The second part of my ongoing, rather feeble attempt at some fiction, I recommend you read the first part before this if you haven't already.

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“Giving you trouble Will?” A polite voice enquired. It was Simon, a skilled captain whom William had made friends with during the campaign. He was a handsome yet reserved man, calm and cold, possessing of an icy wit which gave him an air of incredible self-confidence. William hated to admit it, but Simon’s unit was the most disciplined in the army. Simon had nerves of steel, and as long as he fought with his endless precision and excellence, his soldiers did not dare flee, if only for the sake of not making fools of themselves while their captain still fought with an almost bored expression.

“Bah, you know I don’t like sharing, Simon” replied the ungrateful William.

“Yes, yes, just thought I’d pop in to say hello” apologised Simon while parrying the strike of a man who had believed Simon to be off guard. Simon then stepped forward to smash his shield into the man with his shoulder. He sliced at his dazed foe with a swift, almost circular, underarm swipe, leaving a bloody streak all the way up the poor man’s face. A smile flickered on his face as he advanced on the surrounded foe.

By the time the walls had been cleared the rest of the army was already approaching the final walls with their ladders. In front of the walls was a small clearing, a steep hill to the foot of the wall. The area outside the clearing however, was the jumble of stone buildings which made up the town and provided ample cover for Rufus’ troops to approach the walls. As they rushed out onto the clearing they were once again met with a gauntlet of missile fire from enemy archers, but even the heavy stones flung at the attackers did not dampen their spirits after the successful assault at the first walls.

Rufus and his knights kicked up dust as they passed with their horses under the gates of the first wall. The king relished the familiar aftermath of a successful fight - the smell of blood and sweat, the moans of the wounded and the sight of of the soldiers plundering the corpses of a defeated enemy - despite the fact that all that distinguished it from the aftermath of a defeat was that one was not around to experience it. Rufus watched William gathering his troops lest they get carried away to ransack the whole town.

“Move you cheap bastards, we ‘aven’t won yet!” William shouted as he kicked one of his men who bent over an enemy corpse, “we ‘ave to go make sure that stuck up prick doesn't’t hog all the plunder!” he continued, referring to Simon. This time King Rufus hoped to have more than a few charred timbers left of the settlement, for it could prove an excellent base for further “crusades.” Having his men scattered around drunk at the local taverns would also be most inconvenient once the enemy reinforcements arrived. Rufus sent his officers to order the rest of the army to march to the second gates, confident that the men scaling the walls would be there to open them.

He was right to be confident, the troops manning the walls were far too few for an effective defence, and they were soon swept aside by the British. Rufus had always marvelled how otherwise competent troops on the verge of despair we slaughtered effortlessly by men filled with bloodthirsty fury. This time the enemy was not full of despair, but was retreating to the inner courtyard, where they had prepeared a fairly formidable last stand behind a makeshift barricade of wagons, wooden barrels and crates. From there they shot at the men now running across the battlements to open the gates. One man was hit by an arrow in his heel and almost fell off the wall as he stumbled. Another was hit in the head, his helmet rendered useless by the powerful arrow. Clearly the enemy had a few competent archers among them. Some of the troops began to open the gate while their comrades formed a shield wall around them to protect them from the enemy missiles. Most of the enemy were reluctant to leave their barricades, but some, realising the bulk of the British force was still outside, risked rushing closer to the shield wall to loose their arrows. They taunted the British with foreign words, who replied similarly, having learnt some of the relevant vocabulary during past battles. Occasionally an arrow managed to wound the men in the shield wall, and they were hauled to the centre of the formation.

The gates were at last open and Rufus’ men let out a huge roar as they surged in, almost trampling the wounded from the shield wall. The shield wall scattered as the men joined the charge. The few enemy archers rushed back across the courtyard to the barricade, where they contributed to the frantic fire trying hopelessly to slow the swarming British soldiers. The roar of the charge was deafened as the attackers crashed into the barricade, which looked as if it were about to topple. For a moment the defenders were close to breaking, but they saw their general and his aides join the fray with their mighty armoured warhorses, and pushed back against the men threatening to swarm over the barricade. Rufus’ saw the enemy general and gathered his own officers.

“I want him alive; we can use him as a hostage to deter the enemy reinforcements.”

“We shall do our best, your majesty.”

To be continued...