by A. J. Lake
‘Not too bad,’ his father said at length. ‘You need not have been so cautious, Edmund: I’d not have let you hurt me. Still, that last blow was well returned. Remember to step sideways, not back, when your enemy thrusts at you – and keep your guard up!’
Edmund nodded gratefully, leaning on his sword for a moment.
Heored looked at him with a flicker of concern. ‘Go in and sleep now. I’ll join you as soon as those two laggards return with their news.’
Edmund felt as taut as a bow-string and could not imagine sleeping, but he followed his father’s instructions. It was a relief to unbuckle the sword-belt and shrug off the heavy cloak. He had only just lain down when there was a hubbub outside the tent.
‘About time!’ came his father’s voice. ‘Both scouts, or just one?’
‘Both, we think, but the guard could not tell for sure, my lord,’ a man replied. ‘He says they’re approaching very slowly.’
‘I’ll give them slowly!’ snapped Heored. ‘Send them to me as soon as they get here. We’ve waited long enough for them.’
Why would the scouts be so slow? On an impulse, Edmund sent his sight out to the field below the camp. He found a man’s eyes almost at once: moving slowly, as the guard had said; seeing the lights of the camp through bushes. And there was his companion: Edmund made out a second figure close by. Neither seemed to be wounded: their movements were slow and deliberate, and he could feel nothing but stealth behind the eyes.
Then the man turned to look behind him – and there were more shadowy figures: five of them; a dozen . . . clad not in woollen cloaks but in rough, bulky furs.
These were no returning scouts! Edmund found himself on his feet, heading for the opening of the tent to shout a warning – but he checked himself. How could he make his father believe him, without revealing his Ripente skill?
Heored was standing in a little knot of his men. ‘Our scouts are returned at last,’ he said as Edmund came up to them.
Edmund took a deep breath. ‘How do we know they’re our scouts, and not some of our enemy?’
Heored stared at him for a moment. Then he nodded and gave a bark of laughter. ‘Hark at my son, reminding me of the rules of caution!’ he said. ‘You, captain,’ he ordered, ‘have someone go to the edge of the camp and give them the signal.’
The man ran off, and a few moments later Edmund heard a low whistle. After a pause, the whistle was repeated – and then there was a flurry of talk, growing louder as the speakers approached the tent.
‘They’re not answering, my lord,’ the captain reported, his face suddenly tight.
Heored flashed a look at Edmund which he could not decipher. Suspicion? Or was his father proud of his alertness?
Then the king was on his feet and issuing orders. ‘Wake the camp. Each man is to be outside his tent and armed by the time of my call. The guests . . .’ he shot another glance at Edmund before he continued. ‘Arm the men if they need it, and escort the women and the child to the north side of the camp.’
Edmund wanted to tell his father that Elspeth would fight too, but Heored had already turned away, and in another moment the camp was full of hurrying men. Edmund ran to the visitors’ tent. Elspeth was leading Wulf out, but as soon as she saw Edmund she placed the boy’s hand in Eolande’s and whispered something to her. The Fay woman nodded, and Elspeth slipped away from their escort and ran to join Edmund.
‘No! Elsbet!’ Wulf cried, but Eolande took him away, while a guard marched at her side.
‘I’m fighting with you,’ Elspeth declared.
‘I thought you would,’ Edmund said, and added, unable to help himself, ‘But take care!’ She still held her sword in her left hand.
‘You too,’ Elspeth replied, and he saw concern in her eyes. Even left-handed, he reminded himself, she’s still better with a sword than me.
There was a gathering noise from outside the camp. At first it was a low grumble from the south and east that made Edmund think of cattle lowing. Quickly, the sound became shriller and closer: men’s voices, a chant from many throats at once. Then the first of them were in the camp: lumbering, fur-clad men brandishing swords and axes, their mouths wide with yelling.
Heored faced the invaders, the embers of the fires around him glinting red off his sword. ‘To me!’ he cried, and there was an answering roar as his men rushed forward.
Edmund was jostled and pushed as he forced his way through the throng. He could hardly see where he was going, but he had to reach his father’s side!
There was Heored, a head taller than the men around him – and there, facing him, was a man like a bear, his huge axe swinging. Heored struck a mighty blow with his sword, knocking the axe from the man’s hands, and Edmund saw how far his father had held back when he had fenced with him earlier. I must show myself his son, he vowed.
But he faced what seemed a wall of fur-clothed men, all sweeping down on him, teeth bared, swords and axes whirling. A blade swung towards him; Edmund parried clumsily, and the jarring shock numbed his arm for a moment. He whirled to face another heavy-set man, sidestepping as a sword whistled down a finger-width from his ear. The man ran on without pausing, nearly knocking Edmund off his feet.
He ducked and slashed, was shoved from behind and dodged blows from above. His arm ached with the weight of the sword, and there was nothing around him but reeking fur and murderous iron. He struck against another man’s blade with such force that he saw sparks, but the sound was lost in the roaring and clashing that filled his ears. A huge axe-man took a swing at him, and as he twisted away he caught a glimpse of Elspeth out of the corner of his eye: sword raised, fighting back-to-back with Cathbar. Edmund spun back, bringing his sword up to deflect the next stroke. The axe glanced off his breastplate with a force that sent him staggering – but his assailant had fallen back too, his face distorted with pain as blood welled from a gash along his axe-arm.
Edmund found he was yelling aloud in triumph as he pressed forward, raising his sword for another blow, but the man was already running from him. Cheated, he pulled up short – and saw that all the invaders were retreating, fleeing beyond the borders of the camp. Some of Heored’s men raised a cheer, but the king was grim-faced.
‘It’s too quick a retreat,’ he said. ‘We’ve not killed half a dozen of them!’
He was right. The man who had charged at Heored lay dead, and two or three others, but no more. None of their own men had fallen, though several were wounded; the king’s healer was bandaging the worst hurt.
‘They’ve drawn back, not run away,’ one man declared. ‘It’s as if they were just trying our mettle. There’s no saying they won’t return.’
‘True,’ said Cathbar. ‘From all I’ve seen, there are many more of them than this. If they have a leader, he’ll be planning to surround this camp and pen us in. I’m for moving out.’
‘The men you saw by the road outnumber us?’ Heored asked a third man. Edmund recognised him as the scout who had returned earlier that evening. The man nodded.
‘Then we’re agreed,’ Heored said. He turned to the three captains. ‘We retreat from here. To the west: give the word. Each man to take his pack and his armour.’
As the men ran off, the king gestured to a servant to bring his pack and Edmund’s from his tent. He watched approvingly as Edmund wiped his new sword on the grass and sheathed it.
‘Well, Edmund, you’ve begun sooner than I thought,’ he said, as they took up their packs, ‘but none the worse for that, it may be. Tell me now: you’ve seen the map; where are we headed?’
Edmund looked at Heored’s calm face and for a moment felt like laughing: even while running for their lives, his father would pursue his education! But he made his own face calm as he answered. ‘We should seek higher ground, but the hills we came from are too far. A river? The one we forded today: it widens towards the west, doesn’t it? And there’s a bridge that we could guard.’
‘Well done!’ his father cried. ‘The bridge is less th
an a league away. The map’s right about that, at least; our scouts have seen it. If we reach it quickly we can hold off all comers.’
They broke camp immediately. Heored’s most trusted captain led the retreat, walking fast but silently westwards through the first field. Eolande and Wulf were in the second group, escorted by guards on both sides, both of them easily keeping pace with the men. Eolande seemed as calm as if she were going to dinner, while Wulf skipped between the armed men, darting glances around him as if he could barely contain his excitement. Edmund looked about for Elspeth or Cathbar, but could not see them in the crush. The mad excitement of the battle had receded and he found he was shaking; he hoped Elspeth was unhurt.
A group of archers would be the last to leave the camp; among them Cluaran. Edmund begged Heored to let him join them, knowing that he was better with the bow than the sword, but his father would not hear of it.
‘They’ll most likely come up on our flank,’ he said. ‘That’s where I’ll need you.’
They moved out, stepping as softly as they could on the uneven ground, alert for any sign of pursuit. Almost at once, Heored turned to Edmund with a finger to his lips, and pointed to the row of bushes on the far side of the field. ‘In there,’ he breathed. ‘Be ready.’ Nothing moved in the foliage. Edmund sent out his sight to check – and saw humped tents, dimly lit, and a column of men moving stealthily away from them. One figure near the back of the column was looking directly at him: shorter than the rest, with pale hair under his round helmet . . . Edmund drew back quickly and turned away. He looked at his father with admiration: how had he known?
Heored signalled to a man behind him, pointing into the bushes. The man nodded and slipped back to warn the archers.
‘It’s what I’d have done myself,’ the king murmured to Edmund as they moved on. ‘They meant to come round and attack us from all sides. Now they’ll try to cut us off as soon as we reach the hedge.’
The first party of Heored’s men had almost reached the end of the field. Edmund’s heart was in his mouth as he watched them, expecting an attack at any second, but none came. The men were through into the next field . . . then the group with Eolande and Wulf.
‘But they’re waiting there – I know they are!’ Heored muttered, and kept his hand on his sword as his own party moved forward. As they came alongside the bushes that bordered the field, Edmund heard movement in them, and his heart began to thump so loudly that he thought his father must hear it. Behind him, he knew every archer would have an arrow fitted. Only half a dozen paces to the hedge . . . then four . . . then two . . . and they were through to the next field.
Heored was giving quiet orders to another man, who sped off to the front of the column. ‘The river’s two fields to the north of us, but we’ll need to cut off to the north-west to reach the bridge,’ Heored whispered to Edmund. ‘But they must know where we’re heading! They’re following us now: what are they waiting for?’
‘Could it be a trap?’ Edmund whispered back.
‘I’ve just sent word to Teobald at the front to be on his guard. But it may be that they’re fewer than we thought, after all – or afraid of our archers.’
Maybe, Edmund thought as they headed north-west. But the attackers had not seemed afraid up till now, nor badly organised, for all his father’s scorn of them. Could there be some hazard ahead that the map did not show? He closed his eyes, feeling his way over the tussocky ground. He found mice first, scurrying from the approaching heavy footfalls. He stumbled and wrenched his sight back for a moment, squinting at the ground ahead of him, then closed his eyes and searched again. There was an owl, scanning the grass below for any sign of movement, its eyes seeing the ground far more clearly than Edmund could in his own body. The bird stooped; missed and pulled itself up with an angry jerk – but I saw sheep-droppings down there, Edmund thought; that ground must be firm enough. Then the bird wheeled and Edmund saw the river, a wide loop of grey in the starlight, and over to the west, a glimpse of the bridge.
The ground seemed firm, but perhaps the bridge was broken? Edmund willed the owl to fly further westwards, but it turned away. Frustrated, he cast out in the direction of the bridge, looking for another night-flying bird.
There was nothing; and no animals, either, when he searched lower down. He felt still further – and froze.
‘Edmund! What ails you, boy?’
Edmund staggered, and found himself staring into his father’s startled face. All around him the column of men had halted, and murmurs of complaint and query were growing as the men peered through the darkness to see what was holding them up.
‘Well?’ The concern in Heored’s eyes was beginning to turn to annoyance.
‘Father – tell the men to stop! We can’t go to the bridge. It’s a trap! They have men waiting on the other side.’ The sight still filled Edmund’s mind: the mass of bulky figures, the glittering eyes and gleaming blades; but above all, the ferocious anticipation he had felt behind the eyes he had borrowed. ‘There are dozens of them. They’ll wait till we begin to cross, then attack from both sides.’
Heored was standing very still, his eyes fixed on Edmund’s. ‘I won’t deny I feared something like this,’ he said slowly. ‘But you speak as if you’ve seen them. How can you be so certain?’
It was too late to stop now.
‘I did see them,’ Edmund said. ‘Maybe sixty or seventy armed men, dressed like the ones who attacked the camp.’ The words came out heavily, like stones dropped into water. ‘I used the sight of one of them. I am Ripente.’
Chapter Twelve
Heored’s eyes seemed very dark as he stared back at Edmund, but his face did not change expression. He was silent for a moment. Then he nodded and turned away. He did not speak to Edmund again, but sent a messenger to the front of the column and stood staring after the man as if willing him to greater speed.
Edmund jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked round to see Cluaran. The minstrel said nothing, but his narrow face was sombre, and Edmund wondered if he had heard the whole conversation.
One of Heored’s captains rushed up, followed a moment later by a second. ‘Halt your men!’ the king barked. ‘The bridge is guarded – it’s a trap. Bring the men behind me in fighting formation and retreat north to the riverbank. We’ll make our stand there, where they can’t surround us.’
‘By your leave, my lord, I have a better idea.’
It was Cluaran. ‘We should head downstream, to where we can ford the river. There’s a steep rise of ground just beyond where we can hold them off.’
‘We’d never get there in time!’ the king argued. He had gestured the captains away, and the men were already beginning to file back. But over the field that they had just crossed, there was movement. Even in the dimness, Edmund could see the hedge at the field’s end stirring, seeming to grow taller.
‘Quickly!’ Heored called to his captains. His men were reforming in a square behind him, waiting for the order to start the retreat. But over the field, the hedge had become a solid wall of men moving towards them. A new sound rose through the darkness: the low growling that Edmund had heard at the start of the last attack.
‘Let your father start the retreat,’ Cluaran said in Edmund’s ear. ‘But take your cue from me.’
As Heored’s men began to move off, Cluaran stepped forward to face the oncoming horde. He stretched his hands in front of him, palms out. The enemy were closer now; Edmund could make out pale blurs of faces, and the low growl was becoming a roar. Heored reached out with an oath to drag Edmund after him, but behind them, Cluaran stood his ground.
A breeze sprang up, stinging Edmund’s face. As Heored pulled him on, through the archers he had set to cover their retreat, a gust of damp air swept over them. Edmund cast a glance over his shoulder at Cluaran: the minstrel was surrounded by pale, whirling motes, whipped up by the wind. He stood motionless, seemingly unaware of the wall of men approaching him – much closer now; their harsh chanting fi
lling the air. Edmund slipped his arm from his father’s grasp: if Cluaran’s plan should fail, he would not leave the minstrel alone.
The motes of light thickened, streaming together until he seemed wrapped in cloud. The wind was howling now, almost drowning the chant of their enemies. Abruptly, Cluaran spread his arms wide: the cloud seemed to flow from his fingertips, spreading on the wind to cloak the advancing men in thick wet mist.
The chanting faltered. Edmund could see Cluaran clearly again: a slender black shape outlined against a solid bank of fog. For a moment he stood, statue-like. Then he turned and ran towards Edmund, through the astonished archers.
‘Don’t waste your arrows!’ he cried. ‘The fog will follow them as long as it lasts. My Lord – look behind you,’ he added, as he reached Edmund and his father. For the first time Edmund saw how pale the minstrel was: his face was slick with sweat and his voice shook.
Heored stopped at last, and turned to look at their pursuers. There was nothing to be seen but roiling fog, filled with confused shouting and the clash of weapons.
The king was silent for a moment. Then he gave a piercing whistle which made every man turn to him. ‘We head downstream!’ he shouted.
They forded the river less than half a league to the east, and did not stop until they had scaled the higher ground beyond. Below them, across the water, the fog still hung over the land like a curtain, swaying and buckling as their enemies tried to find their way out of it. Some of the king’s men cheered when they saw their pursuers still mired below, but most were too tired: foot-sore, chilled and damp. Heored stationed guards and ordered his men to take what rest they could. Cluaran threw himself down on the ground and was asleep at once, but Edmund could not rest. His father seemed to be avoiding him, only muttering, ‘You should sleep now,’ as he walked past – but Edmund was dreading the next conversation they must have.
