B00B9BL6TI EBOK (27 page)

There was blood, blood everywhere, Edwin was covered in it, but he was oblivious as he cradled the dying man’s head in his hands. He watched as the light died from the eyes and the hand touching his arm fell away. The cursed broken hand which had caused his death. Edwin lowered his head and wept.

Sir Gilbert felt the exhilaration building in him as he gained new strength. They were winning! They were going to be victorious! The French were suffering a crushing defeat and surely this would have repercussions far beyond the walls of Lincoln.

He was urging his bloodied horse on, down through the streets as the enemy fled southwards through the city towards the Stonebow gate and the bridge over the river. As they neared the space there his progress was slowed, as the press of men became thicker. The rebels were seeking to regroup, to make a last stand before the gate. He raised his sword once more, having long discarded his lance, and rode into the fight.

It was tougher than he had expected; the French and the English rebels had reached the stage of utter desperation, and they were risking their lives recklessly, knowing there was nothing else to fight for. Somehow some of the regent’s men had disappeared, and there were fewer of them to attack the foe. He was becoming mired. The rebels were defending valiantly.

But suddenly, men wearing the livery of the Earl of Chester erupted from a side street. They stormed forward into the fight, and after that there was no doubting the outcome. Many of the rebels dropped their weapons and tried to flee out of the gate, but it was not large enough for such a huge number, being of a strange design which only let one or two men through at a time. There was also, of all things, a cow stuck in the opening, and Gilbert watched in some disbelief as the terrified animal thrashed about, impeding and injuring those who tried to pass. Many were crushed in the press, and those that did get through were too many to cross the bridge, shoving each other into the water where they drowned, dragged down by the weight of the armour they hadn’t had time to discard.

Others were still fighting valiantly for their lost cause, and he drew himself back in order to charge into a knight at the edge of the press. His attack caught the other by surprise, and his sword stroke sent the man flying from his saddle and crashing into the ground. At last, a chance for some ransom money! He threw himself from his horse and levelled his sword at the other’s throat before he could rise. He shouted, his voice hoarse. ‘Yield!’

The other knight paused for a moment, and then dropped his own sword as a gesture of surrender. He struggled into a sitting position and removed his helmet, casting it aside. He stood, stiffly. No bones broken.

The victor spoke. ‘Sir Gilbert de l’Aigle. You are not injured?’

The captive replied. ‘Sir Robert Fitzwalter at your service.’ He picked up his sword and passed it, hilt-first, to Gilbert.

Gilbert passed it over to the group of his men who were behind him and bade them take him away and keep him secure. One of them caught the reins of the loose horse and they led away man and beast.

Gilbert mounted his own horse again and looked around. Most of the fighting had stopped. Knights and lords were surrendering all around him, while their foot troops fled as best they could, knowing that only death awaited them. He didn’t think they stood much of a chance: there were many miles between them and their nearest allies, miles which were filled with the local peasantry who had had their homes and livelihoods destroyed, their families killed. There would be revenge.

Another loose horse shot past him, a knight’s destrier, and he tried unsuccessfully to catch the reins. A second captured horse would be valuable, even if the owner of it had got away. But as he looked at the animal, his heart faltered in its rhythm. He knew that mount. That saddle. Reginald. His blood turned to ice.

The victorious regent was surrounded by cheering men. John Marshal looked on as the old man was congratulated by his compatriots, the Earl of Chester being among the first to shake his hand. Chester’s arrival at the Stonebow gate had certainly been timely, but John Marshal couldn’t help but wonder whether it had been staged that way, so that the earl should be the one whose intervention proved decisive. Had it really taken him all that time to break through from the north gate? But no matter, it was done now. The battle was over. The captured lords and earls – Saer de Quincey of Winchester, Henry de Bohun of Hereford, both the de Clares, Gilbert de Gant, whom Louis had had the temerity to name Earl of Lincoln, so many! – were making their submission.

It was still only mid-morning, so there was plenty of the day left. John Marshal took his contingent of men to find the rebel headquarters. There might be some important information there which would be of use in driving the French out of the rest of the country, but more to the point, there would be valuables to be seized. Such had been the speed of their retreat that they were bound to have left most of the treasures they’d stolen. He could do with some pecuniary gain: as a bastard son he’d inherited little of worth from his father, and he could expect little from his uncle, who in any case had five legitimate sons of his own to provide for. No, he had to make his own way in the world and that suited him well, especially on a day like this. He felt a glow of satisfaction as he remembered the fight, and particularly the action around the siege engines.

On finding the French headquarters he was agreeably surprised to find that there were even more goods than he’d expected. Once he’d appropriated the best of them for himself and on behalf of his uncle, he allowed his men to take the remainder. As he looked about him he realised that he wasn’t the only one to have thought of plunder: others were allowing their troops to loot as well. As he watched, a group of Chester’s men kicked in the front door of a house and started to carry off goods from inside, to the screams of the inhabitants. A man, presumably the householder, tried to stop them, but he was knocked to the floor and beaten viciously before they made off with his possessions.

Possibly this was going too far? He made his way back to his uncle, temporarily installed in the minster yard, and reported the situation to him. The state of affairs was becoming more serious: as some men saw others starting to loot the houses, they themselves joined in. But surely they had come to rescue these people? Had they not suffered enough under the French rule? He put it to his uncle. The other lords pressed around eagerly like wolves, greed plain on their faces.

The regent was silent for a moment as he considered. Then he pronounced judgement. ‘I think we will allow this. Firstly, the men will be difficult to stop now that they have started and developed a lust for plunder. Better to let them continue with our blessing than to try and stop them and let them realise we have lost control. Secondly, they have just won a battle for the king, so they must have their reward.’ He paused and chose his next words with care, looking at his nobles. ‘It is also possible that the citizens of Lincoln surrendered too easily to the invaders and collaborated with them, so the stripping of their town will serve as an object lesson to other places which may be attacked, to encourage them not to submit so tamely.’

It would be impossible to argue with him, and of course he was talking great sense. The only thing John Marshal should do would be to ensure his own personal share of the plunder – as some of the others were obviously about to do, slipping away surreptitiously from the gathering – and yet he hesitated. He had seen something else out of the corner of his eye, which made even him balk. He tried one more time. ‘But my lord, they are even starting to loot the cathedral, the house of God.’

Even the regent looked taken aback by this, but the papal legate, hovering at his elbow, bent down to whisper in his ear, and then stood to address the gathering in his reedy voice. Men strained to hear.

‘As the representative of the Holy Father it is my decree that the clergy of Lincoln did not do enough to fight the invaders in the name of their true king, and so they are to be considered as enemies and excommunicates.’

So that was that. Encouraged by their leaders, the victorious army started to attack and steal from the town they had come to save. John felt ambivalent – taking the French treasure was fair game, but the trinkets and possessions of the citizens was another matter. And yet, could the victorious men be denied? They’d fought hard, after all. He decided that he wouldn’t take any more for himself – what he had taken from the French would be plenty – but he wouldn’t seek to stop anyone else from gaining, either. Fair was fair. He rode through the streets, watching. All around him soldiers were entering houses, carrying off anything they could find and beating down anyone in their way. Women’s screams started from many places – there would be more crimes than robbery this day. A group of Salisbury’s footsoldiers broke into a tavern and rolled out the barrels of ale, which they smashed open in the street. Others joined them and soon the road was full of drunkards.

Amid the chaos he found one who showed distaste. Gilbert de l’Aigle joined him and they rode side by side through the madness. The other knight shook his head, indicating his disapproval as another shop was plundered in front of them, the owner beaten and kicked into the gutter as he sought to save his wares. ‘I don’t like this.’

John Marshal shrugged. It probably wasn’t fair on the townsman but he had seen such things before, and he knew it wouldn’t stop until the evil had run its course through men’s veins, until they had gorged themselves on their crimes, until the city was stripped of its last silver halfpenny. He merely said, ‘My lord the regent has sanctioned it.’

His companion did not reply but looked on tight-lipped as citizens started to flee their homes, carrying whatever possessions they could carry. They didn’t really have anywhere to go – some sought to hide, others fled downhill towards the south gate, following the path of the invaders who had taken flight.

John Marshal watched them and didn’t at first hear the other’s question, but once it was repeated he was able to answer. ‘Reginald le Croc? We were together by the siege engines, and then in the melee near here. I think I saw him heading off down that street there. He may have been following someone. I lost sight of him.’

Gilbert thanked him and departed, as John Marshal continued to watch the destruction unfold.

Edwin and Alys looked at each other over the dead body of the knight. Edwin had a sense of unreality, and he could see that she looked dazed as well. There was blood and broken furniture everywhere, the front door hanging crazily off its leather hinges, and, of course, three bodies on the floor and another in the kitchen. He sought to come to terms with what had happened. Vaguely, he became aware that the noise of battle had ceased; men were no longer running in panic past the door. Carefully he moved his arms, laid Sir Reginald’s head gently on the floor and rose. His whole body was stiff and aching. He was covered in blood which was drying on him and he was aware that he stank. But he was alive, and so was she.

He risked looking out of the door and stepping outside. The street was empty, although discarded weapons and the occasional corpse lay around. He sought to close the door as best he could, although it would need mending. He turned back inside, to see that she had mutely taken one of the pieces of cloth which littered the floor and was reverently covering the knight’s face and body with it. She arranged it a little more carefully than was necessary, and stood. Still she said nothing.