The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic (15 page)

'He's good, isn't he?' Skeat said flatly. 'Got suet for brains, but he knows how to fight.'

But, despite Sir Simon's prowess, the enemy was winning and Thomas wanted to advance the archers. They only needed to run about thirty paces and then would have been in easy range of the rampaging enemy horsemen, but Will Skeat shook his head. 'Never kill two Frenchmen when you can kill a dozen, Tom,' he said reprovingly.

'Our men are getting beat,' Thomas protested.

'Then that'll teach 'em not to be bloody fools, won't it?' Skeat said. He grinned. 'Just wait, lad, just wait, and we'll skin the cat proper.'

The English men-at-arms were being beaten back and only Sir Simon was fighting with spirit. He was indeed good. He had driven the huge Breton from the fight and was now holding off four of the enemy, and doing it with a ferocious skill, but the rest of his men, seeing that their battle was lost and that they could not reach Sir Simon because there were too many enemy horsemen around him, turned and fled.

'Sam!' Will
shouted
across the road.
'When I give you the word, take a dozen men and run away!
You hear me, Sam?'

'I'll run away!' Sam shouted back.

The English men-at-arms, some bleeding and one half falling from his tall saddle, thundered back down the road towards La Roche-Derrien. The French and Bretons had surrounded Sir Simon, but Sir Geoffrey of the WhiteBridge was a romantic fellow and refused to take the life of a brave opponent, and so he ordered his men to spare the English knight.

Sir Simon, sweating like a pig under the leather and iron plate, pushed up the snoutlike visor of his helmet. 'I don't yield,' he told Sir Geoffrey. His new armour was scarred and his sword edge chipped, but the quality of both had helped him in the fight. 'I don't yield,' he said again, 'so fight on!'

Sir Geoffrey bowed in his saddle. 'I salute your bravery, Sir Simon,' he said magnanimously, 'and you are free to go with all honour.' He waved his men-at-arms aside and Sir Simon, miraculously alive and free, rode away with his head held high. He had led his men into disaster and death, but he had emerged with honour.

Sir Geoffrey could see past Sir Simon, down the long road that was thick with fleeing men-at-arms and, beyond them, the captured livestock and the heaped carts of plunder that were being escorted by Skeat's men. Then Will Skeat shouted at Sam and suddenly Sir Geoffrey could see a bunch of panicked archers riding northwards as hard as they could. 'He'll fall for it,' Skeat said knowingly, 'you just see if he
don't
.'

Sir Geoffrey had proved in the last few weeks that he was no fool, but he lost his wits that day. He saw a chance to cut down the hated hellequin archers and recapture three carts of plunder and so he ordered his remaining thirty men-at-arms to join him and, leaving his four prisoners and nine captured horses in the care of his crossbowmen, waved his knights forward. Will Skeat had been waiting weeks for this.

Sir Simon turned in alarm as he heard the sound of hooves. Nearly fifty armoured men on big destriers charged towards him and, for a moment, he thought they were trying to capture him and so he spurred his horse towards the woods only to see the French and Breton horsemen crash past him at full gallop. Sir Simon ducked under branches and swore at Will Skeat, who ignored him. He was watching the enemy.

Sir Geoffrey de Pont Blanc led the charge and saw only glory. He had forgotten the archers in the woods, or else believed they had all fled after the defeat of Sir Simon's men. Sir Geoffrey was on the cusp of a great victory. He would take back the plunder and, even
better,
lead the dreaded hellequin to a fiery fate in Lannion's marketplace.

'Now!'
Skeat shouted through cupped hands.
'Now!'

There were archers on both sides of the road and they stepped out from the new spring foliage and loosed their bowstrings. Thomas's second arrow was in the air before the first even struck. Look and loose, he thought, do not think, and there was no need to aim, for the enemy was a tight group and all the archers did was pour their long arrows into the horsemen so that in an eyeblink the charge was reduced to a tangle of rearing stallions, fallen men, screaming horses and splashing blood. The enemy had no chance. A few at the back managed to turn and gallop away, but the majority were trapped in a closing ring of bowmen who drove their arrows mercilessly through mail and leather. Any man who even twitched invited three or four arrows. The pile of iron and flesh was spiked with feathers, and still the arrows came, cutting through mail and driving deep into horseflesh. Only the handful of men at the rear and a single man at the very front of the charge survived.

That man was Sir Geoffrey himself. He had been ten paces in front of his men and maybe that was why he was spared, or perhaps the archers had been impressed by the manner in which he had treated Sir Simon, but for whatever reason he rode ahead of the carnage like a charmed soul. Not an arrow flew close, but he heard the screams and clatter behind and he slowed his horse then turned to see the horror. He watched with disbelief for an instant,
then
walked his stallion back towards the arrow-stuck pile that had been his men. Skeat shouted at some of his bowmen to turn and face the enemy's crossbowmen, but they, seeing the fate of their men-at-arms, were in no mood to face the English arrows. They retreated southwards.

There was a curious stillness then. Fallen horses twitched and some beat at the road with their hooves. A man groaned, another called on Christ and some just whimpered. Thomas, an arrow still on his bowstring, could hear larks, the call of plovers and the whisper of wind in the leaves. A drop of rain fell, splashing the dust on the road, but it was a lone outrider of a shower that went to the west. Sir Geoffrey stood his horse beside his dead and dying men as if inviting the archers to add his corpse to the heap that was streaked with blood and flecked with goose feathers.

'See what I mean, Tom?' Skeat said. 'Wait long enough and the bloody fools will always oblige you. Right, lads! Finish the bastards off!' Men dropped their bows, drew their knives and ran to the shuddering heap, but Skeat held Thomas back. 'Go and tell that stupid white bridge bastard to make
himself
scarce.'

Thomas walked to the Frenchman, who must have thought he was expected to surrender for he pulled off his helmet and extended his sword handle. 'My family cannot pay a great ransom,' he said apologetically.

'You're not a prisoner,' Thomas said.

Sir Geoffrey seemed perplexed by the words. 'You release me?'

'We don't want you,' Thomas said. 'You might think about going to Spain,' he suggested, 'or the Holy Land. Not too many hellequin in either place.'

Sir Geoffrey sheathed his sword. 'I must fight against the enemies of my king so I shall fight here. But I thank you.' He gathered his reins and just at that moment Sir Simon Jekyll rode out of the trees, pointing his drawn sword at Sir Geoffrey.

'He's my prisoner!' he called to Thomas.
'My prisoner!'

'He's no one's prisoner,' Thomas said. 'We're letting him go.'

'You're letting him go?' Sir Simon sneered. 'Do you know who commands here?'

'What I know,' Thomas said, 'is that this man is no prisoner.' He thumped the trapper-covered rump of Sir Geoffrey's horse to send it on its way. 'Spain or the Holy Land!' he called after Sir Geoffrey.

Sir Simon turned his horse to follow Sir Geoffrey,
then
saw that Will Skeat was ready to intervene and stop any such pursuit so he turned back to Thomas. 'You had no right to release him! No right!'

'He released you,' Thomas said.

'Then he was a fool. And because he is a fool, I must be?' Sir Simon was quivering with anger. Sir Geoffrey might have declared himself a poor man, hardly able to raise a ransom, but his horse alone was worth at least fifty pounds, and Skeat and Thomas had just sent that money trotting southwards. Sir Simon watched him go, then lowered the sword blade so that it threatened Thomas's throat. 'From the moment I first saw you,' he said, 'you have been insolent. I am the highest-born man on this field and it is I who decides the fate of prisoners. You understand that?'

'He yielded to me,' Thomas said, 'not to you. So it don't matter what bed you were born in.'

'You're a pup!' Sir Simon spat. 'Skeat! I want recompense for that prisoner. You hear me?'

Skeat ignored Sir Simon, but Thomas did not have enough sense to do the same.

'Jesus,' he said in disgust, 'that man spared you, and you'd not return the favour? You're not a bloody knight, you're just a bully. Go and boil your arse.'

The sword rose and so did Thomas's bow. Sir Simon looked at the glittering arrow point, its edges feathered white through sharpening and he had just enough wit not to strike with his sword. He sheathed it instead, slamming the blade into the scabbard, then wheeled his destrier and spurred away.

Which left Skeat's men to sort out the enemy's dead.
There were eighteen of them and another twenty-three grievously wounded. There were also sixteen bleeding horses and twenty-four dead destriers, and that, as Will Skeat remarked, was a wicked waste of good horseflesh.

And Sir Geoffrey had been taught his lesson.

There was a fuss back in La Roche-Derrien. Sir Simon Jekyll complained to Richard Totesham that Will Skeat had failed to support him in battle,
then
also claimed to have been responsible for the death or wounding of forty-one enemy men-at-arms. He boasted he had won the skirmish,
then
returned to his theme of Skeat's perfidy, but Richard Totesham was in no mood to endure Sir Simon's querulousness. 'Did you win the fight or not?'

'Of course we won!' Sir Simon blinked indignantly. 'They're dead, ain't they?'

'So why did you need Will's men-at-arms?' Totesham asked.

Sir Simon searched for an answer and found none. 'He was impertinent,' he complained.

'That's for you and him to settle, not me,' Totesham said in abrupt dismissal, but he was thinking about the conversation and that night he talked with Skeat.

'Forty-one dead or wounded?' he wondered aloud. 'That must be a third of Lannion's men-at-arms.'

'Near as maybe, aye.'

Totesham's quarters were near the river and from his window he could watch the water slide under the bridge arches. Bats flittered about the barbican tower that guarded the bridge's further side, while the cottages beyond the river were lit by a sharp-edged moon. 'They'll be short-handed, Will,' Totesham said.

'They'll not be happy, that's for sure.'

'And the place will be stuffed with valuables.'

'Like as not,' Skeat agreed. Many folk, fearing the hellequin, had taken their belongings to the nearby fortresses, and Lannion must be filled with their goods. More to the point, Totesham would find food there. His garrison received some food from the farms north of La Roche-Derrien and more was brought across the Channel from England, but the hellequin's wastage of the countryside had brought hunger perilously close.

'Leave fifty men here?' Totesham was still thinking aloud, but he had no need to explain his thoughts to an old soldier like Skeat.

'We'll need new ladders,' Skeat said.

'What happened to the old ones?'

'Firewood.
It
were
a cold winter.'

'A night attack?'
Totesham suggested.

'Full moon in five or six days.'

'Five days from now, then,' Totesham decided. 'And I'll want your men, Will.'

'If they're sober by then.'

'They deserve their drink after what they did today,' Totesham said warmly, then gave Skeat a smile. 'Sir Simon was complaining about you.
Says you were impertinent.'

'That weren't me, Dick, it was my lad Tom. Told the bastard to go and boil his arse.'

'I fear Sir Simon was never one for taking good advice,' Totesham said gravely.

Nor were Skeat's men.
He had let them loose in the town, but warned them that they would feel rotten in the morning if they drank too much and they ignored that advice to make celebration in La Roche-Derrien's taverns. Thomas had gone with a score of his friends and their women to an inn where they sang, danced and tried to pick a fight with a group of Duke John's white rats, who were too sensible to
rise
to the provocation and slipped quietly into the night. A moment later two men-at-arms walked in, both wearing jackets with the Earl of Northampton's badge of the lions and the stars. Their arrival was jeered, but they endured it with patience and asked if Thomas was present.

'He's the ugly bastard over there,' Jake said, pointing to Thomas, who was dancing to the music of a flute and drum. The men-at-arms waited till he had finished his dance, then explained that Will Skeat was with the garrison's commander and wanted to talk with him.

Thomas drained his ale. 'What it is,' he told the other archers, 'is that they can't make a decision without me. Indispensable, that's me.' The archers mocked that, but cheered good-naturedly as Thomas left with the two men-at-arms.

One of them came from Dorset and had actually heard of Hookton. 'Didn't the French land there?' he asked.

'Bastards wrecked it. I doubt there's anything left,' Thomas said. 'So why does Will want me?'

'God knows and He ain't telling,' one of the men said. He had led Thomas towards Richard Totesham's quarters, but now he pointed down a dark alley. 'They're in a tavern at the end there. Place with the anchor hanging over the door.'

'Good for them,' Thomas said. If he had not been half drunk he might have realized that Totesham and Skeat were unlikely to summon him to a tavern, let alone the smallest one in town at the river end of the darkest alley, but Thomas suspected nothing until he was halfway down the narrow passage and two men stepped from a gateway. The first he knew of them was when a blow landed on the back of his head. He pitched forward onto his knees and the second man kicked him in the face, then both men rained kicks and blows on him until he offered no more resistance and they could seize his arms and drag him through the gate into a small smithy. There was blood in Thomas's mouth, his nose had been broken again, a rib was cracked and his belly was churning with ale.