[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘I can’t have both,’ she said. ‘Love and power.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ Osyth asked. ‘Is your heart so small?’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  ‘Pack!’ said Lord William.

  His men looked up eagerly. ‘Where are we going, my lord?’

  ‘I ride to Bristol,’ Breos said. ‘I take the Pendragon Banner to the king.’

  ‘The king? But my lord…’

  ‘His quarrel’s with me, not you. Your first loyalty was to me, your lord, and you’ve been staunch. No blame now if you think best to seek your fortunes with another lord. Go with my blessing. Who rides with me?’

  They looked at one another and at him. ‘I will.’

  ‘And I.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And me.’

  There were tears in Lord William’s eyes; he had always wept easily. He knuckled them away. ‘Then we’ll make our dash tonight, they won’t expect anything after dark. What are you waiting for?’ This to Thibaut, who had made no move. ‘You heard me! Pack!’ Lord William slapped the young man’s cheek, not hard but it stung.

  Thibaut had been the youngest of the half-dozen well born squires in Lord William’s service. The rest had been removed by their fathers at the first whispers of Breos’s impending disgrace and only Thibaut, whose stepfather was glad to be rid of him, stayed on, having nowhere else to go.

  From the age of seven he had unthinkingly taken his lord’s side. Graduating from page to esquire, he fought against Lord William’s enemies, for his friends, and single-mindedly served his interests. More recently he had shared his disgrace and poverty, and at his command had burned villages, raided towns, sacked churches and hanged men.

  The sack of the Penitent Sisters’ priory had started him thinking, as a midwife’s slap will jolt a sluggish newborn into squalling life. Robbing travellers, some of them pilgrims, like any common thief, filled him with shame, and the torture and killing of the old priest at Tresaint, too terrified to say a Mass, sickened him to his soul. The murder of the baby was the last straw.

  When everything was packed into panniers he laid Lord William’s sword on the table next to the other one, the crusader’s sword in its shabby sheath. There remained only the great chest to empty but Lord William had the key of that.

  His brooding had come to a gloomy conclusion: he would not go with Lord William. And that led to a second and even gloomier conclusion: no one else would take him on.

  It was different for the knights. They could take service under another lord without so much as a raised eyebrow. Not so a squire. No one would employ a squire who had deserted his lord. It would make no difference that his lord was a traitor, rebel, murderer, and had vowed himself to the Devil in the hearing of at least a dozen witnesses. Thibaut would be outcast. He’d never be knighted, never make his fortune, never win a lady’s heart or a king’s gratitude. His future had suddenly become an endless desert of nevers.

  ‘Thibaut de Sens?’ men would say. ‘Oh, him. The one who abandoned his lord.’ No one would speak for him.

  Unless…

  His gaze returned to the shabby sheath. Lord William’s voice echoed in his mind. ‘You should have left him his sword!’

  ‘Shove over,’ said Bane. ‘There’s scrambled egg and bacon at the kitchen, if you hurry.’

  Havloc took his bowl and joined the queue. Someone tacked on behind him. Up at the front a voice shouted, ‘Next!’ and the line moved forward a pace.

  ‘Don’t do anything silly,’ a voice breathed hotly against Havloc’s ear. Something — it must be a knife — prodded his back at kidney level.

  Havloc stiffened. ‘I’ve no money!’

  ‘I don’t want your money. I want to talk to your master.’ They moved forward again.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just don’t yell or try some stupid trick. I’m Thibaut de Sens, squire to William de Breos. It was me took your horses in the greenwood.’

  ‘You?’ Havloc spun round regardless of the knife and saw that all Thibaut had in his hand was a comb. ‘I ought to punch your head,’ he said furiously. ‘You’re no better than a bloody outlaw! A thief, that’s what you are!’

  ‘All right, don’t tell the world,’ hissed Thibaut. ‘I have to talk to your master.’

  ‘Next!’ The woman in front of Havloc held up her bowl to be filled.

  ‘Get your dinner,’ Thibaut said. ‘Go back to your hut; I’ll come there. Tell Sir Richard I mean no harm.’ He gave Havloc a shove and walked off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Next!’

  Staring at Thibaut’s retreating back, Havloc didn’t hear.

  ‘Next!’ bellowed the cook again. ‘Oy, cloth ears,’ waving his ladle and spattering Havloc with bits of egg, ‘there’s plenty poor sods want it if you don’t!’

  ‘I remember you,’ said Straccan, looking intently at the young captain of thieves. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  Thibaut had brought a long bundle, loosely wrapped in his cloak, which he laid on the bench. ‘I recognised him,’ jerking his chin at Havloc, ‘and my lord’s witch said you’d be coming.’

  Witch? Ah, yes. Where is the lady Julitta? I’ve not seen her.’

  ‘My lord took her away this morning and came back alone. He killed her, I think.’

  ‘She’s not easy to kill.’

  ‘She bespelled him,’ Thibaut said. ‘She put stuff in his wine. He was always harsh, but now he has done things —’ He broke off abruptly and occupied his shaking hands with the bundle. Letting the cloak fall he offered the crusader’s sword to Straccan. ‘Sir, this is yours.’

  Surprised, Straccan drew and hefted his sword, relieved and gladdened by its familiar weight and balance. ‘Good,’ he said, sheathing it again, his fingers caressing the leather. ‘You stole our horses as well, and everything they carried.’

  Your horses are here, and the Banner.’

  Straccan’s hand stilled on the scabbard. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Locked in the chest in my lord’s chamber and the key on a cord round his neck.’

  ‘Tricky,’ observed Bane.

  Straccan held up the sword. ‘Why give me this?’

  Thibaut clasped his hands together, white-knuckled. ‘I can’t serve Lord William anymore.’

  ‘Doubtless you have your reasons.’

  ‘Yes.’ There were things he couldn’t speak of, the dead baby for one, and the dreams. Would they stop if the witch was dead? He hoped so. ‘Sir Richard, I beg a favour.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘W-will you speak for me, to any friend of yours, to give me some place in his household? Not as squire, of course — I know I can never be a knight now — but any honest employment.’

  ‘For a squire who has deserted his lord?’

  Thibaut flushed, then paled as his hopes died. ‘No,’ he said, looking at the floor. ‘Of course not. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Will you stand with me when I challenge him?’

  Thibaut looked even more miserable. ‘No, sir. I can’t take up arms against him.’

  ‘Not even for a place?’

  Thibaut shook his head. ‘When I entered my lord’s service I took an oath never to raise my hand against him.’

  ‘Then you should keep it. If he has the Banner, why’s he still here?’

  ‘We — He leaves tonight.’

  Straccan swore. Bruno von Koln and his troop would probably be a match for Breos and his, but if it came to a battle there were no certainties. Breos could still escape. He had a galley waiting somewhere; if he got to it only God could stop him from taking the Banner to Brittany, and with God there were no certainties either.

  ‘Where’s my horse?’

  ‘In the stable behind our hall.’ That too was guarded, always a man at the door. ‘The fourth stall on the right. He’s muzzled and hobbled.’

  Despite his anger, Straccan grinned at that. ‘Gave you a bit of trouble, did he? Good for him.’


  ‘We thought he’d kick the stable wall out. He killed one of my men and hurt four others badly. The grooms are terrified of him.’

  Straccan nodded, unsurprised, ‘Well, boy, he’ll be wondering where you’ve got to. You’d better go back now and carry on as usual.’ As Thibaut turned miserably away Straccan added, ‘If I get out of here alive I’ll speak for you, I promise.’ Thibaut began stammering his thanks but Straccan raised a hand to stop his flow. ‘You spared our lives at the ford. I’ll not be in your debt.’

  ‘Locked in a chest,’ Bane mused when Thibaut had gone. ‘And nothing round the back but slit-windows. How do we get in?’

  ‘We can’t. We’ll have to winkle him out, him and the Banner. I’ve a thought... I’ll need grease — drippings from the kitchen — a bucketful. Havloc, will you get that?’ As Havloc left he called after him, ‘Better make it two!’

  ‘Will you challenge him now?’ Bane asked.

  ‘It’s now or never.’ Damned if he’d let the bastard walk away. It was too much to ask!

  ‘What about his men?’

  ‘If I can draw him onto the path that leads up to the shrine they won’t be much help to him. One man could hold off an army there. And thanks to that wretched boy I have my sword back.’

  Raising it to his lips he kissed the crossguard. Sulien’s warning flickered in his mind again, to be doused by his rising rage. ‘That murdering cur did his damnedest to kill me. He’s had his bloody hands on my sword and his fat arse on my horse, and if they think I’ll stand meekly by and let him get away with my relic, they can think again!’

  ‘What?’ said Bane. ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  When he’d killed Breos he would ride straight to Holystone and get his daughter, and to Shawl for Janiva, and take them to safety. Where? Blaise d’Etranger would give them refuge, and in Scotland they’d be out of John’s reach. After the business with Rainard de Soulis last year the Scottish king had offered him an estate near Coldinghame. He’d take him up on it. As for the Banner, Bruno could take that to the king.

  Havloc set the buckets down carefully.

  ‘What now?’ said Bane.

  ‘Eh?’ No, it would never work; John’s reach was too long. Hadn’t he plucked Mahaut de Breos from King William’s weak hands? There was no way out.

  He scowled. ‘I need rags. This’ll do.’ Pulling the voluminous leper-gown over his head he ripped the seams apart and started tearing the material into long strips. ‘Havloc, will you do this? Roll them into balls, about this big, not too tight. Leave an end sticking out.’ He demonstrated. ‘Like this. That’s it. When you’ve done, leave em round the back of Breos’s hall, with the grease.’ He had come to a decision. He would challenge Breos and if the rebel lord fought fairly, one of them would die. It had better not be him. But as it wasn’t like Breos to do anything fairly, he needed a fail-back plan. ‘I need your help, Hawkan. Can you find a hurdle? I’ve got an idea, something you can help me set up before I get Zingiber out of there. You’ll have to get the guard’s attention when I slip into the stable.’ Bane nodded. ‘Right. Then what?’

  ‘Keep it while I set the place on fire.’

  ‘I know two sure ways to get a crowd,’ said Bane when he returned, grubby and sweating, two hours later. ‘One’s a pair of copulating dogs, the other’s a fight. And I don’t see any dogs.’ He eyed Havloc up and down, assessing his height and strength. ‘How about a bit of wrestling?’

  ‘Me?

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try not to hurt you.’

  Havloc frowned at a vagrant memory. ‘I can fight, I think. With sticks.’

  ‘Quarterstaves? That’s an idea. The lepers use ash poles, there’ll be spares around somewhere. Hang around near the stable. I’ll be right back.’

  He returned with a couple of sturdy poles, each about eight feet long.

  ‘Here. Bit of friendly sport, all right? Just do your best,’ Bane said cheerfully. ‘I’ll make it look good.’

  He grasped his stave in both hands and feinted at Havloc who, with his head tilted as if listening to a voice only he could hear, appeared hopelessly unready. But at Bane’s lunge he sprang back instinctively, dodging the blow and twirling his stave like a mere straw, to meet Bane’s with an almighty crack. Bored and fidgety, Breos’s guard outside the stable perked up and began offering encouragement.

  Bane staggered back, and before he could recover Havloc had thrust the pole between his ankles, bringing him down. He fell heavily, winded and astonished. Laughing, Havloc tossed his stave high overhead and caught it one-handed.

  As they edged along the side wall of the stable, staves revolving, the guard followed, loud in criticism. The rattle and crack of the staves attracted others as well, and soon ten or a dozen were cheering, jeering and offering advice.

  Where’d you learn to use a stick?’ Bane panted.

  ‘My brother taught me,’ Havloc gasped without thinking. A startled expression crossed his face. ‘My brother! I’ve got a brother! Alaric! I remember!’

  Taking advantage of his distraction Bane shoved his stave under Havloc’s arm, twisting it to jerk him off balance, following that up with a thrust that sent him reeling into the applauding crowd, who received him with yells of derision, and launched him back, Havloc laughing like a lunatic.

  ‘Master Bane! I remember!’

  Bane feinted left and struck right, a tactic that usually brought results, but Havloc was ready for it. Bane found himself sitting in the dust with his opponent grinning at him like a village idiot.

  ‘What d’you remember?’

  ‘All of it! My mother, my brother, old Drogo, Alis… Get hold of this.’

  Bane grasped the end of Havloc’s stave, kindly proffered to help him up. Another mistake. The stick was thrust forward with Havloc’s powerful muscles behind it, and to his disgust Bane found himself on his arse again.

  ‘You’re good at this.’

  ‘I know.’

  Jabbing, flailing, jumping in to attack and skipping aside to evade, they worked their way round to the front of Breos’s hall, where the guard at the door called to his comrades inside to come and watch the fun.

  ‘What about the cup? Ooof!’ A hard poke in the belly took Bane’s breath away.

  ‘Ugil dug it up in his onion patch.’

  Bane managed to get in a couple of whacks but this was a fight he wasn’t likely to win. Just as well it was friendly. His ribs would be black and blue.

  ‘Drogo sent me to Ludlow to sell it,’ Havloc panted, as the staves whirled and cracked. ‘I took it to a goldsmith.’

  Marvelling, he remembered every shining detail, the goldsmith’s sly eyes ‘… Gold? Never. Brass. Threepence, take it or leave it.’ When Havloc said no the man got nasty. ‘Stolen, ain't it? I'll take it off your hands— a favour— shilling. It's better than the gallows? When Havloc got up angrily to go the man began cringing. ‘I meant no offence. Times are hard. Stay, have a cup of wine with me, show there's no hard feelings.’

  When he’d left the room to fetch wine Havloc took up a pen and a scrap of parchment and copied the words on the cup.

  ‘I thought I’d show them to a priest, to find out what they meant.’ He sidestepped Bane’s stave and fetched him a painful crack on the shoulder that numbed his arm. ‘I slipped out but he sent his bullies after me, two hefty sods. Ow!’ Bane grinned; he’d got one in.

  ‘I hid along the river,’ Havloc gasped. ‘The bank gave way and I fell in. I can’t swim.’ Stave spinning like a windmill he advanced on Bane. ‘I nearly drowned, but I got out somehow…’ Whack! Crack! ‘And ran into those thieving bastards on my way back to the inn.’

  Pilgrims and guests from the hospice had come to swell the crowd, along with some of the students and sick-hall attendants, Alis among them, heart in mouth for her sweetheart.

  Even inside the stable with its thick stone walls Straccan could hear the shouting and the sharp crack of wood on wood. The horses twitched their ears and shifte
d their feet nervously as he stepped quietly along behind them to the fourth stall. Zingiber whickered softly and blew a snuffle of greeting as Straccan unbuckled the muzzle, fondling the velvety nose and whispering into the stiff forward-cocked ear.

  ‘Did you miss me, pilgrim?’ As he cast off the hobble Zingiber snorted and tossed his head, pleased to be rid of the tiresome thing. ‘Hush, now,’ whispered Straccan. ‘Let’s go.’

  He led the stallion to the door, unhooking the lanthorn that hung there — a bit of luck, that — and stuck his head out cautiously. No one was in sight but there were fifty yards of open ground between the stable and the nearest trees. Anyone might come along, or glance out of a window in Lord William’s quarters at just the wrong moment. With a quick prayer, Lord, keep them busy! he trotted Zingiber into the shelter of the willows, expecting all the time to hear a yell behind him, or feel the impact of an arrow between his shoulder blades.

  The crowd had grown to more than forty vociferous spectators, whooping and making wagers. Even the great Lord William had come out, with his squire, irritated at first by the noise but hooked like all the rest by the action.

  Behind the hall Straccan dunked the balls of rag in grease and held the trailing ends to the flame of the lanthorn. As each one caught he dropped it through the slit-windows. They fizzed and sizzled in the dry rushes, smelling strongly of bacon. No shout of alarm was raised. Spearing a couple of spitting fireballs on his sword he stretched up as high as he could reach to jam them firmly into the reed thatch. It was dry and brittle, and after only a few moments flames were rippling along the roof, pale in the afternoon sunlight, crackling hungrily as they licked their way up to the ridge.

  On the far side Havloc saw smoke rise above the roof and come rolling down like a wave, while out of the thatch with a tremendous squeaking poured a torrent of rats, racing ahead of the smoke and leaping off when they reached the edge of the roof. Smoke billowed suddenly from the door, and someone yelled, ‘Fire!’