Unable to speak for a moment, she looks out to sea; then she turns back.
‘Thomas,’ she begins, ‘I have something I must tell you—’
But before she can say more, the alarm bell in the fort rings out.
12
IT WAS BRAMPTON John who saw the Duke of Somerset’s men first.
‘About three hundred archers,’ he tells the company. ‘Maybe more. And about two hundred billmen. Coming up the Boulogne road.’
‘Any horsemen?’ Walter asks. Brampton John tries to think.
‘Not so many as to make a difference,’ he says after a moment.
Walter grunts and hurries to catch Richard. They are moving down the road as it passes through a pocket of dead ground and for the moment Newnham Bridge and its fort are hidden from them just as they are hidden from it. When they emerge over the rise and begin their descent again they hear a crack that splits the silence of the day.
The men duck as one.
‘Lord above!’ someone cries.
When Thomas raises his head he sees a sallow puff of smoke hanging in the air above the battlements of the fort.
‘It’s all right, lads. It’s all right,’ Walter says. ‘It’s one of ours.’
Nevertheless the noise of the gun is impressive, and for a moment they are so absorbed in the sight of the smoke drifting inland that none notice the mass of men moving in three blocks up the Boulogne road.
When they do, they swallow hard.
Banners are unfurled, and Thomas can hear the drums beating and the high pitch of a fife, and a trumpet blowing. Dafydd crosses himself. Walter licks his finger and posts it in the air, checking the wind.
‘Whatever can they hope to achieve?’ Richard wonders aloud. He is sitting on his horse, war hammer across his lap, with a better view than them. ‘They have no siege weapons to break the castle and surely not enough men to invest it.’
‘Must have run out of beans and women then,’ Walter says. ‘They’ll take everything in the town that isn’t nailed down, torch it and piss off back to Guisnes. What I’d do.’
‘Will the Newnham garrison come out, d’you think?’ Richard asks.
‘Got to,’ Walter says. ‘But there aren’t enough of ’em to stop that lot. Calais garrison’ll have to come out too.’
They watch the last of the townspeople hurry across the bridge under the fort, trying to get away from Somerset’s men. They seem to share Walter’s opinion on what will happen next and they are pulling carts laden with everything they can carry. In the distance the Calais garrison are already emerging from the Boulogne Gate, moving up in order: archers, billmen and a handful of horsemen, all hurrying. Walter is more interested in Somerset’s men though, who are arranging themselves in their own blocks on the far side of the town.
‘Something funny about this,’ he says. ‘They’re holding their shape. Normal men’d be in there, grabbing everything they can get their bloody hands on, finding a woman before anyone else.’
‘And they can’t have had it easy these last few months,’ Geoffrey agrees.
Since the Duke of Somerset had taken Guisnes Castle the year before, he’d been cut off from supplies. He’d promised the garrison prompt payment of their wages just as soon as a relief force came from England, but when that fleet reached the coast of France, the wind had turned and the fleet had drifted helplessly into Calais harbour where its supplies had been snapped up by the grateful Earl of Warwick. Warwick had then lined up every man of the relief force and those he recognised as having switched sides with Andrew Trollope the year before at Ludford, he hanged on the quayside.
Another force was fitted out back in England, but that too was captured, this time in a dawn raid while it was still moored in the harbour at Sandwich. Warwick’s men caught the admiral in bed, and brought him back to Calais as a prisoner along with some others the Earl had enjoyed mocking at the dinner board.
Since then Somerset’s men have lived hand to mouth, scavenging, bartering their futures and begging off the local population.
Now here they are, though, positioned across the road just beyond Newnham, ready to make a fight of it. Thomas watches as a detachment of soldiers breaks ranks and runs forward into the town.
‘Here we go,’ Walter mutters.
A moment later a plume of pale smoke spews from a straw roof, then another, then another.
‘Trying to draw the garrison out,’ Walter says.
If this is their plan it is working. The Newnham garrison in their red livery are now crossing the bridge to take up position along the town road west of the bridge. Thomas can even make out the garrison captain and the sergeants shouting at the men, keeping order. They watch in silence for a moment, impressed by the display. Three men on horseback ride the line, scanning the houses ahead for any sign of the enemy.
‘That’s it,’ Richard says suddenly. ‘Where are his horse? Why hasn’t Somerset brought his prickers? His scurriers? His scouts? Where are they?’
Walter nods.
‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘Don’t tell me the nobs walked all that way?’
‘Can you see any?’
‘Where’s Kit? He has the best eyes. Come up here, boy.’
Katherine hurries forward, pushing past Thomas. She still has no helmet for none would fit so small a head, even with a woollen cap beneath, nor any sword.
‘Can you see any horsemen among them?’ Richard asks.
There is a pause while Katherine scans Somerset’s army. The men gather around, staring through the trees.
‘None,’ she says.
‘Not even the banner-carriers?’ Richard asks.
Katherine shakes her head.
‘And if there are none on the field . . .’ Richard begins.
‘Then where are they?’ Walter finishes.
They scour the flat landscape below. Thomas can see nothing of any note. There are various stands of trees among the furlongs and baulks, and there is the broad skirt of green-coated marshland down by the village, but not much else.
‘Perhaps he has no horse?’ Richard is suggesting. ‘Perhaps he’s eaten them?’
Walter doesn’t look convinced.
‘Can you make out the banners, Kit?’ Richard asks.
‘There is one divided into fourths,’ she says. ‘Red and blue, with some flowers or something, and the white one has what look like black marks on it.’
‘Are they birds?’ Richard snaps.
‘I cannot say. They might be.’
Richard is sharp.
‘Look again,’ he demands. ‘Look again. Is the edge of the white flag chequered?’
‘I can’t see. It is too far.’
‘How many birds are there?’
Katherine counts them.
‘Six,’ she says. ‘But they . . .’
Thomas is on his tiptoes, peering into the distance; his heart is pounding.
‘It’s Riven,’ Richard says, turning to Geoffrey. ‘Riven’s here. I know it. It is him. Look.’
Thomas nearly shouts something. He too is sure Riven is here.
‘What about the horsemen?’
‘We can worry about them later. Let’s go.’
Richard wrenches his bridle around, and is about to jam his heel in when Katherine starts.
‘There,’ she says, pointing. Richard stops, wheels around again, drags his nervous horse prancing across and follows her directions.
‘Christ on His cross!’ he breathes. ‘Where did they come from?’
There are about fifty of them, filtering along a narrow path between two orchards, using the trees as cover, moving up like grey wraiths in a grey land, each carrying one of the long lances and each wrapped in a thick travelling cloak so the spring sun won’t shine on their harness. Even their horses wear sackcloth.
As they come up on the Newnham garrison’s flank, obscured from view by a copse of poplars, Somerset’s archers and billmen are retreating back down the road to Boulogne, luring Warwick’s men fu
rther into the trap.
‘Must have moved up in the night,’ Walter says. ‘They’ll wait until the garrison have shot all their arrows, then they’ll get in among ’em.’
‘The priests’ll be busy then,’ Geoffrey agrees. ‘It’ll be a slaughter.’
‘We’ve got to stop them.’
‘Hard to see how.’
Richard throws his leg over his horse and drops to the ground, his armour ringing. He turns to Katherine and passes her the reins.
‘We can come behind them,’ he says. ‘That’s what we can do. Tie her up, Kit, will you?’ He nods to his horse. ‘Then follow with the arrows. We’ll need every one of them.’
Katherine pauses, her gaze still on the flat lands below. She opens her mouth to say something, but it is too late, Richard has hurried forward. Walter is rubbing his hands, his eyes shining like a ferret about to kill.
‘All right, this is it, boys,’ he says. ‘This is it. We won’t have time to cut stakes so we’ll have to shoot quick and accurate and pray they don’t catch us in the open.’
Thomas checks his bow, his arrows, his blade. He presses the helmet down on to his head and all sounds are muffled. He wishes he had found a buckler like the other men. He glances at Katherine, still unsettled by what happened between them on the beach. He had not meant anything by trying to hold her, only that . . . What? He shakes his head.
She is tying Richard’s horse’s reins to the bough of a tree. Yet he must say something. If he is going into battle and is killed – well, she must know what he meant and what he didn’t mean. She turns and catches his gaze. He almost glances away, ashamed, but she hurries to him.
‘Thomas,’ she begins. ‘Listen to me—’
‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupts. ‘For earlier.’
Katherine waves it away. It is as if she has already forgotten it.
‘It’s not about that,’ she says. ‘Look. I’ve been watching the men in the butts. I’ve seen how you shoot. You form a pattern, like a block, don’t you? And then loose your arrows.’
Thomas nods. It is exactly as she imagines.
‘So?’ he asks.
‘So if you come up behind the horsemen, when you shoot at them they’ll ride out of range, won’t they? Or they’ll turn and ride you down. They’ll still be able to attack the garrison troops. But if you cross the marsh and follow the dyke there’ – she steps up to the brow of the hill and points to a length of earthwork that runs beside the road – ‘you might get alongside the horsemen as they charge the garrison. That way you’ll get each and every one of them. That way Riven will not get away.’
Thomas sees what she means. The road along which the horsemen will ride is bracketed on one side by a steep dyke that holds back the marsh and the cesspit. If they can cross the marsh they might reach the dyke and from there they can cut the horsemen off before they reach Newnham.
‘Tell Richard, will you?’ she asks.
Thomas nods and sets off after the archers as they hurry down the slope. All chatter has stopped now. Faces are pale. Hands keep moving from bow to string to arrow bag to crown of helmeted head as each man checks his equipment over and over again. They run down the sandy lane until it bottoms out and then rises again between two muddy furlongs where onions grow. Here they pause so that Walter can sight the horsemen. Thomas crouches next to Richard.
‘Godspeed, Thomas,’ Richard says, fiddling with his visor. ‘Remember our practice and we shall come through this with our smiles in place.’
Thomas repeats what Katherine has told him. He does not tell him it is Katherine’s idea. Richard listens. Then he stands and studies the way the land lies.
‘It is a good plan,’ he decides, but when Walter comes back he isn’t happy.
‘No time,’ he says, dismissing Richard. He turns to the archers. ‘Now, the horses are in a stand of trees on the other side of the road, so we’ll set up here. Harrow formation,’ he says. ‘Six in each rank.’
Richard wets his lips. ‘We’ll do it Thomas’s way, Walter.’
Walter stops, turns, spits.
‘Thomas’s way, is it? Not how Sir John’d want it.’
‘Sir John is safe in his bed in Calais. We are here. We’ll do it Thomas’s way.’ Richard turns to the men. ‘Take off your boots and jacks,’ he says. ‘Drop everything but your bows and arrow bags, and bring a dagger each. Hurry now!’
The men begin to remove their equipment. A moment later they are in shirtsleeves and hose.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ Walter snaps, throwing his jack on the ground. ‘No way to fight a war.’
‘Walter,’ Geoffrey warns.
They can hear the drums change now, signalling the Newnham garrison advance. A trumpet blows.
‘Quick now! Kit! Help me.’
Katherine arrives breathing hard and begins helping Richard out of his armour.
‘Come on! Come on!’ Richard urges as her hands fumble with the leather points. ‘That’ll do! That’ll do. Stay here with it, Kit, and keep a good eye on it. With God’s blessing we’ll be back soon.’
One by one the archers slip into the mud of the marsh, freezing water up to their midriffs.
‘Christ on His cross!’ Walter is saying as if staying dry is his right. ‘We’ll drown!’
The water in the marsh is rich and brown, brackish with seawater, its margins stippled with sedge and reeds. Birds’ nests are secreted in the rush thickets and the mud draws and sucks at their legs. The smell is ripe. Thomas half gags.
They have about three hundred paces to go, each man carrying his bow and arrow bag above his head. To their left is the river, sluggish in the spring sunlight, ahead is Newnham. On their right, beyond the road, stands the copse of trees behind which the horsemen are hidden.
They go silently dipping through the stagnant waters. The sky ahead darkens briefly, as if a flock of starlings has come between them and the sun, and Thomas looks up to see a flight of arrows flit from the market square. Each shaft looks so delicate from that distance, like the most considered stroke of the best sharpened reed, but then comes the irregular flurry of thumps and cracks as the arrows hit stone, steel and flesh, followed by the cries of the wounded men.
‘Quick!’ Richard urges. ‘Quickly now.’
The water is thickening, fouler still.
There is a salvo of arrows from Somerset’s men in return.
‘Hold on to some of them fuckin’ arrows,’ Walter urges, but more shafts fly. The archery duel will last only minutes, until one side exhausts their arrows, and then they’ll retreat to let the billmen or the men-at-arms take up the mêlée. Once their arrows are spent, the lightly armed archers will fall easy prey to the horsemen with their lances, hammers, swords, axes and God knows what else. They’ll be driven into the river behind them.
‘My foot!’ Dafydd gasps. He’s spilled his bow and shafts into the water, and is stuck fast in the silt. Thomas grabs one arm, Owen the other, and they haul him out of the ooze. Swirling clouds of black mud roll under the surface as he comes free and the smell makes them retch.
Thomas surges forward. The thought that Riven might be waiting beyond the dyke makes him numb. He wishes he had the giant’s pollaxe with him now, but he’s left it at the fort. Then he stops. The giant. Of course. The giant will be there. He will be protecting Riven again. At the thought of the giant and his thumb on his eyeball, Thomas wavers. What is he doing? Why is he here? He is a canon of the Order of Gilbert. He stops. The others catch him.
‘All right, Northern Thomas?’ Red John asks. ‘Not thinking of turning tail on us now, are you?’
Thomas gathers himself. He thinks of the Dean. He hears that sound of steel in flesh. He thinks of Riven holding out Alice’s beads and something comes over him, like a glove over a hand, the same feeling that made him throw the staff at Riven in the first place. He surges forward and finds himself at the front of the men once more.
The marsh shelves into grainy mud, with patches of slick green waste to one side,
its edges crusted with lichen-green, stinking slime. They slip as they scramble across the reach, two of them going down into the ooze, neither dropping his bow, both emerging with eyes white against the brown faces. They struggle to the water’s edge where it solidifies into land against the dyke.
‘Keep down,’ Richard calls.
The men are crawling out of the water and they lie gathering their breath on the side of the dyke. Thomas crawls to see what is happening, and is about to poke his head over the top when he feels them, through his knees and the palms of his hands. The horsemen have set off.
‘God’s teeth!’ Dafydd hisses. ‘They’re close!’ There is fear in his voice, echoed in the face of every other man.
‘Keep down and spread out!’ Richard calls. ‘Come on, get ready! We’ll have but one chance at this. Nock. Nock, damn you!’
Walter has his bow gripped sideways, an arrow nocked, three more tucked through the points of his muddy hose. The others fumble for their bows, nock their arrows and copy him, crouching in the reeds, giving themselves space to loose. Richard crawls up on the tussocky grass next to Thomas, peering over the dyke from behind a clutch of reeds.
‘Here they come,’ he says. ‘Wait for it. Wait for it!’
Thomas can feel the weight of the horses through the ground. A stalk trembles before his nose. Then he hears them: their hooves on stone, the jangle of harness and the shouting of men gearing themselves up for the slaughter.
‘Now!’ Richard cries.
The archers stand.
‘Draw!’ Walter snarls.
One of the horsemen sees them at this last minute and flinches, hauling at his reins, trying to bring his lance around. Thomas’s arm is fully cocked, the linen string to his ear. He cannot hold this pose for more than a long breath but he swings his bow along the line of the charging men, looking for anything that might identify Riven or the giant. There! A flash of that red coat. Or there! That white livery!
‘Loose!’
He looses. He cannot miss. None of them can. Their arrows slam into the charging horsemen from five paces. The din and the violence are terrible. Riders are hurled from their mounts. Horses slew, or rear. They fall and throw riders. Man and horse scream together. A horse is upended and lands with a crack. Another cartwheels, its shadow flicking over a man below, sparing him, before landing on another, killing him instantly. One is trampled before he hits the ground in a drum of skittering hooves.
Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims Page 16