So that was how the pig did it. He was no demon, not invincible. Fulke gave a gruff laugh of satisfaction and took a step forward. The enginer whimpered louder through his gag, trying to speak, shaking his head with ever greater urgency. Fulke stopped and stared, his meaty forehead creased in a deepening frown as realisation began to dawn.
There was a creak behind them. A snap. Fulke turned, just as something big and bloody – some creature – came rushing at them through the air.
His men reeled about, threw up their arms and drew back to avoid being struck by the thing, shoving and trampling each other in their panic. Those now at the back – Fulke and his serjeants – were barged roughly. They staggered back, fighting to maintain their balance. The earth gave way beneath their feet.
Fulke plunged into darkness, bouncing off a flailing figure. His head grazed against wood. A hand clawed against his face. His body jammed against something, fell again awkwardly, then suddenly stopped. Disorientated and confused, it took him a moment to understand what had happened.
He was in a pit of spikes. A bear trap. The realisation almost made him laugh. He had set out on the hunt, and had instead become the hunted. The trapped beast.
He did not know if he was injured. He only knew he was somehow hanging sideways, unable to turn, his legs trapped, his beard and hair full of twigs and mouldering leaves, the taste of blood in his mouth, the reek of pitch in his nostrils. About him, half glimpsed in the dark – and closer than he would have liked – was the writhing and groaning of the dying, the hot smell of torn flesh.
With supreme effort he heaved against the stakes – they would not move – and twisted around as far as he could. It wasn’t much – just enough to see daylight, once he’d blinked away the blood and loam in his eyes. There was shouting above. At the edge of the pit, one of his knights knelt, reaching a hand towards him. “Here!” he cried. “Quickly!”
It was Rogier de Grosbois. Thank God... He’d always liked Rogier. Not like the others, giving him the evil eye behind his back. He would reward him richly for this. They would drink together, and reminisce about it for years to come. He strained to reach out his free arm. Somehow, he reached the hand, and clasped it tight. Rogier smiled.
Then – barely audible – came a high-pitched whistle. A thunk of impact. Rogier de Grosbois gave a strangled cry, and fell dead into the pit, eyes bulging, an arrow in his ribs.
Shouts. Another whistle. Another impact. The cry was shrill and piercing this time.
Fulke roared in anguish to any who would listen. To show them he was still alive. To give them a chance to show their loyalty.
From above he heard only the pounding of feet as the remaining knights and serjeants fled back into the forest.
LVI
IT HAD BEEN wise to leave that open space. Or, rather, it had been deeply unwise to enter it. Now, as the remaining knights and serjeants ran back along the path, some of them began to understand that entering these woods at all had been a terrible mistake.
Their suspicions were confirmed just yards into the thicket. The serjeant named Renaut stumbled over a length of rope, which he was sure had not been there on the way in. His crossbow fired uselessly into the branches above and he stumbled to his knees as a pair of knights – Gilles D’Arconcey and William de Clomot – pushed past. There was a clunk, and a long zzzzzzzzzzzzzip. Renaut feared the worst. Others tumbled into the back of him. As he lifted his head, he saw a huge wooden spar – the shaft of the plundered wagon – swing out of the dark thicket and across the path as if on a great hinge. Its great weight smashed into the two knights, who’d both been running full tilt. D’Arconcey was knocked flat on his back and lay stunned before Renaut, but de Clomot – who had stopped dead as if against a stone wall – somehow remained upright. The shaft swung back, and de Clomot with it, weirdly suspended. Then Renaut saw the row of crude iron spikes that lined the shaft. And the blood. Stumbling on the rope had triggered the trap. But it had also saved him.
There was a scramble to head back the way they had come. This path meant death. All knew they needed to get off it – to find another route out. But the thicket that pressed around appeared too dense to pass through.
Renaut had not been the last to get away. Behind him was Odo – a big man, less fleet of foot than the others, but harder to stop once he got moving.
He never got that chance. Renaut heard a curse, then a crash, and glanced back. Odo had fallen and was scrabbling for his crossbow on the damp, mouldy earth, a look of terror on his face. “Something’s got me!” he cried. “Something’s got my foot!” Renaut stopped, conflicting impulses fighting within him. Then a dark shape rose up from the damp undergrowth. Renaut raised his crossbow, realised it was no longer primed, fought with it – too late. He saw the glint of a poleaxe as it was swung, and heard the thud as its spike hit Odo in the back. Then, before Renaut could call to his fellows, the shape had gone, swallowed up by the thicket. Mouth dry, heart thumping, he pounded along the path and ran into them huddled at the clearing’s edge.
“I saw him!” he hissed in a hoarse whisper. “Back there. Odo...” He realised, as he said it, that the man now also had Odo’s crossbow. He primed his own, hurriedly; then, before any of them got the idea into their heads to go after him, added, wild-eyed: “He melted back into the bush – like he was part of it.”
Richard de Saulieu stepped forward, his expression stern. “He’s just one man. He can’t be everywhere. And we know he’s behind us now.” He scanned the perimeter of the clearing. Part way around, to the right, was an opening in the undergrowth – the entrance to another forest path. “There...” He pointed. “We take that and double back to the road. Then we’ll get the hounds and flush him out like a beast.”
Without another word, he dashed across the open space and disappeared. The others followed close behind, running low, starting at shadows, Thomas Le Maupas guarding their back.
No sooner had they plunged down this path than Renaut heard another stifled cry behind him. It was Thomas.
Renaut felt sick. Thirteen men had walked into this forest – nine knights and four serjeants. There were now only three. He knew they had put themselves in a trap, that Fulke had wasted his fellows’ lives. But he trusted de Saulieu. And de Saulieu was right – their enemy couldn’t be everywhere. They were now on their way out of the catastrophe.
Up ahead, just past de Saulieu, he saw grey open sky. The end of the path. They were close to the road now, and to their waiting horses.
De Saulieu pushed a branch out of his way. There was a creak, and then something no bigger than a cat swung down from the trees and struck de Saulieu in the head. He snapped back suddenly at the impact, helm spinning off into the twiggy undergrowth, blood and teeth flying through the air. After a moment, his knees buckled and he crumpled in a heap. The last of the knights, Bernard de Pouilly, stepped forward to help his friend, bemused, unaware quite what had happened. But as the shape swung up past Renaut’s face, he understood.
Renaut’s first instinct was that the thing swooping over the forest path was some kind of bird. Something big – a raven, perhaps, or a buzzard. Now, as the black object slowed and began to swing back, he saw. The enginer’s anvil, suspended on two lengths of thick rope. He called out to de Pouilly in alarm. De Pouilly turned from his fallen comrade to Renaut, looked up, and – too late – saw the great block of iron hurtling back towards him. It smashed his face like an egg.
Renaut ran, then, crashing off into the undergrowth, away from the path, trying desperately to cut through to the daylight of the road. Twigs and brambles scratched his face and tore at his clothes as he waded through the impossible tangle, his crossbow still clutched in his hands, still primed. Behind him, now, he heard another movement. He hoped it was one of his fellows – one who was not yet dead – but he did not stop to look back. He panted and thrashed, the footfalls crunching behind him, gaining on him, speeding along the path he himself had cleared. Tendrils wrapped around him, grasping
at him, holding him fast – he realised with horror he had blundered into a thick, impassable briar.
He remembered the crossbow. He fought against clinging, woody stems, surcoat ripping, and turned and levelled his weapon at the fast advancing black shape.
The bolt was missing, fallen in the chase.
He heard a bow shoot – not his. Something thudded into his chest. Then all went black.
Renaut’s last moments on earth were spent hanging in a dead thorn bush like the prey of a butcher bird.
LVII
ALDRIC HAD BEEN one of those ordered to stay with the horses. Fulke didn’t like him, he knew. He never had. Well, that was fine. Aldric didn’t think much of Fulke, either.
He and his fellow serjeant – the one named Arnaut – had remained mounted at Aldric’s insistence, keeping the horses ready and together, waiting, listening. Until the screaming started.
In many respects, Aldric had been glad to stay put, even with the crumpled corpse of Theobald – which had been propped against a tree – staring at them. He didn’t trust Fulke’s instincts as a commander, and the circumstances screamed “trap” to all but the most dimwitted. They had been stopped, forced to dismount, and led down what Aldric had no doubt, based on what he had seen so far, would be a well-prepared path. Prepared for them. How much damage a single man could ultimately inflict on so large a party was open to question, but the simple fact was they were doing everything their enemy wanted them to do. Aldric was instinctively opposed to doing anything his enemy wanted. His enemy wanted him dead. He might not be able to stop him in that endeavour, but he was buggered if he was going to help it along.
That Fulke was aware of this fundamental tactical wisdom was beyond doubt. Fulke was not stupid, not really. But he had the heart of a coward, and like all cowards feared most of all that this fact might somehow be revealed. He would never act cautiously – even when caution was wise – if it risked making him appear hesitatant or afraid. And so he and his band had voluntarily given up their greatest advantage – their horses – and plunged into the close quarters of a fighting ground chosen by their adversary, where the effectiveness of their numbers was reduced and their enemy invisible.
Fulke wouldn’t care too much about that; he tended to be impatient with tactical thinking. Anyway, having led the charge into the undergrowth, he would surely then send others ahead to take whatever manner of death was coming their way. To Fulke, that’s what soldiers were for – to place between him and imminent destruction. Decoys. Mobile shields.
The man Aldric had been saddled with was not so happy to be left behind. Arnaut was a hothead. One who charged wildly into danger, mistakenly believing he was showing courage, when in fact his actions merely marked him out as impulsive and reckless. At least, they did to Aldric. There were others who were taken in by it, who admired Arnaut’s spontaneity, his boldness. Aldric, however, recognised both as products not of courage, but of fear. He flung himself at things because he did not have the nerve to approach them cautiously – because if he did stop to think, he would falter and crumble. Aldric supposed that when you had examples such as Fulke to follow, there would always be such men. Arnaut had not yet fought in a battle – not a real one – but Aldric had a bet with himself that when battle came, Arnaut would be the first to charge, and the first to bite the sod. And, of course, Fulke would let him.
Having to stay out of the fray had frustrated Arnaut almost to the point of frenzy. He had cursed and complained while Aldric bit his lip. Then came the cries of the men – the sounds of agony, of terror, of defeat. To Arnaut, this confirmed the folly of them sitting here on their arses, doing nothing. To Aldric, it confirmed the exact opposite.
At first, Aldric was successful in restraining Arnaut – even getting him to curb his restless pacing on his mount, which was making the others edgy.
In the event, it was a horse that finally tipped the balance.
These horses – all trained for battle – were not easily spooked. But upon hearing the muffled shouts from the trees, one – the handsome black courser that Fulke had laid claim to in some recent confrontation – had suddenly got some strange idea into its head. It had bucked and reared so violently that it had lost its bridle and broken away from the rest before bolting – not along the path and away from the cries of the men, as one might expect, but crashing straight into the tangled, twiggy shrubbery between the closely packed trees.
Somehow, its break for freedom had triggered the same impulse in Arnaut – or rather had broken the last bit of restraint that was holding him back. Perhaps the notion of a riderless horse heading into battle when he was not was just too much for him to bear. All Aldric knew was that suddenly Arnaut had drawn his sword and had leapt down from his saddle.
“You can sit here and do fuck all, if you like,” he bellowed with a manic look in his eye – something between fevered excitement and abject terror. “I’m going to do something!”
Yes, thought Aldric. You’re going to die.
Aldric knew – because he was not an idiot – that dismounting was a terrible idea. But Arnaut either did not know it, or, like Fulke, did not care, and perhaps could not help himself even if he did. And he was not going to stop. Stuck for an alternative, knowing they must stand fast, and stand together – more so now than ever – Aldric threw himself off his horse in an attempt to restrain him. Before he could even get close, Arnaut had charged off, disappearing into the spiky thicket with a frenzied crashing and crackling of twigs.
The sounds stopped as suddenly as they had started. There was a brief silence, before Arnaut emerged from the bushes again. Aldric was struck by three different notions at this unexpected return. He was amused that the spirited hero had been defeated by a thicket; he was relieved that, at last, he seemed to have seen sense; and he was momentarily bemused that Arnaut was walking backwards. As he was still thinking these thoughts, Arnaut keeled over, and crashed like a felled tree, and Aldric saw the crossbow bolt, half its length embedded in Arnaut’s left eye.
Then, storming out of the woods, came the black shape of the man Aldric had killed.
Terrifying in appearance – his face blackened with soot, and now streaked with rain – he strode forward, wild eyes fixed on Aldric, inexorable in his steady advance. He stepped over Arnaut’s body, flung away the discharged crossbow, and raised a second, ready drawn. Aldric – staggering backwards, realising he had only seconds before the bolt was placed and loosed – scrabbled for something, anything, to hurl at his assailant. He hauled at a warhammer strapped against a chestnut palfrey’s saddle, but the spike snagged in the bindings. The horse turned, was gashed by the weapon’s point as Aldric fought to tug it free, then kicked and leapt sideways. The binding snapped. Aldric sprawled, righted himself – his attacker now only yards away – and got ready to fling the weapon. But as he swung it up, the man loosed his bolt. It smacked into Aldric’s shoulder, jarring bone and sending him spinning. He crashed flat on his back, winded, his left arm numb.
He remembered having no pain in his shoulder, just a distant awareness of the hooves of the chestnut slamming down near his head, and the bolt’s steel point, now protruding from his back, scraping against a stone in the mud.
The man drew his mace and stood over him. Aldric made no further attempt to move. He knew he was dead, that there was nothing to be done. He braced himself, and – mustering what little defiance he had left – looked his killer square in the eye.
“Do it, then,” he said through clenched teeth.
The man stood poised for a moment, weapon raised, then peered closely at him.
“You are one of the men who shot me,” he said. “From the battlements.”
Aldric frowned. The very last thing he’d expected was a conversation. “Yes.”
“Tell me quickly – the man and the woman you have prisoner. Do they live?”
“Yes.
“Will they live?”
“Probably. Unless...”
“Unless?�
��
“You know the kind of man Tancred is.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“All is black and white to him. Once they have no useful purpose, he will kill them. Although perhaps they now have one...”
The dark face frowned.
“You. He can use them to draw you. Throw one from the battlements as an example. Cause the other pain, to exploit your weakness.”
“My weakness?”
“Compassion,” said Aldric. “You have friends.”
“Do you think that a weakness?”
“Tancred does,” said Aldric. Then he thought for a moment, sighed deeply, and shuddered at the pain it brought. “But compassion is never a weakness.” He was suddenly struck by the absurdity of his situation, of taking part in a philosophical debate whilst he lay bleeding in the mud, about to have his head – the head in which such fine thoughts were formed – smashed in by a mace. “You probably should’ve killed him while you had the chance, all the same,” he added, pragmatic to the last.
To his amazement, the man laughed. “As he should have killed me,” he said. “We’ll both have that chance again before today is out.”
Aldric’s head swam, the pain in his shoulder suddenly asserting itself. He groaned.
The towering figure leaned in. “What’s your name?”
“Aldric. Aldric Fitz Rolf.”
“I am Gisburne,” said the man. “Guy of Gisburne.”
Aldric wondered if this was some strange affectation of his attacker – making a proper introduction to those he was about to kill. His head fell back on the mud in defeat. “Just get it over with.”
Gisburne stared down at him. “We’re settled,” he said. Then he threw the mace into the bushes and turned to walk away.
Aldric heaved himself up onto his one good elbow, and stared after the retreating figure in disbelief.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 33
