Lion at Bay (39 page)

There was a rising hiss and then the rain fell on them. He saw Jemmie o’ The Nook arch, heard the drumming thumps and the scream from him as his back turned to a hedgepig; the garron, stuck in rump and haunch, squealed, veered off and he was gone.

Another garron went over its own nose, but the man on it was pinned to the saddle through the thigh and backbone and was plunged to the bloody greenery whether he cared or not.

Hal’s horse leaped in the air, came down half on and half off the ragged bundle of him, then stumbled on for a stride or two until it stopped, head down, legs splayed. A great gout of blood and a groan came from it, then it started to fold and Hal kicked free of it, only seeing the strange sprout of feathered twig in one side. Into the lungs, he thought wildly; it missed my knee by a hair.

Addaf was satisfied with the one shoot, for he would have to send men out to recover what arrows they could; they were in short supply and too crafted to waste. He watched the riders vanish into the treeline on the far side of the field, saw the riderless little horses, some running in mad circles, most limping painfully.

A single man staggered and Addaf, tempted, started to nock an arrow – a long shot, but no longer than ones where he had put a big battle-arrow through a willow-wand …

The sudden shouts distracted him and he turned to see the second column, now no more than a crowd, waving weapons and cheering.

‘An audience appreciates you,’ he said, nodding to them, and his men laughed.

‘We make them jig, we make them kick,’ yelled out the irrepressible Hywel, ‘with a feather shaft and a crooked stick.’

All of them laughed aloud and, when Addaf remembered the limping man and looked for him, there was nothing to see. He frowned, unsmarted the bow and sent men out to fetch the arrows back, or dig out the valuable points for re-shafting.

In the treeline, Hal sank down, sweating and panting, while others retched, spat and then examined each other and their mounts for unseen wounds.

‘How many?’

‘Six,’ Sim Craw told him. ‘Five are gone down the brae, certes, and Hob o’ the Merse has a barb in his back and says he cannae feel his legs. Eight garrons down. God be praised.’

‘For ever and ever,’ Hal answered, then struggled up. ‘But not this day, I think. Mount and ride, double if you need – Sore Davey, I will climb ahint you, since you are lighter. Throw Hob over a saddle an’ bring him. There is a battle yet to be won.’

He was wrong. There was no battle left to be won and they discovered the heart-sick lurch of truth when they came up on their old camp, into a confused, whirling affray of men in knots and struggling knuckles, fighting like dog-packs with no order or command.

There were men on foot, formed in little rings half-armed and defiant, while others ran like fox-struck chooks in a coop, pursued by vengeful men in maille mounted on warhorses. Glancing over the shoulder of Sore Davey, to the left of where they had come up, Hal saw a huddle of riders, the bright blue and white stripes and red martlets of Aymer de Valence blazing from the horse barding of himself and his retinue.

‘The King …’ Sim Craw bellowed and pointed to the fist of riders surrounding a figure. He had no jupon, but the golden lion rampant shield was clear and he wore maille and a coif, but only a bascinet, the gold circlet on it gleaming in the sun. Beyond, half-sunk like some sugarloaf in the rain, the striped confection of the royal panoply sagged and round the tangle of it came Dog Boy, his tired garron staggering after his flat-out run to warn the King.

Isabel, Hal thought and slapped Sore Davey on one shoulder, even as he bawled out to the others to go right, towards the tents, away from de Valence. The Dog Boy saw them and turned the garron obediently to meet them, though he was thinking of Jamie Douglas somewhere in the chaos of blade and blood.

They rode past three men, two of them on foot, the rider holding horses; Hal’s heart missed several beats at the sight of the woman struggling between them, but it was one he did not know and was grateful for it.

Dog Boy did. He hauled the garron up short, which balked Sore Davey and Hal cursed him for it, sliding over the rump as he saw the armed men turn in shocked surprise; he shrugged his shield off his back to his arm and hauled out a blade, while Dog Boy, his face ugly with anger, forced the garron at the rider, roaring incoherently and striking out with the big Jeddart staff.

Sim Craw saw the weave of it and brought his own mount to its haunches; two or three others followed and they whirled, flogging back to help; the rest rode on, oblivious so that the shrieks of the slung Hob, woken to a world of terror and agony, faded into the distance.

Dog Boy rode the Jeddart at the
serjeant,
who cursed and ducked, letting the horses loose as he did so; the shaft slithered over his mailled shoulder, the hook caught in his jupon and Dog Boy, slamming briefly into one of the shocked and plunging horses, rode on, dragging the man out of the saddle. Whooping and roaring, Sim Craw and the handful of men with him rode over him, stabbing downwards.

The woman went flying, discarded and forgotten in an instant while the men dragged out their weapons and turned with the desperate air of cornered rats. One of them saw Sim and the others and bolted away while the other stood in a half-crouch, head moving from Sim to Dog Boy and back to Hal.

He glanced briefly at the shield, discarded in pursuit of the woman, then he made his mind up and charged at Hal, sword held in both hands.

He was a wet-mouthed raver and Hal offered no finesse after the first blow scarred a new ruin on the shivering blue cross of his shield, the shock wave rattling his teeth; he put his shoulder down and launched himself forward, snarling. With a last mighty heave he took the shield in a swinging door slam that made the man grunt, yelp and stagger backwards to fall on his arse, legs and arms waving like an upturned beetle, the sword spilled from his grasp.

In the next second, he found himself staring at a new world, shrunk down to the wicked point of Dog Boy’s Jeddart, which hovered over his face; behind, the abandoned garron snorted at the stink of blood and moved to join the riderless rounceys.

‘I yield,’ squeaked the man and there was a moment when he thought this snarling youth would kill him anyway, a shocking, bowel-loosening moment.

Chirnside Rowan, still mounted, gave a grunt of derision.

‘Christ betimes,’ he growled. ‘No content wi’ dreaming of a rank ye can never have, ye think of being Roland at Roncesvalles, or Sir Galahad chasing the Grail.’

‘Aye,’ Sim Craw declared, coming up behind him, ‘our wee Dog Boy is a
gentle parfait
for sure. He holds the knightly vow that ye should nivver violet a lady.’

Dog Boy turned to see the woman he’d rescued squatting by the
serjeant
’s corpse, rifling it expertly, and Hal was standing over her.

‘The Queen and her women?’ Hal was asking her urgently. ‘Where are they?’

The woman hauled off a boot, turned it up and shook it, frowning when nothing fell out.

‘Rode away,’ she answered. She grinned up at Dog Boy.

‘Marthe,’ he said. ‘Are ye weel?’

Marthe tore off the other boot and up-ended it; a double-edged dagger fell out and she took it, frowning when nothing followed it, then beamed back at Dog Boy.

‘Weel enow, thanks to yersel’ an’ yer freends,’ she declared and then winked lewdly at him. ‘I owe ye – whin it is convenient, I will rattle the teeth out of yer head.’

Dog Boy’s face flamed as he looked at Hal.

‘Creishie Marthe,’ he explained. ‘Her man is a woodcutter from Selkirk …’

‘The Coontess,’ Hal growled and Creishie Marthe’s head came up, eyes narrowed in recognition.

‘Och – it is yersel’, yer honour.’

She scambled up, bobbed a curtsey.

‘The blissin’ o’ Heaven on ye, yer honour,’ she went on calmly, ‘but the Coontess went aff some time since, wi’ loaded ponies an’ yon nice wee brother o’ the King, Niall.’

Hal sagged with relief. Escaped – he almost laughed aloud, then Dog Boy brought him to his senses by growling and pointing to the ruin of blue and white tents nearby; in the depths of them, something stirred and cursed.

In a moment, all the men were off their horses and closing in. Sore Davey slashed expertly and the sail canvas parted like ripe fruitskin – a figure rose out of it, flailing and cursing. There was a moment of raised blades and snarls – then they all recognized the figure and subsided like empty wineskins.

‘Kirkpatrick,’ Hal declared weakly. ‘In the name o’ God, man – what are ye up to now?’

Kirkpatrick, his bruised face sweating red, hirpling still with his hurts, clutched a casket tight to him and managed a smile as he tapped it with a free hand.

‘Saving secrets,’ he announced. ‘The royal Rolls.’

Hal knew it at once and raised an eyebrow – everyone had fled in such haste that they had left the list of those in service to the King, what they had brought as retinue and how much they were owed. In the hands of de Valence, it would provide all the evidence needed as to who the Bruce supporters were.

‘Not that they deserve it, mind,’ Kirkpatrick added bitterly. ‘Half our brave community of the realm stuffed their jupons under their saddles, covered their shields so as not to be recognized and ran like hunted roe.’

Creishie Marthe had turned her attention to the yielded
serjeant
, and drawn a swift second smile under his chin with a dagger she’d taken. Ignoring the blood and the kicking, she was rifling under the hem of his maille for hidden wealth.

‘Bigod,’ said Chirnside admiringly to Dog Boy, ‘your choice in weemin’ is growin’ dangerous, my lad.’

Kirkpatrick saw the ring when Marthe peeled back the man’s maille mittens; the knife flashed and the bloody finger was already vanishing inside her considerable bosom when Kirkpatrick caught her wrist.

‘Dinna even think o’ it,’ he hissed into her savage glare and flourished dirk and she saw the eyes on him, knew instantly who it was and whimpered, giving up the grisly prize and the ring on it.

Hal saw it all and shot a quick look at Dog Boy to see if he had noticed that Creishie Marthe had been ‘violeted’ – but Dog Boy was staring blankly back at the whirling battle. Men sprinted past; a horseman galloped furiously further down and it was clear to everyone that the fighting was closing in on the royal tents. Creishie Marthe knew it and was already gathering her skirts and running off.

‘Jamie,’ Dog Boy muttered, gathering the reins of his garron, and Hal, half-way into the saddle of one of the patient rounceys, looked back to the black thundercloud of struggling men.

‘The King,’ he said, though he knew there was nothing that would make him drag the remains of his
mesnie
into that mess.

The King was in trouble and he knew it. Truth was he had known it from the moment the messenger rode up, the one he recognized as Dog Boy. It had given him and the others enough time to struggle into maille hauberk, though he had thrown the awkward leggings to one side. He had a coif attached to the hauberk and long sleeves with mittens, and now blessed the one-piece garment he had roundly cursed in the past for its weight while trying to get it on.

Dog Boy’s arrival had given him time to issue orders sending the Queen to safety, to have a palfrey saddled – his warhorses all went with the Queen, having just been fed and now useless for battle – and take up the bascinet with the golden circlet.

Balliol’s, of course, as was so much of his royal finery, though that king had never worn it. Truth was, it was a little loose for Bruce but he gave up on comfort for the advantage of being seen easily by his own side, who would take heart from their battling king.

The other side of that spun coin, he thought to himself in the sweating, belly-clenching moments before the English knights closed on them, was that being tumbled off would rip the heart out of them.

He thought of that in the eyeblink before the charging figure came down on him, featureless in his bucket helm, waving a battleaxe and trying to rein in the over-eager warhorse. Bruce danced to one side, slashed out with his sword and spun the palfrey as the warhorse went plunging mad, half its tail sheared off and all of its rump bloody and fired with agony; the knight sailed off and hit the ground with a clatter. The German Method …

Bruce had little time to exult and none at all to see if the knight got up, for others were on him and his own
mesnie
closed in protectively. He realized at once that this was no battle and was lost whatever you called it – there was only a
mêlée
now and Bruce was master of that.

He ducked a swinging blade, banged the man out of the saddle with his shield, cut right, cut left, took a blow that made him grunt and hope his maille was good and the sword blunt. A man plunged out, on foot, to grab the bridle of his horse, helmetless and roaring with triumph that he had taken the King.

Bruce slashed down and the man shrieked and fell away, while the rouncey threw up its head and panicked at the grisly ornament of hand and wrist that dangled, clenched and bloody in the bridle. Bruce lost a foot from one stirrup and sat deep while the rouncey plunged itself to a trembling halt.

The knight who had first attacked suddenly lurched from the other side, having thrown away his bucket helm and dragged out a sword. He was bleeding from a broken nose and snoring in desperate breaths, but he reached out a free hand and tried to grab Bruce by his leg, missed and grasped the free stirrup.

‘He is mine,’ he bellowed in a spray of blood. ‘Yield yerself sirra –aaaaah.’

His triumph ended in a shriek when Bruce rammed his booted foot back in the stirrup, grinding fingers into the metal and trapping the hand; when he spun the rouncey the knight was dragged off his feet and whirled sideways, screaming, until he bowled into a knuckle of men, scattering them and tearing his fingers free.

Then a blow seemed to stave in the whole side of Bruce’s face, a crash as if the world had fallen on him and he reeled at the edge of consciousness, hanging on to the palfrey by some last reserve of tourney skill.