by C. B. Hanley
But now there was action. The second volley had pinpointed the enemy’s position, and now the mounted sergeants and the foot soldiers were preparing to charge. Edwin heard a huge ‘After them, by God’s blood!’ from up the line, and then they were off, hooves ploughing through the earth and crops in the fields. Sir Hugh’s sergeants joined them, and Edwin felt the steam of horseflesh and sweat as they passed.
John was nocking another arrow. ‘Quick, lads – one more over their heads before they get there! Nock, draw, loose! Now, after them so we’ve got their backs!’
What? Surely he wasn’t going to … but he was. The archers of both Sir Hugh and Sir Roger were pouring after the last of the spearmen and heading for the woods. There was no choice but to follow.
Once Edwin left the road the ground was softer. After all the wasteland they’d passed through during the last few days, this field was actually full of crops ripe for harvest; he found it harder going. But he was already right at the back so he had to keep up or risk being exposed. He pushed on through the thigh-high wheat, over the ridges and furrows of the strips, briefly wondering who would starve after he’d ruined their winter food. His feet thudded and slipped beneath him even as he strained his ears for the sound of more arrows. But there was only the odd one or two, thank the saints, and not near him. The horsemen had reached the woods and there were sounds of fighting, the clash of metal and the screams of men and horses. The spearmen caught up with them and joined the fray. Hopefully the enemy were now too busy defending themselves to worry about him.
He reached the edge of the wood and plunged in. The moment it took for his eyes to adjust to the reduced light could have been fatal, but the arrow that thrummed past him was wide of the mark and ricocheted off a tree.
Edwin looked about him. Dear Lord, what was going on, and what should he do? There were figures flitting everywhere in the shadows, in and out of the trees, caught in flashes of a grim dance. There were men fighting, bleeding and dying. Edwin was sure he had caught a glimpse of Philip, the Earl of Salisbury’s squire, on horseback running someone down, but surely he wouldn’t be here among the common men?
He nocked an arrow, but Lord, who was who? He turned around and about in an agony of indecision, unwilling to let fly if he risked hurting anyone on his own side.
There. That man was one of Sir Hugh’s archers, hard pressed against two enemies. He was fighting hand-to-hand, his bow discarded on the ground. I don’t want to kill anyone, thought Edwin, even as he drew back the string. Then the archer slipped on a root and fell back as he lost his balance. The others closed in. I don’t want to kill anyone, but he’s going to die if I don’t. At this distance there was no need to aim upwards, just straight across. Panic gave him strength and he drew further than before, bringing the string back almost to his ear and loosing all in one smooth movement. Perhaps he had remembered something from the lessons of his youth.
The arrow thumped wetly into the chest of one of the men, who fell without a sound as blood spewed from his mouth. His companion was startled and paused long enough for the archer to lunge forward with a blade – Edwin wasn’t sure whether it was a long dagger or a short sword, but it went into the man’s stomach like butter. His gape of surprise turned into a shriek of pain, abruptly cut off as the blade jerked out and slashed again. Edwin averted his eyes just quickly enough to avoid seeing the man’s throat cut, though he couldn’t avoid the sight of the blood that splattered up on to the bark of the nearest tree.
The archer picked up his bow and ran over to him. ‘Thanks. Come on, we’ll find the others.’
They slipped through the woods, following the sounds of combat which were now becoming fainter and further away as the enemy fled. They caught up with a small knot of others – Edwin’s companion recognised them as friends before he did, so he had the chance to pause and consider how hard his heart was thumping.
The fighting was over. Edwin was, somewhat to his surprise, still alive. So was John, who was now directing his archers to pick up anything they could find – discarded weapons and spent arrows. Edwin gathered a couple off the ground, but he wasn’t yet ready, as others were, to rip them out of sprawled bodies.
The sound of hoofbeats came from behind them, and Edwin turned to see both Salisbury’s squire and the man who’d stopped him back at the village. Philip looked down at him, faceless behind his steel mask and saying nothing, but Edwin knew he’d been recognised. New business with you, he remembered, but what could the man do to him here? He turned away to follow John.
Before long, everything had been dragged out of the woods into the light. A pile of enemy corpses, maybe a dozen or so. Four bodies from the host laid out straight – one of Sir Hugh’s, and three others Edwin didn’t recognise, though Salisbury’s loud-voiced sergeant was crossing himself before one of them. Bows. Arrows, being hastily sorted by John and his archers into those that could be re-used straight away and those that were damaged. A few blades, but nothing special.
Philip, now helmetless and with sweaty hair sticking up in all directions, poked his foot at the heap of enemy dead. ‘No leader. No man of rank. So where are the rest?’
The sergeant made his way over. ‘Just a raiding party to distract us? Or maybe deserters? But never fear – there will be plenty more where they came from.’ He turned to bellow at his men, telling them to bury their own dead, leave the others and bring the captured weapons back to the host. Then he and Philip remounted and rode off.
Edwin found John at his side. ‘Still here, then? And Nigel says you saved his life.’
‘I didn’t …’ he began. But he had, hadn’t he? He’d killed a man in battle to save the life of a companion. Was this what comradeship was supposed to feel like? ‘Anyone would have done the same,’ he managed, aware of how lame it sounded.
John thumped him on the back. ‘Good man. You’re one of us now.’
Edwin followed the others back across the field, trying to trample on as little of the wheat as possible. He might, as John said, be one of the archers now, but his eye was drawn to the spot where he knew the earl was. There were men milling around, bareheaded now the combat was over, but still too far away for him to make out their faces.
He screwed up his eyes to look at the figures with the most colour. Green and yellow, flash of blond hair – that was Sir Roger, walking around unharmed, thank the Lord. And yes – blue and yellow checks: the earl himself, now upright.
But they were standing around a figure on the ground.
Edwin’s instinct was to run towards them, but he stopped himself when he remembered it was no longer his place to do so. Instead he followed the others back to their own part of the column and then wormed his way forward through the press. A few casualties were being dealt with, here where the arrows had fallen thickest: a horse being put out of its thrashing misery, two bodies being carried off to be buried with the others, and some men groaning with wounds. The host had got off lightly, he supposed, for none of the enemy had got near enough to the column to strike a blow in person. Not that that would be much comfort to the agonised sergeant begging his friend to pull the arrow-shaft out of his bleeding thigh, or to the widows of the dead.
Edwin reached the outer edge of the earl’s circle, checking off his friends as he saw them. Martin. Yes. Adam hadn’t got out of the cart, surely? And that white robe over there could only be Brother William. Then who…?
The crowd of men parted as they began to drift away back to their duties. A body was just a body, and they were on campaign, after all.
Edwin peered through, trying to remain unnoticed. A final set of legs moved aside and he was able to see Sir Hugh’s squire Alan, flat on his back, arms outstretched and eyes wide, with an arrow through his throat.
Chapter Six
Martin held on to the rail of the cart for support. It wasn’t the sight of the body – of course not; what sort of knight-in-training would he be if he couldn’t look at a man slain in combat? – but rather that he was s
till feeling unsure of his legs after his illness. That was it. Plus, there was an uncomfortable sense of guilt. Should he have tried harder to persuade Alan to borrow his great helm? And if he had, would Alan still be alive?
Sir Hugh, now upright although still not looking in the best of health, was gazing down at the body in stony silence. Everyone else kept a wary distance, and nobody spoke.
Martin wanted to say something, but he didn’t dare break into the knight’s isolation, and anyway he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound trite. He turned back to the boys still in the wagon. Hugh was crouched, gripping on to the side with both hands, his knuckles almost as white as his face and his teeth chattering as he shivered. Martin recalled that he’d been a bit older than seven when he’d seen his first violent death, so maybe it was harder for such a small boy.
‘Are you all right?’
Hugh forced himself to nod, eyes still fixed on the body.
Martin tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Stop looking at it.’ He got no response. ‘Look at me!’
Hugh dragged his gaze away. Huge eyes stared into Martin’s, and he managed no more than a whisper through almost unmoving lips. ‘I’m trying to be brave.’
What was the right thing to say? ‘You’ll be fine.’ Martin hoped he sounded more encouraging than he felt.
Another voice croaked from deeper in the cart. ‘You’re braver than me.’
It was Adam. Thank the Lord, Adam had woken and was now trying to move. Martin scrambled over the tailboard and crawled to him, slipping an arm around his shoulders to help him into a sitting position. ‘How are you feeling?’
Adam leaned against him. ‘Better. I think.’ He focused his attention on Hugh, who was close on the other side. ‘You’re a good lad. Brave.’
Hugh appeared to become a little more human, the first hint of colour returning. ‘Me?’
Adam licked his cracked lips, and Martin groped around for the skin of watered wine he knew was lying about somewhere. He unstoppered it with his teeth and then managed to get a little of it into Adam’s mouth so he could speak again.
Adam waved his arm in the page’s general direction. ‘Well, at least you were awake and paying attention through it all. And helping to protect me.’ His eyes fluttered and began to close again. ‘And my lord still lives, that’s the main …’ He tailed off as he fell asleep.
Martin held him for a moment before lowering him back to the bed of the cart. He was surprised, overwhelmed even, by the emotion he was feeling. Was it because he was still frail himself? He’d only known Adam three months, but apart from the week he’d been away at the abbey they’d been together almost every moment. If something happened to him, there would be a big hole in Martin’s life. He busied himself tucking the blanket around Adam so he wouldn’t have to think about it.
The earl was now standing next to Sir Hugh. ‘My condolences. But … we’ll need to get moving soon.’
Sir Hugh nodded, and then knelt down next to his dead squire. He placed his left hand flat on Alan’s neck, where it met his shoulder; Martin initially took this to be a gesture of affection or farewell, but then the knight grasped the arrow with his right hand and ripped it out in one smooth movement. The sound was unpleasant, but fortunately – Martin turned to check – Hugh was facing the other way, so he didn’t notice.
Sir Hugh gestured to those of his sergeants who were standing a little further away in respectful silence. ‘Take him over there with the others and see that he’s properly buried.’
They murmured their assent and moved to pick up the body. The blood beneath it had already soaked into the dusty ground and was no more than a dark smear, soon to be scuffed and forgotten as the boots of hundreds of men passed over it.
But Martin didn’t have time to dwell on that. The earl was up and about, and Martin was well enough to serve him. With a final look at Adam’s swathed form, he descended from the cart, wobbled, waited a moment for his legs to become steady, and made his way over.
On his way he passed Humphrey, who had appeared from somewhere. He approached Sir Hugh, who was staring across the field with the bloodied arrow still in his hand. ‘I heard. I just wanted to say I’m s—’
But he was shoved roughly out of the way, Sir Hugh not even meeting his eye. ‘I don’t care what you’ve got to say. He was a better man than you.’ Sir Hugh thrust the arrow towards one of his archers. ‘Here. Clean it up and you can use it again. Now, find my horse and get out of my way.’
Martin couldn’t help noticing that the old knight was rubbing his face as he strode off.
Edwin stood back as Sir Hugh brushed past him without noticing. He needed to get back to his place in the host, his new station, but he also needed to learn more. Had that arrow been shot towards the host in general? Or had it been aimed at the lord earl and missed?
There was no doubt that this part of the column had been the focus of most of the arrow-storm. Brother William was holding up the earl’s brightly coloured shield and making a jocular remark as he pointed out the number of shafts embedded in it – it looked like a hedgehog. But Edwin didn’t know whether that was just because the enemy had noted the presence of so many nobles, or whether they were targeting someone in particular. He also didn’t know whether it might have been possible, in the chaos of the fight in the wood, for one of their own men to have picked up a stray arrow and loosed it at his own army. And, to add to the things he didn’t know, he didn’t know how he would even begin to find out.
‘You need to go,’ said a voice in his ear.
Edwin jumped.
Thankfully, it was Sir Roger. ‘The lord earl is up and about, and he will be angry if he sees you here.’
That was true, but what if —?
‘Just go.’
Edwin couldn’t disobey, so he made his way back through the press of men. John was ahead of him, and Edwin saw that he had the fatal arrow in his hand.
He jogged to catch up. ‘Is there anything special about that?’
John looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘What do you mean, special?’
Edwin didn’t know what he meant either, but he had to do something. ‘I just … that is, is there any way to tell whose it is?’
Understanding dawned. ‘Oh, I see. No, not really. If I was at home in my village shooting against friends, we’d all mark our own so we could collect them up. But for a campaign we get extra ones in because we need more. They’re made … well, I don’t know where they’re made, but this looks like most of them, and I suppose the enemy ones are the same.’ He held it up to examine it more closely, continuing to walk as he pointed. ‘Bodkin head – better for going through mail. Very common. That blood’ll clean off. Fletchings, just normal goose feathers, though it’s either been done in a bit of a hurry or by someone new to the trade.’ He pointed out some tiny imperfection in the way the cock feather was aligned, although Edwin couldn’t see anything wrong with it. ‘So, nothing special about it.’
They reached their part of the column and John pushed the arrow into a basket of assorted others. Edwin could see that none were particularly distinguishable, and he sighed. ‘So, that could have been in anyone’s quiver, and anyone could have shot it?’
‘Aye.’ John accepted a pie from young Dickon; Alf was taking the opportunity of the column’s halt to pass out rations. ‘Anyway,’ John continued through a mouthful of pastry, ‘like I said, once we make camp tonight we’ll do some shooting.’
‘He’s already done some,’ came the voice of the man Edwin had saved in the woods. ‘And grateful I am. Here.’ He was also holding a pie; he broke it in two and offered one half to Edwin. Edwin didn’t really feel like eating, but everyone else was tucking in heartily, so he forced himself to take a bite and smile.
They eventually got moving again. Edwin looked over at the scar of fresh earth at the edge of the woods as they passed it, and winced at the damage they’d caused to the wheat-field, but after that he saw little of their surroundings, c
oncentrating as he was on putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to think too much. Sir Geoffrey, Mother – and Father, God rest him – the earl, Alan, Martin, Alys … everything. It was all spinning around in his head too fast.
One thing at a time. There was nothing he could do about matters in Conisbrough just now, so he should put that to one side while he considered events here. Right. They were marching to war. Men were going to be killed, including perhaps the earl. But was there danger to the earl before they got there? Some things that had happened so far – the fire, the poisoning, the arrows – might just be accidental or a normal part of a campaign. Or they might not. And the thrown knife certainly wasn’t.
Father had always told him: Look not just at what has happened, but why. Assume for a moment that somebody was trying to kill the lord earl. Why? Who would want him dead? Unfortunately, there were many possible answers, for the strange thing about this war was that it was difficult to know who was on which side. It wasn’t the French against the English: the French were all enemies, of course, but there were English in both camps. Not to mention the fact that many of the ‘English’ lords were French or Norman anyway, and they certainly spoke French. In fact, the lords on both sides probably had more in common with each other than they did with the likes of Edwin. Which was interesting in itself, because …
Never mind that – concentrate. Many nobles, the earl included, had switched allegiance more than once. What if there was someone in the host who was pretending to be on their side but who was secretly on the other? That was certainly possible. And such a man would benefit from the earl being dead, because the earl was providing lots of men and money for the campaign. But so were the other nobles, so why attack him in particular?
Maybe it came down to his lack of an heir. The lord earl had no children and no brothers, so if he were to die then his lands would either be split between his sisters or go to the eldest sister, Edwin wasn’t sure which. But in either case there would be confusion and it would all take a while to sort out, during which time the host would be weakened. Perhaps that was why he was being targeted, rather than Arundel or Salisbury or any of the others.
