Knight Assassin

by James Boschert

  He licked his lips with a dry tongue. They were being burned out.

  Despite the devastation inflicted by the arrows more men managed to get inside and came charging toward the small group of defenders waiting near the entrance to the hall. Talon stepped forward only to be confronted by the big man in mail who had lunged at him earlier.

  “Where do you think you are going, heathen?” the man yelled as he swung a ball-and-chain at Talon’s head.

  Talon only just had time to duck as the spiked ball whistled past his head and then brought his shield up. He knew it was Roger and he realized that, no matter how the battle went, this fight was now just between the two of them.

  He became aware that there was a small space forming around them even as the arrows continued to speed and the fighting intensified for possession of the area in front of the gates. Vaguely he heard his father call out encouragement to his men as he drove forward, trying to take possession.

  Then, as though from a distance, Talon heard more yells, then some other men stampeded past him through the mud to crash into the struggling mass of men at the gate. He realized that Max had come to his father’s aid.

  But Roger was coming at him again, the hideous ball-and-chain whirling around his head once more. Talon dragged his shield up and took the full blow on his left arm. He felt the numbing force and heard the crash of the ball on the metal-encased wooden shield at the same time. He responded with a slash at Roger’s exposed head with his axe but Roger was too quick and brought his shield up in time. The axe glanced off the top of the shield and because its handle was slick with blood, it flew out of Talon’s hand like a missile.

  “Is that the best you can do? You heathen pig! You will pay for murdering my father with all your lives, you first!” Roger yelled at him as he started to whirl the ball again.

  Talon drew his sword and waited. He would have to endure one more beating in order to make his move. The ball came hissing down again and smashed into his upheld shield. Again the force of the blow numbed his arm and drove him to a kneeling position. He was almost sitting on the back of a man who was face down in the mud behind him.

  Roger swung his shield around and slammed it into Talon’s body, driving him back onto his heels. He was now kneeling and groggy with the pain in his left arm and his bruised side. Roger stood over him, his face almost hidden by the wide nose piece of his helmet. Roaring his victory, Roger raised the ball-and-chain high in the air above him for the final blow. Talon was numb from his neck down to his left hand but he knew that unless he moved he was going to die.

  He forced himself to ignore the pain and drove himself off his kneeling position in close to Roger, knocking aside the shield with his blade. In one fluid move, Talon stabbed his sword into the uncovered region just under Roger’s armpit. His finely tempered blade even flexed as he drove it through the thick leather and then into the ribs, deep into Roger’s chest. Talon forced himself to his feet and drove the blade in even deeper.

  Roger gasped, groaned in agony, then tried to pull away. His shield arm seemed to lose all its strength and his right arm fell to his side, loosing the deadly ball that flew off into the darkness. His hand went to the entrance of the wound but it was too weak to do anything but clutch feebly at the steel of Talon’s sword. His face was close to Talon’s, his eyes wide with agony and despair as he realized he was a dead man. Talon held the blade in relentlessly, pushing it deeper into his victim. Roger fell to his knees and coughed; a gout of blood poured out of his mouth and he fell forward onto his side. Talon quickly tugged his blade free and looked around.

  He noticed that the gates were shut and in the torchlight men were standing watching him. He stared around him in the silence that followed, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. There were many bodies strewn about nearby, both the enemy and his father’s men. The fire still raged, but it was now the only sound in the yard other than the occasional groan from a wounded man.

  His father came striding over to him, calling for light. He was covered in blood. A torch was produced and men gathered round Talon, looking down on Roger’s corpse.

  “Father, what of the enemy? We need to be ready for more attacks,” Talon gasped, leaning on his battered shield.

  His father placed a mailed hand on his shoulder. “They saw you slay him, Talon. They lost interest in the fight and gave up after they saw him fall; and, with Max to help us with his reinforcements, we took the gates from them.” Sir Hughes sounded weary.

  Max was standing nearby, his face and tunic filthy with sweat and gore, but he wore a happy grin on his face.

  “Thank you, Max, you saved the day,” Talon said wearily.

  Gareth called from the parapet. “Sir Hughes! They seem to be gone, my Lord... at least for the moment.”

  There was a muted cheer from the darkness, which was taken up by others, and the next thing Talon knew men were crowding around, slapping him on the back, unaware of the pain they were inflicting and cheering for all they were worth. His father took his helmet off and grinned tiredly at him. Sir Hughes was red with his and other men’s blood. His shield, too, was dented; but it was a relieved smile he gave Talon.

  “Now we must put out the fire or we'll have lost all we fought for,” Sir Hughes shouted. “Get water! We have to put the fire out!”

  Instantly, men were galvanized and ran to throw water with anything that came to hand on the flames.

  Talon looked around him, bemused. All about were filthy, bloody men shouting jubilantly at one another and some were even dancing a jig, even as they attacked the fire. He saw Max grinning at him in the crowd and called to him. “Did they come, Max? Did they come on your side, too?”

  Max walked over and with him was Bartholomew, they were laughing excitedly.

  “They came, Talon, with two ladders, but we were expecting them and poured pitch and coals onto them. The Welshmen did their work well, too. The scoundrels lost heart very quickly after we had driven them back twice. Then I left Bartholomew to keep watch and came over here; it looked a bit too close for comfort,” Max reported cheerfully.

  The two of them were bloody and filthy and looked as though they had had a stiff fight of it. Time enough to find out how it had really gone, he thought.

  The flames of the barn were finally extinguished and reduced to a smoldering pile. Boys were posted to watch in case the flames flared up again. Exhausted men sat or stood around in the early hours. Few had any energy left to rejoice at their hard-won victory. Most were wounded and needed attention.

  Despite the reprieve, neither Talon nor Sir Hughes were going to take any chances. They posted guards at every point and admonished the tired men to be vigilant. Another attack like the last one could carry the day for the enemy if they were determined enough. In his mind though, Talon was almost sure that there would be no further attacks. Marcel was now the sole leader and for sure lacked the will to take further action— if indeed he could even rally the mercenaries he commanded. He lacked the strength of will that his brother had possessed, and most probably the respect needed to lead this type of men.

  Nonetheless, bone weary as he was, he worked with his father to ensure that they were not vulnerable. The gates were shored up and repaired as far as possible. Heavy beams were stuck in the mud and wedged against the shattered wood to hold it in place.

  Exhausted men stayed at their posts and were relieved with water and food brought by the village children and women. The wounded were carried or helped to the hall and their injuries bound by Marguerite and Aicelina, assisted by the other women, with Claude and Pierre in attendance.

  Hughes oversaw the gristly work of cutting off Roger’s head and sticking it on a pike at the main gate.

  “This will serve as a warning to them in the morning should they be contemplating another attack.” he said grimly to Talon. “I don’t want to deal with this scum again for any reason.”

  Talon spent the hours before dawn with his companions the Welshmen on the bat
tlements. They talked in low tones about the battle and what the following morning might bring. None knew what to expect, but they all hoped the mercenaries would have had enough. The price was high to take this fort; perhaps they would go elsewhere for easier pickings.

  As the light of dawn streaked the eastern sky they forced themselves to their feet and stared with red and gritty eyes at the forest, alert once more, waiting for any sign of attack. Weary men—knight, man-at-arms, and villager alike—their clothes damp from dew, with weapons tight in their hands, waited fearfully and stared toward the woods in the direction of the village. A light drizzle began to fall, chilling the men who huddled into their cloaks, wishing they had a warm fire to stand in front of, better still a warm bed; none had been near a bed for two days now.

  There was only silence from the forest’s edge. No sound from the village or any sign of movement. Still they waited.

  Sir Hughes stood with Talon on the ramparts and stared with the rest of them as the day dawned overcast and wet. He shook the drops of rain from his shoulders like an irritated bear and then said, “We should send out a sortie party to find out what's going on, Talon.”

  “I agree. Will you let me lead it? I'll take a bowman and Max if that's all right with you.”

  His father nodded, staring reflectively at the grisly sight of Roger’s grinning bloody head and the bodies hanging nearby. “If they're gone, I'll ensure he is buried well. If not, they can see what their fate is should they wish to continue.”

  Talon and Max rode out with Gareth for company. They made their way cautiously on their horses until they were close to the forest edge at the opening that led to the village. They could smell wood smoke coming from that direction but there was no sign of life. They rode their horses along the wide path toward the village, finally coming out onto the end of the main road where the huts and cottages commenced.

  Apart from the tendrils of smoke coming from the remains of a fire in the middle of the street, there was nothing to be seen. Some crows lifted off, cawing loudly to flap away over the trees leaving behind an eerie silence. The ground was littered with discarded equipment, some ladders, and even meat and bread, as though the mercenaries had left in a hurry.

  Max and Talon dismounted at the spot near the cottage where Talon had killed Guillabert. They hefted their swords and advanced cautiously. Talon led the way toward the entrance of the cottage. They came to the doorway; the door was hanging by one leather hinge, and went inside.

  They found Marcel lying on his back in a large puddle of blood near the cold body of his father. Talon stooped over Marcel’s corpse and saw there were many wounds in his chest and front. He turned the body over and found even more. Although it was dark in the room, it was clear there had been a fight; the table was broken and the stool was smashed, and Talon thought he knew why.

  “It would seem the mercenaries wanted their money; they had no stomach for more, is my guess.”

  Max nodded. “Marcel was a fool to argue with the likes of them; they simply took it for themselves anyway.”

  “I doubt he had enough to give them. In any case, he was no better than they, after what he did to Philip. I would have taken care of him if they had not,” Talon said grimly.

  The walked carefully around the village to ensure there was no one else about and then rode back to the fort.

  After they had dismounted, Talon told his father what he had found. “There is the chance that the mercenaries did not find all the money that they expected in the village and went back to the castle. We should perhaps go and investigate, as Petrona will be there and they will not treat her well.”

  Sir Hughes nodded. “We should go as even now it might be too late. Are you able to come?”

  Talon nodded wearily. “Yes, I should go, too. We must make sure she's at least safe.”

  “There is more than that. I mean to have that castle for myself. We've earned it and I shall have it—and no one else!”

  Talon looked hard at his father, observing the red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and the determined look on his filthy, unshaven face. He nodded agreement. Sir Hughes was right—the castle was a part of the spoils of war.

  Soon Sir Hughes left the fort at the head of as many men as he could mount. They left Max in charge of the fort and galloped as fast as the horses could take them in the direction of Guillabert’s castle.

  The rode down the wide path before the castle a few hours later and saw smoke rising from the inside the walls.

  Sir Hughes grunted. “I fear we're too late.”

  As they galloped up to the castle they could see the drawbridge was down and the gates open. They could hear drunken shouts and laughter, and the sound of breaking furniture came to the mounted men as they approached.

  “We should just go right in and take all before us,” Sir Hughes declared loudly. “Follow me.”

  They swept across the drawbridge with a noisy clatter of hooves on the wood and then they were into the yard. There were only a handful of men there and most were lying drunk against walls or staggering about, holding skins of beer. There were bodies of both men and women lying at odd angles, indicating that the mercenaries had all but sacked the castle.

  Sir Hughes’ followers dispatched the men in the yard, chasing them down without mercy, knowing them to be scum who would not have scrupled to do the same to them. There was a loud crash inside the keep and a scream that told them some more had just managed to knock down Petrona’s chamber door and had found her or some women in hiding.

  Talon and Gareth rushed up the stone stairs, almost tripping over a drunken man lying in their way. As he came into the anteroom where he had listened to the conversation with the bishop, Talon heard Petrona crying and a struggle going on in her chamber. There was raucous laughter from more than one man.

  Gareth and Talon approached the chamber in silence; there was a low moan from Petrona and some heavy breathing. They slipped into the room. One of the men had Petrona held down on the bed, her dresses up around her waist, while another was preparing to rape her.

  Talon’s sword ripped into his back before the man even noticed that he was there. The blade protruded out the front and the man fell forward so that his face landed on Petrona’s belly. She screamed with fright and horror struggling frantically to push the body off her, screaming all the while. Talon wrenched the blade free and turned.

  The other man had just time to let go of Petrona, when Gareth’s dagger went into his throat. He fell with a gurgle to the floor.

  Talon hastily covered the still screaming Petrona with a large blanket and held her until she had calmed down enough to recognize him. Then she fell to weeping, great racking sobs that shook her frame. She babbled his name over and over as they left the room.

  They left the bodies where they were and took her down the stairs. Men were still hunting the remnants of the mercenaries, some of whom were fighting with the desperation of cornered rats, but the fight was all but over and Sir Hughes was still sitting on his horse, watching and directing events. There would be no prisoners taken today. He intended that the victory be complete and uncomplicated.

  The smoke they had seen billowing into the air from the castle came from a fire that had been started in the stables. They were now a blazing ruin. As Talon and Gareth came out of the keep, the beams fell inward with a crash and a shower of sparks rose into the air.

  Sir Hughes watched the fire grimly. “Let it burn; we'll be coming back to claim this place later, the fire will not damage the keep nor the walls.” When he saw Talon carrying Petrona, he grunted. “Did you get there in time? Is she alive?”

  “Just in time; she is alive.”

  “Then we should take her back to the fort.” He turned to one of his mounted men. “Cedric, go fast and take down Roger's head, make sure the body and the head are placed together. Go, man!”

  Trooping they came, from near and far

  The jovial priests of mirth and war;

  Alike for feast and figh
t prepar'd,

  Battle and banquet both they shar'd.

  Of late, before each martial clan,

  They blew their death-note in the van,

  But now, for every merry mate,

  Rose the portcullis' iron grate;

  They sound the pipe, they strike the string,

  They dance, they revel, and they sing,

  Until the rude turrets shake and ring.

  - Sir Walter Scott

  Chapter 25

  Aftermath

  Talon woke feeling bruised all over. In particular his left arm and shoulder ached badly. He groaned, rolled off his pallet and stood up shakily, wondering what time it might be. He checked himself over and found that, besides his bad arm, he had numerous other bruises, welts, and cuts about his body. The sounds from outside were muted by the thick wooden walls of the hall, but it was clear that the fort was awake.

  There seemed to be the usual bustle of a normal day going on outside and he wondered for a moment if the previous few days had been some kind of nightmare, but his left arm and shoulder reminded him of the unpleasant fact that it had been all too real.

  He walked slowly along the short corridor, holding an arm that he could barely lift, into the hall where he saw some of the more seriously wounded still lying on straw beds. The several who were awake called out his name. He waved at them with his good hand and smiled, then continued on out into the bright autumn sunshine. The rain had left the ground smelling clean and fresh to be dried by a light wind from the northwest that rustled the leaves of the tall trees. He could see clouds over the low hills that looked as though they held some rain.

  He seated himself gingerly on a bench by the door and looked about him. It was still early morning but most of the villagers had left already. He surmised that they had a lot of work to do on their houses and barns, and there were the remains of the harvest to bring in now that it was safe to do so. He realized what had struck him as different this morning; it was the lack of bleating sheep and goats or bellowing cattle. Only the stock belonging directly to Sir Hughes was still there, quietly munching their fodder or turned out onto the field to graze alongside the detritus of the battle that was still strewn about.