B00B9BL6TI EBOK (25 page)

Suddenly a patch of space appeared before him – the minster yard. The French had been pushed back so far that they were now in the north-eastern corner of the city. Gilbert could see their commander, the comte de Perche, trying desperately to rally his men in a group. There was a brief pause as the regent’s men also broke off the engagement to regroup, and then both sides faced each other across the open ground. There was a stillness. The air could have been sliced with a knife. Somebody would have to make a move.

Perche rode round haranguing his men, trying to whip them up for a further fight. Then perhaps he realised that the best way was to lead by example, for he couched his lance and moved forward. There would be many men in the host who would love to have the glory of facing him, but before any of them could move, the regent himself burst forth from their ranks. Gilbert froze. The man was over seventy! What was he doing taking on such a young man in single combat? If he were to be killed, the blow to morale would be crippling.

But it was too late. The regent lowered his lance and charged, as he had no doubt been doing on the fields of battle and tournament since long before Gilbert had been born. He thundered forward, aiming at the body of his opponent in a clear attempt to unhorse and capture him, rather than kill him, and Gilbert remembered suddenly that Perche was the regent’s cousin. So close were the factions that nearly everyone had some kind of relative on the other side.

Was Perche surprised? If he was then he didn’t falter in his charge, but perhaps his concentration was broken. William Marshal was a legend, but he was still an old man, and there should have been no excuse for failing to unseat him. But Perche missed with his thrust, and the regent’s lance struck hard and true into the centre of Perche’s shield and shattered into flying pieces. The comte rocked back in the saddle and screamed – Gilbert couldn’t make out why, until he noticed the huge splinter of the broken lance which had flown up and pierced the eye slit of his visor. He reared up on his horse, unable to control it, spinning, shrieking, blood spurting from the wound. Yet miraculously he drew his sword and managed to strike a blow at the stupefied regent, still screeching and bleeding. The regent parried it easily, but didn’t make another strike himself. He didn’t need to; Perche’s sword dropped from his hand and he slid off the rearing horse to crash onto the ground, dead.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the French began to run.

Edwin tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood coming from the man’s stomach, but in his heart he knew it was useless. He had retreated back inside the castle, as ordered, and had been followed by the first of what would probably be many wounded men. Some staggered in by themselves; others were dragged in by comrades who left them lying and ran back to the battle. One had landed virtually at his feet, and as Edwin tried to pick him up he realised it was the man Stephen, who had told Edwin about his brother on the night he’d arrived at the castle. Edwin sought to offer what help he could, but it wasn’t much. He tried to press his hands over the gaping wound, to stuff some of the man’s own padded garment into it, but the bright red blood soaked through with a frightening speed. Edwin gave up and knelt, taking Stephen’s hand and looking into his contorted face.

He wasn’t old, not really, but some years older than Edwin, and he looked as though he’d seen many an encounter. But now he was frightened, knowing that death was near. He spoke in a rasping voice. ‘My wife – I don’t know what happened to my wife. She was in the town when it fell …’

Edwin didn’t know what to say, only gripped the hand harder.

The man spoke again, locking his eyes on Edwin’s. He sucked in a huge breath and screwed up his face in agony. ‘I’m going to die, like my brother …’ Edwin tried to calm him, to shush him into saving his strength, but the man was desperate to talk, to spend his last moments on earth communicating with the stranger who held his hand. ‘But I will pass into the Lord’s grace.’

There was no point in trying to contradict him. Edwin nodded, and realised that he might be able to give some comfort after all. ‘You will see the gates of heaven, and your brother.’

The man seemed to become more agitated. ‘But his head … will the Lord let him into heaven without his head? How will I know?’ His face became panicked and he writhed, as though he would try to move from his prone position. He fell back, gasping, more bright blood flowing over his body.

Edwin put his other hand out to hold him down. ‘He will be there. He died in a just cause and the Lord wouldn’t deny him entry. You too will be forgiven your sins and the saints will welcome you.’ He prayed that it wasn’t a great sin to say so, for he didn’t know the man or what he’d done in his life, but he must at all costs give him comfort in his last agony.

It seemed to have worked, for Stephen calmed, lying flat again and seeming to lose his remaining energy. His face already had the pallor of death. He spoke once more, voice weakening. ‘Yes. I will own up to my sins and not try to hide them. I shall go as I am. Alan will be there with his head intact, and I will recognise him when I see him …’

Edwin actually saw the life light go out of the man’s eyes, and he sat for a moment before releasing his hand. He stared into the distance, words echoing in his head. He had been reminded of something, and now it was all becoming clear. He remembered exactly what Alys had said to him during their long conversation in the candlelight, and wondered why he hadn’t worked it out before.

He knew what he had to do. Pausing to close the dead man’s eyes, he stood, took a deep breath, and ran out of the gate and into the city.

As he ran he realised how incredibly foolish he was being. What in the Lord’s name was he doing, venturing out into a city which had become a battlefield, with only a dagger to protect him, and even that was not much use as he didn’t know how to use it properly. He must hope that the sight of the weapon would deter any casual attackers. If he were to be set upon by a real soldier then he would be dead anyway, so it didn’t matter. It also crossed his mind that he was disobeying a direct order from a member of the nobility, something he could never have imagined himself doing even a couple of days ago, but there were some things which just had to be done. He was in danger, he would be in some kind of disgrace, but he was in the right, and he held that sentiment firm as he ran through the streets, seeking to avoid the bodies and the blood where he could. He must protect her. Them. Her. His feelings were confused. Two things were for certain, though: firstly, there were soldiers everywhere who were crazed with blood; and secondly, he knew who had already mercilessly cut down two members of her family, and who might seek to strike again. She was in terrible danger.

There was blood everywhere. Corpses lay grotesquely at every corner, not only fighting men but citizens, and some women and children also, those that hadn’t managed to escape the carnage. The fear grew inside him of what he might find when he reached the house, but he only increased his pace.

As he neared the cathedral the sounds of battle intensified, and suddenly there was a flood of men roaring past him, some dropping weapons as they fled. Others were still seeking to fight their pursuers, and turned to strike at those behind them. The streets were impossibly crowded, and Edwin was caught up in the maelstrom, carried along by the press of men. He gripped his dagger hard, but none of those around him sought to strike him, concerned as they were with the armed men behind them and the constricted way ahead. He had no idea who was who, but in the whirl he managed to catch a glimpse of a banner being held by one of the pursuers: the regent’s. They were winning. It was the enemy who were fleeing. Thank the Lord. That would increase all their chances of survival.

The tide swept him down the steep hill. At the bottom they were joined by another group of fleeing men and horses, and Edwin sought in vain to avoid being flung into the crowd. It was to no avail, though, as the panic of those around him was too strong. He was surrounded by men paying no attention to what they were doing with the sharp steel in their hands, and by the flying hooves of horses that were equally panicked. He was kicked, punched, and felt a sharp pain across his upper arm as a flashing blade hit him. Finally he fell.

As he hit the floor he felt the crowd start to move over him. Feet were all around him, on him, trampling him into the ground. He was going to die here, crushed. A small space cleared and he sought to roll into a kneeling position, but over him loomed the terrifying figure of a man on horseback, sword raised. With a terrible irony he noticed that the man wore the emblem of John Marshal, and realised that he himself bore no colours, the consequence of his secret mission. He was going to be killed by one of his own side. Dear Lord, forgive my sins and protect my mother.

The sword never fell. A second figure on horseback barged into the first, giving him such an almighty shove that he lost balance and fell away. The new man was an armoured knight, faceless in his helmet. But wait, the colours – he could have wept as Sir Reginald seized the shoulder of his tunic and dragged him bodily out of the press.

The knight heaved them both into a corner away from the worst of the eddying crowd. Against the background of screams he pulled off his helmet and shouted. ‘What in God’s name are you doing? You could have been killed!’

Edwin tried to explain, but there was too much noise, there was no time. He simply yelled that he had to go, that he was sorry, and then wrenched himself out of the other’s grasp and dived back into the crowd.

Sir Reginald swore. What was the man about? Had he gone mad? He watched the crowd move further down the hill, the retreating figure lost among the other men. Damn it, he would have to follow. So much for his chances of taking prisoners for ransom, but some things were more important than money. He set his spurs to his horse and thrust his way forward, cutting down any in his path as he sought in vain to catch sight of his departing friend.

Eventually he was rewarded with a glimpse of Edwin’s back, further down the hill, disappearing into an alley between two houses. He started to follow but was attacked by a knot of French footsoldiers. Too distracted to care, he simply rode them down as he continued. Others fled before him as he started down the hill. But which house had it been? Which alley? Was it this one or the one further down? He stopped, letting the tide of men run past him, thinner now as many of them had already passed.

He turned his mount again and again in indecision, but then heard a piercing scream coming from the house to his left. And another. A woman. Raised male voices. One of them was Edwin’s. He threw himself off his horse and started to hammer on the door.

Alys and the children had been hiding upstairs in their father’s bedroom since they had finished barricading the doors. They huddled together on the bed, listening to the cries and clashing of weapons coming from all parts of the city. Alys hoped and prayed and begged that the fighting would remain elsewhere, that their street would be spared, but little by little the noise came nearer. She risked moving away from the bed and peering out of the shutter towards the street. She could see nothing with the narrow view afforded her, but she didn’t dare open it.

Suddenly there was a hammering at the kitchen door.

They all froze. Margery instinctively reached out for the dazed Randal and drew him nearer to her. Alys was frightened out of her wits, heart in her throat, but then she heard the voice. It was Mistress Guildersleeve, calling from the yard.

‘Alys! Alys! For the love of God, child, let me in!’

Alys bade the others stay where they were. Edric stood up and moved to stand at the foot of the bed, drawing himself up. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after them.’ He was shaking, but his piping voice was firm. She looked at him, so proud. Eight years old and prepared to be the man of the family. He had even drawn his little eating knife, bless him, and was poised with it ready. She burst into tears. A father and brother already dead, another missing; the world was collapsing around them – were they all going to die here?