The Splintered Kingdom (37 page)

Even before I could finish, it happened. A flash of gleaming steel, it flew from out of the trees to my flank and it flew true, burying itself in Cnebba’s chest, transfixing him where he stood in front of me. He was dead before he hit the ground. Where only a moment ago there had been silence, now the air was filled with whistling shafts, the shouts of men and the whinnying of horses. Spooked, my rouncey reared up.

‘Ride,’ I yelled, and up ahead I could hear Robert doing the same: ‘Ride, ride!’

My steed’s hooves came crashing down, and I swung up into the saddle, digging my heels in, wishing that it was even-tempered Nihtfeax beneath me instead, but one of Robert’s stable-hands had him. Another cluster of silver points shot overhead and I ducked low, trying to avoid them. Whether the others were behind me I did not know, but there was no time to check.

Up ahead, Beatrice was shrieking, desperately trying to control
her palfrey. A feathered shaft protruded from the animal’s hindquarters; blood, thick and dark, was gushing down its coat. All of a sudden its legs gave way and she was pitched forward with a cry, landing in the mud amidst the ferns. The men around her clearly cared more for their own lives, however, since they did not stop, but rode and ran past her as if she were not there.

‘Beatrice!’ Robert said, pulling hard on the reins and turning, drawing to a stop. But at least four of his knights lay dead already, their corpses strewn across the path, and we would lose many more if we did not keep moving.

‘Go,’ I shouted, waving to him as I jumped down from my mount and sprinted to his sister’s side. She had fallen badly; by the looks of it she had twisted her ankle and also hurt her wrist, but somehow I had to get her away from there. Above all the noise, I began to make out the beating of weapon-hafts upon shields.

‘Take my hand,’ I said to her. ‘Take it now.’

Her eyes were filled with fear and shock, but she had enough presence of mind to do as I said. I helped her to her feet, at the same time unslinging my shield from where it hung across my back, working my arm through the straps and raising it high to fend off any shafts that might come our way. It was not much protection, especially for two people, but it would have to do.

‘Come on,’ I said as I put my arm around her waist to hurry her along.

Within a few steps I saw that it was no use. She had hurt her foot too badly and could barely walk; all she could manage was a half-hobble, half-stumble, and we were in danger of being left behind to the mercy of whoever was attacking us.

‘Beatrice!’ Robert was fighting the tide of men, though the path was not really wide enough to allow it, riding back towards us even as his knights tried to make for safety. But he was still some way off, and I couldn’t wait for him to reach us.

Hearing hooves behind me, I glanced up and saw Pons riding past. I called his name; he halted and looked down.

‘Lord?’

‘Take her and make sure she’s safe,’ I told him. Abandoning my
shield, I linked my palms. ‘Quickly,’ I said to her. Still wincing in pain, she raised her unhurt foot and stepped into the foothold I had made. Despite her height she was light and it was easy to lift her up to Pons, who extended his arms and helped her clamber ungracefully on to the back of his horse behind him.

‘Hold tight to Pons and swing your leg around,’ I said, which thankfully she managed to do. No sooner was she settled, with her arms around his chest, than I slapped Pons’s horse on the rump. ‘Now go,’ I told him. ‘Ride!’

He didn’t need telling twice. Around us all was confusion. Corpses lay sprawled in the dirt; riderless horses fled in all directions, and I saw my own rouncey trying to make for the cover of the trees, crashing through the undergrowth. Panniers had come unhitched from the saddles and their contents spilt across the path: provisions wrapped in cloth, silver coins, bundles of kindling, tent-pegs and canvas. I had lost sight of Serlo and Pons and any other familiar faces; my mind was whirling and it was all I could do to keep running. The arrows had all but ceased and now from out of a ditch some way inside the trees men charged with gleaming shield-bosses and blades, roaring and swearing death upon us all.

‘To arms,’ I yelled. ‘To arms!’

Up the path I glimpsed Pons and Beatrice, with Robert alongside them and some dozen knights. Beyond them, forming a line across the path and blocking their escape, stood a wall of overlapping shield-rims with bristling spears held out. Between those men, and the ones rushing out of the woods on either side, we were trapped.

I had enough time to lift my shield from where I had cast it down and brandish my sword. And then they were upon us, whooping with delight at the impending slaughter, their eyes filled with bloodlust, and they thrust and hacked wildly with spears and knives: a flood of Welshmen, to judge by their appearance. I called to those of Robert’s men who were nearby, trying to rally them, but it was in vain. A few drew their weapons and joined me, but many more were running, not yet understanding that they had nowhere to go. Yet even had they all stood their ground, I could see that we were hopelessly outnumbered.

‘Stay close to me!’ I called to those who had drawn arms, but it was no use. They could not stand against such a tide and were falling all around me, spearpoints buried in their breasts and in their throats, their blood spilling across the path.

I heaved my sword up and into the unprotected brow of one of the enemy. It bit into his skull, penetrating the bone. The fuller was running with crimson as I tore it free and he staggered forward, collapsing across my shield. With a grunt I threw his limp corpse to one side; he slid off its face just in time for me to fend off the axe blows rained upon me by one of his companions, a towering, broad-chested man in his middle years. For all his size and reach, however, he could not block the low blow at his legs. As he pressed forward, using the weight of his body to push against my shield, I struck, thrusting my sword-point down into his shoe, through the leather and into his foot, pinning it to the ground. Howling, he bent double. As he did so I slammed the face of my shield into his head before jerking my blade free and smashing it into his mailed arm with enough force that I heard bone crack.

‘
Ymauaelwch ef!
’ yelled one that I took for their leader. Short of stature, he had a red moustache and wore a helmet with silver-inlaid cheek-plates and a crest of black feathers, much the same as I remembered Rhiwallon had worn in the battle at Mechain.

And then I realised. This was his brother, Bleddyn, the King of Gwynedd, who had put the Wolf to flight in the battle.

‘
Ymauaelwch ef!
’ he repeated, pointing at me.

Slashing, parrying, thrusting, I tried to hold them off. The enemy were so many and we so few, and growing fewer with every moment that passed. Snocca fell, his chest carved open by Welsh steel. All too quickly we found ourselves surrounded: myself and seven others, forming a close ring as we protected each other’s backs.

‘Tancred!’

Between blocking one man’s blow with my shield-boss and ducking beneath the axe swing of another, I glanced up the path where the shout had come from. It was Robert. Together with Ansculf and three other knights, he scythed a path through the
enemy towards us, beating them down and trampling their corpses beneath his mount’s hooves, using the full weight of his blade to splinter their shield-rims. As more foemen rushed from the shadows of the trees to block their path, I saw that his efforts would be in vain. Even if he and his men did manage to reach me, they would soon be cut off without hope of retreat, and I couldn’t let them sacrifice themselves in that way. Not when they could still save their own skins.

‘Go,’ I called to them, my voice growing hoarse. ‘See yourselves to safety; that’s the only thing that matters!’

Above the clash of steel and the screams of the dying I wasn’t sure if he heard me. The enemy began to rally, forming ranks and presenting their spearpoints, crowding Robert. In that moment I knew that all was lost and that they would not get to me; they were only a handful of swords against countless spears.

‘Go!’ I shouted out as I wiped the sweat from my eyes. The Frenchman to my right screamed as he was skewered on a Welsh spear. The ring broken, the enemy surged forward. They were among us now, unstoppable, cutting down those who remained.

Roaring wordlessly, I summoned all the vigour left to me, heaving my blade around, striking out on all sides. If this was my time, I would face it not as a coward but with the sword-joy coursing through me.

‘Die, you bastards,’ I found myself shouting. ‘For Earnford and Lord Robert!’

Their cries and their laughter filled my ears as I lashed out, but my blade-edge found only air. Panic gripped my chest; my heart was pounding as I looked for a way through, but they had me surrounded and there was none. I glimpsed the feather-crested helmet, and for the briefest moment thought of spending my final breaths taking his life, but he was well protected by his teulu and I had no hope of reaching him.

And then without warning they were upon me. Even as I fended off one heavyset warrior, another was clutching at my sword-arm, and another still grabbing at the top edge of my shield, trying to pull me off balance. But I would not surrender, and kept on
struggling, determined to take as many of them as possible with me to my grave.

A heavy blow connected with the back of my head, near the base of my skull, and suddenly the world turned hazy. My legs seemed not to support me and I staggered forward, my sword-hilt slipping from my numb fingers. I was dimly aware of men crowding about me as I struck the ground. The last thing I remembered was the wide, white grin spreading across Bleddyn’s face as he stood gazing down upon me, before my mind clouded and darkness claimed me.

Twenty-one

I AWOKE WITH
the sharp taste of blood in my mouth. My lips were parched and a dull ache pounded inside my skull. I was on the ground, lying on my side; my mail, helmet and shield were all gone, and even my shirt and shoes had been taken from me, so that I was dressed in only my braies. Stones dug into my side and I tried to raise myself up, but my hands and feet were bound tightly with rough rope that chafed and dug into my wrists and ankles, and I could not move them.

For a moment I lay confused, trying to take in my surroundings, or as much as I could see of them at least. Horses, some dozen or more, saddled for riding but hobbled to keep them from wandering far, by the edge of a copse or wood. A banner in pale yellow, with a blue lion emblem that I dimly recognised, though recalling to whom it belonged was like wading through mud, for my mind was still hazy.

Voices, speaking in what sounded like both English and Welsh, drifted on the faint breeze. I rolled over on to my other side and straightaway found myself staring into cold blue eyes. A man crouched beside me, watching me. His hair, like his moustache, was red and his face was pock-ridden and marked with scars where the flesh had not properly healed. His black-crested helm lay on the ground beside him.

And then I remembered.

‘You are awake.’ He spoke in French, with a heavy accent, though not so heavy as to be unintelligible.

My throat was dry and no words would come.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Bleddyn,’ I managed to utter. A violent cough gripped my chest. ‘Bleddyn ap Cynfyn. The one they call King of Gwynedd.’

In his hand he clutched a leather thong on which was attached a bronze pendant that I recognised in an instant. Only then did I realise that my neck was bare. As well as the toe-bone of St Ignatius he had also taken my silver cross: the same one that had hung there for more years than I could remember, that I often kissed before battle, that had helped see me safely through countless struggles.

‘A fine object,’ Bleddyn said as he examined the pendant, opening it up and squinting at the writing on the strip of parchment within. Either his eyesight was not the best or else the elaborate script defeated him; he quickly shut it again and fastened the thong around his neck. ‘Alas your blessed saint seems to have forsaken you, Tancred.’

I swallowed to try to ease my throat. ‘How do you know my name?’

He smiled, allowing me a glimpse of his ivory-white teeth. ‘Who hasn’t heard of the great Tancred a Dinant, he of the hawk banner? I know many things about you, not least that you were there in the battle when my brother was murdered.’

Once more it seemed my reputation went before me. Gradually everything was returning to me. The path through the woods; how we’d had to turn back. The attack. If only we hadn’t strayed from the road, or instead had taken the longer route east by way of Deorbi. If only Robert hadn’t been so pig-headed, then perhaps I wouldn’t be here.

‘What about the others?’ I asked, at the same time wanting and not wanting to know the answer. ‘Are they dead?’

He hesitated as if unsure what to say, and I took that to mean that they had got away. If there was any relief to be had, I supposed that was it, so long as they were unharmed and they managed to reach Eoferwic safely.

‘We have what we came seeking, and that is all that matters,’ Bleddyn said. ‘Indeed I should thank you for making it so easy for us.’

‘Easy?’

‘We’d been following you since you left Amwythic, the place you call Scrobbesburh. When you pursued that trail into those woods, we knew God was with us.’

This had been no mere ill fortune, then, no chance encounter. That dust-cloud we had spotted must have belonged to their scouts. And we had gifted them the perfect opportunity to waylay us.

‘You were following us?’ I asked. They must have been informed that we would be passing this way. And I knew who was responsible. ‘This was Berengar’s doing, wasn’t it? Somehow he got word to you. He betrayed us.’

‘I do not know the man’s name,’ said Bleddyn.

To my ears that was as good as an admission. In the space of two days Berengar had first tried to kill me, and having failed at that he had then sold me to the enemy, probably for a handsome amount of silver. And not just me either, but Lord Robert and Beatrice too. I’d known he could be cold-hearted and vindictive, but never had I thought he would turn traitor. But if he’d hoped the enemy would do what he had been unable to, he had reckoned wrongly. For here I was still. Alive.