Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims

by Toby Clements

  Thomas watches his arrow crash through the breathing holes of a man’s helmet, so hard and so close that the steel visor opens in ragged flanges to admit the bodkin head. He is plucked from his saddle and vanishes from sight. His horse swerves, hits another, screams and crashes to the ground.

  ‘Nock!’

  Thomas nocks and seeks the man in the white livery.

  ‘Draw!’

  Where is he? Where is he? He is already down.

  ‘Loose!’

  Thomas lets the shaft go at another, whose armour is swathed in sackcloth. He hits him in the stomach and he jumps in his saddle and another arrow hits his horse and knocks it aside. The man goes down under it.

  They loose three more salvoes. From that distance an arrow will pass through a man, armour or no. It will pin him to the ground, or his horse, or whatever is behind him. It will pin two men together. As they nock for the fourth time Richard raises his arm.

  It is over. It is done.

  The archers lower their bows.

  There is no one left standing. There is only a single white horse, galloping into the distance, stirrups flying. The road is filled with the dead bodies and the stink of shit and blood and ruptured guts.

  A horse is still trying to get up, but has lost the use of its back legs, and is dragging them behind as it crawls on, screaming with the pain. Geoffrey raises his bow and looses an arrow that fizzes across and catches the horse behind the jaw. It collapses. Another lies wheezing, its chest rising and falling, its eye suddenly enormous. Blood spreads from an arrow that is buried up to the fletch in its shoulders. The horse’s black lips vibrate as it gasps for air. It seems this is the only thing left alive. Walter takes three paces from the top of the dyke, down into the road, steps over a dead man and smashes the animal’s skull with a lead maul.

  No one says anything. Everyone is breathing heavily. Owen turns away from what he has done. Dafydd puts his arms about his brother and holds him as he sobs. He soothes him in a language only they can understand before breaking into English.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘It’s all right. It’s over now.’

  One of the Johns vomits.

  Another horse shudders and whinnies. It is trapped under the body of another horse. It raises its head, its neck arched, and stares at them. It is looking to man for help. Walter crosses to it, bends down, lets his hands drift over the heaving chest, down to where the animal’s foreleg is trapped under the dead horse. It is bent where it should have been straight. Walter shakes his head sorrowfully, then stands and crashes the maul down again. The animal subsides. Walter peers over to look at the rider the horse has pinned to the ground.

  He laughs. ‘Like a bloody hedgehog.’

  Richard is silent, pale-faced, unmoving on the bank.

  Thomas feels weighed down with regret.

  One by one they step down and into the road. Blood leaks from between armoured joints, clots in mail. Are any of the men alive? Does that one move? Does this one raise his gloved hand in a gesture? There is a gentle scrape, like a man breathing out, and a grate of steel on stone.

  Each archer is drawn to the rider he killed first. Thomas stands frozen. Then: Christ! A man has caught his ankle. He can hardly see him for he is pinned by the weight of a horse.

  Thomas pulls free.

  The man’s fingers go slack.

  Walter steps past, over the bulk of the horse, peers down at the man. He bends and lifts the man’s visor. He smiles. It is almost tender. Then he raises the maul and brings it down with a gristly crunch.

  Walter tucks the maul under his arm and begins undoing the man’s chinstrap.

  ‘I’ll have this,’ he says.

  Thomas turns away. He can still feel the man’s fingers on his ankle. He finds the man in red, lying face down, crumpled against the far bank. Thomas thinks he recognises the coat. It is the same madder red. As he turns the body, it slips to the road. Thomas’s arrow is broken, jammed in the visor. He inserts his knife into the hinge on the other side and levers it open.

  It is not Riven.

  It is a man with a thick moustache and a spider’s web of blood spreading across his face. His eyes are open, curiously blue, looking into the far distance. Thomas waves away a blowfly.

  ‘May God have mercy on your immortal soul,’ he murmurs. ‘And grant you eternal rest.’

  He makes the sign of the cross over the man and then Richard appears at his shoulder.

  ‘Let me see,’ he says, and he stares into the dead man’s face.

  ‘It is not him,’ he says. ‘He was never here. Never here.’

  He gestures across at the man in white, lying between his horse’s legs.

  There are black marks on the man’s tabard but they are not birds. They are ornate, curlicued crosses, arranged in the same three, two, one pattern that distinguishes Riven’s livery.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Kit mistook the banner.’

  The dead man is fat, with leathery skin, quite elderly; he does not even look like an Englishman.

  Richard is in despair. Geoffrey and the other men pass among the dead men, lifting their visors where they have not already been shaken loose.

  ‘We will find him,’ Thomas says. ‘I know it.’

  Richard nods.

  They stand like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder. They become aware of a presence. A man stands behind them. It is the captain of the Newnham garrison, the one who lent Richard the practice bow. He stares at them speculatively. Behind him stand his sergeant and three of the garrison ordinaries, bills in hand. They are the men who’d jeered at them as they had passed over Newnham Bridge. Now they are silent, staring at the carnage, counting the bodies. The bells in both churches in the village begin ringing again.

  ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ the captain asks. ‘You’re the archers who can’t shoot to save yourselves a barrel of ale.’

  Richard stands up and wipes the blood from his palm on the front of his shirt. He is about to say something when his attention is taken by something else, over the man’s shoulder. A party of men in costly burnished plate is walking towards them. One of them carries a blue and murrey battle standard emblazoned with a white lion, the others their pollaxes.

  The captain turns to see what Richard is looking at. As soon as he sees who it is, he steps off the road with a slight bow. A huge knight with his visor raised to form a peak on his helmet leads the party. His armour is scratched and dented, and there is another man’s blood over his plated lower legs. He stops in front of Richard and stares down at him.

  ‘Who in the name of the great God above are you?’ he asks.

  Richard takes a breath.

  ‘I am Richard Fakenham, my lord,’ he says. ‘Of Marton Hall in Lincolnshire. My father is Sir John Fakenham. He is my lord Fauconberg’s man and we are his company.’

  He gestures at the archers, who stand perfectly still. The man stares at him, then at them. He is very big, almost a giant, and very young, with wide blue eyes and fair hair.

  ‘Then, Richard Fakenham,’ the man says slowly, ‘I owe you a debt of thanks. For you have saved many lives here today. I do not know how you came to be stationed here along this road, but without your famous action there would be many more widows and orphans and childless fathers alive today.’

  He bends to pick up one of the spears the horsemen had been carrying. It is more than twice his height. He peers up at the tip to make his point.

  ‘I shall not forget you,’ he says, turning back to Richard. ‘I shall not forget you, Richard Fakenham. You or your men, d’you hear? England needs men like you, Richard Fakenham. I need men like you. If ever you need a favour of me, I hope you will ask. I hope I shall be able to help you in return.’

  Richard bows.

  The man shakes his hand. Thomas whispers in Geoffrey’s ear.

  ‘Who is that?’

  Geoffrey looks at him as if he has gone too far this time.

  ‘Give me strength. Who is that? Who i
s that? D’you really know nothing?’

  Thomas shrugs.

  ‘That is Edward Plantagenet, the Earl of March. He’s the Duke of York’s son. He’s the King’s cousin. He’s – oh for God’s sake.’

  13

  THE EARL OF Warwick’s fleet puts in to harbour five weeks later. It is a fine early summer’s day and they see his ships’ masts break the horizon just after dawn. When the news spreads, every bell in the Scunnage rings out. What it must have meant for the Duke of Somerset’s men, beleaguered and decimated in their castle at Guisnes, Katherine can only guess, but for Sir John Fakenham and his company of archers it is reason enough to rejoice.

  ‘Soon be home now, Owen,’ Dafydd says, thumping his brother on the back.

  ‘Home,’ Owen choruses.

  Instead of any celebration though, Walter makes them work harder, as if punishing them for something they haven’t done. They spend every daylight hour practising in the butts. He picks on Thomas especially, so that almost all Katherine sees of him is as a lone figure in the distance, constantly running the length of the clearing to collect arrows, bring them back, loosing them, and running to collect them again.

  The Earl’s return brings with it an increase in the number of tents outside the town walls and an increase in the level of noise across the Pale.

  ‘Very keen on guns, the Earl of Warwick, isn’t he?’ Dafydd moots, his hands over his ears.

  ‘Big ones, little ones, you name it,’ Geoffrey agrees. ‘Keen on anything new, he is.’

  They are taking a rare break, gathered on the walkway of the fort, leaning against the battlements. They are staring out across the Pale towards the town, where rolling puffs of grey smoke erupt from the butts. Burgundian handgunners are down there and the air crackles with the reports of their guns. Twice that first morning they hear an unusual crump as one of the bronze-barrelled weapons bursts.

  ‘Don’t see what’s so great about them,’ Simon says. ‘Rather use a bow any day. Least when they break they don’t kill no one.’

  ‘You ever face gunfire, boy?’ Walter asks him.

  Simon shakes his head.

  ‘Well, wait till you have before you say anything so bloody stupid again.’

  Walter is still sour-tempered. He’s been thus ever since the skirmish at Newnham. The others are happier, especially with rumours of their return to England circulating.

  ‘Must be soon, eh? Did you see how many ships they’ve got in the harbour?’

  ‘I can’t bloody wait,’ Dafydd says. ‘You know what I’m going to do when I get there? I’m going to find a rich knight – you know, someone in the Duke of bloody Somerset’s affinity – and I’m going to kill him, and take everything he has, I am. I’m going to take his lands, his horse, his armour, his squire, his missus and his dogs, everything, even his chickens, aren’t I? Then I’m going to ride back home to Kidwelly with Owen here, both of us fully armoured up, see? And we’re going to kick that no-good fucker Will Dwnn right into the bloody sea.’

  ‘Who’s Will Dwnn?’ Red John asks.

  ‘Will bloody Dwnn? Don’t you know Will Dwnn? He’s the fucker who’s supposed to marry Gwen, isn’t he?’

  ‘Gwen,’ Owen says. His voice is deep and so larded with affection that everybody stops and looks at him.

  ‘Is Gwen your sweetheart, Owen?’

  ‘Gwen’s not his sweetheart!’ Dafydd says as if everyone should already know. ‘Gwen’s our sister.’

  Walter cackles.

  ‘Heard about you Welshmen and your sisters.’

  Before a fight can start, Walter holds out a hand. He’s pointing at the woods.

  ‘Now who the fuck’s this?’ he asks. A man in green is casting about in the scrub. He has a short-legged dog on a lead.

  ‘Richard says he is a huntsman,’ Katherine tells them. ‘He had a boy with him earlier, but he sent him off back to town.’

  ‘Must have found a scent,’ Geoffrey guesses. ‘The boy’ll have gone to fetch the hunting party.’

  Later that morning they watch a party of horsemen on the road to Newnham. There must be a dozen or so. Those at the rear are carrying flags and around the horses’ legs run the tiny dots of dogs.

  ‘A hunting party,’ Walter says. ‘All we bloody need.’

  ‘You recognise any of the flags, Kit?’

  ‘There is the red saltire,’ she says.

  ‘The Earl of Warwick,’ Geoffrey says. ‘Coming this way.’

  ‘Better let Richard know.’

  Geoffrey goes to find Richard. Katherine watches the party crossing the bridge. The riders stop at the fort and then emerge from behind the castle and ride through the village and start up the road towards them, along the road where they fought on St George’s Day. The bodies are gone now, some buried behind the church in a piggery, some thrown in the river. The dead horses have been dragged away by a tanner and butcher.

  By the time the horsemen come over the crest of the hill, Richard and Geoffrey are in the courtyard. There are about fifteen in the hunting party, including the standard-bearers, various grooms and servants. Trotting alongside are five or six greyhounds. One of the riders is a bishop in purple. He is swarthy-faced, wearing a long fur-lined cloak. It seems almost comical that he should be there. Katherine finds herself staring at him, ignoring the man in black behind him, a cleric of some sort, ill-at-ease on horseback, and the other huntsmen, each dressed in high boots and thick coats, each with a bow and a bag of arrows.

  She remembers the nerves the sisters all felt when the Bishop of Lincoln paid the priory a visit. They had scrubbed their half of the priory for weeks beforehand, and each had washed their cassocks and their bodies so that nothing might offend him. And all the while they had known he would never see them, just as they would never see him.

  Richard starts out as the riders draw up.

  ‘My lord of Warwick,’ he calls. ‘Good day to you, sir, and may God guide you safe.’

  The man at the front of the party raises his hand in salute. The clouds of yellow dust the horses kick up slowly settle. His is a black horse, ostentatiously beautiful.

  ‘You are Richard Fakenham?’ he asks.

  ‘I am, my lord.’

  ‘Then let me shake you by the hand,’ Warwick says, swinging his leg forward over his horse and descending lightly to the ground. ‘I have heard of your actions from my cousin the Earl of March.’

  ‘It was no more than my duty, my lord,’ Richard counters, shaking his hand.

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense. You and your men are the talk of the town. I have brought his grace Bishop Coppini all the way from Milan to meet you.’

  Richard kisses the Bishop’s hand, who ignores him and keeps up a lively stream of chatter aimed at the large snowy-haired fat man sitting on the horse next to him. At first Katherine thinks this might be Sir John Fakenham come to see them from Calais, but where Sir John Fakenham’s face is open and cheerful despite his pain, this old man looks sour-tempered.

  ‘That’s the Earl of Salisbury,’ Walter mutters. ‘Warwick’s father. Right bastard.’

  Salisbury takes Richard’s proffered hand in a half-hearted squeeze and drops it quickly. Warwick ostentatiously steps back to stand with his hands on his hips and survey the fort and the men who are gathered at its battlements. He pretends it is a fine sight.

  ‘So that is the famous Earl of Warwick, is it?’ Dafydd asks, staring back down.

  ‘Quite small, isn’t he?’ Red John says.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Little John Willingham snaps. A couple of them laugh.

  ‘They say he never sleeps, you know? Not ever.’

  ‘They say he never sits down, either.’

  ‘And that he has his hair cut three times a week.’

  ‘A peacock,’ Owen says in his thick voice. Warwick is dressed in a deep purple, extravagantly puffed hunting coat that stops at his waist. His hose are lapis and his boots so pointed in the toe so that it is a wonder he can ride in them at all.

  �
��To think he’s our only chance of getting out of this shithole and going home.’

  Warwick is asking something of Richard, who gestures to the other side of the fort where the huntsman with his dog paces impatiently through the long grass. A third man, whom none of them recognises, leans forward, both hands cupped on his saddle. Katherine thinks he looks slightly out of place, but she cannot say why.

  ‘Who is that?’ she asks.

  ‘Hastings,’ Walter says.

  ‘Lord Hastings?’

  ‘No. Just Hastings. William Hastings.’

  ‘Stupid name if you aren’t lord of the manor.’

  ‘Supposed to be a good man, though. Good to his men and so on. Their wives.’

  Katherine cannot tell what he means. She can see Richard is smiling at something this Hastings has said, nodding his head and then hurrying back through the gate.

  ‘Geoffrey! Geoffrey there!’

  Geoffrey has the horse saddled already. Richard is quickly on to it and he joins the party as they ride around the fort to find the huntsman.

  ‘He loves his hunting, doesn’t he?’ Walter says. ‘Misses those hawks of his.’

  The archers in the top of the fort walk around to watch them taking the huntsman’s directions and disappear under the canopy of the branches. Soon a trumpet is blown.

  ‘All right, into the butts,’ Walter says. ‘Make it look good for when they come back. Northern Thomas, you stay here. They might stop and talk to us, and the last bloody thing I want is to hear you telling them cutting across the marsh like that was your idea, understand?’

  Thomas knows better than to argue, and anyway he values any time away from archery practice.

  When the others have gone Thomas sits in the sunshine and oils his new bow. His old one eventually broke in his hands, just as he always said it would, and from his own money Richard bought him a new one from a bowyer in Calais. It was meant as a reward for his part in the skirmish on St George’s Day and, for a day or two, Thomas hid it from Katherine because he was anxious she would take offence at him being credited with the plan. She’d laughed when she found out.