by Martin Owton
“Saves us the trouble of killing him,” said Maldwyn.
“Yes,” said Aron. “But we could do with every man right now.” Another burst of whistles sounded up ahead of them. “Get your sword. Let’s go before more of them turn up.”
Freeing his sword from the fallen enemy proved difficult for Maldwyn and Aron had to assist.
“That’s a good reason for not running your enemy through,” said Aron. “The muscles spasm and hold the blade. You’d be dead if there’d been another man.”
Together they ripped the blade from the corpse and ran towards the whistles, leaving the dead and dying behind them, impeded at every step by their soaking wet clothes. As they drew closer they could hear Granna’s bellows of ‘company to me, close ranks.’ The trees thinned and they came out into a stony area where about thirty company men stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a rough circle, battling twice as many howling tattooed wildmen.
As they watched Granna’s blade split the head of an axeman. Using the body as a shield, Granna charged into two spearmen, cutting them down with heavy blows.
“There,” said Aron pointing to the group of wildmen moving to confront Granna. “Hit the back of them.”
A dozen strides carried them into the battle. Aron charged into the back of the nearest warrior, his blade plunging into his neck. He drove the stricken man into a second wildman, shoving him to the ground where Maldwyn skewered him with a downward thrust. Aron slashed a third across the face as he turned and he fell backwards shrieking as Aron pushed past onto the next target. A spearman turned to face him, thrusting his spear at Aron’s stomach. Aron pivoted on his lead foot, swung his blade at the man’s standing leg as the spear slid across his ribs. The blade cut to the bone and the spearman fell creating a gap in the line of tattooed warriors.
Granna spotted the opening immediately.
“To me. Company advance,” he roared, carving his way through the wildmen towards Aron and Maldwyn.
Aron struck down the last enemy standing between them as the wildmen broke and began to scatter; a handful of company men chasing them.
“Company stand,” ordered Granna. “Do not go after them.” The handful of pursuers pulled up and returned to the company.
“Good to see you gentlemen alive,” said Granna. “Now, let’s get formed up and get the wounded back to camp. Where’re the rest of your section?”
“Dead, sir,” said Aron. “We were ambushed, the enemy got them.”
“Where are the bodies? Close by?”
“No sir!” said Aron. “Back up in the forest somewhere up there.”
“Find them easily?”
“No sir!”
“We’ll leave them then,” said Granna with a grimace. “Not worth risking more men to recover them.”
He turned away from them shouting orders to make litters for the wounded.
“That’s a relief,” said Maldwyn. “They don’t deserve a soldiers’ burial.”
“Agreed,” said Aron. “They wouldn’t have gone to find us.”
They needed eight litters; four for badly injured men, four for bodies, there were also ten walking wounded so everyone in the company had a burden during the walk back to camp.
“That was the first man I’ve killed,” said Maldwyn as they hauled a litter between them.
“Well done,” said Aron. “Now you’re a proper soldier. Won’t be the last if I’m any judge.”
“Just as well Edith wasn’t with us,” said Maldwyn.
“Would have been useful to have had an archer with us,” said Aron.
“Not in the hand-to-hand though.”
“No. She wouldn’t have survived that.”
“I wonder what she’s doing.”
“Sitting safely in a tent keeping out of the rain, I hope,” said Aron. “Like I wish we were.”
They reached the camp in the middle of the afternoon as best as Aron could judge it as the sun reminded hidden by heavy cloud. It was much more crowded than when they had left; companies of Caldon’s troops and Saxish tribesman had arrived while they were away and were setting up camp. They delivered their wounded comrade to the physician’s tent and were heading for the cookhouse when Granna caught up with them.
“That was a fine piece of work,” he said. “I saw how you picked your moment and hit them in the right place. You made the difference today.” He offered his hand to Aron and then Maldwyn. “I’m glad to have you with us.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tancred looked with distaste at the mug of ale that was placed before him. “Is Maldwyn back yet?” he asked.
“Nah! He’s still away with three of the lads and that cocky little Darien bastard,” said the guardsman sitting across the table in a corner of the taproom of The Black Lamb. “Lady Alice and Captain Thalon is running things.”
“How many of the guard are with you?”
The guardsman scowled. “Five or six. About as many won’t interfere, the rest’ll be a problem.” He took a mouthful of ale and swallowed. “When are you moving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Market day. I’ll make sure all my lads stay up at the castle. Lot of the rest will be down in town. I’ll be on the gate. The lads’ll take the armoury. How many you bringing?”
“Fifteen. All experienced men.” Not true, but they were what he could afford with the last of his borrowed money.
“Should be enough. Where are they?”
“In a farmhouse back up the valley.”
“Best to move when her Ladyship has gone down to the market,” the guardsman said. “You haven’t forgotten our agreement?”
“No. I will still need a Captain of the Guard and the reward for that post is a manor.”
“Good.” The guardsman nodded and took another mouthful of ale.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Captain,” said Tancred. He stood up, drew his cloak around him and walked out. The guardsman watched him go then reached for his untouched mug.
***
Tancred followed the mercenary pushing the barrow up the street towards the castle; the barrow contained the weapons for the whole group under a layer of straw. There were enough people come to the market that groups of three or four men were not conspicuous; fifteen would be. Lady Alice, along with Glynis and the cook, had arrived at the market a while back and Tancred had sent a runner around to order his men to the castle gate.
Now as he approached the gate he felt every eye on him, expected the alarm to be rung at every breath but nothing happened. People went on with their daily routine as they passed by with barely a glance. A pair of tumblers performing outside a tavern commanded far more attention. Turning his head he saw three more of his men coming up an alleyway to join them. Just short of the gatehouse, he called the barrow to a halt to allow the rest of his men to join him. He caught the eye of the guardsman on the gate who nodded at him. He relaxed a moment; it was too late to stop them now.
The last of his men arrived. Tancred gave the command; they grabbed their arms from the straw and charged the gate. The gatekeeper allowed them through then closed the gate, dropping the locking bar into place. Tancred took half his men to secure the armoury, ordering the rest to the walls.
Tancred was halfway across the courtyard when Captain Thalon and two guardsmen came around the corner of the barrack block.
“What are you doing here?” cried Thalon reaching for his sword hilt.
“I’m here to claim what is mine,” said Tancred, unsheathing his own blade.
“Nothing here is yours, you treacherous dog!” Thalon drew his blade and advanced on Tancred, the two guardsmen with him.
Tancred stepped forward to meet Thalon, certain that his youth and superior numbers gave him a winning advantage. He swung his blade at the old man and was met with a firm block then had to skip quickly backwards as the counter-stroke nearly took his shoulder.
“Come on,” Tancred yelled to his men, some of whom were hanging back. “Get into them.”
He swung again and again was blocked. He circled right keeping his focus on Thalon’s blade. The other two guardsmen were both engaged against his mercenaries. To his left one of his men fell shrieking, clutching his thigh. Thalon thrust low at Tancred as his attention was momentarily taken by the casualty. He just blocked but took a nick on his calf that blazed with sudden pain. He gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out and launched a slashing blow at Thalon’s head. Thalon stepped back and Tancred struck air.
A few paces away one of Thalon’s guardsmen went down under a flurry of blows from Tancred’s mercenaries. Tancred glared at Thalon.
“Give it up, old man,” he said. “You can’t win.”
“I don’t have to win, just kill you,” grated Thalon. He thrust at Tancred’s belly, forcing Tancred to dance backwards out of reach. A bead of sweat ran down Thalon’s cheek, he gathered himself to launch another attack and then, as Tancred watched, his expression froze. He grunted and the left side of his face dropped. He stumbled and fell to his knees, eyes glassy. For a moment he struggled to rise then slumped, face down, to the ground. Tancred took two steps forward and, with all his strength, stabbed his blade downward where Thalon’s neck met his shoulders. Thalon’s body spasmed once then lay still.
Tancred pulled his sword from Thalon’s body and looked around, breathing hard. His men were in control; he had won. Triumph surged through him.
“Nandor is mine!” he cried flourishing his sword in the air.
“What’ll we do with him,” asking one of the mercenaries, pointing to the other guardsman lay on his back looking wide-eyed up at the blade held over him.
“Lock him up in the guardroom,” he said. “And any others you find. Get to the armoury. Let’s have this place secure before Lady Alice gets back.”
***
Tancred watched from the walls as Lady Alice and her ladies walked slowly up the street from the market. He hurried down the stairs to be by the gate to meet her; this above all others was the moment he had dreamed of. He took up position deep in the shadows of the gatehouse doorway and waited, heart pounding.
Presently he heard their voices, discussing the market price of eggs and butter, approaching. He held his breath as their footsteps rang on the paving stones of the gateway. They passed under the arch still deep in conversation only looking up when the door was closed behind them.
Lady Alice turned at the sound.
“What?” she started to speak then Tancred stepped out of the shadows, his men behind him and her mouth dropped open in surprise.
“What have you forgotten you manners, milady?” said Tancred. “Have you no greeting for me?”
“What are you doing here?” she said.
“Taking control of what should have been mine in the first place.”
“You have no right…”
Tancred smiled and held up his sword. “This gives me the right.”
A blaze of fierce triumph surged through him at the dismay on her face and he nearly laughed out loud.
“You think the High King will stand for this? Maldwyn is the acknowledged Earl.”
“Is he? Has he sworn his oath?”
“Not yet, but he has written pledging his fealty.”
“A pledge the King never received.” He reached into his tunic, drew out the letter and casually tossed it at Lady Alice’s feet. The colour drained from her face.
“Maldwyn will kill you.”
Then he did laugh. “Don’t threaten me with that idiot. I’ve sparred with him enough to know I can beat him on one leg.”
She raised her head and fixed him with a fierce stare. “Aron will kill you.”
“Aron’s not here.”
“But he’ll be back. Of all the things I’m certain of, I’m certain he’ll come back. And then he’ll kill you.”
***
Edith watched the company with Aron and Maldwyn march out of the gate and down the track until the trees swallowed them then turned back to her archery practice. She still could not believe how they had meekly given way and abandoned Celaine. That left things in her hands and she wasn’t going to desert Celaine; this camp was a day’s march from the port, she just needed a way of getting back there. She loosed an arrow at the straw butt and smiled in grim satisfaction as it struck home.
“You there, archer!”
Edith turned to see a tall man in faded Caldon livery beckoning to her.
“I’ve got a job for you,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of mouths to feed and I need fresh meat.”
“I’ve very little hunting experience, sir.” Very little would be none. “I’m not sure I could find anything to shoot.”
“I’ll send my scout with you. He’ll find plenty, you just have to shoot them.”
Edith wanted to refuse, but no excuse came to her that seemed likely to serve. She wondered who he was. The golden crests at his shoulders marked him as a household knight; someone she could not afford to disobey.
“Very good, sir,” she said and went to retrieve her arrows before following him towards the row of wooden buildings.
They did not go into the buildings but carried on past them and past the rows of tents to one tent that stood apart. A group of shaggy-haired heavily tattooed men sat around a smoking fire drinking mugs of some dark pungent fluid. They looked up incuriously as Edith and the knight approached.
“Kusso,” said the knight. “Take this archer into the forest and find us some game. I need meat to feed the garrison.”
“Yes Lord.” One of the tattooed men stood up and looked at her; he was a bit shorter than Edith but stocky with wide shoulders. His deerskin trews finished at his knees revealing calves knotted with muscle. He turned away for a moment to pick up his spear and a leather bag from the mouth of the tent then said something in a throaty gargle to the other men still sitting around the fire. They laughed as he turned back to her.
“We hunt, I find deer.” He grinned a gap-toothed grin and offered a grimy hand to her. She hesitated just a moment before taking it; it was like grasping an oak log.
“You come,” he said and set off towards the gate. After a moment’s pause and a nod from the knight she followed.
Short though he was, Kusso was hard to keep up with; Edith had to almost run as they left the camp behind. They went a short distance along the road then Kusso took them up a bank following an almost imperceptible path into the woods. It was dark under the trees; Edith groped her way forward and nearly tripped until Kusso took her hand, leading her onward until she got used to the gloom.
Edith quickly lost any sense of direction as they first descended and then climbed following a path only Kusso could see. He moved without making any sound that Edith could hear and she had to keep close to him otherwise he melted into the darkness.
I’m completely dependent on him, she thought with a shudder of anxiety. If I lose him, I won’t be able to find my way back. She clutched her knife hilt tighter and pushed on after him.
They descended again and the ground grew wet underfoot; Kusso continued on apparently unimpeded by the conditions. Pale daylight ahead of them grew into a small lake with trees growing right to the margin. Kusso led Edith to a raised dry area with a view of a narrow inlet.
“We wait,” he said. “Get ready.”
Edith removed her bow from its case, strung it and nocked an arrow. For the first time she was aware of birdsong around her. Kusso hunkered down in the undergrowth. He took a strip of some dark material out of his bag, cut off a piece, put it in his mouth and began to chew. He looked up and saw Edith watching him.
“Hungry?” He held out the strip, knife poised to cut it.
Edith was suddenly aware how long it was since she had eaten. She held out a hand and said “Thank you.”
He cut off a length. “Chew.”
The meat was tough and salty but as she chewed a rich flavour began to leach out of it. She wondered what she was eating, but thought better of asking. It tasted good; that was enough.
&nbs
p; She was still chewing and watching the rain speckle the surface of the lake when Kusso cocked his head then held up a hand pointing across the inlet. Edith looked at where he was pointing; initially she could see nothing but trees, then a group of deer emerged from the shadows and came down to the lake to drink.
Edith picked her target and drew back her bow, holding her breath trying to make no sound. She paused for a moment to sight then let fly. Her target staggered sideways as the arrow struck and the whole group took off running back into the dark woods.
Kusso leapt to his feet.
“Come,” he cried and rushed after the deer. Edith ran after him clutching her bow in one hand. For a few paces he was in sight before she lost him, but there was a discernible path to follow twisting between the trees.
She heard a yell then raised voices just ahead. She stopped, nocked another arrow to her bow then crept forward. Twenty paces or so along the path brought her to the edge of a small clearing. Kusso lay on his back in the centre beside the carcass of the deer, three men, hairy and tattooed, stood over him, their spears at his throat.
Without thinking, Edith bent the bow and put an arrow in the back of the nearest man. Before he hit the ground she had another arrow nocked and shot the second man in the chest as he turned to see where the threat came from. The last man turned at the same time with his spear swinging towards Edith when Kusso kicked his legs out from under him. Kusso sprang on him as he went down, the two of them rolling over and over on the ground. Edith nocked another arrow and waited for a clean shot.
She never took the shot. There was a cry of agony then Kusso clambered to his feet, a bloody knife in his hand. The other man lay face-down and did not move. Kusso walked over to the two men Edith had shot and casually cut their throats.
“Good shoot.” He grinned at her. Edith suddenly felt her knees weaken. She sat down abruptly as the edges of the world went dark and a violent shivering fit took her. When it passed and she was able to look up, Kusso was standing over her.
“You hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her voice shaky. She wasn’t hurt, but she felt strange, cold and light-headed. Did Aron feel like this after a fight? She doubted it. She forced herself to get up. Kusso reached out a bloodied hand and pulled her to her feet.