by C. B. Hanley
Martin was there now, so Edwin shouted at John not to loose again. The sight was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. All the other combatants, all the surrounding confusion, seemed to fade away as Edwin focused only on his friend, watching and praying and willing him on. Martin planted his feet and stood astride the earl’s fallen form so none could reach him while he still stood. His sword whirled almost faster than Edwin could see, slashing, crunching, forcing enemies back, while his shield took blow after blow after sickening blow. Armed French knights clustered about him, although whether they wanted to test themselves against such a great fighter or whether they were simply yelling at him to yield and surrender, to give up himself and his fallen prize, Edwin didn’t know. But Martin paid no attention to any of them and Edwin knew that he was – temporarily at least – not the Martin he knew, but rather a ferocious instrument of violence and death.
The press was thinning. Shouts and cheers started to sound. Edwin thought at first that they were something to do with Martin, but either he couldn’t hear or he was ignoring them, for he still stood tall, streaked in blood that Edwin hoped belonged to others, and with a growing pile of bodies around him.
John seized Edwin by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Look!’
He was pointing at the high deck, where the Frenchman they’d identified earlier as the one in charge was holding up both his arms. He shouted something that nobody heard, given that he was still wearing his helm, and then in an unmistakeable gesture he reversed his sword and handed it to the Earl of Salisbury, who was opposite him.
The cheering grew louder, and John was thumping Edwin on the back. ‘We did it! We won!’
Edwin almost staggered with relief. The French were surrendering.
Free from the danger of attack, he could now sweep his gaze along the carnage that covered the whole ship. And beyond: for the first time, he realised that other battles had been fought on other ships, and that they too were yielding.
Thank the Lord. The French fleet would not reach London. They would not march north to destroy everything Edwin loved. And here, as well, the bloodshed would be over.
But he was wrong. Still feeling the exhilaration of the fighting, of their dances with death, the soldiers and sailors of his own side were whooping in triumph and whirling their weapons. As Edwin watched in horror, they began to massacre their surrendering opponents, cutting and slicing and hacking even as they held up their arms or fell to their knees, and throwing the bleeding and dismembered bodies over the side into the sea. The white foam turned red as the waves lapped against the side of the ship.
Edwin cried out in despair, but there was nothing he could do against such bloodlust. He couldn’t stop them; he would only invite his own death or injury if he tried to get in the way. He watched with a numb mind as several shrieking Frenchmen threw themselves into the water, where they would surely drown, in order to save themselves from the bloody slaughter.
Still not sated, the howling mob advanced on the group of French knights now clustered on the high deck, but here they were pushed back by a more disciplined guard of armed troops from their own side. Of course, thought Edwin, those nobles will want to save their prisoners for ransom, not lose their chance of gain. And besides, half of them are probably related to each other.
And then, somewhere, a cry went up that Eustace the Monk had not yet been found. Immediately the rabble was off like a pack of hunting dogs, swarming all around the ship, up and down ladders and in and out of all sorts of spaces and holes that Edwin hadn’t even known existed.
Eustace was an enemy, but Edwin found himself praying that the man was already dead, terrified of what might be his fate at the hands of the blood-crazed horde ... and of what he himself might be forced to witness.
It wasn’t long before the pack was in full cry after sighting its quarry; three men were dragged up from the bowels of the ship. They were all gabbling, pleading for their lives. But was one of them Eustace?
‘That’s him!’ It was Stephen, pointing with the axe Edwin had given him, the blood on it now starting to congeal. He strode forward. ‘That’s the bastard.’ He walked up to the man in the middle and spat in his face.
‘Please, please … I’ll give you anything. Ten thousand marks of silver!’
The mob hooted and howled with derision. Stephen played up to them, shouting as much to them as to Eustace himself. ‘I’ll tell you what – I’ll give you a choice!’
The ghost of hope flitted across the man’s face, and Edwin felt sorry for him. Please, don’t be too cruel. But then he remembered what Stephen had said about the girl he was going to marry, and her friends.
Stephen continued. ‘Your choice! You can have your head cut off on that machine there,’ – he pointed to the timbers that would be used to construct the trebuchet – ‘or right here on this rail!’
Eustace’s reply was drowned out amid raucous cheers, as was any attempt by the nobles to pause and see if his ransom offer was serious. Edwin tried not to look but he saw the axe rise and fall, heard the wet thump and the huge cheer, and then – oh God – saw the dripping head borne aloft as it was thrust on a stick. Suddenly the heaving of the ship was matched by a heaving in his stomach, and he retched over the side before collapsing to huddle in a corner away from the blood that slicked all over the deck, closing his eyes to shut out the sights all around him.
Martin woke up.
That was the only way he could describe it to himself; he had almost no recollection of what he had been doing, except that he had needed to protect the earl. And this he had done, and this he had continued to do, unaware of how much time had passed, until he realised that there was nobody left in front of him.
He sucked in more sweaty, fetid air as best he could from inside the helm and peered out through his eye-slits. Nobody in front, nobody attacking from the side … the battle was over. The French knights around him had fallen back and were surrendering to eager takers. There was nobody left to fight, and he was still standing.
But there was something else. The men around him were pointing at him, whispering, talking behind their hands. What …?
He tried to move and found to his surprise that he couldn’t. Dear God, had something happened to his legs that he hadn’t felt yet? But they were still there; the reason he couldn’t take a step was that he was knee-deep in bodies. Some were wounded, stirring and groaning; others were dead, the victims of horrific injuries. It was a scene of utter carnage, and it would appear from the evidence and from the attitude of those around him that he had caused most of it.
Martin looked at his sword, still clenched in a right hand that didn’t feel part of him. It was glistening red from the point to the hilt, as was his mail glove and sleeve. More blood was splattered all over the front of his surcoat. What had he done?
There was some kind of commotion behind him, howls of pain and splashes, but there was no accompanying clash of weapons, so he didn’t bother looking round. He remained motionless, bloodied sword in hand, waiting for his mind to re-inhabit his body.
The earl! Dear God, what was he doing standing around when he should be helping his lord?
Casting his sword to the deck – don’t sheathe it or it will stick and you’ll never get it all clean again, said the voice of his long years of training – Martin slid the stifling helm off and enjoyed the sudden hit of fresh, salty air to his face and his wet hair. He took in several gulps. A drink would be good, but that would have to wait. He knelt and began to roll bodies to one side. That arm sticking out of the bottom of the pile, on the deck, surely that was …? Yes, it must be – he recognised some small repairs to the mail on the back of the hand. And the hand itself was moving. The earl was alive. Thank the Lord.
The corpses had some terrible injuries, wounds he could hardly bear to look at now, in the clear light of day and with unrestricted sight. Surely he, Martin, hadn’t caused all this? He couldn’t have. Why, that man there was almost – but never mind that now. He had to pu
t such thoughts away for the present, had to push them down and hide them until he had the time to go over them in peace. For now he had to get the earl out, had to move the heavy weight of men and armour off him before he suffocated.
He neared the bottom of the heap, and a shield came into view. Blue and gold checks – his lord’s.
No. A flash of recollection hit him without warning, and he saw again the picture of Adam flinging himself into the fray with the spare in order to protect the earl until Martin could get there. Good lad.
He shifted the shield, which was lying over both of them together.
‘Come on then, up you get. You’ve been through it in the last few days, haven’t you? You’ll need some time off.’
Adam didn’t move, limp and face down over his now-stirring lord. ‘Come on now. Get up.’ Was that his own voice, sounding so unsteady? His mouth was dry as he reached out to shake the younger boy by the shoulder. ‘Adam?’
‘Adam?’
Edwin gripped the rail as the dock came into sight. He was back on the earl’s ship now; half of the sailors and men had made their way back before the ties that bound the two vessels were loosed, with the rest staying on the great French ship to guard the prisoners and to take over the sailing after the massacre of the French crew. Edwin would see their faces all his life, watch over and over again as their eyes opened wide with terror at the sight of the blades swinging towards them; he would hear their screams as they died or flung themselves into the water to face a different kind of death. The sea had swallowed them all, the living and the dead, and their cries were heard no longer.
Nigel was among the fallen, as Edwin already knew; his shattered face had howled and shrieked its agony for some while before the sound broke off abruptly, and Edwin wondered whether he had died from the injury or whether a comrade had put him out of his misery. John had remained on the French ship, filling his hands and his tunic with coins as they were plundered from the heavy kists dragged out on to the deck. The nobles had found out what was going on and put a stop to it, wanting the hard silver to go along with their rich ransom promises, but Edwin had no doubt that John and many others would find a way of keeping some of their booty.
On the subject of booty, now he had leisure to look about him Edwin couldn’t help noticing that Hubert de Burgh’s ship, having finally managed to turn around, had sailed in at the very end of the engagement and had claimed two French ships as prizes. Edwin had spotted John Marshal on the deck and he rather uncharitably wondered how long it would be before tales spread through the host about him winning the battle single-handed.
He returned his attention to their own ship. Sir Roger was standing next to him. He had saved Edwin’s life, surely, by protecting his back when he was hanging over the side of the ship; he had taken no prisoners himself and seemed glad to volunteer to make his way back to a deck that wasn’t smeared and soaked in blood. He had assured Edwin that he had seen both the earl and Martin upright and seemingly unharmed. Now he stood staring at the open expanse of the sea, saying nothing, his lips moving in silent prayer.
As they approached the town of Sandwich, Edwin could see the dock lined with men. Some were holding the reins of horses – of course, they’d have been able to see them coming and would have brought mounts for the nobles. Others were simply waving.
But something wasn’t right. Obviously, news of the victory could not have reached the town, for theirs was the first ship back and they would share the happy tidings themselves. But the cheerful waving from the mast and ropes, and the fact that a French ship was limping in behind them, must surely have given a clue? So why did the gesticulating seem so urgent, why were the men cupping their hands around their mouths and shouting themselves hoarse in an attempt to make their voices heard over the wind?
Sir Roger picked up on the atmosphere. ‘Something is wrong.’
They continued on their way, nearing land no faster or slower than they had before, but Edwin was tense. He willed the wind to carry them on.
Finally they docked, ropes being thrown across and made fast, a gangplank laid. Edwin was one of the first down it. He ran straight for a man he recognised as being a groom in the earl’s household, but by then he’d already heard the shouted news: there had been an attack on the camp in their absence.
Sir Roger was just behind him, and Edwin heard him gasp as though he had been struck. The groom knew only that the raid had been swift, some horses and goods stolen, some casualties sustained, before the attackers had fled back the way they had come with their gains. Men loyal to Louis, no doubt, hoping to cause some damage.
Edwin had heard little past the word ‘casualties’, and neither had Sir Roger. The knight was now on the move, but Edwin called him back – there was no way he could run all the way back to camp in that heavy armour. He scanned the dockside. The man he’d been talking to was holding the earl’s own horse, and it would be more than their lives were worth to take that. But …
He seized Sir Roger’s arm. ‘There! That’s the horse Martin rides, that tall one. He won’t mind.’
The knight nodded and commandeered the animal. With an astonishing energy and agility, given how long he’d been armed and how arduously he had fought, he sprang into the saddle. He held out a hand to Edwin.
Edwin took it and hauled himself up behind – the horse was big and could surely manage both of them over a short distance. And then they were off, bowling their way through the crowd on the dock, past startled onlookers who had begun to trickle out on to the streets of the town as news of the victory had filtered through, and out the gates. Sir Roger put his heels to the horse’s flank and they gained speed as they galloped up to the camp. Edwin held on to his belt and prayed, trying not to imagine the sights that might greet them when they got there.
Chapter Thirteen
Sir Roger threw himself off the horse as they reached the earl’s pavilion, and Edwin tumbled after him. Oh please, Lord …
In front of the doorway stood Brother William and Humphrey, both labouring for breath but upright and alive. Edwin spotted little Hugh inside, looking unhurt, thank God.
Humphrey was pale and bleeding from a gash to his forehead, but he held a bloodied sword in his hand and there was a body at his feet.
Brother William was the spectre from a nightmare.
He was surrounded by sprawling figures, some dead, some groaning and twitching. His white robe was sprayed all over with blood and drenched in it from the hem to the knee; the loose sleeves were dripping red and the cudgel in his hand was covered in gore and bits of things Edwin didn’t want to think about. He also had a crossbow bolt embedded in the upper part of his left arm, a fact of which he seemed to become aware only when Edwin pointed wordlessly at it.
The monk’s voice came out in gasps. ‘We’re fine – never mind us – some got past – check on the others – servants – boys …’
Sir Roger was already off, sprinting as fast as his armour and his exhaustion would allow, and Edwin followed him. They dodged through the labyrinth of the camp, tripping and skipping over tent ropes, scattered baggage and bodies.
Without warning, Edwin thumped into the knight’s mailed back: he had stopped dead. Edwin peered round him and felt the ice close around his heart.
Alf was on his side by the ashes of the fire, his wooden leg smashed and his entrails spilling out of a gaping wound in his stomach. He was still alive, trying to drag himself nearer to Dickon; the dark, slick trail of blood across the earth showed that he had somehow made a yard or two from where he had originally fallen. It was no use, though: Dickon lay unmoving, wide eyes staring at the bright afternoon sky. A crossbow bolt through the heart pinned the body to the ground, and the expression on the small, pale face was one of surprise rather than pain, so Edwin hoped at least that it had been quick.
And there, in front of his friends, lay the body of little Peter.
His death had not been so easy: his lips were drawn back in a snarl and his chest was cov
ered in vicious stab wounds. A knife was gripped tightly in his right hand, and his left arm was flung out wide as though he had tried to protect Dickon to the end.
Sir Roger had been standing in stunned, disbelieving silence, but now a howl escaped him and his knees buckled.
Edwin wanted to join him by Peter’s side, wanted to cry his eyes out at the sight, wanted to kick and smash things to overcome his sense of powerlessness, wanted to rail against the absolute futility of it all, the tragedy, the waste. But a groan from Alf stopped him, and Edwin hurried to kneel at his side. He was aware of other men arriving behind them, exclaiming at the scene of horror, but he had no mind for them. He gathered Alf in his arms as best he could, trying not to hurt him even more. He looked around for something he could press over the wound, but there was nothing and he could do nothing. They were all dead and dying, these men and boys who had been ordered to stay away from the fight, and he could not help.
‘Dickon …’ Alf’s lips hardly moved.
‘I’m sorry, Alf, so sorry, but he’s dead.’
A bloodied hand clutched at Edwin’s tunic. ‘Don’t let them …’
Edwin tried to comfort him. ‘They’re all gone. Nothing will happen to him now.’
Alf grimaced with pain and tried again, his breath coming in shallow gasps. ‘You don’t understand …’
Perhaps. Perhaps there was one thing Edwin could do for the dying man. His suspicions had been growing for some while, and the desperation in Alf’s voice now made him sure he was right. He bent his head close to Alf’s ear. ‘Listen to me. Know that nobody has touched … her. A crossbow bolt to the heart, a quick death, no fear, no pain. She is with the Lord and at peace. She is safe. Nobody knows.’
Alf’s eyes were becoming unfocused but Edwin thought he had understood. He may as well keep talking if it was bringing him a crumb of comfort. ‘Your daughter? And you didn’t want to leave her behind.’ There was blood everywhere, black blood, bright red blood and the grotesque blue inside parts of a man dying in agony. But Alf was still aware of him. What else to say? ‘You’re a fine father. She loved you, she saw you every day, you took care of her.’
