The Left Hand Of God (43 page)

And having had the last word himself, he turned his horse away and was gone. The truth was that this had little effect on Vague Henri, none at all on Kleist, but scraped a sore spot on Cale. His victory over Solomon Solomon had shown him that his skill was dependent on a terror that might come and go at any moment. What was the good of such gifts if panic could obliterate them? He knew that what kept him on top of the hill was that it was not, strictly speaking, his fight, that he was bound by duty as well as love to protect Arbell Materazzi, but also the remembrance of the trembling, the weakness and his dissolving guts—the horrible funk of being afraid and weak.

Now there was another visitor to the top of Silbury Hill and one whose appearance caused a fascinating stir from the very important persons gathered there. Although he had arrived at the foot of the hill in a coach, he had transferred into a completely covered sedan chair of the kind used by Materazzi ladies to travel in the narrow streets of the very old town where a carriage could not be used. Eight men, clearly exhausted by the climb, carried the chair and another ten watched over it.

“Who’s that?” Cale asked IdrisPukke.

“Well, I can’t say I’m often surprised, but this
is
a wonder.”

“Is it the Ark of the Covenant?”

“Look down, not up. If the devil himself were ever possessed, this is the creature who could do it. It’s Kitty the Hare.”

Cale was suitably impressed and for a moment said nothing while he looked over the ten guards. “They look handy.”

“So they should. Laconic mercenaries. Must cost a bob or two.”

“What’s he doing here? I thought he was heard of but never seen.”

“Mock on. You cross Kitty and you’ll regret it. He’s probably come to keep an eye on his investment. Besides, today is a chance to see history being made and be safe doing it.”

Then the door of the sedan opened and a man got out. Cale groaned in disappointment.

“That’s not Kitty,” said IdrisPukke.

“Thank God for that. Beelzebub should look the part.”

“I forget sometimes that you’re still a kid. If you ever get the chance to meet that one,” IdrisPukke added, gesturing at the man, “remember, Mister Wet-Behind-the-Ears, to find a pressing engagement somewhere else.”

“Now you’ve made me scared.”

“You’re a cocky little sod, aren’t you? That’s Daniel Cadbury. Look in
Dr. Johnson’s General Dictionary
under ‘henchman’ and you’ll find his name. See also ‘assassin,’ ‘murderer,’ and ‘sheep stealer.’ Quite a charmer, though—so obliging you think he’d lend you his arsehole and shit through his ribs.”

While Cale was puzzling out this interesting claim, a smiling Cadbury made his way over to them.

“It’s been a long time, IdrisPukke. Keeping busy?”

“Hello, Cadbury. Just dropped in on your way to strangle an orphan?”

Cadbury smiled as if genuinely appreciating the malice in Idris-Pukke’s voice and, a tall man, looked down approvingly at Cale.

“He’s a card, your friend, isn’t he? You must be Cale,” he added in a tone that implied that being Cale meant something. “I was at the Red Opera when you put out Solomon Solomon. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer chap. Quite something, young man, quite something. We must have lunch when all this unpleasantness is over.” And with a bow that showed Cale respect but as if from an equal who was worth having respect from, he turned and went back to the sedan.

“He seems very nice,” said Cale, meaning to be aggravating.

“And will be, right up until the moment when he is obliged, with the greatest regret, to cut your windpipe.”

There was a shout from Vague Henri. There was movement in the ranks of the Redeemers. In a line about ten deep the five thousand archers and the nineteen hundred men-at-arms slowly moved forward. Fifty yards farther on, at the edge of the plowed field that stretched nearly as far as the Materazzi, they stopped and the front rank knelt down.

“What in God’s name are they up to?” said IdrisPukke.

“They’re taking a mouthful of earth,” said Cale, “to remind themselves that they are mud and will return to mud.”

With that the first rank stood up and walked onto the plowed field. The rank behind them moved forward, knelt, took a mouthful of earth, followed them, and so on. Within less than five minutes the entire Redeemer army were back in their loose battle rank, walking at no more than a stroll and out of step on the rough surface. All there remained for the Materazzi and the observers on Silbury Hill to do was wait and watch.

“When will they quicken for the assault?” asked IdrisPukke.

“Not at all,” said Vague Henri. “The Materazzi use no archers, so the killing range is what? Six feet? There’s no need to rush.” It was now about ten minutes into the advance, and when the Redeemers had covered about seven hundred yards of the nine hundred to the Materazzi front rank, a shout went up from the Redeemers’ centenars, each one of whom controlled a hundred men. The advance stopped.

There was more muffled shouting from the centenars, and the archers and men-at-arms began to step to the left and right and make space so that the line now filled the width of the battlefield. In less than three minutes they had finished rearranging their battle order and were now about a yard apart. The seven lines behind the front row were staggered checkerboard fashion, so the archers could see and shout more easily over the heads of the men in front of them.

For a few minutes it had been clear that each Redeemer was carrying what looked like a spear about six feet long. Now that they had stopped and were much closer, it was plain that whatever they were carrying it was too thick and heavy to be a spear. There was another order from the centenars and their use became obvious. There followed a long period of hammering as what were now clearly defensive stakes were driven at an angle into the ground with the hefty mallet each archer also carried.

“What are they preparing a defensive line for?” asked IdrisPukke.

“I don’t know,” replied Cale. “You?”

Kleist and Vague Henri both shrugged.

“It doesn’t make sense. The Materazzi have caught them cold.” Cale looked at IdrisPukke anxiously. “You’re sure the Materazzi won’t attack?”

“Why would they throw away such an advantage?”

By now the Redeemers were busy sharpening the ends of the stakes.

“They mean to try and provoke them into attacking,” said Cale after a few moments. He turned to IdrisPukke. “They’re within bow-shot. Five thousand archers, six arrows a minute—do you think the Materazzi will put up with twenty-four thousand arrows coming at them every sixty seconds?”

IdrisPukke sniffed and considered.

“Two hundred and fifty yards is a hell of a long way. I don’t care how many there are. Every one of the Materazzi is covered head to toe in steel. The arrow isn’t made that can get through tempered steel from that range. I can’t say I’d fancy being under a shower like that myself—but the Redeemers will be lucky if one in a hundred finds a mark. And they won’t have enough arrows—a couple of dozen each—to keep that rate up for long. If that’s their plan . . .” IdrisPukke shrugged to indicate how little he thought of it.

Cale looked across at a group of five Materazzi signalers also watching the Redeemers from the vantage point of Silbury Hill. One of them was leaving with news of the defensive stakes being driven into the ground, something it would have been difficult to see from the front lines of the Materazzi. It had taken them some time to work out what the Redeemers were doing with the stakes and whether it was significant enough to send a messenger.

Having watched the messenger disappear over the edge of the hill, Cale turned back toward the Redeemers. A dozen bannermen, holding white flags with the figure of the Hanged Redeemer painted in red, were raising the colors. The order to take aim went up from the centenars, too indistinct to hear precisely but obvious as the thousands of archers pulled the strings back on their bows and aimed them high. A short pause, then a shout from the centenars and the banners fell. Four clouds of arrows arched a hundred feet into the air, streaking toward the Materazzi first line.

Three seconds passed and then they hit the Materazzi, heads bowed to deflect the points. The five thousand arrows struck, pinged and clattered, ricocheted over the armored line, the Materazzi bent into the steel rain as if they were leaning into wind and hail. From the flanks there were the screams of horses hit. But already another five thousand arrows had struck. Ten seconds later, another. For two minutes this rain continued on the Materazzi. Few died, only a few more were wounded—IdrisPukke was right that the armor covering the Materazzi men-at-arms would do its work. But consider the noise, the endless metal clanking, the short wait, the arrows again, the screams of the horses, the cries of unlucky men hit in the eye or neck, and that none of them had ever endured such a hostile, terrifying strike. What sense did it make just to stand and take an arrow from some cowardly Holy Joe without any breeding or skill or the courage to fight hand-to-hand?

It was the cavalry on either side who broke, the left side first, unsure when two of their own bannermen fell—was it a signal?—so hard to know among the screams of wounded horses, their own steeds panicking and ready to bolt and only an eye slit through which to see the picture unfolding around them. Three horses started forward, spooked. Is it a charge? No one wanted to show their cowardice by holding back. Like athletes in a race, watching and tense when one man jumps the start, the whole line goes. Shouts from the back to hold the line are lost among the noise—and then the arrows land again.

Then suddenly the horses on the left flank move ahead—impatience, fury, fear and confusion start them off.

Narcisse, watching from the White Tent, swears as if to bust. But soon he realizes they cannot be recalled. He waves his ensigns to signal the right flank of cavalry to attack as well. Only then does the messenger arrive from Silbury Hill to warn him of the hedgehog of stakes dug in among the archers on the flanks.

Up on Silbury Hill an appalled Cale stares in disbelief as the cavalry move forward, the riders spurring their horses to form a line—swiftly they merge at three rows deep and knee to knee, three hundred yards across to match the line of archers facing them. At first they keep a speed not much faster than a man can jog, standing in their stirrups, lances under their right arms, left hands holding the reins. For two hundred yards and forty seconds they keep this pace, enduring the flight of twenty thousand arrows as they charge. Then the last fifty yards—two thousand points of man and beast and steel spurred on to ride the archers down.

The archers, still tasting the mud mixed with fear, let loose one more flight. More horses scream and fall, crushing their riders, breaking backs, taking their neighbors with them as they crash. But the line draws on. And then the shock of the clash.

No horse will willingly ride down a man or take a barricade it cannot jump. No man in his right mind will stand against a charging horse and spear. But men will choose death where a beast will not. They can be trained to die.

As the horses seemed about to break over them like a crushing wave, the archers stepped back and moved quickly into the thicket of sharpened stakes. Some slipped, some were too slow and were crushed or lanced. Horses arrived on top of the stakes too quickly and could not refuse. Impaled, their screams were like the end of the world, their riders thrown, their necks broken. As they lay in the mud and flapped like fish, Redeemers finished them with mallet blows, or another held them down as oppos stabbed between the armored joints, making the brown mud red.

Most of the horses refused. Some of them slipped, throwing their riders, others held on as the great charge stopped in a moment, turning on itself, horse crashing into horse, some flying off the sides into the woods. Men cursed, horses screamed, turned in their fear like creatures half their size and weight, and fled back toward the safety of the rear. Riders fell in their hundreds, and within a moment archers darted out from behind the stakes and battered the heads and chests of the stunned and fallen riders with crushing blows from their hammers. Three Redeemers in their muddy soutanes to every thrown Materazzi cavalryman staggering to his feet, trying to draw his sword as he was pushed and slipped and tripped and stabbed through eyeholes and joints. Farther back among the hedgehog stakes, angry and now free from fear, archers let loose at the retreating riders. More wounded horses fell, others driven into a frenzied bolt.

Worse was to come. To support the cavalry, as he was bound to do, Narcisse was forced to send the front line of his men-at-arms to back the charge. Eight thousand strong and eight men deep, they were already halfway toward the Redeemers’ ranks when the returning cavalry, the horses terrified and maddened by fear and injury, crashed into the ranks of the advancing Materazzi men-at-arms. Because they were crowded together and prevented from moving by the thick woods to either side and ranks of armored men behind, it was impossible to move aside to let the charging horses through. Desperate to avoid the killing clash as the bolting horses fled into their ranks, the soldiers shoved sideways into each other, thrusting and barging to clear a way, grabbing their neighbors, setting up waves that spread backward and to either side as each man fell and clutched at his mate to stop himself from falling.

So all around the advance was halted and broken up—men slipped in the much-churned mud and cursed and pulled each other down. The Redeemer archers, now with the time to organize themselves again, let fly with their remaining arrows. But this time, with the Materazzi standing still and barely eighty yards away, the arrow points could make their way even through the steel of armor if they struck it right.

Even though only a few hundred men were crushed by the fleeing horses or wounded by arrows, the thousands left began to bend behind each other before the sergeants and the captains, shouting and screaming, heaved them back into line and the advance began again. Though they were vexed by disorder and the walk in sixty pounds of armor on three hundred yards of muddy plowed field, the might of their attack now built. Fifty yards. Twenty. Ten, and over the last few feet they broke into a run, aiming their spears to drive the points home into their opponents’ chests.