Authors: Miles Cameron
‘He said he knew of a plot to kill me, in an ambush – and he wished the honour of taking my place.’ The king shook his head. ‘He is truly a great knight.’
Gaston swallowed his thoughts, and wondered what his mad cousin had done. And why. But the mad eyes were closed forever.
Near Lissen Carak – Thurkan
Thurkan watched the king fall. His eyesight was tremendous and from two ridges away he and his clan watched the abnethog fling themselves on the knights.
Of course, he had told them that he would support their attack.
He’d told the Jacks much the same.
But Thorn was doomed, and Thurkan had no intention of letting his people suffer any more.
He turned to his sister. ‘If the men begin fighting among themselves, well and good – we will feast.’
‘I see nothing of the sort,’ Mogan said.
‘Nor I,’ Korghan said.
Behind them stood forty of their kind – enough Qwethnethog to turn the battle. ‘Go tell the Sossag and the Abenacki that the battle is lost,’ Thurkan said to his sister.
‘It isn’t lost unless we flee,’ his sister insisted. ‘By rock and flowing water – is that your will?’
Thurkan frowned, deep creases appearing in his jaw. ‘Thorn must die – now, while he is weak. Otherwise he will hunt us down.’
Mogan poked her snout close to her brother’s. ‘Do not let me believe that this is all the rivalry of two Powers,’ she spat. ‘I have lost kin – you have lost kin. We
were promised a feast, and—’
‘We had a feast at Albinkirk and another on the road.’ Thurkan shook his head. ‘I do not do what I do lightly. Thorn must go. We are being—’ he flexed the talons on
his forefoot, moving each digit in an intricate arc, ‘—manipulated. By something. I can feel it.’
Mogan snorted. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I obey. Under protest.’ And ran off into the trees, as fleet as a deer.
‘West,’ Thurkan told his brother.
‘I can help you,’ his brother insisted.
‘Perhaps. But Mogan cannot lead our clan or fertilize new eggs. And you can.’ The great head turned. ‘Obey, brother.’
Korghan flicked his tongue in anger. ‘Very well,
brother.
’
The two clan companies started west, even as the Royal Household Knights began to climb the ridge towards them.
Bill Redmede ran, loosed an arrow from his dwindling store, and ran again. His bodkin points were all but gone, and he had only hunting arrows.
The
God-damned
aristocrats had more plate armour than he’d ever seen. And the monsters – he’d been a fool to ever trust them and no doubt imperiled his soul, as well. He
was bitter – tired, angry, and defeated.
But he’d seen the king fall. It was some consolation, but it didn’t seem to slow the rest of the aristos any, and like all his kind, he faced an ugly death if he was caught, so he
waited a heartbeat, stepped from behind his tree and put a shaft under the arm of somebody’s fucking
lord
and turned, and ran again.
He made it up the second ridge, where they had started the morning, where the big daemon lord had issued its orders.
All the daemons were gone. Sod them, too. Oligarchs. Bad allies for free men.
The river was close now.
There were knights in red surcotes at the base of the ridge, and he could see them coming up the hill – most of them had dismounted, and a flurry of arrows told him that his boys were
still fighting back. Fighting the Royal Guard.
He was damned if he was going to lose any more Jacks.
He turned and ran diagonally across the face of the ridge.
He came up behind Nat Tyler as the man loosed his last arrow. ‘Come on, Nat – the boats!’
Tyler turned like a wild thing – but he got a hold of his wits, paused, and winded his horn and whistles sounded in response.
‘Follow me!’ Bill called, and ran back up the hill – legs labouring, lungs searching for breath.
Behind him, the Jacks loosed a last arrow and ran – the
sauve qui peut
had been blown.
Bill ran, and the Jacks ran behind him. He paused when he saw three of his own trying to face a knight with drawn swords and bucklers, and he put a shaft to his bow – another knight burst
from the trees and crossed the crest of the ridge – raised his visor—
Too good a shot to miss.
Hawthor Veney made it to the top of the ridge on pride alone. It was his first fight, and he was a King’s Guardsman. His red surcote shouted his allegiance, and the Jacks
were his enemies, and he pursued them ruthlessly. He caught one and hewed him from behind, a clumsy stroke that buried his point in the man’s neck, but the man fell hard, blood burst from the
wound, and he ran on, wrenching the sword from the man’s corpse.
The next one he caught fell to his knees and begged for mercy. He was perhaps fourteen years old.
Hawthor paused, and an older guardsman beheaded the boy. ‘Nits make lice,’ he said, as he swept by, and Hawthor hardened his heart and ran on. Running in armour was hard. Running up
a ridge with soft footing and tangled spring undergrowth was worse. His lungs began to labour and, as the Jacks rallied and rallied again, whipping deadly shafts at the guardsmen, Hawthor had to
fight the temptation to open his visor.
He began to pass men when he could see the light through the trees that meant the crest of the ridge was coming. There was shouting to the right – he turned to look, and he heard the sound
of steel on steel. He looked back and forth – it was closer, and with his faceplate closed, he couldn’t see where. There was a flicker of motion to the front – he looked, ran a
few steps, stopped, and looked again.
Heard the scrape of blades. A voice called ‘Sauve Qui Peut!’
He was breathing like a horse after a race. He was afraid – he was afraid they were behind him. He popped his visor, turned his head—
And died.
Near Lissen Carak – Bill Redmede
Bill got another shaft on his bow after putting one through the knight’s face – felt better for doing it – but two more of his men were down and he knew better
than to join the hand to hand fight. He ran.
They crossed the ridge, and started down the far side towards their boats. A handful of knights from the vanguard tried to stop them, and the Jacks just ran around them – exhausted men
without armour have an advantage over exhausted men in armour.
Bill saw the Count of the Borders, close enough to touch, and he cursed his fate, that he should be so close to a mortal foe and be able to do nothing.
But he ran past the man, down the steep berm, into a broad field – ploughed, until recently. Nat Tyler came out of the trees to his left, and dozens more – a handful, compared to
their numbers three weeks ago. But enough to start again.
Up the last dyke, and there were the boats. Fifty light bark boats – it had taken them three careful trips to get everyone over, night before last, and now . . .
Now they’d all fit in one go.
He tossed his bow into the bottom of the light boat, pushed it into the water, and stepped in, running lightly down the length of the boat to kneel in the bow. Then he rocked the stern off the
muddy beach, and held his position in the current with his paddle until a young blond man in dirty white tossed his own bow into the boat and stepped clumsily into the stern. He almost swamped the
light boat, and they were away into the current.
Twenty other boats were putting off behind him – the better boatmen got the boats moving. The less competent men started to die, as the Royal Guard began to close on them.
A few last Jacks dived into the water, abandoning packs and bows, quivers of invaluable arrows, but a few men had had the presence of mind to drag the rest of the boats off the mud and tow them
and, safe in the current, they got the swimmers into boats.
More than a hundred Jacks had been saved from the disaster.
They began to paddle out into the centre. It was obvious from here that Bridge Castle was still in the hands of the sell-swords – an arbalest bolt skipped across the water to put a hole in
one boat.
Tyler waved, pointed downstream, waved again, and paddled frantically to turn his boat.
Jack looked into the rising sun and it’s brilliant reflection on the broad river – and saw flashes. Rhythmic flashes – banks of oars on heavy bateaux, rowing upstream. He
counted twenty – counted a second twenty—
Disaster. Disaster after disaster.
He turned his head. ‘Less power and more finesse, comrade. We have to turn this boat and paddle upstream – all your power will serve us well, then.’
A pair of crossbow bolts, like swallows feeding on insects, skipped by, passing within an arm’s length of their boat before sinking out of sight.
The man in the stern shook his head. ‘I’m no boatsman, brother,’ he admitted.
‘Never mind, lad. Drag your paddle on the left – just there. And we’re around.’ Bill hadn’t risen to leadership for nothing; he was patient, even when everything
was at stake.
Then they were around, and his young companion’s strong arms were pushing the boat forward like a leaping deer. It was a waste of the man’s energy to spend so much but Jack let him
tire himself, steering from the bow. Another volley of crossbow bolts from the distant bateaux and he lost a trio of Jacks – they were broadside on to the enemy and all three of them caught
bolts.
Bill Redmede was an old boatman. And a master archer. He stowed his paddle, took his bow from the bottom of the light boat, wiped the stave and the string – good wax, not too much
moisture. He was glad he’d left it strung, and he rose to his feet, the boat tipping – leaped lightly onto the ash gunwales, one foot on each.
‘Good Christ!’ shouted his stern paddle in dismay.
He drew and loosed in one motion, tipping the boat from side to side, loosing high – a hunting point. Then he knelt as he watched the fall of his arrow.
He lost it in the sun-dazzle. But he felt better for the shot, and he took up his paddle and gave way with a will.
Near Albinkirk – Desiderata
Desiderata was in a borrowed chain shirt – worn with a man’s hose, a heavy wool kirtle laced as tightly as her maids could manage, and a man’s arming cap. The
effect should have been ludicrous, but was instead both martial and quite attractive, to judge from the reactions of the guildsmen and the hillmen all around her on the foredeck of the lead
row-galley.
Lady Almspend stood by her side, also in a shirt of mail, with a sallet on her head and a sword at her waist. She was more ridiculous, but beaming at Ranald Lachlan, whose attention was torn
between his lady-love and the approach of combat. The herd was penned in camp, with twenty of his brother’s men as guards. He stood in hauberk and leg armour, his open-faced bascinet and
leather cote almost barbaric in comparison to the crossbowmen of the guilds of Lorica, most of whom had fancy cotes of plates and visored helmets, the latest fashion from the Continent. His hands
rested on the great axe he carried.
The Queen looked at him. He was quieter than she had known him in year’s past. According to her secretary, he had actually been
dead.
The Queen suspected this might be a sobering
experience.
‘Boglins on the bank,’ Ranald said, pointing a gauntleted hand.
‘Got them,’ said one of the guild officers. ‘Boglins to starboard. Pick your targets. Loose!’
A dozen bolts flew.
‘The king must have been victorious,’ Lady Almspend said. ‘Those aren’t our men fleeing across the river in front of us.’
Ranald turned so fast the chain aventail at his neck slapped his helmet. ‘Good eyes, my lady.’ He flashed her a smile – pleased to have her company in his favourite pursuit. He
looked under his gauntleted hand for a long time. ‘They’re men – they’re in a sort of uniform. Now they turned their boats away—’
The guild officer had scrambled up into the bows past the Queen. ‘Jacks, by God. Rebels! Traitors! Heretics!’ He raised his arbalest, took careful aim, and loosed a bolt.
The boglins on the north bank began to flick arrows at them.
The Queen started. The back of her throat was scratchy. For the first time, she was afraid.
‘We have come too far west,’ Ranald said. ‘There are enemies on both banks, and the king won’t yet know that we are here.’
The Queen had received a message from the king late in the afternoon, and she had ordered the boats to row all night. She’d picked up the messenger at midnight, and his information had
been exact. Today was to be the day – she intended to see it.
She stood on the foredeck and shaded her eyes with her hand – to the front, and to the right, and to the left. To the left, she saw a flash of red, and then another – and then half a
dozen Royal Guardsmen appeared on the bank. She waved, and her ladies cheered.
‘Anchor here,’ she ordered.
A half-dozen boglin arrows fell onto the lead galley – most were deflected by the leather curtains that protected the rowers, but one struck home, and the man’s oar fell from his
hands as he screamed. The arrow was deep in his shoulder.
Boglins poisoned their arrows, and his screams froze her blood. He had laughed and joked with her maids when they lay on the banks of the Alba, eating sausage.
It was as much of a shock as the sight of a boglin.
An arrow plummeted from the heavens like a stooping hawk, struck her helm, ripped down her back and knocked her flat.
She lay on the deck – suddenly the day was darker, and her back was wet.
‘Ware the Queen!’ Ranald called.
She reached for the golden light of the sun – it was all about her, such a glorious day—
‘She’ll bleed out. It is in her back.’ Ranald was doing something.
‘Is it poisoned?’ Lady Almspend asked.
‘I don’t think so – give me your pen knife. Wicked bastard – a swallowtail point.’ Lachlan sounded afraid.
She was floating above them, able to see the hillman digging in the flesh of her back with a knife. He had the mail shirt hiked over her hips having cut the shaft of the arrow. She’d
seldom seen herself look less elegant.