The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  TIM STRETTON

  The DOG of the NORTH

  Annals of Mondia

  TOR

  For Sue and Danielle

  Contents

  1. Croad

  2. Croad

  3. Croad

  4. Croad

  5. Mettingloom

  6. Croad

  7. Mettingloom

  8. Croad

  9. Mettingloom

  10. Glount

  11. Mettingloom

  12. Croad

  13. Mettingloom

  14. Croad

  15. Croad

  Epilogue

  1

  Croad

  1

  Captain Fleuraume peered back into the mist. His eyelashes were damp with the fog and his eyes not as keen as they once had been. ‘How many do you see?’ he asked Cornelis, the lookout.

  ‘It’s hard to tell in this light. Ten for certain, maybe more.’

  Fleuraume frowned. ‘There must be more than that.’

  ‘If there are, they’re keeping out of sight.’

  Fleuraume turned in his saddle and gestured around him. With the sun only just over the horizon, the track ahead was visible for less than a hundred yards. The plain away to the west gleamed in an eerie reddish light as the sun came up, while the Ferrant Mountains to the east cast a heavy gloom.

  ‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘They want to be seen. It wouldn’t be hard to keep hidden in the mist.’

  Cornelis shook his head. The cold of the mist leached into his chain mail and chilled the cotton shirt underneath. He wanted nothing more than to be warm in his bed – but it looked like he might have to fight to get there. He shivered, not simply from the cold.

  ‘I’ll send Webrecht and Ryckaert to join you,’ Fleuraume said. ‘I’ll need to wake my lady.’

  He spurred his gallumpher back up the column. After sending the two men back to reinforce Cornelis, he dismounted and leaped aboard the stout-coach. Inside, two bleary-eyed figures looked back at him.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Isola, Lady Cosetta! I trust you slept well.’

  Lady Cosetta appeared still to be enjoying her repose and made no response. Lady Isola scowled back at the captain.

  ‘The rolling of the stout-coach does not make for a restful environment, Captain Fleuraume. Was it really necessary to continue through the night?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my lady. If the men we saw on the road yesterday were innocent, we would have left them behind overnight: my guards report they are still visible this morning. It is not unduly pessimistic to suggest they mean us no good.’

  Lady Isola, whose lustrous dark hair and regular features hinted at an appealing appearance if she could be prevailed upon to smile, continued to frown. ‘You are something of an old woman, sir, if you are discomfited by ten men on gallumphers, no matter how well armed. You command an escort of forty of Lord Oricien’s best troops. You cannot seriously fear these men?’

  Fleuraume bristled. The girl could be no more than twenty, whatever her birth. ‘I did not say “fear”, my lady. I am cautious for your safety, and the security of the valuables. If ten men permit themselves to be seen, how many more are hiding?’

  Lady Isola sniffed. ‘Your concern for my welfare does you credit, Captain. But surely they would have attacked under cover of darkness had they intended an immediate mischief. The Consorts preserve us, this is the Duchy of Lynnoc, man! Do you really expect brigands to molest Duke Trevarre’s peace?’

  ‘My lady, we are nearly at Croad. The northerners have been quiet of late, but the Dog has been known to venture this far south. He knows the lands around here well; he does not fear to operate so far from home.’

  ‘Do not think to frighten me with tales of the Dog of the North,’ said Lady Isola. ‘I am travelling under the protection of Lord Oricien and Duke Trevarre: an outrage is inconceivable.’

  Fleuraume dropped back to where Serjeant Ryckaert and the sentries kept watch. As the sun rose the mist began to fade, but there was no sign of more men. The group of around ten hovered on the boundary of visibility.

  ‘Should we speed up, sir?’ asked Webrecht. ‘They are not moving quickly.’

  ‘We cannot outrun them,’ said Fleuraume.

  ‘Perhaps we should chase them off,’ suggested Ryckaert. ‘We outnumber them four to one, and we are heavily enough armoured.’

  Captain Fleuraume rubbed his chin. ‘I am tempted, but I cannot leave the caravan unguarded. By midday we should be at the River Casalle: there is no way across but the bridge. We will see their strength then.’

  Webrecht muttered to himself. ‘If we get there . . .’

  At mid-morning Lady Isola and Lady Cosetta emerged from the rear of their stout-coach to take a breakfast on the viewing platform. The autumn sun stood proudly in the sky and the mist had all but gone. Talk of brigands seemed feverish in such beautiful light, with the Ferrant Mountains now visible in all their glory to the right and the plains rolling away to their left. Lady Cosetta clambered to the roof of the stout-coach and looked back.

  ‘Captain!’ she called out. ‘Are those the raiders?’

  ‘Lady Cosetta! I must pray you to descend immediately! The motion of the stout-coach will surely shake you to the ground!’

  Cosetta, slender and athletic, slid back to the observation platform. ‘I have heard nothing but brigands all morning. I wanted to see for myself what caused such alarm.’

  One of the guards rode up to the captain from the rear of the column.

  ‘Sir! They have raised their banner.’

  The captain sat upright in his saddle. ‘And?’

  ‘A white wolf’s head upon a scarlet field. They are the Dog’s men.’

  Fleuraume nodded. The confirmation did not seem a surprise. ‘Ladies, please return to your carriage until I give you leave to emerge. There will be blood shed today.’

  Lady Cosetta paled; Lady Isola gave a slight smile before eating the last mouthful of her sausage.

  Fleuraume looked ahead to the River Casalle and its unique bridge, its wooden structure carved into an intricate griffon representing the House of Croad. The sooner they were across, the better. He ordered the postilions to bring the stout-coach up to its maximum speed and put the bulk of his men at the back of the column between the raiders and the stout-coach. The bridge was no more than ten minutes away and the road was clear. He had no choice but to run.

  He dropped to the back of the caravan and saw dust rising in the distance. The raiders were starting their charge. Were there only ten of them? The Dog’s troops were formidable, and they did not bind themselves by the rules of chivalry: but they were outnumbered nearly three to one, despite the men kept back to guard the stout-coach. If they wanted a fight, Fleuraume would give them one. Who could say, maybe the Dog of the North himself was among their number?

  He heard a thrum of arrows. This was not knightly conduct, but it was to be expected. He saw a man near him go down, an arrow through his gorget. Fleuraume tightened his lips. If he captured the Dog, Oricien would hang him in the marketplace as his grandfather had done when he captured rebels. The Dog of the North would pay for his arrogance.

  Suddenly the raiders wheeled their gallumphers about. Fleuraume’s cavalry line was immaculate, but there was nothing opposing it. The raiders had peeled away to either side.

  ‘Fight like men!’ he called. ‘Steel to steel!’

  The raiders continued to remain out of skirmish range, while trying to pick off Fleuraume’s men with arrows. The strategy was not effective; only two men had fallen in the first pass – and all the while the caravan drew closer to the safety of the bridge.

  Up ahead, the fifteen men guarding the stout-coach saw the narrow wooden bridge come in
to view. Serjeant Ryckaert, who commanded the remaining men, rode out ahead of the caravan and looked down into the fast-flowing river. The bridge creaked beneath his gallumpher, but he knew it would bear the weight of the stout-coach. He had been this way many times before. There was no sign of any ambush. The captain had engaged the raiders and they no longer presented a threat. Thirty yards away lay the other bank. On that side of the river there was no place of concealment other than a copse a mile or so away: too far to represent a danger, even if the Dog had been able to deploy a sizeable force this close to Croad.

  Ryckaert’s orders were simple: cross the bridge with the caravan, and await Fleuraume’s men on the other side. In the unlikely event that the Dog’s men overcame Fleuraume, Ryckaert had the advantage of controlling the exit from the bridge: no matter how good the Dog’s troops, they would not be able to deploy.

  Ryckaert smiled to himself. He imagined himself stepping into the ladies’ stout-coach. ‘Lady Isola, Lady Cosetta: I am pleased to report the emergency is over. You may wish to emerge and inspect the prisoners.’

  Both ladies would favour him with an appreciative smile. The blonde Lady Cosetta, not so haughty as her companion, would give him that sideways look she could deploy to such devastating effect. ‘You must tell me all about the battle once we are at Croad, Serjeant Ryckaert.’

  He beckoned the stout-coach onto the bridge and watched as it came past him, allowing himself a nod of satisfaction as the noise of the wheels on the wooden bridge stopped: they were on the rutted track again, and he had carried out his orders. The stout-coach was across the river.

  ‘Sir! Smoke! I see smoke!’

  Ryckaert looked around. ‘Where can smoke be coming from?’

  ‘I can’t tell! But it’s everywhere!’

  Ryckaert looked around him. He could see wisps of smoke too, and there was a smell . . . Suddenly he realized.

  ‘The bridge is on fire!’ he cried. ‘Those treacherous dogs! Across, with me, now!’

  Ryckaert could not imagine how the bridge could have been set alight, but what mattered was that he got his men across to the same side as the stout-coach. The bridge was dry wood and soon the flames were visible. His men were close to panic: soon they would be babbling of sorcery.

  In half a minute all of his men – only fifteen, he thought – were across the bridge, which was now well and truly aflame. Webrecht called out: ‘Look – down there!’

  On the river bank, below the bridge, two figures clambered up to the land on the far side. Ryckaert could not pursue them because he was on the wrong side of the bridge, which was now impassable. Neither could he get word to Fleuraume because all of his men were with him. Whatever the Dog had in mind, only Ryckaert’s fifteen men remained to prevent it. From across the river, one of the incendiarists put a horn to his lips and blew a long mournful note. Someone, somewhere, was being summoned.

  Ryckaert jumped aboard the stout-coach, in circumstances very different to those he had envisaged only a few moments before. Lady Cosetta appeared close to panic; Lady Isola possessed more sangfroid. ‘You will simply have to fight the raiders off, Master Ryckaert.’

  From the copse, Ryckaert looked out to see a group of mounted men emerging. He reckoned their strength at around thirty – close to a hopeless situation. He leaped down from the stout-coach and drew his men up in defensive formation against the river bank.

  The attackers raised their wolf’s-head standard. At some inaudible signal they began to charge. ‘Follow me!’ cried Ryckaert. There was no point in waiting for reinforcements who were trapped on the other side of the river. Lord Oricien’s troops rode forward to meet the assault head-on.

  Ryckaert charged straight for the centre of the enemy line. The raiders’ armour did not sport surcoats or marks of rank, but the prime troops were normally in the middle of the line. He put his shield up and unsheathed his broadsword. His foe ducked out of the way and swung at Ryckaert as he charged past, catching his helmet. Ryckaert turned his gallumpher and prepared to charge again. From the side he felt a blow against his chain mail and he slipped from the gallumpher. There were now two mounted adversaries against him.

  ‘Yield!’ called one of the men. ‘We want plunder, not corpses.’

  Ryckaert lunged for the gallumpher’s eyes with his sword; the gallumpher reared and threw the rider to the ground, where he lay stunned. Ryckaert stabbed at the gorget, which gave way, followed by a spurt of blood. The second rider cursed and spurred his gallumpher straight at Ryckaert, who jerked back with only a blow to the shoulder.

  He knew he had no chance of remounting his own gallumpher. He looked around. Those of his men still fighting were alone, split apart by the raiders’ charge; but most of them were disarmed on the ground, some of them ominously still.

  He realized the rider before him would be able to mow him down at any point. Instead the man raised his visor, to reveal a square face frosted with an expression of contemptuous humour.

  ‘Enough! Look around you, sir. Your men are dead or wounded. You cannot win. Don’t throw your life away for folly.’

  Ryckaert shook the blood from his sword. ‘The last man to offer me quarter died. If you care to join him, I am waiting. Let us settle the matter through single combat.’

  The rider sighed. ‘I have you at a disadvantage; I am not about to relinquish it to pander to your whim of chivalry. Put up your sword, or die.’

  Ryckaert looked around him. The rider was right. All of his men lay dead on the ground or disarmed. The raiders had already secured the stout-coach. His first command had ended in humiliating failure. Two of the raider’s companions had ridden up; there was no way out.

  ‘I am Master Ryckaert,’ he said. ‘Must I surrender to a raider?’

  ‘You may prefer to die. Otherwise, put down your sword.’

  Ryckaert looked up at the rider. In the implacable face he saw no choice. He turned the sword in his hand and offered the hilt to his conqueror.

  2

  The raider dismounted and removed his helmet to display more clearly keen blue eyes, a tightly compressed mouth and nondescript dust-coloured hair. He walked over to where his men had disarmed the surviving guards. ‘How many, Monetto?’

  ‘Four dead, eleven yielded.’ The man called Monetto ran a hand through his sparse red hair and grinned. ‘Plus, of course, the twenty or so on the other side of the river.’

  ‘We need not concern ourselves with them, unless your feelings are hurt by unfriendly gestures.’

  Monetto did not spare them a glance. ‘What of our men?’

  The raider shook his head. ‘That fool Ryckaert killed Stolio. A waste of a good soldier’s life. We will make sure his wife has his share. Everyone else on this side of the bridge survived. Let’s see if the prize was worth the price. Have you been into the stout-coach yet?’

  ‘Naturally not,’ said Monetto. ‘I defer to the privilege of rank.’

  ‘Come with me, then. Dello can look after the prisoners. Do you think it’s her, Monetto?’

  Monetto pointed to the flag drooping from the roof of the stout-coach. ‘Yellow and blue. It’s the arms of Croad. Who else can it be?’

  The raider gave a grim smile. ‘I have waited a long time to renew our acquaintance. Too long, in fact.’

  He leaped onto the viewing platform at the front of the coach. He was not surprised to find the door locked. ‘Open up in there!’ he called. ‘Else I must damage this valuable carriage!’

  A high voice came from within. ‘A moment.’

  The raider allowed himself a smile. After a brief interval he heard the lock turn. ‘You may enter.’

  He stepped into the coach. Before him stood a blonde woman, probably no more than twenty, startled as a rabbit. From the side he felt himself buffeted; he heard a metallic scraping at his gorget and a sudden pain in his ear. He grabbed the wrist and pulled his assailant to the ground. There was a clatter as the knife fell to the floor.

  ‘Get up!’ he said. ‘Did yo
u really think to injure me with your breakfast-knife?’

  The woman on the floor merely looked up scornfully, her breast heaving and her eyes flashing. She looked at him a moment, stood and went to sit on the couch at the back of the compartment. Her companion went to join her.

  The raider looked at them thoughtfully. ‘I don’t recognize either of you.’

  The dark-haired girl said: ‘I rarely – if ever – consort with brigands. Our lack of acquaintance should scarcely come as a surprise.’

  ‘Are you the only ones here?’

  ‘Of course. The stout-coach is cramped for two, let alone three.’

  The raider stared at them. His clear blue eyes conveyed no emotion. ‘You are not what I expected to find. Tell me your names.’

  ‘You are a rude and impertinent fellow. I am Lady Isola, eldest daughter of Lord Sprang of Sey. My companion is Lady Cosetta, also of Sey. If you intend to molest us, please inform us now. I would observe that my father will pay a considerable ransom, particularly if I am returned undamaged.’

  The raider frowned. Events were not turning out as he had planned.

  ‘By what right do you fly the standard of Croad, if you come from Sey?’

  Lady Isola said: ‘I am betrothed to Lord Oricien of Croad. I am travelling north to celebrate our nuptials. Lady Cosetta accompanies me as my attendant.’

  The raider cursed softly. ‘You are not the ladies I had expected to find. No matter: I am sure we can turn the situation to advantage – to mine, at least. Presumably you bring a handsome dowry? I doubt that Oricien would have consented to a match without one.’

  Lady Isola pursed her lips and stared ahead.

  ‘If you will not tell me, no doubt Lady Cosetta will,’ he said, stepping over to where Cosetta was shrinking back into the couch. She was close to tears.

  ‘Behind us,’ she sniffed. ‘There are jewels and plate. The coin was to be transported separately.’

  ‘Good. Your compliance is encouraging. Since we are likely to be companions for some time, the sooner you accommodate yourselves to circumstances, the better matters will go. You will not be molested, either by me or my men. Our motives are purely mercenary.’