Roseblood (35 page)

They pressed on. Eventually the trees gave way to a spacious glade, which led to the deserted village of Thorpensoke. They passed along the ancient high street, derelict houses, cottages and outbuildings ranged on either side. The great well, in what used to be the marketplace, was overgrown. They turned a corner; the high street widened, leading straight down to the grey, lichen-covered mass of St Michael-in-the-Forest, a magnificent building with a broad front, spacious steep steps and a heavy oaken door that had withstood the ravages of time. The company dismounted, their horses led away. Simon took out a hunting horn, blew three shrill blasts and waited. Sevigny, standing beside him, watched the trees behind the church. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks, then he grinned at the scores of hooded men garbed in Lincoln green who emerged like silent ghosts.

Simon shouted for silence, ordering his own company to open the doors of the church and take the good brothers inside whilst he greeted the newcomers. Sevigny, counting quickly, reckoned there must be at least a hundred men, well armed with sword and dagger, each carrying a war bow with a quiver crammed with arrows slung across his back. The leading figure pulled back his hood, and Sevigny smiled at Roseblood’s shadow, Ignacio. Hands were clasped, greetings exchanged, but from further back along the trackway came warning whistles. Simon urged Ignacio’s company up the steps into the church, then followed them in. He and Sevigny pulled the ancient doors closed, lowering the great bar into its iron clasps.

‘I had Ignacio prepare everything,’ Simon gasped, leaning against the door. ‘Look around you, clerk, see the trap that has been primed. The fowler’s net is ready.’

Sevigny, quietly admiring Roseblood’s cunning, turned and stared around the nave, which stretched, simple and stark, down to the chancel, sanctuary steps and ruined high altar. Narrow windows high in the wall afforded meagre sunlight. The nave was gloomy; even from where he stood, Sevigny found it difficult to distinguish the company making itself ready for battle.

‘LeCorbeil will think we are trapped,’ Simon murmured.

‘They will force the doors,’ Sevigny agreed, ‘and will never expect what they find inside. When they do, it will be too late.’

He and Simon searched the church. Its one weakness was the number of side doors. These were boarded up and barred, though they could still provide entry. The north door, corpse door and sacristy door were vulnerable to attack. Sevigny ordered all three to be watched by small groups of bowmen and a few men-at-arms. The rest of the force were arranged in two long lines of archers, forty to each column, with a small reserve in the rear. As the hasty preparations were completed, Sevigny sensed the camaraderie amongst these men, all from Queenhithe, owing a deep allegiance to Simon and the rich life of his tavern. Most of them were former soldiers who had served in France.

Simon swiftly explained in hushed tones how, after his meeting in the Tower, he had realised that the royal army was marching to destruction. He pointed across to where Prior Aelred had taken sanctuary in the church’s only side chapel.

‘Beaufort could have sent all the angels of Heaven, but the King was reluctant to fight and York was determined to do so. I decided not to waste good men but to bide my time. I dispatched Ignacio and the greater part of my company to sweep the countryside round Walton and Orwell, burn Cottesloe and then assemble here in the forest. Many of these men have lived as outlaws or poachers. My only worry is whether LeCorbeil will walk into the trap.’

As if in answer, a horn wailed from outside and Fleabite, the butcher’s apprentice who had somehow joined the Queenhithe company, stumbled through the door. He stood, hands on his knees, catching his breath, before straightening up and announcing that LeCorbeil had arrived. Again the horn wailed. Sevigny glanced around: they were ready. The two lines of bowmen spanned the nave, the reserve behind them on the sanctuary steps, with small groups guarding the postern doors. He nodded at Simon and they walked to the main door. Sevigny pulled this open, slightly dazzled by the sun pouring through, a possible weakness for the bowmen behind them. He shaded his eyes and stared across at the massed ranks of LeCorbeil, about sixty in number, all garbed in their blood-red livery, sallets hiding their faces, arbalests looped over the horns of their saddles, warhorses shaking their heads, blowing noisily or pawing the ground. He glimpsed the war cart pulled by four drays and caught his breath. LeCorbeil had brought a small culverin or cannon. They would use this against the main door and, once they gained entry, shatter any barricade or defence.

‘
Pax et bonum!
’ he called out. ‘Peace and goodness. What troubles you? The battle is over. We still enjoy the King’s peace and protection.’

‘The battle is done,’ a voice agreed, ‘but not for all. It is Sevigny, is it not? Amadeus Sevigny, formerly chief clerk to the Duke of York? Come forward in peace, clerk. You are protected. No man will hurt you, at least not yet,’ the voice added spitefully. ‘Approach. Hear our terms.’

Sevigny ignored the whispered warnings from Simon standing just within the doorway. ‘Prepare yourself,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps I can learn something.’

He undid his war belt, placed it on the ground, extended his arms in a gesture of peace and walked forward. He could already see that some of LeCorbeil had dismounted and were threading their way through the tree-lined cemetery, searching for any weakness or opening in the church’s defences. On the war wagon to one side, bowls of fire were in full flame and the culverin was being released from its cordage. He strode forward to greet LeCorbeil’s leader, who nudged in his spurs and rode leisurely towards him. When they met, the Frenchman took off his helmet and Sevigny stared into the sallow, handsome face of the devil he knew to be Bertrand. He glimpsed hard eyes, a cruel mouth, and felt the sheer balefulness of a soul steeped in hate. Bertrand, however, acted all courteous, leaning down as he stroked his horse’s neck.

‘Master Sevigny, we have done business before. Our quarrel is not with you.’ His voice rose dramatically. ‘Or with many here. We demand the bodies of Simon Roseblood and his two sons.’

‘Gabriel is a cleric, a Franciscan.’

‘Roseblood and his two sons,’ Bertrand repeated defiantly. ‘If he surrenders the Argentine chronicle, his sons will live. If not…’ He let the threat hang.

Sevigny stared round. Bertrand’s company were already dismounting, arbalests at the ready. He realised that no mercy would be shown. These men were intent on battle, on killing and killing again.

‘Go away, clerk!’ Bertrand urged. ‘Collect your warhorse and ride safely on. It is over. The King is taken, his snow queen caged, his great lords all dead, their bodies disfigured; only Buckingham survived. My lord of York is already marching on London.’

‘You are Bertrand?’ Sevigny squinted up. ‘Yes? You abducted Katherine Roseblood?’

Bertrand sat back in his saddle, surprised. ‘What do you—’

‘I stole her from you.’ Sevigny could feel his temper bubbling. ‘Only one woman died in that hut. I rescued Katherine. She now shelters safely in London. I am not here to treat with you but to warn you: I will kill you.’ Bertrand’s hand fell to his sword hilt. ‘Do not break the truce,’ Sevigny warned. ‘If you try, at least one of the bowmen who have arrows trained on you will kill both you and your mount.’ He leaned up to cup the muzzle of Bertrand’s horse. ‘And that would be a tragedy.’

He waggled his fingers in farewell, turned, sauntered back, picked up his war belt and disappeared into the darkness of the church. Once inside, he leaned his sweat-soaked body against the cold stone.

‘There are about sixty of them in all,’ he murmured as Simon came alongside him. ‘They are already breaking up, looking for the postern doors. The fire bowls are lighted, their culverin is fully primed.’ He grasped Simon by the shoulder and gently pushed him up the nave.

They had hardly reached the line of bowmen when the assault began. The culverin loosed hot shot against the main door, while the posterns were battered with makeshift rams. All the defences held, though the main door, dry as tinder, not only bent, but caught fire. Under the incessant rain of shots from the culverin, assisted by LeCorbeil piling bundles of dry bracken against the wood, the flames roared up. Pouches of gunpowder were thrown into the blaze and the wood began to crack and shatter under the intense heat. The defenders within remained silent. Only a few arrows were loosed through the widening rents in the main door.

Sevigny was concerned that the posterns would break first and LeCorbeil would discover that the force within was much greater than they had thought. Bertrand, however, had made a fatal mistake. He truly believed that only a few panic-stricken defenders sheltered in this trap they had fashioned for themselves. Above all, he was impatient. The war wagon, on which a sharpened stake had been placed, was pushed up a makeshift ramp to batter what was left of the main door, which was flung back to hang askew on its thick leather hinges. LeCorbeil, now using the wagon as a shield, surged into the church. Over and around the wagon swarmed red-garbed bowmen, arbalests at the ready. They had burst in so abruptly, moving from sunlight to the gloomy nave, that they remained unaware of any danger until Simon screamed, ‘Loose!’ and a cloud of yard-long shafts whipped through the air.

The war wagon and the very speed of LeCorbeil dented Roseblood’s surprise, yet the effect was still devastating. Many of the attackers, caught so close to their assailants, were flung back by the grey-feathered shafts that hissed continuously towards them. Corpses littered the wagon and the entrance to the church. The wounded jerked screaming, arms and legs flailing.

Once they realised what was happening, LeCorbeil hastily retreated, pulling their wounded out of the church. They then renewed the attack using the wagon thrust across the threshold as a barricade. They moved slowly, their arbalests taking a deadly toll on the massed English archers. Sevigny shouted at these to retreat deeper up the nave. The corpse door abruptly buckled and was flung back, and LeCorbeil crept into the church, using the shadowy transept pillars as a defence. Sevigny ordered a further retreat towards the ruined high altar, whispering to Simon to draw the enemy even deeper into the nave. The French company were now much depleted yet still determined. Sevigny quietly issued fresh orders, organising a small phalanx of bowmen reinforced by men-at-arms led by himself.

‘Now!’ he shouted. The phalanx moved out of the shadowy gloom, the bowmen loosing shafts as fast as they could before Sevigny and his men-at-arms charged through the ranks. Some fell, struck by the whirling bolts, but the speed of the charge caught LeCorbeil by surprise. They were preparing a second volley when Sevigny and his company crashed into them, sword and dagger thrusting in a frenzied, bloody hand-to-hand struggle. The nave rang with the clash of battle, groups and individuals locked in whirling arcs of steel. Simon had also committed his forces, and LeCorbeil became surrounded.

Sevigny felt the savage surge of conflict, the frenzied joy of combat, an eagerness to close and slaughter. The tension within him erupted. Screaming with sheer elation, he cut his way through, unaware of others around him as the red mist descended. He whirled his powerful razor-edged sword two-handed as both flail and scythe. Faces floated before him, but he smashed them out of the way, feet scrabbling for a hold on the blood-wet paving stones. He was back on that fateful dark night at his parents’ manor house, but this time he could see Katherine standing beneath that tree, arms outstretched, waiting for him. He would not stop; those before him collapsed or staggered away with hideously gaping, blood-gushing wounds.

He was nearly there when Bertrand confronted him. Sevigny screamed defiance and closed. The Frenchman was experienced, yet he was no match. Sevigny danced, swerved, thrust and hacked. He summoned up all his skill, using every trick to confuse and confound the opponent. Then… nothing. He turned, whirling his sword, angry at the silent emptiness around him. Someone was calling his name. He lowered the sword, blinked and drew a deep breath. More shouts and cries. Figures moved about him; someone poked his shoulder. Sevigny stepped back, lifting his blade.

‘Amadeus, it is I, Simon. It is over.’

Sevigny could feel his sweat cooling; his arms and legs ached. He lowered his sword and stared at Bertrand, flung back against a pillar, an ugly red gash splitting the side of his head and most of his face. He was dying, eyelids fluttering, lips twitching; then he jerked and lay still. Sevigny turned and gazed round the church. The fighting was over. The Roseblood company were looking after their own and cutting the throats of the enemy wounded.

‘Some of them escaped,’ Simon declared, pointing to the corpse door. ‘Bertrand is dead, but their leader, Ravenspur, has fled back to York. We should not tarry long here.’

Sevigny shouldered by him and went and crouched next to Bertrand. The Frenchman’s face was a mask of blood. The clerk became increasingly aware of what was happening around him. Simon grasped him by the elbow and led him into the nave of the church, where Master Bray, Raphael and Gabriel together with Wormwood and Ignacio were waiting. The corpses had been removed and their wounded were being tended in the ruined chancel at the far end of the church.

Sevigny squatted down with the rest and gratefully accepted the battered pewter cup of wine thrust into his hands. He drank deeply, nibbled at some salted meat and stared round. Roseblood and his companions looked worn and tired. Though elated by their victory against LeCorbeil, they realised that the royal cause had sustained a hideous defeat. York now probably held both King and Queen, and he would spare little mercy for Somerset and the others. No pardon, no amnesty would be given.

‘What would you advise, Sevigny?’ Simon asked. ‘The battle is done, the day is dying and we must be gone.’

Sevigny took another gulp of wine; he could feel the warmth return. He narrowed his eyes, watching the dust motes dance in the fading rays of sunlight. He glanced back up the church and listened to the sounds of men outside preparing to leave.