The Edge of the Blade

by The Edge of the Blade (retail) (epub)

  ‘But never yet requested you find her a husband,’ Sir Geoffrey murmured.

  And thoughtfully, his visitor said, ‘No… Never quite that.’

  * * *

  Yet neither love nor money prevented the aristocrats of Outremer from leaving the fortress of Tremellion. They had other places to visit, among them the island of Ardelet, and the mid-March storm was still scudding when Magnat-Vaulmier, his daughter, his scribe, and Christiane’s chaperone – who’d stayed awake all night, fallen asleep at dawn, and so failed to witness the meeting in the Hall – collected their escort of men-at-arms and zigzagged between the walls of the narrow ravine.

  Sir Geoffrey Falkan spent the rest of the day taking inventory of his wealth.

  He was helped in this by his cleric, by Guthric, by a somewhat inattentive Baynard.

  A search had been made for Ranulf, his name called from the inner bailey, the eastern bailey, the towers and walls and gatehouse of the castle. No one was surprised to find him gone; it was something he did whenever he was angry, and Ranulf Falkan was angry much of the time.

  He’d gone to one of his whores, most likely. Used her as some kind of devil’s confessional. Then attacked her for his pleasure, and paid her for her pains.

  * * *

  They could only guess at the value of the coin and plate and jewellery, though it would not be much less than three thousand marks. Enough to equip a sizeable force of knights – and with money left over for the archers, their portable shields, the services of farriers, blacksmiths, fletchers, cooks and laundrymaids they’d employ along the way. More than enough to finance a miniature army; a knucklebone at least for England’s Crusading fist.

  Baynard believed now what he’d believed when his father had asked his opinion of this extensive gift to the beggars. It was Sir Geoffrey’s decision to part with the money, and his prerogative to deliver it to the fleet at anchor in Plymouth. Too old to set out for the distant shores of Outremer, he could at least undertake his own personal Crusade and see Tremellion’s fortune placed safely aboard the ships.

  Baynard would have accompanied his father to the port, save for Guthric’s ministrations with the serrated, long-nosed pincers. But twenty minutes of that and not even the bullish King Richard of England would have managed a swipe against the Saracens, those dark-eyed disciples of the devil…

  Chapter Four

  The dulling mixture of oil, vinegar and sulphur had failed to work. Soaked into a sponge, the drug had been placed in Baynard’s mouth while the self-styled dentator set out the cloth, the needle-point knife, the long, claw-headed pincers. He had then told the patient to stretch out on the bench, a small leather cushion under his head. ‘There’s straps if you want them. Otherwise, take a good tight hold on the bench.’

  Baynard chose to grip the wood, spat out the sponge, then gazed at the vaulted roof of the constable’s cell.

  Having established which tooth it was – and Guthric remembered an occasion in the past when one of the guards had come to him… and he’d omitted to ask – he held Baynard’s mouth open with the spring of his powerful fingers and inserted the long iron pincers.

  Endless moments of searching, fumbling, reaching for a grip on the infected molar. Baynard groaned, wordlessly cursing the ineffectual drug. The clumsy Guthric might as well have packed his mouth with honeycomb, for all the good—

  He gurgled a moan of pure agony as the constable forced his mouth wider, tightened his hold on the pincers, pulled sharply upward, jerked the offending tooth free.

  A gust of fetid air blew from young Baynard’s mouth. Blood streamed from the socket, washing around his tongue. His hands rose from the bench – he was choking! Drowning in his own blood! – and he twisted violently, spewing the poisoned fluid on the floor. Dear Christ, that hurt! What else had the monster torn from his mouth? A piece of his very jaw?

  Guthric gave him wine to swill out the wound, a hefty measure of eau de vie to kill off the worms it was believed burrowed into the teeth. He pronounced himself satisfied with his work and asked if Baynard had any other aches or twinges – ‘Seeing as you’re here.’

  Racked with pain, his head hanging low over the bench, the young Baynard Falkan prayed God to give him the strength to turn and rise up and murder the massive, unschooled dentator of Tremellion.

  Within less than an hour one side of the patient’s face had swollen, tight as a bladder. Sir Geoffrey came to see him, to learn if his son would be well enough to accompany him to Plymouth the following morning. But a glance was enough to show that Baynard would not get further than the latrine, not for a few days yet. For all the constable’s heavy-handed ways, he knew what he was doing, though he’d need to be attentive, if the patient was to be cured.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ll not be with me, my boy. I’d take Ranulf, if only that furious man could be found. I imagine he’s sought solace with one of his – ladies. It’s the pattern he usually paints.’ He lifted his heavy shoulders in a shrug. ‘No matter. I intend to have most of the garrison around me on the journey. It’s less than fifty miles to Plymouth, but I’ll take no risks with Tremellion’s treasure. Meantime, you get yourself well. When I’m back we’ll talk at length about your future, this desire of yours to take the Cross.’ Reaching to lay a hand on Baynard’s shoulder, he added, ‘And the real reason for your seeking to go on Crusade.’ Then he smiled at his son, heard Baynard mouth gibberish through his lopsided lips and guessed correctly the young Falkan was telling him to take care; God speed you, father, on this, your own Crusade.

  It cheered Baynard to see that even now, at fifty, Sir Geoffrey filled the doorway as he made his way from the chamber.

  * * *

  Guthric was placed in command of the Cornish fortress. Of course, when Ranulf returned, the constable would take orders from Sir Geoffrey’s elder son. If, on the other hand, Ranulf did not re-enter Tremellion before Sir Geoffrey, Guthric would assume responsibility until Baynard Falkan recovered.

  ‘We’ve known each other long enough, God witness,’ the warlord growled. ‘And even with the castle stripped of its garrison, I’m content that you’ll be around, padding the yards. You may be a damned old charlatan in the matter of teeth, my friend, but I know I can leave my house without concern.’

  The Saxon grunted the compliment aside. He owed everything in life to Sir Geoffrey, for it was this cloudy-eyed Falkan who’d admitted him to Tremellion, engineered his rise from common gate-guard, tested his competence, found abilities in him Guthric had never supposed. He was poorly paid, but what need of money when the Lord of Tremellion housed him, clothed him, asked his opinion, listened as he gave it? Who would be a plump-bellied merchant, tinkling with coin, when one could sit at table with Sir Geoffrey Falkan, Lord of Tremellion, and be asked what to do for the best?

  Now, however, without being asked, Guthric said, ‘It s wrong there’s no one with you, my lord. Sir Ranulf… Young Baynard… For the lack of them, myself…’

  ‘Worried someone’ll pinch my purse, eh, Guthric? Scarcely so, when I’ll be escorted there by my soldiers. You’d do better to think how you’ll keep my house safe, you and your bladder-faced patient. Manage that for the few short days I’m away, and I’ll be well enough pleased.’ Then he clapped the leathery constable on the arm, turned to growl at the dismal sky and went off to see if his cleric had finished copying out the list of Tremellion’s wealth.

  * * *

  With the priest in tow, Sir Geoffrey led sixteen armed riders and two of his household servants out of the gatehouse and down through the long ravine maze. The baggage train – for so it was with its five laden packhorses – would travel toward Launceston, turn south around the edge of the desolate Bodmin Moor, then follow the paths and cart-tracks down to Plymouth.

  If there was any vanity in the fifty-year-old Falkan of Tremellion, it lay in his reasonable desire to be greeted by the would-be Crusaders who were gathering at the port. They’d respect him as a veteran of earlier wars in the East… Rema
rk that he seemed fit as a boar for his age (all the while ignoring his clouded left eye)… Admire him for coming in person, this doughty old warlord… Who would then insist upon opening the chests and satchels right there on the dock…

  He’d growl at this new generation of Crusaders, ‘There, messires. That’s for your war against the enemies of Christ! Guard it well. Buy only the best with it. And remember, if you’ve a mind to, that your victories were in some small part won with the help of Tremellion.’

  Jogging through the forest that filled the valley, a few miles south of Launceston, the Cornish warrior muttered under his breath. Would that be vanity? And if so, what of it? Can’t a weary old fool purchase readmission to his youth?

  And then the arrows came flittering from the trees…

  * * *

  It was a murderous, well-planned ambush, laid and executed to perfection. The first flight of shafts killed the cleric, killed one of the servants, killed three of the armed riders. Five of the horses were brought down, others plunging, the damp air filled with yells of surprise, screams of the animals, angry howls of the wounded.

  All of those who were hit were struck from behind, the effect being to goad the riders onward, make them turn in alarm, struggle to free their shields from the pommels of their saddles. Arrows continued to swish and flit from the briars that floored the forest, an angled crossfire that brought down three more horses, cut the second servant clear through the spine, reduced the sixteen-strong guard to eleven.

  But the number of deaths was as nothing compared with the arrows that lodged in the link-mail hauberks, flapped from cloaks, embedded themselves in boots, satchels, the small, iron-bound chests that carried the treasure.

  Sir Geoffrey was hit twice, the arrows failing to pierce the annealed links of his armour. Past experience of battle had already saved his life, for a shaft had thudded against his helmet, caromed away, buried its triangular tip in the ground. Unshipping his sword, he dipped his head, chin pressed hard to his collarbone. The sneaking, come-from-nowhere bastards might get him yet, but it wouldn’t be with an arrow in the throat.

  Then he roared at his company to spur their animals, outrun the ambush, get a half-mile along and regroup. These treacherous archers were good if they stayed hidden, but see how they’d run if a cavalry charge sliced among the briars!

  So he called his riders onward, the broad nasal bar of his helmet touching his chest, and urged his mount along the shallow forest path.

  Then felt the animal go from under him as a second wave of arrows hissed to meet him. He went down heavily, lost his helmet, felt a horrible sear of pain as his left arm cracked. Progress had turned to astonishment, order to chaos. All around him horses were floundering, men and animals screaming, someone running to pause in front of him, the man’s forehead drilled by a shaft.

  As the man flopped dead, the Lord of Tremellion hauled himself erect. His left arm hung useless, the limb below the elbow swinging, the shock of the ambush damming all sense of pain. It was broken – he could see it was broken – but all he could do was accept it, ignore it, trust the sword to his right.

  The moans and shouts continued, chaos still seizing the throne. Then suddenly the confusion cleared and the hardened Falkan found himself in a group of six, eight, it was hard to tell how many of his escort. They were unhorsed now, braced around him on the mossy track, some with shields, all with swords, a bristling bush that sprouted from the path…

  But their assailants did not give the men the chance for honourable combat. Crouched where they were among the trees, they loosed a steady, merciless stream of arrows, watching as Tremellion’s soldiers sank to their knees… doubled over… spun to die on their backs…

  Sir Geoffrey was not the last to die, though almost the last, and the one to take more arrows than the rest. No one would bother to count, but the elmwood shafts snapped as he fell, splinters of feathered wood tossed around him, the flowers of violence that marked the warlord’s one and final defeat.

  * * *

  Cautiously, with the true hesitation of the coward, the ambushers crept from cover. They’d done what they’d been paid to do – massacre the riders – but they weren’t quite sure if they should slit the throats of the wounded, or leave them be.

  In the hope of pleasing their employer, they stooped down and began to kill the survivors. Then halted as they heard the drumming of hoofbeats and posed with their bows, grinning to show a difficult job done well.

  The riders who came to meet them were armed from head to heel. Their identities were concealed by heavy, riveted helmets, their features hidden behind eye-slits and breathing holes. Their hands were engloved in link-mail mittens, their surcoats a uniform grey.

  They went among the ambushers, hacking them to death, trampling them into the soft loam of the forest track, using heavy swords that cut the hirelings to pieces. The anonymous horsemen never uttered a word, too busy killing to crow.

  Then they wheeled aside, dividing into two separate ranks, and waited as their commander urged his mount close to Sir Geoffrey’s punctured corpse.

  His head tipped forward, he gazed through the eye-slits of the helmet. When he spoke, his voice echoed within the confines of the mask. ‘You foolish old man. I’d bet half the treasure you supposed me to be with a whore.’ Then he lifted his head and turned to his companions. ‘Two days easy. Deal with the Levantine, and we’ll have the women brought in by the wagon-load, down there at the linn.’

  A final glance at the man he’d paid to have murdered, though not even the blink of an eye for those who’d achieved it. What were they, after all, these hirelings, but worthless creatures who knew nothing beyond the fletching and loosing of a shaft? No loss to anyone. And what had they expected – to be allowed to blabber their tale?

  Jerking the reins, the commander turned his horse back the way he’d come. His companions fell in behind him, guttural comments mingling with the occasional bark of laughter. The treasure was collected, the dying of men and animals ignored. The anonymous riders picked their way through the carnage, gathered speed as they cleared the scene of the ambush, spurred their horses to a canter.

  None of them troubled to swivel his all-enclosing helmet and look back.

  Chapter Five

  News of the ambush took time to reach Tremellion. It was brought by a verderer, riding in advance of a line of farm carts, conveyances for the dead. Stammering with fear, he asked to speak with the custodian of the castle, and was led along the ravine and through the gatehouse.

  Taking him at his word, the guards escorted him into the presence of the constable who listened in silence to the verderer’s halting account of what he’d discovered, there in the Launceston forest. Telling the man to wait, Guthric climbed with heavy steps to Baynard’s chamber. All the while, the Saxon’s scarred lips moved in silent malediction, the bitterest curses levelled against himself. He should have ridden with Sir Geoffrey. He was the warlord’s man. No matter how sensible it had seemed, how necessary he’d stayed to guard the castle, he should have been with Sir Geoffrey. Nothing would alter that simple, graven fact. He should have been there at the warlord’s shoulder, should have died with him in the forest.

  The young Falkan was asleep, the side of his face once again reduced to its leanness, though the cavity not yet healed, blood still weeping, pain webbing out from his jaw.

  For an instant, gazing down at him, Guthric wanted to jar him awake, shake him from his sanctuary of sleep. If it hadn’t been for his blasted, festering tooth—

  But that was stupid, a purblind reaction to the news. The massacre of the riders had nothing to do with Baynard. Indeed, if he’d been well enough, he would have accompanied Sir Geoffrey. Then Tremellion would have lost its past and future, both. Better that the younger Falkan had survived. If anyone should have been slain on that forest path it was the Saxon. Or so Guthric would for ever believe.

  But there was no time to spare for senseless recriminations. Justice and vengeance were
hammering to be heard.

  He woke the young knight, waited as Baynard spat blood into a basin, then told him to prepare for bad news. ‘Worse than bad. Such as has cut my heart, and may well snap yours. Lord Geoffrey and his escort… They were ambushed somewhere beyond Launceston…

  I do not yet know the how of it, but one thing seems assured. Your father is among those who died. There’s a messenger waiting below… A forest keeper… He says there are carts and wagons bringing us the dead… Ah, yes, and a sole survivor, one of the escort, though he thinks it likely the man will die before he gets here.’

  Staring at Guthric as if waiting for him suddenly to roar with laughter and admit to some ghoulish joke, Baynard Falkan reached blindly for his boots, his belt and scabbard. But no, the ugly Saxon wasn’t given to humour, neither gay nor grotesque. What he’d said was the truth – insofar as he’d heard it. Falkan let it slowly sink in, dinning ever louder in his head, gouging at his heart. My father has been killed. Murdered. Also the escort. The treasure presumably taken. Sir Geoffrey is dead. I shall soon be shown his corpse.

  Uncertain of what he was saying, Baynard reached for words like pegs on the wall. ‘I am grateful to you, Constable. I hope the messenger – Did someone give him ale? We’d best go and talk to him. So he’s the sole survivor, eh? Lucky fellow. I wonder how—’

  ‘No, my lord. He was not in the ambush. He came across the—’

  ‘But you did say there was an ambush? Excuse me, the blood still leaks.’ He reached for the basin, spat in it again, listened as Guthric told him yes, there had been an ambush, but the verderer—

  ‘I’m confused,’ Baynard admitted. ‘Quite honestly, Constable, this story of yours—’ Then he suddenly jerked forward, clapped a hand to his eyes, stood shaking as the tears exuded between his fingers. Guthric thought to leave the chamber, allow young Falkan the privacy of anguish. Instead he stepped forward, curled his great paw of a hand around the back of Baynard’s neck, then gently kneaded the tautened, quivering muscles. In all his forty years, it was the closest the Saxon had come to a show of affection. It surprised him, though he realized later he’d been comforting them both.