The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book
Page 41
For Abelard he was again trapped under his dying horse, the giant in bright red hose swinging his iron mace in great big circles, picking up speed for the ultimate blow that would disintegrate his skull like so much dried tinder. He and his men had, by then, been several days on a chevauchée, putting to death all that moved and everything else to the torch. They were leaving nothing for the advancing French forces heading towards Maupertuis and ultimate defeat in 1356 at the Battle of Poitiers. But they had wandered too close and were caught short by Marshall d’Audrehem’s forward guard. They were hopelessly outnumbered and dashed for the thick wood on their flank. There they would have some advantage when the French would find their large force suddenly broken into smaller, more easily digestible pieces.
But after several days of intense riding their horses were tired and considerably slower than the fresh and rested French mounts. They were caught in the open and fought a running battle as they tried to fend off the enemy blows while continuing to race for the woods. Screams filled the air as his men were implacably pursued and cut down. Many fell, to be finished off later by the French knifemen who would unfailingly be following close behind. Abelard’s horse was struck by an arrow and tumbled forward, falling across his right leg. He had lost his sword and was defenseless. He knew his chances were poor. The red knight halted his horse beside Abelard and dismounted to get maximum leverage for what he was about to do. By this time those who had made it were fighting on more equal terms against the French and very well holding their own.
The red colossus lifted his face plate, wishing to openly gloat at his good fortune and to better see the gratifying spectacle he was about to launch. Abelard, never one to give up, struggled to free himself, all the while listening to the whooshing, spiked iron ball circling about his would-be killer’s head, twirling faster at each revolution. Then, a new sound. More of a thud, and the deadly ball suddenly ceased its sickening noise. He paused a moment from his fruitless struggle and raised his head in time to see the look of utter surprise in the red knight’s eyes as he held onto the blade point sticking out his chest. Behind him, a satisfied smile beaming from De Gestaubon’s grotesque face, told him all he needed to know. He would live to fight another day. He would also soon enjoy seeing d’Audrehem captured at Poitiers
“Can I help you sir? Is there something wrong? Are you ill? Here, use this little bag.” A kindly, solicitous smile beaming from the attendant’s face, ugly as De Gestaubon’s, waiting for a response. The aircraft had by then reached its cruising altitude and relative calm had returned. He would live to fly another day.
Chapter XII
The search