Saint Milburga's Bones (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 5)

by Jason Vail

  After that, as he slipped among the Welsh and they surrounded him, there was the sense that he was outside himself, almost, watching, while some inner power directed his arm as he laid about with his sword or deflected a blow, turning the stallion sometimes with his legs, sometimes with the pressure of his shield on the horse’s neck, sometimes with the reins; feeling his sword slam home on a helmet, shoulder, or arm; sensing the enemy’s blows thumping on his shield, occasionally glancing off his helmet, other times striking his arms and body; but his mail held, though he would be sorely bruised afterwards.

  Here and there men were pulled from their horses or struck down, some of them trampled, others merely stunned or wounded curling into balls hoping for the best, yet others scuttling on hands and knees for the hedges and what safety they afforded.

  How long the maelstrom went on and who was winning was always impossible to tell. It often seemed hours but was usually only minutes.

  After a time there were no more Welsh about Stephen or the others of his company, and the enemies drew back from each other a spear length, disordered and confused in the narrow expanse of the lane. The English had held; against all expectations, they had held.

  Then the pressure of the men in the rear ranks of the Welsh propelled the foremost ahead to the attack again. But this time, the English turned and fled down the road. Everyone knew that in the end it was hopeless and that they had done what they could to protect the wagons, so now their only thought was to get away. No one wanted to die for nothing.

  It became a race with the highest of stakes, for the losers on the English side could not expect mercy.

  Stephen’s stallion was fit and fast, and loved to run. So when Stephen gave the horse his head, it surged ahead of everyone without seeming to exert great effort. It would have been a easy thing to run straight for the ford, but when Stephen cleared the pack, he looked back to see what the Welsh were doing — following hell bent, of course — and what was happening to the others of his company. The English were scattered, some on the road, some having taken to the fields on either side as the hedges broke up and allowed entrance, the slower ones among them already being caught by the fastest of the Welsh.

  The road dipped through a small stream. The stallion leaped the stream without being asked, and came down hard on the other side. Stephen absorbed the jolt with his heels, and glanced back again. To the left, three English leaped the stream, pursued by at least ten of the Welsh, pelting over the turf, the hooves of the horses throwing up great clods of grass and dirt, manes and tails flying.

  The Welsh were almost upon those three English and it would take only seconds before they were caught and brought down. Stephen swerved into the field and angled toward them. Just as one of the Welsh caught one of the English — Stephen recognized Dogface, his expression panic stricken as he watched his death approach — Stephen brought his stallion shoulder to shoulder with the Welsh horseman and stabbed the man over his shield. The point of Stephen’s sword snagged in the mail aventail at the Welshman’s throat, but the force of the blow drove him out of the saddle, the now riderless horse galloping on with the others.

  “Faster!” Stephen shouted to Dogface.

  “He’s going as fast as he’ll go!” Dogface replied, so bent over the pommel of his saddle that he seemed to by lying atop his mount.

  A hedge stood in their way, the boundary to a field, an obstacle those in flight had not taken into account when they picked this route. Two of the English swerved farther left to avoid it, drawing off half the pursuers, but Stephen and Dogface drove straight for the hedge. Stephen felt the stallion hesitate, not liking the sight of that hedge, but Stephen gouged hard with his spurs to keep the horse going, only at the last two strides sitting back deep in the saddle, collecting the stallion to slow him down and to put his weight on the hindquarters, yet still urging him into the jump.

  The stallion reared and sailed over the hedge, his hooves brushing the topmost branches, which a proper reeve should have trimmed.

  Stephen looked back again. Dogface also had cleared the hedge, as had five of the Welsh on their tail. The horse of a sixth had refused the jump and thrown its rider into the hedge.

  It was a clear meadow ahead to the ford, no more than a quarter mile. Two wagons were halted at the ford waiting to cross, while to the right along the track, the livestock was scattering at the approach of the horsemen. Their archer attendants could be seen riding hard for the ford, wanting nothing to do with the Welsh, their only thought to get away.

  Stephen let the stallion extend, feeling the easy, powerful stride and the wind in his face almost with pleasure. There were fewer things more satisfying than riding a horse at a dead run across an open field, and he would have enjoyed it more had it not been for the Welsh.

  He and Dogface sped by an astonished boy with the staff of a shepherd, although his flock had abandoned him, fleeing from the commotion to the far reaches of the meadow.

  Stephen swiveled back for another look at the pursuit. His stallion was faster than any of the others and he was drawing away. But the Welsh were closing on Dogface again, whose horse was not so fine as either he or the enemy possessed. They might catch Dogface before he reached the ford, if Stephen as any judge. He checked up the stallion until Dogface was at his side and then gave the stallion his head, but held back enough to keep pace with Dogface.

  The Welsh were close enough that Stephen could see their faces. One called out in good English, “Stand and fight, you coward!”

  “I don’t like the odds!” Stephen replied.

  “You yellow shit!”

  “Fuck you and your mother!”

  “That’s telling ‘em, sir,” Dogface said. “But what are we going to do?”

  “Well, one thing we can do is get more speed out of that nag you’re riding.” Stephen leaned over and swatted Dogface’s horse on the flank with the flat of his sword, and it leaped ahead.

  “You could at least have warned me!” Dogface cried, holding onto the mane.

  They reached the wagons just ahead of the Welsh. Stephen came round to put the wagons between him and the enemy, and reined up. It was unsafe to drive the horse into the ford. The bed of the river here was made up of large round stones, the ones projecting above the water green with moss. Any horse had to be taken across slowly so as not to break a leg. Dogface was less mindful of this danger and rode into the ford. The horse slipped on a stone and fell on its side, pitching Dogface into the water, then clambered to its feet and walked to the other side.

  Stephen dismounted and pushed the stallion into the ford. “Take him!” he ordered Dogface who was climbing to his feet, shaking his head at the fall.

  Then he turned to face the Welsh alone.

  “I’ll fight the one with the big mouth man-to-man, if he has the stomach for it,” Stephen said to them.

  The Welsh riders regarded him with leveled lances. Just when Stephen thought that they might charge, their eyes flicked to the opposite bank. Five archers had come out on the stony bar with nocked arrows. One of the men-at-arms said something in Welsh to the others. They raised their lances and turned away, leaving three with the wagons while the remainder headed back up the track, where Stephen could see that the English had been surrounded.

  Chapter 17

  Stephen crossed the ford to the opposite bank and the archers. “Thanks. That was a close one.”

  “Do you think they’ll come back and attack us?” one of the archers asked.

  Stephen squinted through the trees to the spot where the Welsh had caught up with Parfet and Mably. The battle was over and the Welsh could be seen stripping the dead. It did not look as though anyone had survived. “I doubt it. They probably don’t know how few’ve been left at the castle. They’ll be afraid of a sortie and being caught on this side of the river.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I suppose it is. Come on. We can’t do anything useful here.”

  The pack train and three of
the wagons had made it across the river, and Stephen and the archers caught up with them at the gate to the fortress. With Mably and Parfet apparently dead, he was the senior person at Old Montgomery now and the men standing about the bailey with somber faces looked at him as if asking what should be done next. Stephen ordered them to unload the wagons and pack horses. While they did so, he rode alone to the ford so see for himself what the Welsh might be up to. But by the time he returned, the wagons on the other side of the river were gone, and so were the Welsh men-at-arms. The meadow was quiet, as though nothing untoward had happened. It was just another spring day.

  When Stephen returned to the castle, he led the wagons back to the ford and across it. None of the men of the garrison were eager to come, but he had ordered them in rather harsh tones that they must recover the bodies of the fallen.

  The dead lay upon the road leading from the ford where they had made their stand. They had been stripped of their armor and weapons, but at least the Welsh had the decency to leave them clothed, although the bodies were barefoot since the boots of the dead had been taken as well.

  Melmerby ran into the circle of bodies, and found Parfet lying upon his back, staring at the sky with the single eye that remained to him; the left one had been destroyed by what appeared to be the blow of an axe. Parfet’s face was marred by other terrible wounds to his face and neck as well. It looked as though he had been hacked repeatedly while he lay on the ground. Melmerby placed his hand on Parfet’s chest.

  Dogface patted Melmerby’s shoulder. “Come away there, lad. We’ll take care of him.”

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Melmerby sobbed, as he rose and let Dogface lead him to the wagons.

  “You know you had to part from him, the way things are. Sooner rather than later, too.”

  “Shut up, you ass.” Melmerby shook his head and dropped his face into his hands.

  Stephen superintended the grim business of loading the bodies onto the wagons — but not those of Mably and Parfet. Theirs were draped across the backs of horses. As undignified as that was, it was better than being in the pile of the other dead.

  What had been the chapel was partly roofless. This did not seem a place to leave the dead until they could be buried, so Stephen directed that the bodies be put in the barn overnight, where they lay next to the plunder they had died to protect. Before the door closed upon them, Stephen paused for a last look. He wondered if his choice of tactics had led to this, if he had let Parfet guide the battle whether it could have been avoided, if the survivors blamed him for the disaster. He could not help but think that he was at least partly at fault and that others would reach the same conclusion.

  The following morning Stephen rode down to New Montgomery to fetch a priest and to tell the castle commander what had happened.

  The commander, Hugh de Tuberville, was a lean, craggy man. He looked Stephen over when he presented himself in the hall. “Who are you?”

  “I am Stephen Attebrook. I am a deputy coroner of Hertfordshire.”

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I was sent by the Prince to make an inquiry of Richard Parfet.”

  “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

  “Sir?”

  “Here! It doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my hall.”

  “I’ve come to report a mishap.”

  “What sort of mishap? A murder? We’re a bit outside of your jurisdiction.”

  “No, sir. This is a military matter.”

  “What could you have to do with a military matter?”

  So Stephen told him.

  Tuberville listened with a grim face to Stephen’s report of the disaster. “Caught on the way back, were you?”

  “In sight of the ford, my lord,” Stephen said.

  “Slowed down because of the wagons,” Tuberville snorted. “You idiots. What made you think that with Welshpool so close that you’d get away?”

  “Parfet thought we could.”

  “Parfet! I sent him up to watch the ford. That’s all he was fit to do. He wasn’t a soldier. He could barely tell one end of a sword from another. And you, what were you doing on this stupid expedition? Thinking to make a quick and easy profit, where you?”

  Stephen hesitated, then nodded. “Yessir. I’m afraid so.”

  Tuberville stroked his chin. “Fifteen men to forty, eh? You held them off long enough for most of the wagons to cross?”

  “Three of the five, my lord. We lost all the livestock.”

  “Not a total loss, then. Although how I’m to replace the men, I’ve no idea. And I need all I can get.” Tuberville called to a servant. “Howard! Have a horse saddled for me! I’ve got to run up to Old Montgomery to see what sort of mess those young hotheads have made of things!”

  The grave was not yet finished by the time Stephen, Tuberville and his escort, and the parish priest reached Old Montgomery, as only two shovels could be found. There was no consecrated ground within the bailey, of course, so the dead were to be buried in what had been the yard of the village church. It would be a single grave for all eleven of the dead, including Parfet and Mably, one long and rather shallow ditch.

  Tuberville inspected the bodies without bothering to dismount, and turned away with a curt, “Come along,” to Stephen, leaving the priest to do his somber work.

  “Show me what you got,” Tuberville said as they rode through the gate to the bailey.

  “This way, sir,” Stephen said. “I’ve had it put in the barn.”

  While Tuberville inspected the plunder, Stephen mustered what remained of the garrison for inspection. All the fifteen archers who had gone on the raid survived, and with the six left behind that reduced the complement to twenty-one, plus Melmerby, Dogface, and Greg, who had split from the group about Parfet before it was surrounded.

  Tuberville came out of the barn and stood before the assembly. It was clear from his expression that he was angry. “Pathetic,” he pronounced. “God help you all if the Welsh come. This place won’t hold for half an hour. But it must be held nonetheless. So you will have to remain. Don’t any of you do anything so stupid as to cross the river again.” He faced Stephen. “Have the goods taken to New Montgomery straightaway.”

  “My lord,” Stephen said quietly so that only Tuberville could hear, “it would be unfair not to share out some of it with them. They took the risks their officers asked of them, after all.”

  Tuberville bit his lip. Stephen expected a sharp retort. Tuberville asked, “You aren’t expecting a share, are you?”

  “No, sir. Not now.”

  Tuberville nodded. “All right then.” He said loudly enough for the rest to hear, “I’ll have an accounting done, and we’ll pay you a piece of it. Now get back to work. And I want you out of here by dawn tomorrow, Attebrook.”

  After supper as it grew dark, the servants stacked the tables against a wall and threw more wood on the hearth. The center of the hall grew warm and those not on watch clustered about the fire. Melmerby came up behind Stephen as he finished a cup of cider.

  “Why don’t you try some of this?” Melmerby asked holding forth a brass pitcher. “It’s a bit stronger than that piss they served at supper.”

  “What is it?”

  “Let me have your cup.” Melmerby poured from the pitcher. “Dogface sends this with his compliments for your help yesterday during the retreat.”

  Stephen knew it was wine rather than ale from the smell alone. “Where did you get that?”

  “It fell off the wagon. Sort of, anyway.”

  “How much fell off?”

  “There might have been a pitcher or two lost. You won’t let on when you get to New Montgomery tomorrow, will you?”

  “I have no intention of stopping at the castle.”

  “Good, sir. Oh, and there’s that matter of your bowling debt. How were you planning to pay it off?”

  Stephen had forgotten about that. He had no money to speak of, only a few pence to cov
er his traveling costs, and that was not nearly enough to satisfy his debt. “I don’t have any money. But you can have my helm. Will that do it?”

  “It would indeed, sir. A very fine piece of work it is. Thank you. Thank you so much. Don’t bother getting up. We’ll settle up in the morning before you leave.” Melmerby drank from the pitcher and retreated into a dark corner of the hall.

  One of the servants shook Stephen awake at dawn. “Time to get up, sir. I’ve sent one of the grooms to ready your horses. Cook will have some bread and cheese for you to take with you in short order.”

  “Thank you, Egbert, I appreciate it.”

  Stephen rose and struggled into his gambeson. Those going on watch were already up and just leaving, two of their number taking the rear door leading to the motte in order to climb to the tower. A watch was kept in the tower only during the day.

  Stephen was finishing the ties on his mail when one of the men sent to the tower returned. “Sir,” the soldier said, “could you come? There’s been an accident.”

  “What sort of accident?”

  “It’s Melmerby, sir. He’s dead.”

  The door to the tower stood open and Stephen could see the body as he strode across from the ramp leading to the top of the motte. The other watchmen stood over the body.

  Stephen paused in the doorway to get a sense of things. This tower was like so many others of its kind in that it resembled the belfry of a church, the massive supports at the corners and thus the walls leaning slightly inward so that each floor diminished in size the higher it was. Unlike some towers, though, this one was open clear to the top floor, with walkways at each stage rather than proper floors. A series of ladders gave access upward.