Back on the day of his arrival, he recalled hearing laughter and music, the camaraderie of fighting men, eager for the excitement of battle. Now, a bare two weeks later, they dressed silently, accompanied only by the clink and rattle of their gear and the scrape of a blade receiving its killing edge. As for himself, he dodged execution by coming to battle, only to be given a death sentence in any event. For a chilling moment, he wondered if his efforts at penance had been found unworthy, and this was his reward.
At last they stopped in the furthest group from the monastery, the nearest to the field, and the captain called out, “Madoc!”
A thick-set bearded man rose from his place by the fire. He had a leather tunic, with a copper platter stitched over his breast, token of some woman who cared for him. “Aye, Cap!” he answered, looking them over.
The captain glowered. “You’re lucky I haven’t flogged you for that, Madoc.”
“What, and lose your best man? Never! What’s your pleasure?” he boomed, grinning in a way that made Elisha think he always smiled, and that the expression had lost all meaning.
“This here’s for your command. He’s no fighter, so put him on a wheel or somewhat. Strong enough, I think.”
Madoc came forward, circling Elisha like a curious hound. “What’s he, then?”
“The barber. And just in time by the look of that beard!” the captain laughed.
Bristling, Madoc said, “Be off with you! I promised my Alyse no’ t’ cut it until she could see with her own eyes that the thing was gone.” He returned his attention to Elisha. “The barber, though? It’s a joke, eh?”
“Demoted.” The captain shrugged. “I don’t know the story. Just back from the infirmary myself.” He displayed a neatly bandaged wrist, the linen so smooth and pale it had to be new, not the re-washed rags Elisha had for his own patients. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He nodded his head, and the escorting guards broke away to return to their own brigades while the captain strode off whistling toward his tent, where a blonde woman opened her arms to him.
“You’re the barber?” Madoc inquired.
Elisha raised his head, still holding his left arm. Some sensation had returned, and none of it was good. “I am, yes. Or I was.”
“Elisha Barber?”
Startled, Elisha nodded. “Aye, but I don’t think I’ve worked on you.”
“No, indeed.” Again the scruffy beard split in a wide grin. “But you did Ryan’s stabbing and Collum’s headwound.” He gestured to a pair of men who rose from the fire to join them. “Not to speak of my brother’s leg—he’s gone home, he has!” Turning to his men, he placed a hand on Elisha’s back and gently pushed him into the circle. “We’ve got the barber, men.”
They brightened at this news, waving their arms in greeting, but Madoc raised his hand to silence them. “No cause for joy, lads, he’s to go to the field.”
“But who’ll see to the injured?” someone called out.
“I’ve left an apprentice,” Elisha said, “and there’s still the surgeons.”
“Faugh!” the speaker cried. “As if they’d spare a look for men like us. We can’t bring ye to the lines.”
“I wish I could leave him here, but I can’t think how, without raising the cap’s ire agin’ the lot of us. As it is, we’ll have to watch his back.”
Elisha smiled. “My front, too. I’ve never so much as held a pike.” Then the smile slipped a little. “And my left arm’s no good. Not yet.”
“Branded, are ye?”
“Those filthy bastards!” one of them said. “Was it for stealing? Ye hardly look the type for brawling.”
Madoc brought him up, and gave him a stump to sit on.
“For falling in the night, actually,” Elisha supplied.
“Falling down? Well, that’s a new crime.”
The men around him laughed, but Madoc shook his head. “Seems like they get stricter every day.”
Elisha watched his new companions prepare. No armor here, just boots to pack with padding, and some had not even that. A few sharpened hunting knives, in case it should come to hand-to-hand. These were the men he’d been brought to serve, the yeomen and tradesmen summoned away from their work and family at the king’s conscription order.
“What’s this battle for, anyhow?” he asked of no one in particular as Madoc pressed half a sausage into his hand.
“Well,” Madoc answered, taking a seat crosswise on a log, “The king’s second son was to wed this duke’s daughter. And the duke ordered up a lot of fancy new weapons to deliver as dowry. All been arranged months back, see?”
“I’ve heard that much.”
“Set for midsummer’s it was, and Prince Alaric come down to stay with his betrothed’s family. Then the boy calls it off, can’t do it, he says. Why not, says the king?” Madoc made his voice higher, and richer, his bright eyes full of ferocity in imitation of their ruler. “Well, says the prince, but she’s no virgin, is she?”
All the men had a good laugh over this. A commoner took what he was offered, as long as she seemed a good woman, but a noble had other priorities. Elisha took a greasy bite of sausage that melted in his mouth and chewed through a bit of gristle. The chill gray of morning and the flavor of meat stirred him back toward life.
A young man in the background called out, “’Twas a lie! I’ve got a cousin works in the castle kitchen.”
“Just so, say a lot of us,” Madoc agreed. “Clear enough, the prince got a look around and turned her down flat. Boy thinks he can get himself a better bride.”
Finishing his sausage, Elisha asked, “But why tell a lie that any midwife might disprove, not to mention the lady’s own companions, for surely she has them?”
“And wouldn’t they all lie for their lady, says the prince? So the duke, he tells the king the whole thing’s crooked, and here’s his daughter defamed by the prince. Now, mind you, without this duke’s support King Hugh would’ve been thrown over in favor of the French boys back when old Edward and young Edward both died.” He paused to cross himself in memory of the long-dead royals. “So it stands to reason the duke’s expecting some backing from the king as well. What’s he to get for compensation, now the lady’s not like to be wed?”
Catching the mood the tale was taking, Elisha guessed: “But they’ve now insulted the prince, by calling him a liar. And reminded everyone of the mess about the succession, which the king would like everyone to forget.”
“Right you are! So the king says, I’ll not have my son so accused. And you’d best deliver those guns I was promised.”
“But he gave nothing, and the king gave nothing,” Elisha guessed. “And here we all are, laying siege to a duke’s castle because some snobbish royal couldn’t tell his father he didn’t like the girl.”
“And it’s wise you are, Elisha Barber.” Madoc nodded agreeably. “You ask me, this is more for the rest of the barons, to show who’s master lest they all take up against him. We’re a poppet-show and them the children meant to learn by it.”
Again, the soldiers showed their mirth at the foibles of the nobility—the kind of gallows humor adopted by those who hadn’t the power to change their fate. But Elisha could not bring himself to laugh. For this childish exchange of insults, a thousand men might die. Common but good men, sacrificed to the nobles’ pride until one or the other would back down or until the whole bloody castle came down around the duke’s ears, and his daughter’s disputed virginity fell to some conquering knight in favor with the king. He suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten the sausage, for the bile rose in his throat as he considered the day that faced them. Even as he thought it, the trumpet blew a hard blast as distant from music as the battle from a ball.
Madoc jumped to his full, if lacking, height. “Saint’s blood, and I’ve not even made us a plan. Look, you, Barber. When the bombards start, you drop, you see? Close by one of the towers, if you can, and if it’s not afire. Plenty of men get stunned by that, first time out and all.”
&nb
sp; Elisha, too, rose. “I’m not afraid to fight,” he said softly.
“And did I say you would be?” Madoc scowled. “You’re worth a damn sight more to us alive, aren’t you? So you’ll do as I say, and myself’ll watch out for you.”
“Aye, sir.”
“There’s a lad!” He moved as if to slap Elisha’s shoulder, then checked himself and apologized quickly. “By God, you must think me a clod.”
“No more clod than the rest of us!” someone shouted, and all laughed.
“And hope there’s no clod over you, the end of today,” said another, stilling the laughter.
The young man who’d spoken up about the duke’s daughter raised a long staff topped by a flag of gold with a hare encircled by battlements. The others formed up behind him, most bringing pikes as tall as two men, a few with axes or spears of their own. Gritting his teeth, Elisha pulled on his shirt, forcing his left arm to work despite the throb of the wounded muscles. Catching sight of the burn, Madoc pulled back his lips in a sort of cringe. “Cor, man, they sent you on with that?”
“They’d like me to die,” Elisha said lightly, “To save them the rope.”
Eyeing him warily, Madoc nodded. “The duke’ll do his best for them, I’m sure. And we’ll do our best for you.”
“Thanks.” Elisha smiled. “Where do I march before my great exit?”
“Keep by me, I’ll give you a sign.” Madoc guided them to the middle of the bunch, placing Elisha at his right, protecting Elisha’s wounded side.
Suddenly Collum—the man whose head Elisha had wrapped—appeared beside him, holding out a large kitchen knife, hilt-first. “Take this, Barber. It beats nothing at all.”
Elisha wrapped the wooden hilt in his fist. “Your wife must be missing this.”
“Oh, she’ll get by. Wouldn’t let me leave without!” Collum nodded and hurried back to his own place.
A drum beat somewhere behind, in the ranks of men who followed, and they marched out into the steely dawn.
The golden banner led them to one of the remaining siege towers, and the first few rows of men caught hold of the wooden cross-timbers that supported it. Cartwheels creaked and groaned as they heaved the siege tower into motion. Now that the darkness had receded enough, they became easy targets for the duke’s gunners, and a few men prayed as they pushed.
Close-to, although the siege tower was huge, Elisha had to admit that it didn’t look like much. He trudged along in its wake, looking at the hastily bound crosspieces and the pegged rungs which climbed inside. It had a long outthrust arm to reach over the moat formed by the river, if they ever got that close.
Almost immediately, a cry rose and then arrows struck before them, instantly feathering the ground, the siege tower, and a few of the men who were careless in their cover.
Reflexively, Elisha put up his arms, but Madoc had placed them both behind the tower, and the arrows couldn’t breach the pine boughs bound to its front.
A scream turned his head to see one of the fallen, the arrow protruding from his belly, blood streaming from the wound.
Starting forward, Elisha jerked short as Madoc caught his arm. “You can’t, not now, they’ll only shoot you, too.”
Cries echoed all around him, and the second volley of arrows brought more.
Everywhere he looked, men lay dying, this one taken through the eye—a lucky shot at such distance. Another pierced through the chest, another already gone, five shafts at least bristling from his body. Still more lay wounded, clutching an arm or leg, struggling to stem the flow of their own blood. “Good Lord, Madoc, I can’t leave them.”
Madoc tightened his grip, giving Elisha a fierce look. “They’re well back, and most’ll make their way from the field, those as are likely to live in any case. Wait’ll we get beyond. When the fight’s well passed, you’ll come back.” He grinned. “Aye, I believe that you’ll come back.”
Something cracked, and Elisha flinched, looking up to the tower. When the sound came again, he realized it was thunder. As the rain began, a cheer rose from the men. Elisha couldn’t figure why this should make them happy. Presumably, mud could only bog down their progress.
Then the next flight of arrows fell, many of them tipped with balls of flame. A few struck and ignited the branches, but the flames died as the rain fell harder.
Brigit’s oath echoed in the back of his head, “Fire and flood,” her merry voice cheering him, if only in memory.
A shape of flame fled past them, accompanied by a keening wail.
“Get down!” he bawled to the burning man, who struggled with the arrow which stuck from his side. By the time the soldier fell, it was too late. Rain sizzled on his charred flesh, and Elisha felt a wave of nausea.
He staggered, colliding with Madoc who caught him up in a strong arm. “Soon,” Madoc muttered, “Soon, I’ll let you fall.”
Dizzy, Elisha barely felt the rain that soaked him, weighing down his already heavy hair. Terror and agony surrounded him, thick in the air as a swarm of bees. Again and again he felt the cold touch of death, familiar now and still awful as it played along his flesh with the rain. Madoc’s arm alone kept him upright and in the shadow of the siege tower.
Elisha numbly went over his recent training. There must be something he could do, some affinity here that would save these men’s lives, some mystery or knowledge. Days of changing seeds into eggs, eggs back into seeds again now haunted him as time he’d lost in idle play.
Arrows fell like rain, he thought, and rain like arrows, sharp and stinging on his burned chest. He hugged his arms closer, Collum’s kitchen knife held close to his side.
Feeling the icy bite of death, Elisha raised his head. Rain splashed on his upturned face. Rain flowed like tears down his cheeks, like a river down his back.
Elisha willed his presence into the rain. He shook off Madoc’s arm and dragged his pouch around to the front, laying his left hand over it, feeling for the strip of cloth given him by someone who cared.
Arrows to raindrops, wind to water—one degree only, wasn’t it? Was it? He bent his will to it, picturing Brigit, almost thinking he could hear the voices of the others around him. Concentrate, hold the image, transform the image, touch the talisman, feel its power to support you. Touch the thing you must change.
Arrows swished through the rain. Elisha felt them falling, a thousand tiny pricks along his skin.
Contact.
Far away, soldiers cried out in astonishment. Some cheered, some cried out for the Lord or for His angels.
From the heavens, thunder answered them.
Thunder and rain.
Chapter 24
Elation flushed Elisha’s skin. He stared in wonder as no arrows fell. Men stumbled, searching the sky, the downpour suddenly heavier. Shouts echoed down the line. Off to the left, a spear and pike quickly became a cross, raised up to the sky.
“Sweet Jesus and Mary,” Madoc said. “Where’d they go?”
Stifling a giggle, Elisha did not trust himself to answer. The casting left him giddy and weak, as if he’d spread himself too thin and had trouble to get himself together again.
“The king’ll think he’s blessed now for sure.”
The banner bearer piped up, “It’s we who’re blessed. May God stay with us.”
“Aye, you’ve said it.”
“Maybe the rain took them down,” someone suggested in a hushed tone.
“Or witchcraft.”
A hiss rose at this suggestion. “Heaven forbid!”
“No, lads,” Madoc assured them, “the devil has no wish to save such as us.”
A boom sounded up ahead, and the ground lurched. “Bombards,” Madoc shouted.
Elisha nodded as a second blast rocked them.
“Falling well short though. What’ve they done with the big ’un?” Madoc was muttering, keeping his head down. Noting a pit they passed, he nodded to himself. “Almost in range. Cross yourself, Barber, we’re at it soon.”
Another boom, the
n the air around them cracked open, a man-made wind blowing their clothes as the concussive passage knocked down a few men on the right.
Yanking Elisha half off his feet, Madoc dragged him in that direction. “Down and quick!” he shouted, throwing Elisha into the mud and following himself as the men around them scrambled to do likewise.
Moments later, a second blast shattered the air around them, shaking the earth. The unseen stone smashed through the siege tower, sending up a fountain of debris as it slammed to earth behind. The tower groaned and tilted, shuddering. Men hesitated, then flung themselves away as the bulk that had once protected them came crashing down.
Slivers of wood and a shower of branches rained over them.
The screams of the dying, momentarily silenced by Elisha’s own miracle, broke in along with the timber, shattering his reveries. Elisha moaned, touched by so many. He covered his ears, but it wasn’t the air alone that brought them.
On the contrary, as he had touched the rain to turn the arrows, now the rain struck back, carrying the horror of the maimed and dying. This was not the directed communication of one magus to another—he could not sense their thoughts or hear their voices, but the contact he forged conveyed their emotions with an awful clarity. Sensitive, Sage had called him, but he did not know what that meant until now.
Darkness whirled around him. From all sides came the eager cold of death, not so strong as that in his gruesome, now buried talisman, but rather as an army of a hundred deaths. As each death faded, two more swelled to take its place. The rain brought them down upon him, piercing as arrows of ice. Worse yet, the mud which embraced him carried their cries through the very earth, in through the wetness of his clothes, in through the brand upon his chest. A gale of tortured souls surrounded him, such moaning and weeping that he was lost within it. The fingers of Death caressed his skin, leaving a wake of frost.
His teeth chattered so hard he feared they must break. Desperately, he fought the freezing mud, only to find the warmth of a hand pressing him down. Words penetrated his pounding skull.
Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle Page 21