Warriors Of Legend (44 page)

John rubbed his eyes. They had defeated MacLeary only to have the laird fall back and rebuild his forces. John’s experienced gaze noted they were outnumbered three to one. He barely had enough men to form a decent guard on the walls and the repairs were not quite completed.

Appleby did not have a full–fledged moat, only a ditch waist high with castle run–off and most of it frozen. At least the ice laden ground would make tunneling impossible. MacLeary would concentrate on the gates with battering rams, while the occupants of Appleby were forced to keep their heads down because of his mangonels.

Had Hubert managed to make it past MacLeary’s forces? If so, could he catch Micah before he rode into the trap? Only then could John count on reinforcements. If Hubert failed in either respect, Appleby Castle would fall relatively quickly.

“Evan, concentrate the men on the gates. Prepare the pitch and quicklime. Weaken the scaffolding on the towers. If MacLeary tries to use it to scale the walls he will find himself flat on his arse.”

“Aye,” Evan replied and hurried off.

John watched the approaching forces a moment longer. Appleby might fall again but he would make certain it cost the Scottish laird dearly.

***

Micah awoke to a dismal morning. Snow fell steadily, melting on the broken roof of the tiny building in which he slept. Water dripped in small streams, pooling on the floor. This was the third village he had found which the raiders had sacked. Grain stores had been burned to the ground and many buildings had been destroyed. Micah remained a day behind the raiders. They hit hard and kept moving fast.

Micah rose and pulled on his soggy boots. The villagers suffered the most. Their food and homes gone, they could not help their wounded. Even if he managed to stop the raiders, Micah wondered if his barony would survive the winter.

Micah donned his cloak and stepped outside. A warning shout from a sentry echoed through the burned village. The people who had survived the attack nervously peered out of broken windows and shattered doors. Micah glanced down the street and saw a lone man riding hard.

“‘Tis the huntsman, Hubert!” a sentry cried.

Micah’s heart lurched and battered his ribs. What had happened at Appleby? Was Kate all right?

Hubert hauled his horse to a sliding stop in front of Micah. “Baron, a word with you. We have found the truth of the plot.” He jumped off his horse and grabbed his saddle pack.

“Inside, quickly,” Micah said and strode to a partially burned table. He cleared his supplies from it and righted a chair.

Hubert followed, trying to gulp some deep breaths. Micah grimaced, the poor man was exhausted. But Hubert steadied himself and pulled items from his pack. “Your lady was quite successful,” Hubert said, his green eyes sparking. Slowly he explained the evidence and the scheme. “You are riding into a trap, Baron,” Hubert said finally. “And MacLeary is probably laying siege to Appleby as we speak. On my way here I found evidence of a large force in the woods not far from the castle. Unfortunately, I did not dare take the time to investigate further.”

Micah rubbed his eyes, his thoughts scrambling. But a part of him also cheered. He had the evidence of Kate’s innocence and his faith in her had been well placed. She found the truth of a devious ploy. Now, Micah could fight it.

He rose and strode to the door. “Sir Edward,” he called to the knight standing guard in front of the building. “Fetch the seneschal of the village and find parchment and quill. I need to draft a letter.”

“Aye, Sir,” the young man said and hurried away.

Micah returned to Hubert.

“What is your plan, Baron?”

He tapped the signet ring on his finger. “First, I must warn Henry. My true letter with my signet may help stop this plot if I should fall in battle.”

Hubert paled but nodded. “I will ride with all haste to the king.”

“Nay, Hubert, I will send Edward. I need you with me.”

The huntsman scowled. “Sir?”

“We have to stop those raiders.”

“But the trap—”

“I know, that’s why I need you with me. I must find those raiders quickly.” He paused and gestured to the building. “You have seen what the sods have done to our people. If I do not stop them, the barony will starve no matter who wins. You are the only one who can get me close enough to spring my own trap.”

“And what of Appleby, sir?”

Micah squeezed his eyes shut, his heart screaming. Appleby hung in the balance and so did Kate’s life. “Pray John can hold MacLeary off for another day or two.”

Hubert thought for a long moment then slowly nodded. “As soon as you finish your letter we will find the raiders.”

***

Evensong arrived and Micah lay on his belly beside Hubert peering over a rise at yet another burned village. But this one wasn’t completely destroyed. The storehouses had been burned but most of the village remained intact.

“Unlike the others cantons,” Hubert whispered. “The raiders have not departed. They hide in the buildings, waiting to spring their trap.”

Micah’s gaze swept over the farmland. The lack of cover made him cringe. A long, winding road meandered into the village. A deep ravine cut on the left side of the road behind the buildings. On the right, also behind buildings, was barren, snow–covered rock traveling up to the rise he and Hubert hid behind.

“I see why they built the village here.”

“Aye,” Hubert said. “They did not wish to waste good farmland.”

“But we will have no cover. The raiders will see us coming.” He paused and scowled. “How many villagers remain?”

Hubert’s lips lifted slightly. “None that I can tell. The raiders had the same disadvantage we now face. The villagers saw them coming and fled to outlying farms.”

Micah felt a smile threatening as well. “Methinks there is enough damage we will have to completely rebuild this village anyway.”

“Aye,” Hubert said, trying to keep a straight face.

Micah looked up at the rapidly darkening gray skies. “So, perhaps we should finish what the raiders started.”

“My thoughts exactly, Baron.”

Micah’s smile vanished. “When the sun sets, burn it.”

Chapter Eighteen

Micah was glad for the thick cloud cover. The night turned black and even against the snow his men only looked like darker lumps of protruding rock. The shadows moved with agonizing slowness, approaching the village.

Micah joined his men, creeping on his belly, and gritting his teeth against the cold. But if all went well, they would be riding hard for Appleby come the dawn.

“The archers are in position as well as the rest of our men,” Hubert whispered beside him. “When you light your torch, it will signal the others.”

Micah looked at the village one last time. Two sentries sat on the roofs of buildings and a group of men stood at a bonfire in the middle of the road. He knew others remained alert from hidden vantage points while some relaxed in the buildings, gaming or sleeping. The raiding party only had about fifteen men and Micah’s force was double in number.

He pulled the tinder from his pouch. On the third strike of the flint, the torch ignited and quickly strengthened. Micah shot to his feet and sprinted toward the closest building. Hubert followed suit with his torch and sparks of flame erupted around them.

Micah reached up and set his torch to the thatch roof. It caught and quickly began to burn. He sprinted to the side and repeated the action before the call to arms echoed through the village.

The raiders exploded from their hiding places, weapons drawn, but Micah had turned their own tactics against them. His archers stood back and launched arrows, killing the two on the roofs. As the raiders escaped the burning buildings, Micah’s bowmen picked them off.

Micah entered the village with Hubert and a handful of men. He tossed his torch onto another thatched roof and drew his sword. A group of four raiders attacked and Micah’s sword cut two down immediately.

He heard a shout and saw a man emerge from a building, trying to reorganize his forces. Micah hesitated, his eyes narrowing. Although the man brandished a sword and wore a chainmail vest, Micah knew from his clothing he was not a soldier but a huntsman. Bellowing in fury, Micah charged.

The huntsman saw him and brought his weapon on guard. In the midst of his sprint, Micah saw the elegant motion of his action. The huntsman was a fine swordsman and should not be underestimated.

“Ah, Montfort,” he said his dark eyes glittering. “So good to finally meet face to face.”

Micah launched an overhand stroke which the huntsman blocked. They circled each other warily. The eerie sensation that the man looked familiar assailed Micah again.

“Who are you?”

The huntsman chuckled. “Your desire to know who you face is enough to drive you insane, is it not, Montfort?”

“MacLeary must be paying you well.”

“He is but that is not why I have allied myself with him. Personally, I detest the sod.”

Micah blinked in surprise. The huntsman charged with a controlled cut at Micah’s right side. Micah defended and leaped out of the way, snapping his sword in a return cut. The huntsman parried his blade and again they separated, circling each other.

“I joined the laird only to exact my vengeance on you.”

“Have we met in the past?” Micah growled. “Did I slight you in some way that you bear me such malice?”

“We have not met,” the huntsman said and lunged.

Micah smacked his blade out of the way, stepped forward, and landed a jab on the huntsman’s jaw. The huntsman flew backward but turned the fall into a roll, bounding to his feet. Micah was unable to pursue his advantage.

The huntsman wiped the blood from his lip. “Very good, Montfort, I am glad your skills have not grown soft. It shall make the hunt more interesting.”

“Who are you?”

“As I said, you do not know me, but you do know my father. Others tell me I bear a striking resemblance to him.”

Micah hesitated, trying to drudge through his memory.

The huntsman made a show of rolling his eyes. “Oh come now, Montfort, surely you cannot be so dense. My father was a good friend of your uncle.”

He blinked, the vision of the terrible day in Normandy returning. But his minds eye focused on the man who stood behind his uncle. “Waleran of Meulan,” he growled. “You are his son.”

“Robert,” the huntsman said smiling maniacally.

“But your father said you were to be a knight, not a huntsman.”

Robert’s expression hardened like cold stone. “I would have been if not for you. My father was jailed, our lands confiscated, our family destroyed. There was no money to pay my knighting expenses. Because of you, I was forced to take this occupation in order to live and I swore my revenge. When you ousted MacLeary from Appleby, I found the perfect opportunity. The enemy of my enemy became my friend. I played on the villagers superstitions and their terror of me caused them to betray you.”

“Your plot failed, Robert. Even now a message is on the way to King Henry with the truth and with my real signet.”

Robert’s jaw tightened. “I will not lose to you like my father lost the rebellion.”

Micah retreated a step. “The rebellion was wrong. Peace could have been found in other ways.”

Robert scoffed. “Henry was wrong. By supporting him you gave strength to a king who betrayed his own brother.”

“I made a choice to do what I thought was right. A war would have harmed hundreds of innocent.”

“By dividing the Montfort household you defeated your uncle long before your sword ever landed. The nobles refused to support him and my father wholeheartedly. They did not know who would win. If they took arms against Henry and lost, their lands would have been confiscated too. So they chose to do nothing and the rebellion failed. Because of you I lost everything.”

“You lost everything because your father defied the king.”

Robert roared in fury and charged, launching a combination of blows that forced Micah to retreat. He could only frantically defend himself. Robert had the makings of one of the finest knights Micah had ever seen. Robert’s onslaught forced him back between the burning buildings. Sparks and flames erupted around him, the intense heat stole his breath. The snow under his feet turned into a slushy mess. Micah slipped and skidded but Robert continued his attack.

Micah’s thoughts scrambled just as his body fought to maintain his balance. He sensed the man’s hatred, like an icy blanket threatening to smother him. Steel rang against steel as Micah continued to block each blow, backing away. He had to go on the offensive, he had to turn the rhythm of the fight away from Robert’s advantage and to his own.

But Robert’s sword continued to dictate Micah’s moves. A building detonated in a firestorm beside them. Hot embers struck Micah’s face and he battled to suck in a breath but inhaled only smoke. He recoiled and gagged.

Robert’s sword slammed into his right arm, destroying his armor, cutting flesh and cracking bone.

Micah roared in agony, launching himself backward just as he lost his grip on his sword. Suddenly he found himself flat on his back, behind the buildings, away from the heat and smoke, with Robert standing over him, his sword raised for the death stroke.

Micah rolled and heard a muted thud of steel plowing into rock. But the ground canted away from him and he started to slide. Micah blinked his blurred vision clear. The ravine! Dear God he had made a foolish error. He had lost his position on the battlefield and would now pay the price. He clawed at the earth with his left hand, stopping his fall. His legs dangled over the edge.

Micah battled to pull himself forward but his injured arm was useless. He snarled in pain and fury.

Robert hesitated, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Now this is interesting.” He stepped forward, methodically, and raised his sword.

Micah’s throat went dry, he urgently cast for a way to escape, but his only choice was to hold on and face Robert’s sword, or let go and plunge into the ravine. His gaze stopped on a large root protruding from the ravine wall. It was about four feet down and two feet to his left. It was as thick as his arm and below it the ground thrust outward slightly forming a small ledge. It would be a desperate gamble that had little chance of succeeding. He looked back at Robert who continued his death march.