by Jason Vail
“Why,” there was a chuckle, “we have important business together, Harry and me. I won’t be but a moment. You keep an eye on me, if you’re worried that I’ll bolt into town, but plug your ears. This is secret, like.”
The speaker knelt before Harry and put his face close, knowing that no matter what he said to Gip, the ward would do his best to overhear.
“Hello, Will,” Harry said, looking up into Will Thumper’s face. “What can I do for you?”
“Not much. How’s business?” Thumper fingered Harry’s cup to get a look inside.
“The usual, now the army’s gone, not that that bunch gave much thought to charity.”
“Poor fellow. I wouldn’t have your life for anything.”
“I get the feeling you didn’t come for idle chat.”
“Well, I am a busy man. Your friend Attebrook, word is he’s gone.”
“He had an errand that took him to Montgomery. He’ll be back shortly.”
“I’ve something he’d like to know.”
“What about?”
“There was an item taken from Ormyn, the fellow who died. Attebrook was interested in it.”
“So?”
“I know where it is.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have it yourself, would you?”
“Good God, no. But it was offered to me.”
“Ah. By whom?”
“Herbert Jameson.”
“Wistwode’s nemesis from the Pigeon?”
“I know of only one Herbert Jameson hereabout.”
“How did he get it?”
“I don’t ask such questions, you know that.”
“Attebrook will want to know.”
“I’m sure. But he’ll have to ask Jameson about it. Say,” Thumper gestured at the block of wood in Harry’s hands where a face, as yet unidentifiable, was taking shape. “You wouldn’t have any more of those carvings of the saint, would you?”
“No, not on hand.”
“Have you thought of selling them? Folks are sure to buy them.”
“I’d lose my beggar’s license if I went into trade. There’s not enough money in carving heads to make that worth while.”
“Of course. Why do you bother, then?”
“Occupies the mind. It gets boring just sitting here. Talking to Gip is a waste of breath.”
“If you make any more, I’ll take one for my missus.”
“Why don’t you see me in a couple of days or three? I’ll have something for you then.”
Thumper stood up. “Good seeing you, Harry.”
“Always a pleasure, Will.”
Chapter 16
Stephen rushed through the alley and into the street. Mably, who was superintending the loading of some wagons in the marketplace, heard him coming and turned to see what was up. “What the devil’s got into you?” Mably asked, astonished at the sight of Stephen, shield- and helmet-less. Under the circumstances, it was as unusual as if he had appeared hatless or with his bum showing.
“Have you seen that boy, Michael?” Stephen gasped.
“Michael? Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”
“He must be one of Parfet’s people, then. He ran out here only moments ago. From the merchant’s house.”
“There was someone. I didn’t pay much attention. We’re quite busy here, you see. Lots to do. More stuff than we ever thought to find in such a small town.”
Stephen spotted Parfet and Melmerby outside a tavern at the corner of Bridge and High Streets. Parfet was sipping from a cup, while Melmerby had a pitcher in his hand and was just wiping his mouth from having taken a drink that spilled on his face and spattered his mail. Stephen crossed to them.
“Have you seen Michael?” he asked.
Parfet looked as astonished as Mably had been at the sight of Stephen. “What for?”
“The little bastard just tried to knife me.”
“Good God! I don’t believe it. Melmerby, do you have any idea what could have got into him?”
Melmerby swirled the contents of the pitcher. Parfet held out the cup. Melmerby filled it. “Well, m’lord, we was about to have a bit of fun with one of the girls there.” He gestured toward the wool merchant’s house. “Sir Stephen interrupted us. Sent us packing. You were a bit rude about it, too, if you don’t mind my saying, your honor. We was having a celebration, like. It was to be Mike’s first time. He’s a young fellow, you know. Hasn’t had any yet.” He sighed. “She was a pretty piece, young and a virgin, I’m sure.” He smiled apologetically. “It was to be a virgin with a virgin. We thought that appropriate for the occasion.”
“I told you there was to be none of that,” Parfet said.
“I know, m’lord, but in the excitement we forgot ourselves.”
“It’s hard to think that Mike would do something like that just because he didn’t get laid,” Parfet said.
“Well, he is a bit of a hothead, you know, m’lord. I expect he was angry and disappointed.”
“That’s no reason to go knifing people.”
“You know it’s happened over less, m’lord.”
Parfet harrumphed and drained his cup. “Yes, I suppose it has. It’s a crazy world. Go find him. He’ll have to pay for this.”
“Right, sir.” Melmerby handed Stephen the pitcher and turned away.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Parfet to Stephen. “I say, what have you done with your shield and helmet? We’ll be going soon. Don’t want to leave them behind.”
Michael could not be found, however. Melmerby brought word that he had last been seen riding west up High Street away from town.
“You can’t be serious,” Parfet said. “He’s fled? Left us?”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Melmerby said.
“In the middle of this wild country,” Parfet marveled. “It will be a miracle if he gets back in one piece.”
“If he comes back,” Melmerby said. “I have the feeling we won’t be seeing him again.”
“No?”
“I’m sure he’s afraid of your wrath, m’lord. You do have a temper.”
“Well, he was facing the lash. That would have made amends, wouldn’t it, Stephen? I don’t like hanging a man when I don’t have to.”
“I suppose it would,” Stephen said.
“And I’ll give you Michael’s share. How about that?”
Stephen nodded. A part of him would have preferred a hanging, but another part was satisfied with the prospect of a whipping and Michael’s share. Some men wore their grudges, even those for minor offenses, like badges. Stephen wasn’t without his grudges, but they had been earned by hard, repeated misuse. He didn’t stew over outbursts of temper like this.
“Good, then.” Parfet surveyed the marketplace, which was now crowded with wagons and the horses of the men. It was nearly noon. “Look’s like everyone’s ready. Mount up.”
“Mount up, everyone!” Melmerby shouted, conveying the command. “Time to go!”
Owing to the wagons and the livestock, they took the east road out of Llanfair. This was the direct route back, if you could call the winding roads of Wales a direct route to anything, but it was the shortest without having to go cross-country, and Parfet reckoned the quickest.
Parfet sent Stephen with two of the men-at-arms ahead of the column about two-hundred yards to serve as an advance party. Their job was to spy out a possible ambush, but the raiding party had moved so soon that no one expected trouble, and they encountered none during the two hours it took to cover the five or so miles to the next village. Stephen paused here at the small church that sat by the road to wait for the guide to come up, for there were two roads out of the village, and he wasn’t sure which to take.
“That way,” the guide said when he arrived, indicating the south road.
“What’s the name of this place?” Stephen asked as they left it.
“Some people call it Dolarthin, others Castle Caereinion,” the guide said.
“Castle? I didn’t see any castle
,” Stephen said with some alarm, because talk of a castle meant a garrison, which would not be friendly in this country.
“It was back by the church. You saw the mound there, didn’t you? That was the motte.”
“Yes.” Stephen remembered it, little more than an odd hump of ground covered with grass.
“It was burnt long ago.”
“That’s a relief, I suppose.”
“Yes,” the guide said, squinting toward the northeast. “I suppose it is. But there’s another at Welshpool and that’s only five miles off. I would feel better if we were moving faster.” He wheeled his horse and returned to the column while Stephen and the men-at-arms trotted ahead to see what the road held in store for them.
Another hour and a half through rolling country that afforded views for miles on the hilltops brought the column to a village where the road crossed a small river. The village was deserted, not a soul in sight on the roads and paths or in the fields around it.
The spring melt had swollen the river to the limits of its banks and crossing would have been difficult had there not been a bridge. However, planks had been removed from the middle of the bridge, making it impassable to wagons and livestock.
“They knew we were coming,” Parfet said to Mably and Stephen as they surveyed the damage.
“We’ll have to replace them,” Mably said. “We should be able to use timbers from one of these houses.”
“Right,” Parfet said. “Melmerby, have the boys get some boards to cover that gap. Be quick about it. I don’t care if you have to pull down houses to get them.”
“Right away, sir,” Melmerby said, and shouted to some of the archers to get busy.
Although the archers pulled down a wall of the house nearest the bridge, timbers from that house did not prove necessary to mend the bridge, for some of the men who took the opportunity to search nearby houses for whatever the inhabits had failed to carry away found the missing bridge planks behind a privy.
The delay cost half an hour, and it was midafternoon as the column pressed on to the southeast.
A mile outside of the village at the river, the road turned sharply south on flat ground at another village of half dozen houses.
“Richard,” Stephen said to Parfet as they turned the corner. “I’ve a bad feeling.”
“About what?” Parfet asked, although from his grim expression it looked as though he shared Stephen’s thoughts.
“Welshpool, there’s a castle at Welshpool. It’s just up the road from where we crossed that river.”
“What makes you think so?”
“That’s what the guide told me.”
“So?”
“I’m afraid the people at the bridge took up the planks and then sent word to the castle. They meant to slow us down so the garrison could catch us.”
Parfet locked eyes with Stephen. He was silent for a moment. “You could be right.”
“Which means they’re on the road behind us and riding like the devil to overtake us. How much farther to the ford?”
“Another mile or so. What are you thinking?”
“A rear guard action to allow the baggage to get across.”
“It might work. No harm in being prepared. Melmerby!”
“Yessir!” Melmerby replied.
“Get these people moving! We’ve only a mile to go, and I want them at a dead run, if they can manage it.”
“We’re likely to loose much of the livestock.”
“But we’ll save what’s in the wagons and on the pack horses. Sergeants! With me!”
The wagons and pack horses shot ahead at a trot, if not at a dead run, while three of the archers did their best to hurry the cattle and sheep along, using their bows as prods. The remaining knights and men-at-arms — numbering fourteen without Melmerby — followed in a column of twos, Parfet and Mably in the lead, with Stephen bringing up the rear, twisting in the saddle to keep watch behind them.
Parfet had just reached a bend in the road, where a pond stood to the left behind a screen of trees, when Stephen saw the pursuit.
“They’re coming!” Stephen shouted.
Parfet reined up and looked back. A column of Welsh men-at-arms was approaching at a fast trot in the distance. Parfet waved his arms. “Form a line! Form a line!”
The men on the road turned into the field and there was much jostling and backing until a short line formed stretching from the marshy ground on the east into a field on the left.
The Welsh column stopped at the sight of the English, then began deploying into a line of their own about two-hundred yards away. They were a formidable sight: Stephen counted at least forty lances, well more than their number.
As Parfet came up beside him, Stephen said, his voice snapping with the tones of command: “Take half the men a hundred yards up the road and reform. I’ll follow with the rest when you are set.”
Parfet blinked at being commanded so sharply, but he did not argue. Tapping one of the men in the middle of the line, he shouted, “You on the left, follow me!”
He and the others wheeled and raced down the road.
“What was the point of that?” Mably asked, as Stephen kept an anxious eye on the Welsh.
“We can’t beat them. We can only hope to slow them down to buy time for the wagons. If they charge now, they’ll be disordered. They won’t want that, I think. I wouldn’t. Softens the blow.” He saw that Parfet was reforming behind them. “Let’s go.”
The place Parfet had selected to reform was upon the road and into a field on the left, where copses of trees grew on either side of the road. Stephen approved of it, since the trees would break up any Welsh charge.
The Welsh apparently realized the unfavorability of the ground, for they came back into column on the road, while Stephen had the people with him take up a position athwart the road between the copses ahead of Parfet’s line. The Welsh column stopped. A party cut into the field intending to come around the copse and attack the English flank while the main body probably intended to charge in column up the road. Stephen waved at Parfet. “Fall back again!”
Parfet led his party to a spot just beyond some hedges which lined the road and ran into the fields on either side. As those men scrambled to reform a line, Stephen gave the signal for his party to retreat to them. They galloped down the road just as the Welsh flanking party came around the copse to the left. The flanking party dashed almost alongside Stephen and the men with him as if they were in a race to reach the end of the field, but in the end, the hedges sheltering Parfet brought them to a halt. The Welsh column came up at a more deliberate pace, the commander clearly seeing that the ground remained unfavorable, even with their superior numbers.
“Melmerby should have reached the ford by now!” Parfet cried as Stephen and the men with him reined up and wheeled about to form up. “Should we break for it?”
“They’ll be stacked up to cross!” Stephen called back. “We need to buy more time!”
“One more time, then!” Parfet said. “Back again, boys!”
Parfet’s company raced down the road again, while Stephen eyed the Welsh to the left uneasily, for they were hacking a way through the hedge with their swords. It wouldn’t be long before they forced a passage and were behind him. But what had him more worried was the column on the road, for those Welsh picked up a canter and pounded down the road toward him with what appeared to be an intention to bowl their way through his thin screen.
“I don’t think we can hold them here!” Stephen shouted to the men. “Back to Parfet!”
They wheeled about just as the first of the Welsh at the hedge vaulted through the gap they had created.
It was now another race to reach Parfet and whatever temporary safety their numbers afforded.
Parfet had gone more than a hundred yards this time and had disappeared around a bend in the road to the right. Stephen saw him forming up at the crossroads to the ford where more hedges confined the space available to fight as Stephen’s men rounded
that bend at a dead gallop. Stephen swiveled for a look back to at the column, which was galloping in pursuit.
Stephen and his party passed through Parfet’s line, which closed up.
“Lances down!” Parfet shouted. “Charge!”
It seemed a foolhardy order for so few to charge so many, but Stephen realized it might be the best thing to do in this confined space: throw the enemy into confusion and take out as many as possible before the weight of their numbers could make a difference.
At the last moment, the oncoming Welsh slowed to a trot, since horses could not be made to collide with a wall of spears, and the fight instantly degenerated into a scrum of the push of lances, and when those became useless in the press, of swords and axes. In a flash, the road was a maelstrom of horses stamping and wheeling, and men hacking and stabbing, the only sounds the thump of hooves, the grunting of the combatants, and the thwack of weapons upon shields. There was so little space upon the road that Stephen and his men could only watch for a few moments, until a Welshmen here and there broke through to turn upon the English. Then a party of Welsh came across one of the hedges behind the English, threatening to cut off those in the battle.
Stephen had hoped that his party could serve as a reserve to which Parfet’s men might fall back on when they had done enough damage to the Welsh to hold them up for a little while longer. But with the appearance of the flanking party, he realized that could not be. There was only one thing to do now. Honor required it.
“At them, boys!” Stephen shouted, spurring his horse forward.
Before battle there is always anxiety and doubt, but when the lances come down, the horses surge forward, and the impact of the first thrust travels up the lance pole and slams the butt into the armpit, there is a strange joy. It is inexplicable to those who have not experienced it. It is not so much a love of fighting, although there is certainly some of that: the satisfaction of blows well delivered and well turned, of a horse well managed in the confusion, of not running away when a path was clear. It is more the sensation of being surrounded by your friends, all in great danger, each being willing to give his life for his fellows. And although Stephen was a visitor to this company, that special joy came back to him as he took the first Welsh horseman in the back with such an impact that it threw the man to the ground. For a moment, he was in Spain again with Rodrigo, Taresa still lived, and all was right in the world.