Vampire Outlaw (The Immortal Knight Chronicles Book 2)

by Dan Davis

  Coming straight for me was a huge, tall, broad shouldered knight. He was dressed in a bright blue surcoat, stained with fresh blood that was not his own. His shield was half blue and half black. His mail had been scrubbed to a shine, his helmet was silvery like a mirror. The man’s sword looked particularly long and very wide at the base, a sword, perhaps, made for thrusting through armour. I was the tallest in my line and perhaps I was clearly the leader of our little band and he had sought me out, jostling his fellows aside for the glory of killing me himself. His men beside him were finely armoured also, in similar colours of blue and black. Perhaps they were from the same place, the same family, even.

  And then they were upon us. We stepped into the attack to take their first, mightiest blows on our shields.

  My knight in blue made as if he was charging up with a powerful thrust at my head, which meant that his true attack would be anywhere but there. And he checked his thrust at the last moment, slamming his shield into mine so as to force it up and he shoved his blade low, to strike up below the bottom of my shield and into my groin and thighs.

  He was strong, his weight was like being knocked by a horse. But I bent my knees, took the force of his strike and forced his shield back. I thrust his sword away as it snaked up toward me and counter attacked with a strike of my own, which he deflected well with his shield.

  My strength might have been greater than his but I was as limited as anyone by the strength of my blade. If I struck with all my might, I knew from experience that I could snap my sword blade, or, at least, bend it out of usefulness. I thrust and blocked, waiting for an opening.

  More men arrived behind the first line and pushed them against us.

  I struck blows against the blue knight, jabbing against his armour. My shield was being chipped to pieces. Jocelyn and Falk by my sides fought their own shoving battles. My helm was smacked and then again by someone, somewhere.

  My anger grew. Frustrated, I pushed back, hard. My feet I jammed into the gaps between the rutted cobbles and heaved against them. I could not be resisted. I pushed the blue knight’s shield aside and stabbed my blade into the inside elbow of his shield arm and pushed the blade through into his flesh. I reversed the blade backhand into the side of his helm, ringing his head like a hammer on a bell and I followed up with a lunge up beneath the bottom of his helm, sliding up against his coif and smashing into his chin. I twisted and thrust again as he reeled back and I forced him away further, twisting and ripping my blade out downward, tearing his throat. Blood gushed out and he staggered back into the melee.

  Another man forced his way into his place and then I edged back to my line and fought again.

  Falk breathed heavily, his breath whistling inside his helm. Even Jocelyn was tiring. The men we fought could afford to rotate out of the attack when they tired and the man behind would take his place. But we had no replacements but a score of archers and a squire behind. Our line was a single man thick. While we stood firm in the centre, the men to either side were pushed back by the weight of numbers.

  Soon, I all I heard was my breath in my ears and the muffled shouts of men. I could taste blood on the air. I wanted it. I needed it. I wanted to break away from my men and take on the whole army. I fought on while Falk and Jocelyn took their first steps back. I had to go back with them to avoid breaking the line.

  I had no breath to shout anything to inspire my men to fight harder. They already fought for their lives, what more was there?

  Yet they would break at any moment, I knew, I could feel it in the way the line moved. They were beyond the limits of their endurance.

  Perhaps I could give them a chance if I fought my way out. As I thought it, I did it. I shoved aside the three men surrounding me and stepped forward into them.

  A mass of armoured men surged toward me, seeing a fool and an easy kill or a good ransom. There were dozens of them, in rank after rank and I realised I had made a mistake. Perhaps I would not kill William after all.

  Perhaps, after all I had seen and all I had done, I would die at the gate of Lincoln Castle.

  I hoped, prayed, and pushed forward, swinging my blade like a madman, even though it was useless for cutting. I pushed them back, smacked heads and arms, I aimed for hands to smash and knees that I could stamp on. I took blows to my helm that clouded my vision with ten thousand swirling stars and still I keep moving, spinning, shoving them back, breaking out further from my men and hoping to bring the enemy knights with me.

  My arms felt broken. My shoulders burned. I could see almost nothing.

  I was alone. Arrows smashed down about me. The knights around me backed away, struck by a hail of shots from above. They held their shields up over their heads and I struck them from below.

  And then the enemy melted away.

  The attacks on me grew lighter and fewer for a moment and then they were gone. I straightened my helm, lined up the slits with my eyes once again and watched them running full tilt down the steep hill, down the road toward the river and the bridge that crossed it. Hundreds of men squeezing together between the buildings.

  The Marshal’s men had cleared the palisade and were over it, chasing the fleeing rebel knights and men at arms.

  A group of knight swerved toward me, their blades drawn.

  “King Henry!” I cried, throwing my arms wide and backing away. “I fight for Henry. For the Marshal.”

  Still they came at me until Falk rushed to my side, yanking his helm off.

  “Hold fast, you fools, this is Richard of Ashbury.”

  They left me alone and I stood while my men approached, exhausted, battered and wounded to watch the flight of the enemy.

  Swein led his archers down from the wall where they had saved me by shooting down into the attackers that had surrounded me.

  “Good fight, that,” Falk said, still wheezing.

  Jocelyn clapped me on the back. “Let us go capture ourselves a few knights, shall we?”

  “You go,” I said. “You and Anselm, make some money. Oh, and find me a good sword. Mine is quite ruined.”

  I looked around for a body that I could drag into the shadows.

  ***

  Swein and his archers were plundering the dead and retrieving their arrows from the men they had shot in the battle. It was only fair that they take whatever else they could.

  Jocelyn looked at me as if to say that he knew what I would be doing and he did not approve of it. But I cared nothing for what he thought. The air was full of blood and I needed it.

  While the dead were plundered, the living were chased through the city and captured for ransom by whoever took them. Knights were found hiding in cupboards, cellars and roof spaces. Many were drowned in the river while in flight over the bridge that led out of town.

  Those who escaped on horses fled south. Those that fled on foot were largely rounded up by the Marshal’s knights, held in reserve on the south side of the city for just such an eventuality. Inside, the city was plundered from top to bottom.

  Noblemen, knights, men-at-arms, squires, pages, crossbowmen, archers, grooms and servants lost their minds once they had taken the city and all plundered it three ways from Sunday. Everything of value within the city was stolen, no matter who it had belonged to. Wine and ale casks were smashed open and men grew drunk and sang. Of course, it is often the way when a city falls though I was surprised to see Englishmen carrying it out upon an English city.

  As soon as the day after that first mad evening, men were referring to the plundering as the Lincoln Fair. As in, do you see what I got at the Lincoln Fair? And, prices were low at the Lincoln Fair this year. Their glee, I felt to be somewhat unseemly, although I would never be one to judge on account of how I spent that first evening after the battle.

  When the looting mobs had rushed beyond the bodies at the gatehouse, I dragged the corpse of the blue knight by the ankles through the gatehouse and into the bailey. He felt heavy as a horse and I was tired but I was also thirsty so I moved him rapid
ly. I dragged him over the cobbles into the bailey and then quickly pulled into a dark armourer’s workshop and stripped his helm.

  He was younger than expected. Perhaps not much over twenty. A young knight who fought like an experienced one. I wondered if he had been English or from France or elsewhere.

  I took off his coif, seeing his I had, in fact, split it entirely through at the throat, breaking open the mail rings with my blade. It was sticky with blood. I salivated and checked that I could hear no one in the bailey. Pulling down the mail at his neck, I bent my mouth to his wound and sank my teeth into the sticky, congealing mass.

  I drank down the hot blood, it gushing into my mouth. It spread through me, like climbing into a hot bath, like warm spiced wine after a winter trek, like a dream coming true.

  Something was wrong but I did not know what it was until the young knight groaned and moved.

  I jerked away from him as his eyes opened and tried to focus on me. His right arm rose slowly toward me. I slapped it away.

  I had never killed a man just for his blood before.

  But I had not had my fill and I meant to have it.

  I sank my teeth back into his throat and held him still while I drank down his blood, sucking it from his body. He coughed a spray of blood and without looking, I held my hand over his mouth. His body wracked with spasms while he died. I drank my fill and sat back.

  If I were discovered again drinking blood after a battle, it would mean the end of my position in England. My name would be destroyed. I would have to go to the Holy Land, take a false name, and fight as a mercenary. Any chance at revenge would be over. I wiped my mouth, stripped the surcoat from the body, and stuffed it deep into a dark corner of the workshop.

  The knight would be recognisable, I supposed but I would do what I could. I hefted up the anvil from its block and smashed the knight’s face in until it was a cavernous, bloody mess. I took his rings and tossed his scabbard behind the workshop when I snuck out.

  I kept to the shadows. Few people were in the castle bailey. Two servants walked from the keep door, hurrying out through the gate, no doubt eager to join in the plundering.

  No one noticed me.

  I gave the rings to Swein, who said nothing but understood. Perhaps he thought I was buying his silence but I was not. In fact, I wished to reward him, for he had done exceptionally well and he deserved a rich reward. Not least for sticking by me, no matter what.

  The blood surged through me. I felt stronger than ever. The day’s exertions had flowed from my limbs and I stood and listened while the Lincoln Fair was in full swing. I thought I should probably join in, as money is always useful. But I had no will for it.

  I saw the blue knight’s face staring up, sightless, before I crushed his face in.

  Was it even murder, I thought. He had been trying to kill me in the battle and he would surely have died from his existing wounds in time anyway. But no matter how I justified it to myself, I felt like a genuine murderer for the first time in my life.

  But he was dead and I was not going to confess to the crime, nor would I admit it to some priest. They were all in some man’s pay. Like every other horror I had seen and done in my life, I would simply push the thought of it away and pretend it had never happened. And if I never spoke of it to God then perhaps we would forget as well.

  ***

  The next day, I found the Marshal’s tent, which he had erected to the north of the city while he oversaw the cleaning up and sorting out and tallying the costs and gains from the action.

  The hangover from a battle is a strange thing. The aches and pains start in on a man, his elation at surviving a slaughter becomes melancholy that he himself has killed, or known a man who died or perhaps he did not perform well or committed a crime in the anarchy after. Men sat slumped and quiet talking of things to come, sharing bottles and hiding their spoils.

  While I waited outside, along with two dozen other men on their own business, Falk approached. He had not changed out of his armour, had not removed his blood-soiled surcoat.

  “Good day, yesterday,” he said as he stomped up to me. “Reckon that’s the war over, then.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “Got to be, Richard,” Falk said. “We killed or captured most of the leaders. There’s not enough loyal to Louis to carry it on. And the Marshal, you know what he’s like, he’ll sue for peace on almost any terms, just to be done with it, mark my words.”

  “I do,” I said. “And now I will speak to the Marshal, accept my warrant and go clear Sherwood of outlaws.”

  “The Green Knight,” Falk said, nodding.

  I was surprised he had heard about him.

  “Course I bloody have,” Falk said. “He’s taken enough of my men off the road, last year or two when we went up to York and Scotland. I hope you take the bastards and skin them all alive, the Green Knight especially. Green Knight, what a laugh. Rip his tongue out.”

  “I will,” I said. “Nothing can stop me now.”

  Sometimes, you say something and as you speak, you know you are mocking God.

  “There’s a messenger in the camp looking for you,” Falk said. “Looks like a priest. Monk, I reckon. Poor lad looks like he’s shitting himself. I said I’d dig you out for him. The lad’s gone down to the cathedral to wait there.”

  I had a terrible feeling and I left word that I would be back to see the Marshal as soon as I could.

  There was blood everywhere before the cathedral. It was massive, stretching to Heaven above me, like God Himself staring down in judgement on what I had done. I dreaded entering that holy place. I was not sure I could take it but I did not have to.

  The monk hurried over to me from somewhere out of the way by the side of the cathedral. He led his tired pony. Both beast and rider were covered in dirt and sweat, suggesting a hard ride.

  I recognised him as a brother from the Priory.

  “Brother Godfrey, is it not?” I said.

  “Sir Richard,” the young man mumbled, would not meet my eye. “Prior Simon sent me to find you.”

  I stepped up to him, grasped him by the front of his robe and dragged him close to me.

  “Speak. Tell me all. Quickly, man.”

  “The women. The women, the Lady Marian and the other one. They were taken, my lord. Taken in the night.”

  Chapter Twelve – Into Sherwood

  “Where is he?” I demanded at the gate of Nottingham Castle, two morning’s later.

  “We are not to let you enter, Sir Richard,” the captain on the gate said, swallowing hard. He had an open-faced helmet on his head and I imagined what would happen to his warty nose if I smashed my mailed fist into it.

  “I am going through that gate,” I said, advancing upon him. “And the three of you are welcome to try to stop me. But you should know I am in a killing mood.”

  The captain stepped back a full step. “I am merely doing as commanded,” he said.

  “Please attempt to stop me,” I said. “I beg you to draw your swords and try, please. I want to feel my sword slicing through a man’s flesh.”

  The captain and his two men stepped aside and I strode through. They followed after me at a distance, keeping pace with me and whispering accusations at each other. Servants scattered from me. Entering the keep, two of Roger’s clerks stared at me down the corridor. They clutched their scrolls to their chest, spun on their heels and fled with their robes flapping about their scrawny ankles.

  I pushed through the doorways and climbed stairs until I came to the Great Hall. It was almost empty but for a few men sitting at the table. The chief amongst them I recognised.

  “Guy of Gisbourne,” I shouted. “Where is the sheriff?”

  He stared for a moment then leapt to his feet. “Sir Richard,” he said. He looked to one of his men who nodded and ran off through a door at the back of the hall.

  “Where is he?” I said, striding forward toward the top table behind which he stood.

  Guy spr
ead his hands. “Please, Sir Richard, there is no need for you to be angry. Sit, I beg you, let us drink together and talk.”

  “They say you are a brilliant swordsman, Sir Guy,” I said, placing my hand upon the pommel of my new sword. “I would love to see how you fare against a man who would test your ability. Shall we wager? If I beat you, then you tell me where the sheriff is.”

  Guy swallowed and placed his hand on the hilt of his own weapon, shifting back away from the table. “And if I win?”

  I summoned as much contempt as I could muster and I threw back my head and laughed.

  His face flushed red and I watched with satisfaction as the rage filled the man. I had insulted him gravely. I wished to beat him into submission and draw the truth out of him like blood.

  He stepped back further from the table and drew his sword.

  Three men rushed into the hall from the back door. I recognised them vaguely as Guy’s men.

  Alone, I could beat Guy into submission without killing him. But with four men, I would risk killing a man who could tell me where the sheriff was hiding.

  I decided to frighten them into subjugation.

  Without drawing my sword, I stepped forward to the huge table, bent my knees into a squat and, with a roar straightened, and heaved the massive oaken thing up into the air, longways onto the end nearest Guy’s men. Plates and cups slid and flew and smashed. I hurled with such force that the massive, ancient table spun and crashed down on its top, scattering Guy’s men aside. The sheriff’s chair fell backward with a bang and the benches clattered away.

  While Guy stood in shock, I ran to him and seized him by the arms, pinning them to his side.

  His eyes were wide as platters and all colour drained from his face.

  “Where is the sheriff?”

  “Sherwood,” Guy said, his throat tight.

  Guy’s eyes flicked behind me.

  “Stay where you are,” I shouted. “I will rip his arms from his body.”

  Guy, his neck tight, nodded at them and I heard them back away from me.