Lord Atheldene was a courteous opponent. Informed by Colonel Washington that the women and children of the castle were concentrated in the New House, he ordered his gunners to avoid it. A second battery, with just two guns, had been placed to the south, firing over the water meadows from the edge of the village, and denied the New House as a target they concentrated on the stable-yard. Horses were wounded and had to be put out of their misery. For two days the stench of blood hung about Lazen.

The northern guns eventually broke down the old wall that connected the keep to the Old House and, two nights later, the Roundheads attacked the breach. Their shouts startled the air just before dawn, and Campion awoke to hear the sakers and murderers coughing their death. She pulled a robe over her nightgown and ran to the Old House to watch. Smoke shrouded the buildings and the kitchen garden into which the enemy came. She dimly saw the flash of swords and pike blades, listened to the cheers of the enemy as they swarmed through the breach, and then she understood why Colonel Washington had not been worried. He had expected the attack, wanted it even, because the enemy was now trapped in the walled enclosure of the garden. The defenders, receiving the signal they had waited for, attacked from the keep and the old kitchens. For the first time, Campion heard the clatter of pikemen fighting pikemen, and in the first gray light of dawn she saw the huge spiked poles being carried forward against the enemy. The cheers of triumph turned to alarm, to screams, and she bit her lip as she watched the leather-jacketed defenders going grimly forward, pikes levelled, their wickedly long spikes already reddened by blood. Muskets sparked, making a continuous crackling, and then the Roundheads were pushed back and scrambling for safety. Campion saw the prisoners being taken, some horribly wounded, and she breathed relief. She was safe again.

The wounded were treated in the New House and Campion became used to the horrid mutilations, to helping the doctor amputate legs or arms, to sitting beside the dying as they tried to endure the pain bravely. She sat with defenders who died, with the captured enemy, and she would read psalms to the Puritans and pray with them in the cruel, small hours when dawn seemed an eternity away.

The fighting was not constant. Some days seemed calm, punctuated only by fitful gunfire, and there were constant courtesies in the middle of battle. Prisoners were exchanged, the wounded restored to their comrades, and Lord Atheldene sent weekly news to Sir George and Lady Margaret. The news-sheets were all parliamentarian, and thus unlikely to print news that might cheer the defenders, but Sir George was ready to believe much of what they said. They spoke of the King being harried in the north, of the Scots coming slowly south, and they trumpeted the tidings when an isolated house or castle, much like Lazen, was taken by the rebel forces. Yet not even the parliamentary news-sheets could demonstrate a pattern of victory. The war seemed hesitant, patchy, and neither side had won the great victory that could tip the balance. Lord Atheldene sent more than news. Once he sent a great ham studded with cloves, a barrel of wine and a letter regretting that he should be fighting old friends and neighbors. He offered safe conduct to the women trapped in Lazen, even suggesting that Lady Margaret and her retinue would be welcomed by his own wife, but Lady Margaret refused the offer. “This is my house. I have no intention of going to Harry’s house. It’s drafty and there are young children screaming everywhere.” She had already composed her epitaph to be carved on a plaque to be erected in Lazen’s shot-battered church. “She Dyed in the Defense of Her Owne House, Foullie Besieged bye Traitors.” She looked at Campion. “You must leave, child.”