Give Up the Dead

by C. B. Hanley

  What had John said? Yes – a vantage point, that was it. He scanned the deck. The fighting was mainly in front of him as the earl’s men pressed forward and he had been left behind by his hesitation. The deck immediately in front of him was clear except for a few groaning wounded and a dead knight who lay in a spreading pool of blood. But it was all flat, except for …

  Did he dare? And would it be any use if he did? The ship was heaving up and down on the waves, he was carrying an awkwardly long bow, and the netting ladder formed by the rigging attached to the side of the ship didn’t look terribly steady. But it would make him that little bit higher than everyone else, so he might just be able to shoot over the heads of his own side and at the enemy beyond.

  He slung the bow over his shoulder and made for the ropes. At least this was one advantage of wearing no armour – he managed to clamber up a few steps without too much trouble.

  But of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. He was riding up and down with the swell; as he tried to unsling the bow again he got himself tangled up in the ropes. Once he extricated himself, he had to let go of the ropes with both hands in order to nock an arrow, and then it was all over. A zinging noise, like a hornet, went past the side of his head and he realised with terror that he had narrowly missed death by having his brains scattered by a crossbow bolt to the head. Then the ship gave another lurch and he felt himself falling, and knew that he was going over the side …

  Martin could make no move further forward. He was standing still, with hardly enough space to wield his sword as the press grew thicker. The men all around him had ceased to be men and had turned into a mass of separate arms, legs and weapons that flew about him in no kind of order. It would never stop. The earl was fighting on, Martin could see him, but he couldn’t get to him. It was like a dream he’d once had where he wanted to run forward but found that his feet were stuck in mud and he was sinking.

  He brought his sword crunching down on an armoured wrist that came too near him and used his superior size to push his shield hard against an opposing one, feeling it give under his strength as the man was forced back. The deck was now slippery with blood, and he had to fight hard just to keep his footing. His opponent flicked a sword out from behind his shield, but Martin kept him at arm’s length – his arm’s length – and the blow got nowhere near him. Then the Frenchman disappeared in a fountain of red as Sir Hugh’s blade hacked into his neck.

  That gave Martin a tiny breathing space, and he gasped in as much air as he could inside his suffocating helm. There wasn’t enough of it; he couldn’t suck it in fast enough. He would give the rest of his life to be able to take it off and gulp in some cool air … but of course that was exactly what he would be risking. So he took in what little was available, damp with his own sweat, and gestured to Sir Hugh that they should try to force their way forward together in order to get closer to the earl.

  Then there was some kind of movement behind him, some sort of momentum, and the press was suddenly carried forward. What —?

  More shouts filled the air. Martin saw the lions of the Earl of Salisbury’s surcoat as a fresh influx of men appeared and swarmed into the fray. Of course: the other ships had caught up and now they had boarded too. Surely now they would carry the day.

  But the new influx of men made it even more congested on the deck, and Martin was mired again. And – oh dear Lord, what if the new group of men included some who were trying to kill not only the enemy, but the earl as well?

  He shouted louder at Sir Hugh and they fought on. Martin had no idea where Adam was, or whether he was safe, and he hadn’t seen Sir Roger in what seemed like an age either. But he had only one aim in mind, one purpose to his life at this moment, so he slipped and pushed and hacked and slashed his way towards his lord.

  Edwin’s flailing arm managed to hook round a rope, but the bow was gone. He couldn’t hold on to it all at once, and his instinct for self-preservation hadn’t allowed him to think. He clutched at the rope and watched as the weapon bounced off the side of the ship and hit the water. But he was alive, and he managed to swing himself around so his feet were safely over the deck before he let go. A sudden rush of men came towards him and for a moment he thought it was all over, but they were coming from the other direction; they charged past him to smash into the main hand-to-hand fight. Reinforcements. Thank the Lord.

  There was no point in continuing to encumber himself with the quiver dangling from his belt. He fumbled at the ties for a moment and then drew his dagger and cut them. Then, blade in hand, no idea what he would do when he got there, he slid across the bloodied deck towards the melee.

  John and Nigel were still shooting. They were standing together by the side rail of the ship and – as Edwin had unsuccessfully tried to do – were aiming over the heads of their own men. As Edwin watched, John lowered his arm and let fly straight at an enemy rushing towards him. Such was the force of the arrow at short range that the man was sent flying backwards as the arrow thumped into him, landing like a crumpled doll.

  But others were upon them now, and John had no chance to nock another arrow. One of the onrushing men paused, and Edwin thought he’d been scared off – until he noticed the crossbow being brought up to its release position. He couldn’t miss from here. This was it. Edwin closed his eyes and prayed, but felt nothing. Nothing, that is, except the spray of hot liquid as Nigel screamed in agony beside him. The bolt had taken off half his face and Edwin wanted to vomit as he saw his companion shrieking and clutching at what was left of his head before he fell. You saved him in the forest just so he could die more painfully here.

  Edwin lunged forward with his dagger and stabbed the crossbowman, causing him to fall back, although he wasn’t dead. A sergeant brandishing a hatchet was bearing down on John, but Edwin had been carried too far forward by his own stroke and couldn’t recover in time to put himself between them. He cried out a warning.

  John should surely drop his bow and draw his own blade, but he didn’t, preferring instead to use it as a stave as he whipped it around and hit the enemy in the face. But it was no good; the man was barely scratched and came again at John together with another; a third screamed obscenities at Edwin from a twisted, inhuman face as he raised a blade. They were going to die.

  It was then that an armoured figure in a green and gold surcoat – Sir Roger, said the part of Edwin’s mind that was still functioning – appeared from nowhere and slashed at Edwin’s opponent, not pausing to see his relief or hear his incoherent words before his sword bit into the neck of one of John’s attackers, sending blood high in an arc over them all. The axe fell to the floor and Edwin stooped to pick it up. It would be better than his knife.

  But in the time it took for him to turn on John’s remaining assailant, it was too late. Edwin could only watch helplessly as the Frenchman barged into his friend, and they both fell back and over the side of the ship.

  Martin’s single-minded determination to reach the earl faltered as he caught sight, through his narrow eye-slits, of the device. The lions of Salisbury, but not the full-size ones of the earl himself: the smaller emblem worn by his squire. The man fighting not two paces away from him, his attention focused on those in front, was Philip.

  In the heat of battle, anything could happen. Men could be killed by chance, by accident … or by design. And who would know the difference? When this was all over and the bodies were counted, one more with a sword wound would not be conspicuous. And even if the wound were to the side or to the back, who could guess from that the identity of the attacker? The melee was so confused that men were being turned about all over the place – although those who faced into the wind were faring worse, so Martin had tried to avoid it.

  His inattention almost cost him his own life. His left arm had slackened ever so slightly, and a dagger found its way behind his shield. He saw it just in time to shift backwards, causing only a glancing blow that slashed his surcoat without damaging the mail, or at least he couldn’t feel anythi
ng. He thrust his sword forward and was rewarded by feeling some kind of hit; he couldn’t see what or to whom, but the arm holding the dagger fell back.

  Philip was still there. He could be dead in moments and nobody would know. Martin went as far as shifting his weight a little in preparation.

  But you’ll know, said a voice deep inside him. You’ll spend the rest of your life knowing that you murdered a fellow squire. For murder it would be: to stab a man in the back, knowingly, when that man was on your own side in the battle. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.

  A bellowing Frenchman, drenched in blood, had killed the sergeant in front of Martin and he now aimed a blow at Philip while Philip’s attention was engaged elsewhere. Without thinking, Martin ran him through, kicking him off the end of his sword before stepping away so that Philip would never know who had saved his life.

  They were moving again now. The impetus provided by the new men had forced the French to give ground, and they were clustered towards what was the front of the ship, on and in front of the steps that went up to the higher part of the deck.

  Sweat was pouring into Martin’s eyes. He had no free hand to bring up to his face, and the gesture would have been futile anyway given the helm. He shook his head as best he could. The earl was still fighting ferociously, and Martin was proud. Everyone would know how courageous his lord was, for he stood out clearly in that checked surcoat. Salisbury and Arundel were both near him.

  But the French had one final throw of the dice. Along the higher part of the deck, a line of crossbowmen had formed. They were aiming down into the thick of the press. Dear God, no – surely they wouldn’t shoot while their own men were there?

  ‘Shoot them down, by God’s blood!’ came a cry from somewhere off to Martin’s right, but the resulting volley of arrows was feeble – either the archers of his own side had run out of arrows or they were all dead.

  One or two of the crossbowmen did fall, and some sporadic arrows continued, but the line was still firm enough for them all to raise their weapons to their shoulders on command.

  Panicked warnings sounded from the fight below, but there was nowhere for the knights and men there to get out of the way. Damn it, why couldn’t he get there, why couldn’t he move? He redoubled his efforts, almost crying with the effort of the repeated blows, the shrieking of his muscles.

  The warning had got through, and some of those in the press managed to raise their shields to protect themselves from the deadly rain of bolts. Martin, a head taller than those around him, could see it all clearly. But in raising them they left themselves exposed below, and opponents without shields took full advantage, diving and thrusting and hacking. Martin heard himself screaming at the top of his voice as he watched the earl fall.

  Chapter Twelve

  Edwin rushed to the side of the ship. The Frenchman was gone, given up to the hunger of the sea, but John had managed to grab something – some protruding bit of wood, Edwin didn’t know what it was – and was gripping it with the fingers of one hand. They were turning white with the effort of holding his entire weight. His bow was still clasped in the other and his feet scrabbled, dangling above the waves as the ship rode the swell.

  Edwin dropped his weapons on the deck and leaned over as far as he could, clutching at John’s arm and shoulder. He had him. He had handfuls of his tunic. But —

  ‘I can’t pull you up! I’m too far over!’

  John tried to heave himself up with his one hand, but he couldn’t, not even with Edwin’s help.

  ‘You’ll have to drop the bow! If you use both hands you can climb up over me!’

  John shook his head. ‘Never.’

  ‘For God’s sake – you’ll die!’

  John stopped struggling. He hung as a dead weight. ‘Let me go, then.’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Plenty of others have died – one more won’t matter. And you can’t stand there with your back to it all.’

  Edwin could hear Sir Roger still fighting behind him, so he was safe from direct attack for a few moments, but even the knight couldn’t stop a crossbow bolt reaching him, and he felt how broad a target his back must seem. He tried to pull, but John was heavier than he was, and his arms were already tiring from holding the weight, feeling as though they were stretching longer and longer. They were pulled so straight that he couldn’t bend them, and they would surely be wrenched from their sockets soon. He couldn’t lift. And he was so far over the rail, almost upside down and looking at John’s face and the churning waves below, that he couldn’t get enough purchase with his feet to try and inch his way back. They were stuck.

  John’s voice was level. ‘Let me go. You don’t need to die with me.’

  Tears welled in Edwin’s eyes as his fingers dug further into the fabric of John’s tunic. They were weakening and he could feel them beginning to slip. He spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve seen too many friends die to lose another one now.’ But the strain was too much. His arms were screaming, his fingers starting to open of their own accord …

  There was a rush behind them and Edwin thought, again, that his last moment had come. Was it to be a stab in his unprotected back? His body was under such tension that he couldn’t even flinch. Please let it be quick.

  But he heard Sir Roger’s voice. ‘Help him, quickly – I’ll hold them off!’

  And then men were around him at the rail, hands were pulling him back, arms were reaching down to John, the weight on him was lifted; John was hauled up and they were both back on the deck.

  It was Stephen, the sailor, and some of his companions. Edwin started to gasp out thanks but John was on his feet again immediately, bow still in hand. He grinned at Stephen. ‘I owe you. Let’s kill some more of them.’

  Stephen raised empty hands. ‘Love to. But I’ll have to bite them.’

  Edwin had by now picked up both his weapons; wordlessly, he handed the axe to Stephen. It was better than the dagger, but he couldn’t part with that. Besides, his arms were so sore he didn’t think he’d be able to swing it anyway.

  Sir Roger had moved a few paces away, his opponents beaten back, and Edwin could see the main press ahead. It looked brutal. It was then that he saw the line of crossbowmen on the high front deck and he cried out to John in a panic just as he heard the shouted order to shoot.

  John said nothing, taking aim and bringing down one man, but very few other arrows followed, and the volley of bolts was still going to happen. Edwin started to run but John seized him, pulling him back. ‘Oh no. Not right into the middle, not with no armour. Stay round the edge and see who you can pick off.’ He nocked another arrow and searched for a likely target.

  Edwin didn’t know what to do. He was dazed, at once confused by everything that had happened, exhausted from his efforts, weak with the relief of being saved from the water, and stunned by the savage violence around him. If someone had asked his name, he’d have been hard-pressed to answer.

  He stood next to John, dagger drawn. Think. Yes, John was right: diving headfirst into the melee in nothing but his tunic would be certain death. And, heroic as it might be, it would serve no purpose. He would be more help fending off any direct attack at John, who was still shooting with steady hands.

  So he stood. And thus it was that, for the second time in as many days, Edwin saw clearly actions that would be the subject of alesoaked reminiscence among the earl’s men for years to come.

  He and John were not the only ones to be standing off from the main press awaiting their opportunity. Hovering behind and around were a number of boys and youths, squires who were ready to re-arm their lords if needed. One of them was Adam – alive and unharmed – but Edwin had no time to let the relief soak in before he saw the boy fling himself into the crowd of noise and men and blades, carrying the earl’s shield.

  What in heaven’s name? But there was the earl, lying on the deck. Edwin could catch only glimpses of him as others shifted their positions. He was alive, but men were closing in, hacking d
own at him …

  And there was Adam, his slight frame dodging through the press and miraculously avoiding death and injury. He had no weapon, but as he reached his lord he flung himself across the prone form and held the shield up with both hands. Swords slashed down; axes and maces battered; he held it firm.

  Edwin’s attention was diverted by an attempted attack on John, but Stephen finished the man off before Edwin could react, hacking the axe into his chest. He held up the dripping weapon and grinned at Edwin. ‘Nice! Just wait until I see that monk.’ He stepped forward to engage another. Lord, he looked like he was enjoying himself.

  He couldn’t be, of course, not really. But he was carried away by the moment, as were men all around them. They had become less than human. Those faces Edwin could see were contorted, snarling masks of hate and violence, while between them stalked the grim and faceless knights and armoured sergeants, masked harbingers of pain and death.

  Helms covering faces … Martin! Where was Martin? Edwin scanned the melee, sure he’d be in the middle of it all. And there he was, laying about him wildly as he sought to get nearer to where the earl was lying. And that shorter, burlier figure hacking its way through the press next to him had to be Sir Hugh. They were gaining, only yards away now. Closer … Edwin couldn’t see Adam, but the shield was still up. He will stand there and he will take it because he knows it is right, echoed in Edwin’s head. How long could he hold before Martin got there?

  Edwin grabbed at John’s arm as he reached for one of the few remaining arrows in his quiver. ‘Can you get any of those men there? The ones attacking my lord earl?’ He pointed.

  ‘Are you mad? Nobody could …’ But one knight, suddenly rearing above the others to raise his sword as high as possible, fell back with an arrow in his chest. Even mail wouldn’t stop a bodkin at this range.