At the main crossroads where the north-south way led to Bordeaux and Pau and the other to Dax and the coast, Abelard and his horsemen kept out of sight behind a low rise in the forest floor waiting impatiently for the signal from his lookout, dressed as a leper and begging for alms on the crowded highway. The moment the merchant caravan they were expecting arrived at the intersection he would ring his bell, which all lepers must have to warn others of their malady.
There was considerable traffic, mainly pilgrims, most of them diseased, maimed or dragging their suffering relations to the different shrines selling cures and holy unguents, that competed for the custom of the poor and beaten who still had two coins to rub together. It wasn’t much from each supplicant, but it was a volume business.
There were also the soldiers on their way to fights or those dragging their wounded from recent engagements. And then there were the merchants who either traveled in mufti, disguised as tradesmen or beggars or pilgrims; or in heavily protected convoys, escorted by captains with their own small troop, reduced to guard duty while waiting for the century’s main event, the Hundred Years War, to resume. Abelard had heard of a particularly laden convoy, coming from Toulouse and heading to Bordeaux to trade with the English. He was waiting for them.
The horses were nervously stamping the ground. They sensed the excitement of their riders. These powerful, beautifully turned beasts were preparing themselves for the coming demands on their strength, speed and obedience. They were snorting and moving around the very small piece of ground each rider had demarked as its bounds. They were very large animals, protected by their own heavy armour and able to swiftly run under the weight of a big rider, himself wearing a 50 kilogram panoply.
The disciplined horsemen knew the convoy would soon be at the crossroads. The rider sent to look into its progress had just returned with word that they were almost upon them. Visors clanged shut, weapons were drawn and Abelard moved to the front of the shuffling brigands. They would now wait for the leper’s bell and Abelard’s signal to surge from the wood and fall upon the convoy.
“You can kill everyone,” Abelard began, in a low voice, knowing that it would take a moment to have everyone’s attention, and when all eyes were upon him he repeated, “you can kill everyone,” here he paused for another moment before firmly saying, “except women and children. This is not a chevauchée. Anyone disobeying will have to answer to me.” Then he turned towards the intersection and waited for the signal to lead his men to the attack. Women and children, hogs and chickens, it was all the same to him; to be killed if necessary, let be otherwise.
“Out of the way leper,” the captain of the troop escort shouted at the crouching, hooded figure.
“Please, alms for a starving Christian,” the leper pleaded, staying his ground. He had to slow the convoy enough for it to lose some momentum, difficult to regain, when it would inevitably try to outrun the brigands.
This so outraged the captain that he drew his sword and prodded his horse to run at the hunched figure. But this was a mistake. In one fluid movement the beggar cast off his rough cloak, raised his very large battle ax and rang the signal bell. The captain’s ruthless attitude had temporarily thrown the convoy into disarray and realizing that a trap had been sprung it was all he could do to ward off the crashing ax and turn to prod the convoy out of its momentary lethargy. By then the thunder of hooves was already drowning out his voice and the swift horsemen were surging from the wood.
The escort captain knew that a moving convoy made for a more difficult target, even if their speed was greatly hampered by the laden wagons carrying the merchants’ baggage and families. Travelers too slow to make way for the desperate dashing horses and wagons were trampled under hoof or, the lucky ones, sent sprawling off the road. But it would be only a moment before the brigands closed and began to hack at the escort. They were fairly evenly matched in numbers but the terrain favoured the attackers. The recently harvested fields, dried out and hard, gave good footing to their large horses as they maneuvered alongside.
The clash was intense, the escorting men selling their lives dearly. Abelard, with much experience in these matters knew that once there no longer remained any reason for resistance, the surviving guards would bolt to save themselves. He had already designated several of his troop to stop the wagons. The swiftest way to do so was to kill the drivers and force the directionless rigs off the road. The arrows would be a problem. Each driver was accompanied by an archer and three of his men had already been felled. He hated losing experienced riders but it was the price to be paid in these ventures. And three lives were not an exorbitant cost for what appeared would be a rich take. The drivers and archers, knew they would not be spared and so put up an aggressive resistance, but were eventually hacked off their perches, and the wagons stopped. The surviving guards, and those merchants nimble enough to be still breathing, seized the momentary lull to break off the engagement and bolt to safety. Abelard was shouting at several men to pick up the reins of the wagons so as to drive them to the spot he had chosen for counting the take. Then he heard the screaming coming from the very last wagon. He prodded his horse towards the commotion which now included the shrieking of at least one infant. When he lifted the flap, he was not at all pleased by the scene which opened before him.
Abelard was not fussed by all the blood and body parts; he had seen much the same many times. He was, though, thoroughly enraged that his orders to spare woman and children had been disobeyed. It was very bad for business. Merchants would be leerier making such trips and when they did they would do so in far larger and much better protected convoys if they believed the risks had become even greater than they already were.
The insane grin cracking the cruel, hard face, as the brute waded through the pulpy red mass of bodies - Abelard counted three women and two infants - did nothing to calm his ire. Abelard still held his bloody, unsheathed sword as the butcher jumped to the ground, splashing him with the streaming blood that was still rolling down soiled armour. He looked up at Abelard, the mad grin even wider than before, and it was the last thing he would ever see. With only the quietist sigh, Abelard drove his blade into the middle of the man’s face, knocking the back of his skull to the earth and emerging with bits of clinging brain.
“This man is no longer with our Company,” Abelard said, very matter-of-factly, to the poker faced men who had just witnessed his swift justice. “He has chosen to disobey my instructions and could not be trusted any further.” Abelard set his eyes on each man in turn to make sure that everyone, without exception, understood that his justice was fair and, above all, that he was perfectly and unambiguously cold blooded in these matters. Lessons worth giving were best given well.
*
The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 52