Spring's Fury

by Denise Domning

  "Fetch her back, you idiots!" Hugh's shout was high-pitched in rage.

  Nicola's horse entered the trees on a wide pathway, but she rode past the oaks into the thicker wood. Pulling the beast to a sudden halt, she slid off then struck its hindquarters with the flat of her blade. The horse ran, dodging the trees and bushes.

  Without hesitation, Nicola threw herself into a deep tangle of holly and bracken. Tall and thickly leaved, the holly offered sharp thorns along with concealment. It tore away her head cloth and scratched her face and hands as she drove herself deeply into it. She crouched as horses galloped past the bush, chasing the runaway steed.

  There was a rustling beside her, and Dickon appeared. Nicola stared in surprise. "Jos wants to know if you are unhurt."

  Only then did her hands begin to shake over how that lad had shot across the skin of her neck. "By our sweet lady's tits, you tell that boy if we live through this day I will have his hide." It was an angry, fearful hiss.

  Dickon grinned. "I will tell Jos you are well, my lady."

  The horses returned to pass her hiding place at a much slower pace. "She's not on the steed, my lord," a man called.

  "Damn that vixen! I’ll have her life for Osbert's." Hugh's cry was almost grieved. "Search the woods for both her and the whore. Bitch of Ashby!" he shouted out, "you will pay for Osbert's death with your own life."

  "Well, well," Gilliam's deep voice boomed from the meadow's northern edge, "look who I meet this day. Once again, you trespass, seeking to steal from me my wife. This time, you die, little man."

  Nicola crept out of her hiding spot, sword in hand. "Go home, Dickon. Tell the folk there will be a battle here, and they must stay away." She reached down to gather up her hems and tuck them into her belt. Without hauberk and shield, she was trapped here in the woods, but if she needed to fight in her own defense she would be ready.

  "Aye, my lady." The lad crept out after her.

  Nicola came to stand beneath the giant oak. She peered above her. Jos was not in the lower fork, but in a smaller one, higher up. The greater height offered him a clear line of sight and, although not as broad as the other, he yet had floor enough to set his foot in his bow and draw the string.

  She looked around the massive bole; her heart caught and clung to the sight of her Gilliam atop that huge black beast of his. His helm was in place, disguising his face from her. He sat impossibly tall in his saddle, his great sword in hand, braced crosswise before him.

  With Witasse snorting and sidling in excitement, Gilliam entered the meadow. Ashby's men spread themselves in an even line behind him, stretching across the lea. Sheep bleated, dashing wildly in every direction to avoid the horses. Nicola nodded in approval. Gilliam meant to keep Ocslade's men within range of Jos's bow. With one quarrel still in poor Osbert, his squire had eleven more. If Jos hit true, that was eleven men who would not fight. Eleven from forty was twenty-nine to Gilliam's twenty. Much better odds.

  She took a moment to scan Hugh's ranks, seeking Tilda. There was no sign of her. Nicola sent a brief prayer winging skyward, not only for herself and her husband, but that Tilda had not been murdered.

  When Gilliam was within five yards of Hugh, de Ocslade threw up his hand. One man blew a horn in alarm, and the rest charged. De Ocslade's men screamed at the top of their lungs as they threw themselves into battle. Gilliam's soldiers added their own shouts, bravely riding forward to encircle their enemy.

  Someone grabbed Nicola's hand. She tore free, half raising her sword, before seeing that it was John.

  "Come stand across from me along the pathway. We'll see if we can stop a few from reaching the lea," he said.

  She glanced above her, meaning to shout a warning to Jos, but the boy had already turned. He aimed his bow at the open area through which the hidden men must pass if they chose this path. John and she crouched at either side of the wide pathway, the safest route out of the woods for a horse.

  Their first foe appeared, trotting carefully through the close trees, his eyes focused on the meadow and not the greenery around him. Nicola rose, sword at the ready. Although his chest was well protected with padded leather, his leg was not. With all her might, she sent her blade into his horse's side, crushing the soldier's lower leg to cripple him even as she broke his mount's ribs.

  Another mounted man not as cautious as the first, galloped toward them as the injured horse turned, screaming in agony. The horses collided, oncoming rider tumbling head over heels to lie still in the pathway. Nicola raced forward to make certain that the soldier could not fight, but the fall had done her work for her. His neck was broken.

  Another came, howling as he rode. John heaved a good-size stone at him, striking the man in the head and knocking his helm askew. Blood poured from his broken nose as he slumped limply in his saddle.

  His horse halted and stood quivering in fear. Nicola ran to free one of the soldier's feet from his stirrup, then shoved him off his mount. When he hit the ground, she ended what the lad had started.

  Three from twenty-five who hid. Another left the woods with a quarrel in his shoulder.

  A boy's terrified cry rang from the woodland's edge, the sound cut off in awful finality. Nicola threw back her head in despair. The weight of it drove her into that terrible calm of hers. All that lived in her now was the desire to kill Hugh and his men for what a babe had sacrificed. She strode along the path toward the field.

  The gentle lea was awash with men, some mounted, some on foot, others on their backs for all time. Sheep bleated, swords clashed, Witasse screamed in rage. Men's shouts mingled with the moans of the injured.

  It was now fifteen of theirs against twenty-eight of Hugh's. From above her another quarrel flew. A man arched and fell, then did not rise. At the far edge of the battleground Witasse lifted himself onto his hindquarters. Gilliam had dismounted to allow the horse to act in its own defense. The great beast lashed out in his blood-induced fury, trampling beneath his hooves those who sought to capture the costly steed. He roared toward another group of warriors, and men scattered.

  Alfred stood in front of her, surrounded by three, death inescapable if she did not help. She swung. One of his foes lost his arm. She whirled from that blow into her next, drawing her sword upward as she turned, and buried the blade into the second opponent's unprotected back. Alfred finished the last.

  Nicola started toward the next clutch of soldiers. "My lady, you're not armed! Stop, go no farther!" She heard Alfred's call, but his voice made no dent in her quiet.

  Grinning like a madman, another simple soldier reached out to grab her arm. Fist clenched, Nicola brought her elbow crashing into his midsection. His eyes bulged for an instant before her blade followed her blow. He dropped away, and Alfred was suddenly at her side.

  Nicola caught sight of the man who was responsible for all this. Hugh, yet mounted as his horse was not the weapon Witasse was, rode around the backs of five men, cursing and goading them into attacking those they had surrounded.

  "To me!" Her husband's bellow from the center of that circle penetrated her calm. Gilliam needed her.

  Nicola ran toward her love, Alfred hard-pressed to keep abreast of her. Her blade sliced into one man's back at his waist. He fell backward onto her arms; she stumbled beneath his weight. Alfred shoved the man off her. Nicola struggled to regain her footing.

  A soldier turned to strike. Nicola automatically raised her shield arm; it was empty. She threw a desperate block, but knew it would not deflect the blow. The man fell toward her, the steel-tipped quarrel having pierced both the front and back of his leather armor and the padding beneath it.

  Three of Ashby's men had joined their lord to form a ring of shields against Ocslade's greater number. "To me!" Hugh shouted, calling the remainder of his men to come overwhelm Ashby's few.

  Nicola grimaced in a rage she could not feel. She snatched her dagger from its leg sheathe and darted beneath Hugh's blow to plunge the well-honed blade into his horse's neck. It was no different
than slaughtering a pig.

  "You foul misbegotten bitch!"

  Hugh swung at her. Despite the writhing of his steed it was a well-aimed blow. Nicola stumbled in her escape. Alfred shoved her aside, taking what was meant for her.

  Nicola scrambled to her feet. Hugh was down, his leg caught beneath his mount. He glared at her as she raised her sword then grinned. Nicola leapt away instinctively, without thought.

  "Uncle!" Hugh's other nephew's blade cleaved the air where Nicola had stood. A quarrel sped past him, missing only because his horse shied at that instant.

  Hugh crawled from beneath his mount. "Henry, take that bowman!" he shouted, limping to join those who attacked Ashby's lord.

  "Nay!" Gilliam bellowed with all the power of his voice, but he was yet trapped within the ring, five of his own men now forming a circle of shields with him against the ten who ringed them. "Defend Jos," he shouted to any of Ashby's soldiers free to do so.

  "William, kill that bitch," Hugh screamed to his mounted nephew.

  Ten yards from Nicola a man wrenched his bow from his back. She ran for him. The soldier leaned, placing his foot into the crossbow's curved arm; his back was exposed. She would die before he'd shoot her Jos. Hooves tore the turf behind her. She feinted away from the bowman. William rode on by, confounded by her swift and contrary movement.

  The soldier had the quarrel in its trench, the bow stock to his eye as he sited the boy in the tree.

  Sliding on the wet grass, Nicola shifted direction, sprinting for the archer. Again, William came for her. She heard Jos's quarrel as it whirred above her at the same time she saw the bowman release his trigger.

  The knight behind her screamed in agony. His cry was echoed by Jos as the quarrel penetrated his body, toppling him out of the tree. Incapable of pain just now, Nicola avenged Jos's death by killing the bowman, then raced back to Gilliam. William's horse came trotting by, its master dragging from one stirrup. As the body turned, she saw the quarrel that had penetrated his face, stopped only by his helmet's back.

  The circle of men around her own consisted of but Hugh and seven others. However, Ashby retained only two besides her love. Her husband glanced at her from behind his shield, upon which three men beat. "A shield, my love, then back to back," he called. "We stand or fall together."

  She snatched up the shield Alfred had carried. When she started toward the circle, one of Ocslade's men turned to the attack.

  "Nay," Hugh snarled. "Let her join them. We'll save her for the last and have some sport before it's done."

  Nicola found her place beside her man. "Use my back and turn," Gilliam panted to her from over his shoulder. "Take the one to your left."

  At his command, she rolled, bringing her sword up in her most deadly motion. The soldier held his small, round shield high in expectation of a man's overhand blow. Her sword tore through leather, her blow losing impact in the padding he wore beneath it, but still finding skin and bones to break. She kicked him off her blade.

  Gilliam had used her motion to hide his own. His great sword flew crashing against one man's shield, then another's neck. One of their own cried out and fell.

  "Again," he breathed. Once again, they turned in unison. Two more of de Ocslade's men dropped.

  "Jesu," Hugh spit out in deep frustration and disbelief. Even with his leg injured, he was agile and skilled enough to wound the last of the Ashby soldiers. That left only Ashby's lord and lady. Hugh dropped back a step. His remaining three men did so as well.

  Nicola turned slightly, her arms aching and her breath burning in her lungs. "Gilliam," she breathed. "I love you."

  He stared past Hugh's shoulder as if startled. "We live," he panted with what sounded like a laugh. He drew back his blade.

  De Ocslade prepared to meet Ashby's lord, sword to sword, only to arch, his mouth opening in surprise. He stumbled forward, turning instinctively to face his attacker. Gilliam's filthy blade roared down, the power of his blow cutting through mail and padding.

  Hugh made no sound as he fell, only jerked and gasped as Gilliam freed his weapon from torn flesh and twisted metal. Then, he was still. Standing just behind where Hugh had been was Tilda. The girl bore a soldier's sword in her trembling hands.

  There was no time to think. Even as Gilliam turned on two of the remaining men, Nicola took the other. Swords beat on shields a little longer before they sent the men to their just reward.

  And then it was finished.

  The ensuing quiet was broken by the bleat of sheep, Witasse's snorting breath, and the moans and cries of the injured. In that instant, a lark lifted its voice in the joy of spring.

  Gilliam sank to sit on the ground, and Nicola followed suit, raising a trembling knee on which to lean her head. Her gowns were heavy with blood, her arms like lead, her legs quivering in exhaustion, and her lungs aching. With her shoulder leaning against her husband's back, she could feel him panting in exertion. Her husband fell back to sprawl on the ground beside her.

  Nicola raised her head. Tilda yet stood rooted in place, the blade now dangling from her fingers. The girl's entire body trembled, and her brown eyes were wide in shock and horror.

  "He killed my father," she shuttered. "He killed Papa." Nicola could only nod in response. The girl's eyes rolled up into her head, and she dropped to the ground and lay still.

  * * *

  "My lord, do you yet live?"

  Gilliam opened his eyes to look upon Father Reynard's homely face, the man's great beak of a nose quivering in appalled concern.

  "Aye," he said, incapable of more. From the beginning of the conflict through its remarkable end, he'd held the faith that they would survive. Now that it was over he found himself incapable of believing they had triumphed.

  Then he smiled. If someone had told him this morn that the reeve's daughter would save the day he would have called him a liar for certain. His grin broadened against his disbelief. It was no less than a miracle.

  The priest turned to Nicola. "My lady, do you yet survive?"

  "Aye."

  It was a sad sound, as if she wished the answer were otherwise. Gilliam struggled to sit up, his mail rattling against the effort, so he could look on her.

  "God be praised," the priest said, blessing himself in the intensity of his relief. "Where are you injured?"

  "Save for blisters, I am not hurt." Again, her voice was empty in sorrow.

  Gilliam stripped off his gloves then removed his helmet to better see her. Nicola lay on the grass, her head to one side. Tears made tracks through the filth on her face. She was covered in blood from head to toe, her sleeves so full of the stuff they hung heavily from her arms.

  Reynard tried to wrestle her into a sitting position. "Come you quickly, then. We are taking the injured to the church. While the village women can tend most of them, there are several who demand your special skills."

  "Leave her go, Father," Gilliam said, pushing the priest away from his wife. "She is exhausted and sick from the battle."

  "My lord, their need is urgent," the churchman pleaded. "Only she can save those who are most gravely injured."

  Gilliam turned his back on him, then touched Nicola's cheek. "Are you ill again?"

  She shook her head, yet keeping her face turned away from him. "It’s easier, just as you said. The killing I did this day was simply what must be done, and that is all." The emptiness of her voice frightened him.

  "What aches so in you? Do we not yet live and love?"

  "Jos is dead. I saw him take the bolt and fall from the tree. Oh, Gilliam, my heart breaks. I had a hand in his death."

  "He is not yet dead!" the priest cried, fair dancing in his agitation. "My lady, you must come this instant. The boy needs you for only you can fix him. So too, does Alfred and one of the blacksmith's sons. You must come now." Reynard thrust out a hand to his lady, meaning to drag her to her feet if she did not rise on her own.

  "Jos lives?" Nicola's look went wild with hope. Gilliam offered a hand to brace
her as she struggled to her feet. "Take me to him."

  Even with the priest's arm around her shoulders, she swayed in exhaustion. Gilliam set his hand at her hip to steady her. Father Reynard tried to walk away, but Nicola leaned so heavily against him, he staggered.

  "Give me a moment, Father," she muttered, seeking to draw strength from her empty reserves.

  "Love, I think you'll do him no good in your present state," Gilliam said, coming achingly and slowly to his own feet. He rested his hands on her shoulders. "You must rest."

  "Nay," she cried out, tearing free from him as if she feared he might try to stop her. "Let me heal him." It was this that gave her the strength she sought. When she moved away, her footing grew steadier with each step.

  Gilliam offered God a swift prayer of thanks, then tagged on his wishes for Jos's continued life. If the boy died, his wife's guilt would eat her alive. With his spiritual needs addressed, Gilliam turned, meaning to assess the damage. Even that simple motion made him dizzy. By the morrow, every muscle in his body would be alive in pain. He'd taken one blow across his back that he was certain had broken his skin. Why it had not broken bones was beyond him. Like this whole encounter, 'twas a miracle, no doubt about it.

  The men of Ashby's village had come into the meadow. They turned bodies, seeking faces they knew among the dead. Walter came striding across the field toward him. "My lord, may God be praised. You live still!"

  "Aye, that I do. Who do we have left?"

  "I've seen Robert, Richard, and William all walk out, braced upon a peasant's shoulder. Philip lies yet stunned, waiting to be borne away. So too, do Gilbert and Edwin, but they have other injuries as well. I saw Alfred as they took him to the church. He spoke to me, but I have little hope of his survival. The rest—" He paused and lifted his shoulders in eloquent description. "How many did Lord Ocslade bring?"

  "Forty some," Gilliam said, releasing the lace that held his metal hood about his head. He pushed the thing back and took off the cap he wore beneath it then ran his fingers through his hair.