B00B9BL6TI EBOK

by C. B. Hanley

  The sword never fell. A second figure on horseback barged into the first, giving him such an almighty shove that he lost balance and fell away. The new man was an armoured knight, faceless in his helmet. But wait, the colours – he could have wept as Sir Reginald seized the shoulder of his tunic and dragged him bodily out of the press.

  The knight heaved them both into a corner away from the worst of the eddying crowd. Against the background of screams he pulled off his helmet and shouted. ‘What in God’s name are you doing? You could have been killed!’

  Edwin tried to explain, but there was too much noise, there was no time. He simply yelled that he had to go, that he was sorry, and then wrenched himself out of the other’s grasp and dived back into the crowd.

  Sir Reginald swore. What was the man about? Had he gone mad? He watched the crowd move further down the hill, the retreating figure lost among the other men. Damn it, he would have to follow. So much for his chances of taking prisoners for ransom, but some things were more important than money. He set his spurs to his horse and thrust his way forward, cutting down any in his path as he sought in vain to catch sight of his departing friend.

  Eventually he was rewarded with a glimpse of Edwin’s back, further down the hill, disappearing into an alley between two houses. He started to follow but was attacked by a knot of French footsoldiers. Too distracted to care, he simply rode them down as he continued. Others fled before him as he started down the hill. But which house had it been? Which alley? Was it this one or the one further down? He stopped, letting the tide of men run past him, thinner now as many of them had already passed.

  He turned his mount again and again in indecision, but then heard a piercing scream coming from the house to his left. And another. A woman. Raised male voices. One of them was Edwin’s. He threw himself off his horse and started to hammer on the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alys and the children had been hiding upstairs in their father’s bedroom since they had finished barricading the doors. They huddled together on the bed, listening to the cries and clashing of weapons coming from all parts of the city. Alys hoped and prayed and begged that the fighting would remain elsewhere, that their street would be spared, but little by little the noise came nearer. She risked moving away from the bed and peering out of the shutter towards the street. She could see nothing with the narrow view afforded her, but she didn’t dare open it.

  Suddenly there was a hammering at the kitchen door.

  They all froze. Margery instinctively reached out for the dazed Randal and drew him nearer to her. Alys was frightened out of her wits, heart in her throat, but then she heard the voice. It was Mistress Guildersleeve, calling from the yard.

  ‘Alys! Alys! For the love of God, child, let me in!’

  Alys bade the others stay where they were. Edric stood up and moved to stand at the foot of the bed, drawing himself up. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after them.’ He was shaking, but his piping voice was firm. She looked at him, so proud. Eight years old and prepared to be the man of the family. He had even drawn his little eating knife, bless him, and was poised with it ready. She burst into tears. A father and brother already dead, another missing; the world was collapsing around them – were they all going to die here?

  The knocks and shouting from downstairs intensified. She moved swiftly to Edric and gave him a fierce kiss. ‘I know you will. Stand here and whatever happens, whatever happens, don’t come downstairs. If anyone except me tries to come up, you defend yourselves as best you can, do you understand?’

  Tears were in his eyes now, but he nodded bravely and held his knife in front of him. She cast one final glance at the three of them and descended to the kitchen.

  Once she had reached the blocked door, she shouted to Mistress Guildersleeve. ‘What is it? What do you want?’

  The voice came again, desperate. ‘Alys, there’s going to be trouble. You must come. Open the door!’

  Gervase’s voice was added to his mother’s. ‘Quickly! We think we’ve found a way to safety. You can open up, we’re alone.’

  It was against her better judgement, but the prospect of safety was too much. She moved the barricades aside and opened the door. After the last few hours it was a strange relief to have them in the house, to not be alone. Gervase was obviously ready for an incursion, for he had an axe in his hand, as well as a knife at his belt.

  Mistress Guildersleeve was already pulling at her arm. ‘Alys, come! The fighting is heading this way. I and some other women are going to take to the river, they won’t reach us out on the water. We’ll leave the men to defend our homes.’

  Alys did not see the connection. Her mind was full of confused questions. The river? What sort of safety is that? Surely it would be more dangerous out there?

  But Mistress Guildersleeve was adamant, half dragging her towards the door. ‘You don’t understand. Once one side or the other has won, there will be looting, and no woman will be safe. All those soldiers, crazed with blood and ale and lust, do you understand?’

  Alys belatedly realised what she was talking about. Violation was a relatively commonplace event in the town; women and girls out on their own in strange places, especially after dark, were never safe, and since the town had been full of soldiers it had been worse. A victorious host full of drunken soldiers didn’t bear thinking about. But the river?

  She tried to use reason. ‘But Mistress, we have no idea how to get a boat, or how to control one. And surely we’re safer in here than out in the open? How will we reach the river? And the regent’s forces are here to rescue us, surely they won’t let the city come to any harm if they win?’

  But her neighbour was beyond reason. ‘Come, you must come!’

  Gervase’s face had changed at her last words. Perhaps he had seen sense and would be more level-headed. He spoke. ‘Mother, you go now, with whatever belongings you can carry. I’ll stay here and try to help Alys and the children.’

  She seemed torn, but in the end the thought of her own personal safety was obviously too much. She kissed her son and was gone.

  Once she had left, Gervase swiftly shut the back door and moved a bench across it.

  She looked at him. He would help. He would see them safe. She opened her mouth to speak of her relief.

  Before she could utter a word, he spoke calmly. ‘So, you know it is the regent who is here.’

  She gasped at her own stupidity. She had discovered that from Edwin. But surely it was a reasonable guess for anyone to have made? Could she cover up? And besides, Gervase was a townsman too … oh dear Lord. She looked at him closely.

  He spoke again, still calm. ‘It was you. After all this time, all this effort, I find that it was you who told them.’

  In a huge surge, everything became clear to her, and she staggered from the shock. She whispered. ‘It was you.’

  Amazingly, he still seemed composed. ‘Oh yes, it was me. For weeks I’ve been paid to see what the townsmen were up to, to find out what their pathetic little plans were. We followed your father but could find out nothing – after his head was crushed he couldn’t say a word. I took your snivelling brother and beat him to a pulp, but he wouldn’t say anything. Dear God, we cut one of his fingers off but the brat fainted from the pain, and there was no time to wait for him to come round. I couldn’t find out, and they were growing more anxious for an answer!’ He strode across the room, agitated now, almost talking to himself. ‘I couldn’t let him go in case he told anyone, so we had to kill him. I left him here as a warning, but I thought it was for Aldred, not for you. If I’d only known it was you …’

  He moved towards her, hardly recognisable as the man she thought she had known, and she backed away, trying not to be sick. Behind him, the door started to inch open, the bench being pushed forward. She tried not to look in case it distracted him, but he was too wrapped up in his own diatribe to notice.

  He continued. ‘And now, and now – ’ suddenly he snapped and spewed forth a searing rage.
‘And now I find it was you! You betrayed me and told that spy about the gate! All the time it was you, you snivelling little girl! Pretending to care only for your miserable children while you were working for the castle!’

  He raised his axe and leapt at her, but in the space of a heartbeat the door was flung open and a figure lunged through to throw itself at Gervase. The two men fell to the floor and rolled, snarling, each stabbing and gouging at the other.

  It was Aldred. What in the Lord’s name was he doing here? She didn’t understand. Neither would she ever get the chance to find out, for as she watched, Gervase managed to free his arm and strike Aldred on the side of the head with his axe. Alys screamed. Aldred fell limp, and Gervase got to his feet and stood over him. With composed brutality, he raised the axe once more and brought it thumping down into the other’s neck. Blood fountained everywhere and Alys hid behind her hands, trying to shut out the horror.

  He turned to her, splattered in gore, and smiled like a demon from hell. With cold fear she knew she was going to die, and sought to prepare herself. But another figure had appeared in the doorway, and with huge disbelief she recognised it as Edwin. He’d come back!

  She had no time to speak, for Gervase had whirled to face the new adversary. ‘You! I should have finished you off last night while I had the chance!’

  Alys looked at Edwin. He was battered, filthy, and covered in blood. She hoped it wasn’t his. As his glance swept the room and took in Gervase, her, and the body on the floor, she didn’t think she had ever seen anyone look so angry. He couldn’t contain his rage. He cried out incomprehensibly and moved to attack Gervase, dagger drawn.

  Dear Lord, he had come back to save her and he was going to be killed. He slashed his dagger wildly, missing Gervase by a long way but managing to avoid the other’s swinging axe.

  It was then that the first sounds of splintering came from the front of the house.

  She ran through to the shop in time to see the door shivering under the weight of blows. Someone else was trying to get in. How could she stop him? The barricades wouldn’t last for long under such an assault. But then she heard his voice, shouting Edwin’s name over and over, and some instinct inside of her told her that this was a friend. Hands trembling, she tried to drag the things aside as he continued to hammer at the door. Behind her, the fight had spilled in to the shop as the two men swayed together in a grotesque kind of dance. The door finally opened and the man outside shouldered it open far enough to force himself through the gap. It was a knight, fully armoured, sword drawn, drenched in blood and bits of things she didn’t want to think about.

  She stopped for the briefest of moments, and so did Edwin, but their pause was almost fatal, as Gervase grabbed her arm, swung her around and sent her crashing into Edwin. He stepped forward with his axe; she was off balance but Edwin had his arm round her, trying to push her behind him and keep his own body between her and the weapon.

  The knight roared with rage, kicked the rest of the broken furniture aside and strode forward. He grabbed Gervase and threw him aside in one movement, crying out in a great voice. ‘If you want to fight, fight me!’

  Edwin was as surprised as anyone to see Sir Reginald burst into the room, but he would thank God for the rest of his days for the knight’s arrival. He knew he would never have been able to fight off his opponent. But now they were saved; Gervase stood no chance against him. The relief was overwhelming. Firmly he pushed Alys into the corner and placed himself in front of her, dagger at the ready, as he waited for the fight. And fight there would be. Sir Reginald could easily have struck Gervase down from behind with his sword instead of throwing him aside, but of course he would never do such a thing, true knight that he was.

  Sir Reginald was angry, there was no doubt about that, but he didn’t let his rage overcome him. Edwin couldn’t see his face properly in the helmet, but he knew the knight was watching both his opponent and the weapon carefully as he circled. He was at a disadvantage, for there would barely be space in the room for him to wield his great sword, but surely, surely he must triumph. He was an armoured warrior. Edwin watched as he struck over and over again, Gervase parrying desperately but managing to deflect most of the blows, which were not at full strength, hampered as the knight was by the lack of space. But he was becoming ever more trapped.

  And then it happened. By some means – ever after, Edwin was not sure how – Gervase managed a lucky blow. He brought his axe down hard on the back of Sir Reginald’s broken right hand. The knight gasped. Armoured as he was, he didn’t drop his sword, but the pain which he must have been feeling caused him to pause for that fatal blink of an eye. Gervase grasped his axe in both hands and brought it round in a swingeing arc to hack into Sir Reginald’s chest. Even the best-made mail couldn’t stop such a blow at close quarters, and it sheared through the hauberk, sending links flying, and through the gambeson and flesh, tearing a huge rent in the knight’s body.

  Behind him Edwin heard Alys scream, but it was muted, and it seemed to come from far away. He was in a world of his own, unable to hear anything outside his own head. He was barely in control of his limbs. And so he wasn’t really even sure if it was he who struck the blow. In a fog, the air about him thickening, he stepped forward, drew back his dagger, and plunged it into Gervase’s unprotected back.

  Everything stopped. The world was ending. He felt the sensation of the blade entering the body, propelled by him, by his hand. He was killing somebody. The blade bit deeper and the man screamed. The steel grated on bone. He was deliberately pushing a weapon into the body of another person. This is what it felt like. The blade could go no deeper. He ripped it out, feeling the flesh tear beneath his hand, and the body fell to the floor.

  The world started again. The man was dead. He didn’t know how he’d managed to strike so true, but it had happened. Numb, he dropped the dagger and stared.

  He was brought to himself by a movement across the room. Miraculously, Sir Reginald was still alive, lying spread-eagled on the floor and twitching. Edwin staggered over to him and fell to his knees. With shaking hands he unfastened the strap which held on the helmet, and removed it gently from the knight’s head. He wouldn’t live long, that was for certain. The huge wound had torn his body almost in half, and his lifeblood was pouring out on to the floor. Blood ran freely from his mouth, but his eyes still sought to focus.

  Edwin was blinded by his tears. He pushed the long hair gently back from the sweating face. ‘Three times. Three times today you’ve saved my life.’

  Sir Reginald tried to lift his arm, as though he would thump Edwin on the shoulder, but he couldn’t raise it. He spoke. ‘Brave …’

  Edwin tried to reassure him. ‘Yes, you are.’

  The knight made a huge effort and spoke through the blood.

  ‘No … you. Brave and stupid, can’t defend yourself, but you tried. To save …’

  Edwin shook his head. ‘No, Sir Reginald. You are. To risk your life for me, for this.’

  Sir Reginald coughed, sending more blood spewing from his mouth. ‘A knight … to die in battle – an honour. And in the service of –’ he choked again, breathless, bubbling, life slipping away, ‘a lady. And … a friend.’

  There was blood, blood everywhere, Edwin was covered in it, but he was oblivious as he cradled the dying man’s head in his hands. He watched as the light died from the eyes and the hand touching his arm fell away. The cursed broken hand which had caused his death. Edwin lowered his head and wept.

  Sir Gilbert felt the exhilaration building in him as he gained new strength. They were winning! They were going to be victorious! The French were suffering a crushing defeat and surely this would have repercussions far beyond the walls of Lincoln.

  He was urging his bloodied horse on, down through the streets as the enemy fled southwards through the city towards the Stonebow gate and the bridge over the river. As they neared the space there his progress was slowed, as the press of men became thicker. The rebels were seeki
ng to regroup, to make a last stand before the gate. He raised his sword once more, having long discarded his lance, and rode into the fight.

  It was tougher than he had expected; the French and the English rebels had reached the stage of utter desperation, and they were risking their lives recklessly, knowing there was nothing else to fight for. Somehow some of the regent’s men had disappeared, and there were fewer of them to attack the foe. He was becoming mired. The rebels were defending valiantly.

  But suddenly, men wearing the livery of the Earl of Chester erupted from a side street. They stormed forward into the fight, and after that there was no doubting the outcome. Many of the rebels dropped their weapons and tried to flee out of the gate, but it was not large enough for such a huge number, being of a strange design which only let one or two men through at a time. There was also, of all things, a cow stuck in the opening, and Gilbert watched in some disbelief as the terrified animal thrashed about, impeding and injuring those who tried to pass. Many were crushed in the press, and those that did get through were too many to cross the bridge, shoving each other into the water where they drowned, dragged down by the weight of the armour they hadn’t had time to discard.

  Others were still fighting valiantly for their lost cause, and he drew himself back in order to charge into a knight at the edge of the press. His attack caught the other by surprise, and his sword stroke sent the man flying from his saddle and crashing into the ground. At last, a chance for some ransom money! He threw himself from his horse and levelled his sword at the other’s throat before he could rise. He shouted, his voice hoarse. ‘Yield!’