Outlaw

by Angus Donald

  ‘They think it’s a trap,’ said Robin.

  ‘So they’re not entirely stupid then,’ growled John.

  Robin raised his voice: ‘Owain, go forward and give them a little tickle, will you.’ Then he bellowed the order: ‘Open ranks!’ and with wonderful precision all the men moved as one, taking a step or two to the left or right, the line extending and leaving room for the archers to move through the rows of spearmen out in front of the line. Till then I had not appreciated how well trained Robin’s infantry was. I had seen them at practice, at Thangbrand’s and at Robin’s Caves, marching and wheeling and going through their manoeuvres, but I had not realised how much like real soldiers these raggedy misfits had become. Owain’s bowmen jogged fifty paces forward, lined up, pulled back the strings on their big bows and, on the command ‘Loose!’ sent a shower of arrows arcing forward to patter on to the line of enemy horsemen. It was at the extreme range of the bow, about two hundred and fifty yards, and the damage done was slight: one horse, skewered in the haunch by an arrow, reared and nearly threw its rider, barging into the next animal in the line and causing a ripple of movement all along the conroi. A knight pitched backwards in the saddle, a shaft protruding from his side. But that was all the harm we caused with that first salvo. The cavalry were too well armoured and the distance too great for much slaughter. Owain cried ‘Loose!’ once more and another thin curtain of steel-tipped shafts fell on the waiting line of men and horses. Again there was not much resulting carnage. Another poor animal began bucking and kicking from a wound I could not see. But the bowmen’s provocation was having the desired result. A knight had ridden out in front of the line and was exhorting his men to valour. The first line of cavalry re-ordered itself and began to move forward at a walk.

  Robin shouted: ‘Owain!’ and the archers turned and scrambled back towards the safety of our thin line of spearmen. When the bowmen were through, once again, the ranks closed smoothly. John shouted: ‘Prepare to receive cavalry!’ and the men at the ends of our line began to curl around to the rear until, in less time than it takes to put on a pair of boots, they had formed a tight circle, three ranks deep - Robin, myself and the bowmen in the centre of a steel ring of men-at-arms, fifteen paces across, spear points outward, shields raised, the front rank of outlaws kneeling, the second and third ranks standing behind them holding their spears poised to impale any horseman in range. This was the hedgehog, a formation that I had last seen at Thangbrand’s - dying in the bloody snow. It was supposed to be impregnable to horsemen; the horses would not charge home into that glittering hedge of steel spear points. But at Thangbrand’s, Murdac’s cavalry had torn the hedgehog to bloody ruin. Would the same happen today?

  As the first row of Murdac’s cavalry moved forward at a walk, I had to admit that they were an impressive sight: each horse caparisoned in a black trapper that entirely covered its body, the material padded for the animal’s protection, a red plume nodding atop each animal’s head; the knight in a black surcoat with three red chevrons on the chest. By God, they must have been hot, but they looked magnificent. Each man held a twelve-foot lance vertically with a red pennant fluttering just beneath the glint of razor steel. The horses of the conroi walked in step, their riders knee to knee, the line perfectly straight, advancing in a slow black bar against us. Behind the first row of horse-soldiers, all of whom I had been told were knights, sworn to Sir Ralph’s service, came the second; the sergeants, equally well-trained and just as lethal on the battlefield, but not of noble blood. They had only two red chevrons on their chests and carried no lances; they were armed with sword and mace.

  The tactics of the conroi were brutally simple. The front rank of knights would charge into our body of infantry, a tight mass of heavy horseflesh and naked steel that would smash our formation apart with its weight and with the shock of the impact. As we were scattered, the second rank, the sergeants, would gallop in and slaughter the fleeing infantrymen. It was a devastating method of war, honed by the nobles of Europe over decades into a fine and murderous art.

  The black knights began to trot and, at a signal, the lances came down in a ripple from left to right across the charging front line, each weapon couched, wedged under the armpit of the knight, pointed directly forward, seemingly thrusting ahead. Just then there was a shout from a man in our kneeling front rank and I looked left to the forest. Out of the thick trees stepped our bowmen, Thomas to the fore, sixty immensely strong men all in the same green woollen tunics, each holding a six-foot yew bow bent taut by a hemp string and ready for battle. They were ahead of us, in a loose group at the treeline, and two hundred yards from the first wave of trotting horsemen. The horsemen quickened their pace to a canter. ‘Come on, come on, you bastards, shoot,’ I heard John mutter and, as if at his command, the arrows began to fly.

  The first cloud of grey streaks smashed into the black cavalry line like a shower of hail clattering against a barn door, yards of steel-tipped wood plunging deep into flesh all along the line and suddenly, like magic, a handful of saddles were emptied all along the row of charging knights. A second volley of arrows slammed home and the ranks were thinned again, a third volley and the ranks were looking seriously depleted; a fourth volley and all cohesion disappeared - instead of a neat row of black-clad warriors galloping to our destruction, there were clumps of horsemen desperately trying to control their wildly bucking horses, bumping into each other, shafts bristling from the bodies of horse and man like pins in a pincushion. Another grey wave of arrows, and yet another, and there was no line left at all, just men and beasts spurting blood and struggling about at random, spread across a hundred yards of valley floor, in pain. Bodies dotted the green field, loose horses whinnied and galloped aimlessly about, unhorsed men staggered, retching, snapping off arrow shafts and trying to staunch deep puncture wounds with blood-drenched hands. Some mounted knights had turned back, galloping into the second line of sergeants behind them in their panic to escape the rain of death.

  But the merciless arrows followed them, punching through the backs of their chain-mail hauberks, into their shoulders and necks and bringing more bloody chaos to the second line. Soon the whole body of cavalry was in retreat, terrified men and horses scrambling to escape that field of blood. And still the arrows fell, like the thunder-bolts of God’s vengeance, smacking into horse and manflesh without the slightest discrimination. Two bloodied horsemen, brave men, actually made it to the front ranks of our hedgehog, but the horses baulked at our ranks of impregnable steel, and then I saw Owain sink a yard-long wooden shaft deep into the chest of the foremost knight as he battled to control his shying horse. The second rider, realising that he was now alone, wheeled his mount and galloped away zigzagging his path to confuse the aim of our hedgehog archers who made bets, in loud excited voices, about who would be able to spit him first. Arrows whipped past to his left and right but, by some miracle, the man and his horse escaped back to his lines. And I wished him Godspeed. I had seen enough slaughter, I felt, to last me a lifetime. But that day of blood was only just beginning.

  We cheered the woodland archers until we were hoarse; we had not lost a single man and the enemy’s first attack had been decimated. And the archers responded with elaborate bows, pulling off their hoods and caps and bending from the waist until their long hair brushed the ground. They shouted rude jests at us about how few knights we had killed until, finally, Thomas got them in hand and ushered them back into the safety of the forest. Just in time. Out of bow range, a group of mounted sergeants were massing for what might have been a swifter and more lethal charge against our bowmen, a chance to revenge their fallen comrades.

  But there was worse news than a handful of angry cavalrymen. Close by those milling horsemen, a large body of men, on foot, had marched out of a fold in the ground to the rear of Murdac’s camp and were forming up to our front left. They were clad in sleeveless green and red surcoats, in a pattern of large squares, under which they wore padded aketons. Each man had a helmet, and
a short sword strapped to his side. And each carried a great, black wooden instrument shaped like a large cross.

  ‘God’s crusted arsehole,’ whispered John in disbelief, and he sounded genuinely shocked. ‘It’s the Flemings. It’s the damned crossbowmen.’ Robin was looking at this new body of men, about two hundred strong, with his head on one side and a strange expression on his face. ‘This is going to make things a lot more interesting,’ he said in a calm, ruminative voice. But when I caught his eye, I saw a flash of icy anger, a glimpse of a fury so terrible, that it gave me a real start of fear.

  When the crossbowmen were formed up, to my surprise, instead of marching towards us, towards the hedgehog, they made a half turn and began to move in the direction of the forest wall. Each man paused for half a minute at the edge of the woodland. Before he entered the curtain of green, each man slipped his crossbow string over a hook on his belt and, placing his foot in a stirrup at the end of the bow, by extending his leg, he pulled back the string on his powerful machine until it was caught by a ratchet and held in tension. He then loaded a foot-long wooden bolt, a quarrel, into the groove at the front of the weapon, and advanced into the forest ready for battle. In a quarter of an hour, the whole company had been swallowed by foliage and was completely lost to view. I knew what they were doing: they were going to hunt down our bowmen; arrow against quarrel, they would fight it out at close quarters in the greenwood - and there were at least two hundred well-trained mercenaries to our sixty men.

  ‘Alan,’ said Robin, urgently. ‘Get yourself into the wood; find Thomas and tell him to pull back, a fighting retreat, pull back but slowly. I need those Flemings off the field for as long as he can keep them there. He’s to pull back to the north, towards us, and, when he can’t hold any longer, make a break and run for the manor house. Deliver the message and come straight back to me. I’ll need you today. Understood?’

  I felt a lump of fear in my throat but I managed to say as calmly as I could: ‘Pull back, but slowly. Then they make a run for the manor. I come back here.’

  ‘Good lad; off you go!’

  I squeezed my grey gelding through the ranks of the hedgehog and galloped hell for leather for the treeline, angling the horse north, away from where the crossbowmen had entered the forest and towards the manor. As I got into the trees, I slipped from the saddle and tied the grey to a bush. As I recovered my breath and looked about me I could see no one. But for the beating of my heart there was no sound at all. I felt as if I was alone in the world, and far from the rough companionship of the spearmen and the comforting presence of Robin and John, I realised I was afraid. I crossed myself, drew my sword and began to push my way through the thick undergrowth, forwards to where I had last seen our bowmen. There was not a sound in all the world except the faint rustle of leaves as I moved forward and the creak of branches moving above me in the slight breeze. I had the strange sensation that I was underwater, in this green and almost silent world. Where were our men? Where were the enemy? I stopped and listened again. Nothing. The wood was close around me and I could see no more than half a dozen yards in each direction. It reminded me of happier days, hunting red deer with Robin and, without realising it, I began to follow the methods of stalking I had learnt with him. Each foot placed in front of the other with deliberation and care so as not to break a twig or make any sound. Step, step, step, stop, stand absolutely still and listen. Then step, step, step, stop and listen. There was nothing here, I was sure of it. Where was everybody? I felt like a lonely soul in a green fairy otherworld, away from the blood and pain of the open battlefield, which lay, I knew, only two dozen or so yards to my right. The ancient trees, so closely packed that their branches intertwined, towered above me like the roof of a giant wooden cage, but the undergrowth was light, a few ferns and scrubby bushes. I pushed aside a trailing frond of ivy and ventured deeper into the gloom. Step, step, step, stop and listen.

  And then I nearly jumped out of my skin: a huge blood-curdling scream, an impossibly loud soul-racked cry of agony, and only a dozen yards ahead a man in dark green suddenly appeared from behind a tree, staggering, with a thick black stalk protruding obscenely from his neck; and the quiet green world exploded into noise and movement. From behind me and to my left there came a sound I knew well: the wheesht, wheesht, wheesht of arrows passing close by, and then another bellow of pain from ahead. I could see dark figures to my front flitting from tree to tree, coming towards me, closer and closer, there was the whizz and thump of crossbow bolts striking wood near by. To my right, a loud groan, and the body of an archer fell from the branches of a venerable beech, dropping like a huge ripe plum to hit the forest floor with a sodden thump. And then I was smashed to the ground with a terrible force, half-pinned to the leaf mould by a great weight, someone had jumped me from behind; I squirmed in terror, sword gone, lashing out with my fists in blind panic but the man grabbed my flailing arms and wrestled me to stillness and I found myself lying on my back gazing up into the one good eye of my friend Thomas. ‘Quiet,’ he hissed, and I struggled to control my panting breath. Then he hauled me behind the bulk of a great oak and we both rested our backs against the comforting solidity of the tree. The wood had returned to absolute silence again after the last violent flurry of battle. Thomas held up a finger to his lips.

  When my breathing was calm, I leant forward and whispered in his ear the message from Robin. He put his face close to my ear and whispered: ‘Pull back? As if we have any choice. We’re being slaughtered like hogs here.’

  I poked my head round the thick trunk of the tree and peered into the gloom of the forest. I could see nothing. A few yards away, lying half-buried in the leaf-mould where Thomas and I had briefly wrestled, was my sword. I got to my feet in a crouch and made to step out and collect my weapon when Thomas roughly pulled me back behind the tree, and just in time. Two crossbow quarrels thunked in the bark of the tree exactly where my head had been moments earlier.

  ‘Watch yourself, Joshua,’ whispered Thomas, half-laughing at my expression of shock. ‘You’re not in Winchester Castle now. There’s one of the bastards, just behind that elm yonder. When he next peeks out, I’ll skewer him and you can collect your blade and then we’ll pull back a mite. You watch him for me. Give me the signal. All right?’

  Thomas stood tall, picked up his bow and selected a shaft from his linen arrow bag. He drew the string half way back and stood with his broad shoulders to the oak’s rough bark, in cover but facing directly away from the enemy. At the level of his feet, I peered round the curve of the trunk through the green curls of a sprouting fern, exposing as little of my face as I could. There was nothing to be seen. The wood was eerily empty and silent, but, if I really strained my ears, once in a while I caught the scurrying rustle, like a rat in a barn, of a man moving fast through undergrowth. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end but, staying as still as stone, I watched the big elm Thomas had indicated. Presently, I saw a shape move against the outline of the tree. Just a flicker, but it immediately attracted my gaze. I waited a little longer. Then suddenly far ahead and hidden from view a rough voice shouted something in a language almost like English but that I could not make sense of. It was clearly an order from the Flemish captain for his men to push forward, for, as I watched, parts of the trees ahead detached from themselves and resolved into human figures. Men were peeling themselves away from the cover of the wood and cautiously beginning to move forward. I looked up at Thomas and nodded. In one smooth movement, he pulled the string back to his ear, turned round the side of the tree and loosed a yard-long ash shaft into the body of the Fleming a dozen yards away. The arrow passed straight through him, bursting out of his back and flashing away through the undergrowth. The man gave a small cry and sank to his knees, but in that time I scuttled forward, scooped up my sword and bounded away to safety behind a fallen beech tree before the man finally collapsed with a bubbling sigh to the ground. The other bowmen were loosing their shafts, too. And half a dozen crossbowme
n were cursing in pain and stumbling and dropping to the floor. But the shadowy shapes were still advancing; I could see dim figures making short quick runs from tree to tree. I poked my nose out a little further, trying to see if any of our men were close by, but a dozen deadly black quarrels hissed above my head and clattered through the branches. They were winning. We were losing. It was time to go.

  From the safety of my fallen beech tree, I waved at Thomas and he gave me a grin and a jokey salute. Then, gathering his bow and arrow bags, he suddenly sprinted a few paces, away from the big old oak and the fast-approaching Flemings, to the safety of another tree. I saw him conferring with another green-clad bowman and his friend, who in turn ran in a crouch back to another tree and another bowman to spread the message. I began to crawl away too. Not daring to lift my head, nor run upright, I snaked my way through the undergrowth on my elbows and knees, making for my horse. A part of me felt guilty at leaving the bowmen to their unequal fight but, I told myself, my duty was to Robin. Though I could not repress a feeling of relief to be escaping that silent slaughter in the treacherous murk of the greenwood.

  Something of the terrible atmosphere in that deadly wood had affected my horse. He was trembling with fear and whinnied with pleasure at my return. That friendly noise was nearly the death of me.

  I had the grey’s reins in my fist, my sword was sheathed, and I was soothing him with my free hand when some instinct, some God-given warning, caused me to turn my head and at that moment, out from under the low-hanging branches stepped a tall lean figure in the green and red checked surcoat of a Flemish crossbowman. He was a big man of about thirty years, round-headed with greasy light brown hair. He was pointing his weapon directly at me, the stock snuggled into his right shoulder, string drawn back taut, the quarrel lying innocently in the groove to the front. I was staring at my own death. And the man smiled, revealing his yellow rotten teeth, an awful grimace of victory.