“That’s his business, sir,” nodded the sheriff. “He’s a brigand and thief. But there’s been attempts to rid the countryside of him before. He used to roam further north and camped in the Cotawoldd country up past Gloucester, but was chased out by the sheriff there. Not killed, mind you, nor taken off to stand his trial. Just chased south where he can make himself a damned nuisance to us instead.”
“And so,” Richard said calmly, “it is time to chase him further south, perhaps, and into the sea. Will you be the one, sir, to claim the credit for annihilating such a worthless creature, and leaving our land the cleaner for it?”
The words appealed. “I can call on men but not enough for such a battle. Babbington also has men at his call, and more than I have.”
Richard shook his head. “I have called on every local man with a pitchfork and a knife to his name. I am paying well, and am assured that our side will outnumber Babbington’s. But I lack official authority. It is that which I need from you sir.”
“I and my men will be only too delighted to oblige,” the sheriff glimpsed fame and smiled widely.
And so the following dawn was a bright pink haze. Richard and Thomas left the Lydden Inn and took the road direct for Dover. The coast’s stark white cliffs reflected lemon and lilac and a sheen of shimmering rose swept across the Narrow Sea beyond. Nearly fifty men stood on the high ground, looking down at the forests spread below to the west. Each was armed within his abilities, and the sheriff, joined by his six men at arms, joined them. Richard and Thomas, mounted, smiled into the sunrise.
It was the scout they had been waiting for, a young man who had camped with Babbington before, but had been alarmed at the increasing violence and had slunk away to farm the land alongside his father, and pretend innocence of the local brigands. He ran now, out of breath up the slope to the cliffs.
“He’s moved on, sir. Some hours back, sir, in the night. Whether he’s had an inkling of danger, I dunno. One of your fellows is a spy, no doubt of it. But Red’s got few horses, and they’ll make poor time. Heading for Suffolk, but I reckon he’s camped not far off, and half the men have wandered off for food.”
“Then we follow,” Richard said. “I’ll pay double for any man agreeing to travel immediately west.”
“This many men?” demanded the sheriff. “Babbington will hear us coming two hours off.”
“Not if we split,” Richard nodded. “You lead one group heading north, to turn and come south as soon as you trace Babbington’s exact position. I shall do the same, and overtake him, then turning back to come at him from the west. Thomas will bring the rest of the men and attack from the east. South lies the ocean.”
“It may take all day, sir. Two days if the bugger moves again. Most of our men are on foot.”
“Personally, I am willing to continue should it take weeks,” Richard informed him. “Are you losing courage, sir?”
That was not something the sheriff was prepared to admit. “But some of those who have families and jobs on the farms? Not every man is free to disappear for so many days, sir.”
“I pay well,” Richard answered. “And if we move more now and talk less, then the time lost will also be less.”
He sent a message back to the Lydden Inn for Jemima. “Forgive my absence, friend Jemima. I miss Socrates so have gone looking for owls,” he wrote. “Night being the most suitable owl-searching time, I will be unlikely to reappear until daylight tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. I hope to be gone no more than five days. So if I am not back before that, do not worry. I shall return safe and soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
They left as the dawn blended into the clouds. The gentle pastels shrank behind the sullen grey and a fine drizzle blurred the light.
The sheriff and his six assistants took ten other mounted men with them and rode north west. Thomas and twenty men including Alfred Liverich kept to the coast, tramping on foot. Richard led fifteen men and rode west into the shadows. Half his men were mounted, the others on foot, but they travelled fast. “We do not,” Richard grinned, calling out to the men gathered around him, “want to arrive last, I think? No? After both other groups have done the job for us? Then we must make a quicker pace since we have further to travel.”
They ate as they tramped, with bags of ale and pies bought from the tavern before leaving. But some men drifted off as the hours passed, and carefully disappeared into the trees before making their own desultory paths back home.
What little light the next day had brought was fading when they swung south, and at Chilmington Village, one of the sheriff’s followers was waiting for them.
“It’s started,” he said, pointing back into the drizzle. “We got there first, and found the camp. In the copse not far from here. We waited for the second group coming from the east, but couldn’t wait no longer. You’d best hurry. Sheriff Kander, he’s in the thick of it. But without you, he reckons we’re outnumbered.”
Mid-afternoon, it was almost dusk and darkness slipped through the trees. The rain had driven into a relentless slop, driving through the bare branches of the trees. The oozing darkness brought frost. Richard turned his horse east and shouted to the clump of men staring up at him. “We need to follow this man,” Richard pointed to the sheriff’s messenger. “The fight has started. Those on horseback, come with me. Those on foot follow as fast as you can.” He waited for no answer, tightened his knees, loosened the reins, head down and a quick word to his horse, and sped from canter to gallop. Eight others kept close behind. At a short distance, the other men began to run. They heard before they saw. Screaming curses and running feet, hooves, the thud of falling, and the clash of steel. The men led by Thomas, Alfred and the sheriff carried farmers’ sickles, pitchforks and axes, others were armed with sticks and knives. Between trees and the relentless twilight nothing was clear except the confusion and the noise. With a wild toss of a sickle, a branch fell at the same time as a hand and the trail of blood screeched through the air in flying scarlet. Horses snorted and stamped, turning in temper and panic, while men hurtled one upon the other and no one could see which side to attack nor which man sided with the other. Someone screamed and the sound stopped abruptly on a grunt. Someone else groaned, calling for help. Then the clash of steel drowned out all else and the rain continued to pound, streaming from branch to head and from shoulders to the churned mud below.
Head down and silent, Richard galloped towards the frantic chaos and rain-blurred tumult between the trees immediately ahead. And then, suddenly, he swerved. Tightening the reins, he stopped so abruptly that the horse reared, spun, and snorted, blowing steam and froth into the streaming wet. From his saddle, half hidden in murk, Richard peered into the thick shadows to his left. Just moments from the battle still raging ahead, he paused, and looked again intensely to his left. Nothing moved, but he waited.
The men he led, both on horseback and on foot, rushed forwards and passed him, not seeing him in the gloom. With shouts and cheers, taunts and eager insults, they ran through the trees and joined the fight, knives raised and pitchforks pointing like spears into the scurrying darkness. But Richard stayed where he was. Then, when every man had passed, he said softly, “A coward then, and a vile deserter hiding even from his own friends?”
Stepping out from behind the gnarled yew trunk, the tall man half merged into shadows as if a goblin made from the tree itself, and stood, legs apart, his sword in his hand. Red Babbington stared, expressionless. “The man who avoids death then lives to start again. A king leads. He gathers and inspires his troops but no king joins the battle. He watches from a distance, from the hilltop or the other side of the river as his men die for him, and he sees who winds and who falls. Then he makes the decision whether to leave or stay.”
Keeping hold of both his sword and the reins, Richard dismounted. The ground squelched beneath his boots and the sharp forks of the bare branches were at his back. He spoke softly, words half lost against the continuing clamour beyond. “There ha
ve been kings who entered the battle and had the courage to fight beside their men,” he said, “and one was killed, which perhaps proves your point. But I do not see you as a king, Babbington, nor do I imagine many others see you as such. I see you as a lout, a thief, a brute and a coward. Will you accept that, or show me otherwise?”
In the growing darkness, the man’s red hair was a halo of fox tails. He gripped the hilt of his sword but did not raise it. “Think you’ll antagonise me, fool? I don’t know nor care who you are nor care what you say. I make my own choices.”
Richard nodded. “I know exactly who you are,” he continued, “and despise everything I know of you. And your choices are now limited, for you fight me or you run.”
“So you choose death.” Babbington stepped forwards and raised his sword.
Richard’s sword was faster, smashing hard against the flat of Babbington’s blade, and hurling it from his grasp. Stumbling, surprised and angry, Babbington hurried backwards. “You call me a coward, sir. But only a coward fights an unarmed man.”
“Then claim back your steel,” Richard laughed. “But be quick. I’ll not waste time on you.”
Someone, little more than a squat and terrified shadow, raced past them, shoving elbows wide and pushing between both men, dashing from the fight and on into the thicker trees. “One of yours?” Babbington asked.
“I have no idea,” Richard answered. “It’s you I intend to kill. Whether my people are gaining or losing for now, once you are gone, peace will return.”
“Fool,” Red spat, reaching suddenly for his fallen sword. “I’ve been a fighter all my life. You’re the dead man.”
“Then let me introduce myself first,” Richard smiled, “My name is Wolfdon, “ and while the other man stood staring and waiting for the words, Richard swung, twisting his wrist and smashed his blade against the other, flinging it into the mud once more. Laughing, Richard nodded. “Clearly you have the better of me. Or perhaps not. Will you reclaim your weapon again?”
Babbington swore and lunged. He grabbed up his blade and swirled, dashing the edge against Richard’s legs as he turned. But Richard had already stepped aside, and his own sword crashed down on Babbington’s. Both men stepped back, drew breath, and with a last flash of steel in the fading day, moved back into position and began the fight.
The rain was ignored but the copse smelled of wet mulch and sodden earth, mossy undergrowth and years of old broken wood. The sounds of the greater battle were thunderous, yet above it all the springing steps of the two men and the brittle clang of metal against metal concentrated.
His wits were slower but Babbington’s hand was fast and his strength brutal. His first blow cut through the swirl of Richard’s fur lined cape, slicing through to his sleeve but reaching no deeper. Richard turned, set one foot between Babbington’s and tripped him, at the same moment aiming his blade at the other’s face. Babbington, suddenly cross-eyed, lurched away but the point grazed his cheek and forehead with a stream of blood. Half blinded, Babbington toppled back, stopped by the tree trunk behind him, and bounced forwards fast. His head lowered, he ran at Richard’s chest, winding him, but Richard’s sword cut immediately to the right through hair, ear, neck and shoulder. Blood burst crimson even in the darkness and Babbington fell heavily. Half stunned, his head cracked back against tree and stones, and he sat in thick mud which oozed scarlet and sucked at his hands.
Richard stepped back and waited. Babbinton shook his head, blood drops flying, and stumbled slowly upright, unsteady and peering through blood-streaked hair and dizziness.
“Bastard. Think to finish me?" he wheezed. “There’s men in these parts terrified of the name alone. Tell them Red Babbington’s on their heels and they run screaming.”
“As you may have noticed,” Richard replied, unmoving, “I am not one of them. I find you not terrifying but contemptible. You’ve ruined the lives of honest men. You abducted my friend, and a woman who had done you no harm.”
“Thripp’s little bitch?”
“Those words,” Richard smiled, “have just quickened your final breath. Stand steady, and face me.”
Babbington was leaning, breathless, against the trunk of the yew where he had first been hiding. He spoke through the blood pouring from his face and lips, gabbling from pain and fury. “I backed Thripp. He carried my cargo, and I gave him coin enough to reach the Spanish coast with a good crew. He cheated me, the filth. I’ll stand for mischief and I’ll stand for accident, but not for lies and outright theft.”
Richard sighed. “What foolery. You live by theft and butchery. Your cargo comprised stolen weapons and the louts to use them while setting out to steal more.” He watched the other man carefully while allowing himself time to catch his own breath. He was unharmed, but the many days of bitter cold travelling and concern for his friends, the recent race to overtake him and his gang, and the fight itself had left him tired. Now he said, “So do I kill you now, fool? Or will you take up your sword and defend yourself again.”
Babbington smiled through the blood, swung his blade, rushing abruptly forwards, head down. His boots slid in the mud, shooting him directly with twice the force into Richard’s face. Too fast and too strong to avoid entirely, but this was a repeated move and Richard was half prepared. He twisted aside, caught the brunt against his shoulder, and felt the sickening thud of the blade against his jaw. The same wound he had already suffered, the flesh and bone, so recently healed, spurted open into pain. But his own steel stabbed sideways and up, and knew it had struck hard. Bone first, then the squelch of groin and organs. Richard twisted the hilt, grinding inwards. Red Babbington tumbled at his feet.
He lay spread like a gouged dog in the bear-pit, legs apart, the blood flooding through his hose and seeping like warm oil from each end of the gaping cavity. Babbington’s eyes were open, dazed and unbelieving. He spat and the blood gurgled from his mouth. Dropping his own sword he clutched at his lower belly, but the spasm of fear distorted both his face and his groping fingers. He began to whine like a frightened pup. “You’ve done me, bastard,” he whispered, high pitched. “Help me up. Get a surgeon.”
Richard stood tall, regarding the creature on the ground. Mud was lapping Babbington’s ears, turning his red hair black. Richard shook his head. “Too late, I imagine,” he murmured without sympathy. “There is always a loser. It was, I think, your turn. And the world’s turn to prosper from your death. No one will miss you, I imagine.”
Babbington grunted, swallowed blood and tried to speak. “My men will slaughter you – and yours – ,”
Richard smiled. “I think not. You’ll doubtless make your way through Purgatory alone. I, on the other hand, will now inform your men that the battle is over.”
He did not look back as he strode to where his horse stood watching, one quick leg swung over its back and into the stirrup, and rode quickly towards the continuing chaos. He did not pause but on the tumbled outskirts, raised his sword and shouted, “Red Babbington is dead. Check out the corpse. Save your own lives. Run now, or stay to be arrested.”
The sheriff heard, and hollered to cease and surrender. Thomas turned, grinned, and strode over. He was bleeding from the right arm but otherwise stood strong, and between the trees Richard saw Alfred Liverich staring, three men dead at his feet.
“Seems we’ve done good business, sir,” the sheriff said, bustling over. “I’m obliged. I doubt we’d have managed such a success on our own.”
Richard was again shouting to the crowd. Men were dumping their weapons, stretching their backs, shaking their heads. Each touched the tender sores and injuries received, kicked at the strewn bodies, and stood a moment in the heaving darkness, wondering whether to stay or flee. Many crept away into the shadows. Others came forwards. “Light a torch,” one man yelled. “What buggers is dead and who’s on our side? I can’t see naught but murk. Is there a tinder box, and any bloody wood what ain’t too wet to burn?”
There was a sudden spark, a flash of flame a
nd the abrupt gleam of golden fire across the littered ground. Heaped bodies and churned mud merged. The vision loomed and with a hiss, went out. Too damp to burn, the flame fizzled and faded. A stench of scorched bark and sooty ooze merged with the smell of death, blood and shit from the fallen.
“Those of you who came at my call,” Richard told them, “get yourselves back to the Pier Tavern in Dover. I’ll pay each and every one of you and pay a doctor and a surgeon too for whoever needs it. But I’ve no bulging purse on me, nor can do much in the middle of a copse somewhere near the borders of Suffolk.” He laughed. “Where the devil are we, anyhow?”
“Bedlam,” one man called back. He had lost a hand, and had wound his cape around the stump.
“So are we too tired or injured to trudge home?” Richard asked. “Then is there a township nearby?”
“No town,” called the sheriff. “But the village of Chilmington is near enough. Follow me, those who can.”
“Ride slow,” Thomas said. “We’re half dead with exhaustion and may fall before we reach our beds.”
Richard smiled and turned his horse. “Come ride with me, Tom. I’ve a well-trained horse which can take us both for a mile or two. And we’ll travel slow for all to follow. I’ll arrange beds in the village for every man who wants one, but my coin’s in Dover.”
“Give us a good night’s sleep,” one man muttered, “and I’ll follow you to hell and back tomorrow.”
“Neither hell nor paradise, my friend,” Richard called back. “But Dover, a cup of strong beer, and a handful of gold coins I can promise you all.”
Tom was staring up at Richard. “You’re wounded yourself, Dickon,” he said. “You also need the surgeon. There’ll be a doctor of some kind in the village, even if only a barber.”
The Deception of Consequences Page 27
