook.
“Father Camran said for you and the ladies of the castle to pour hot liquid and throw rocks from the murder holes. Do you know where they are?”
A wry smile formed on the older woman’s white lips. “Aye, I’ve scrubbed every inch of this castle.”
Elea touched the woman’s arm. “There is no one I would trust more.”
Without another word, Mother Walsh ran straight through the courtyard, back to the kitchen and the main house of the castle. Elea inhaled slowly before running to the guardhouse. The green door was closed. It seemed odd that none of the men had heard the commotion or had come out yet. Taking another breath, she turned the door handle. It was locked.
Elea pounded the door with both fists. There were nearly one hundred trained soldiers in there. Men who knew how to fight. She grabbed the handle again, but it wouldn’t budge. They had barricaded themselves inside to wait until the assault was over. The soldiers would not fight for her.
“You swore an oath!” she yelled shrilly. “You are all going to burn in the lowest of the seven purgatories!”
No one answered her through the locked door.
Tears began to run down her cheeks. Her father had said that religion was nothing more than ancient foolishness, and the mother goddess a myth for the witless. Perhaps these soldiers were of the same opinion. How was she going to defend a castle with only old women and hot tea?
Elea fell to her knees and dropped her face into her sore, battered hands. This was not how it was supposed to happen. She was going to attack her uncle at Bhailmore with every serf in the country in her army. Where was her goddess now? Why wasn’t Màthair helping her fulfill her destiny?
“Where’s Father Camran?” a high voice behind her asked.
He looked to be one of the stable boys, about thirteen years old, with a face covered in brown freckles. The sign of a serf.
“He’s wounded,” Elea said. “What is your name?”
He gave her a jerky bow. “Adair, Your Majesty.”
“Adair, how many stable boys are there?”
“Seven, ma’am. They’re feeding the animals.”
“The animals can wait,” Elea said. “I need you to round up all the stable boys and meet me in the armory. Can you do that for me, Adair?”
The blood left the boy’s face and his freckles stood out even more against his pale skin. He gulped and nodded.