The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (65 page)

Towbray made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I mean that on the one hand, Kit, the newborn King of Alba rode along our ranks and I doubt there’s five lads out there with any heart for this fight—eh? And on the other, that Gallish prick had the nerve to give me—
me
orders.”

“Might ha’ been any pretty wench wi’ some base-born bastard,” Crowbeard said, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Towbray shrugged. “Let’s go and
cover
the hill,” he said. He sent a messenger to order the Harndon militia to go forward to the base of the first swell.

Their dogged slowness made his men look positively eager for a fight.

Gabriel handed the pennon back to Foliak and slapped his armoured back with his own gauntlet. “I’d never have believed it,” he said. He looked at Ser Francis, who was watching the Harndon militia through the hedge.

“Some of them even cheered us,” said the Queen.

The captain dismounted. “Every jack of you on this hedge,” he shouted. “Get up and go to the other side of the lane. Move.
Move
!”

Archers like Three Legs grumbled at having to pick up all the arrows they’d stuck in the ground, but they moved. Pages shifted their horses. Dan Favour was back—one wave and a glance and the captain knew he’d passed the message.

He looked at Francis Atcourt. “You and your lances and the Queen—that’s all I’m leaving on this side,” he said.

Atcourt bowed.

“Right,” Gabriel said. He ran, sabatons clicking and clanking, across to the lane. He peered down it, but there was no squadron of death-or-glory Gallish knights ready to crush his cat-and-clay plan.

He left one page—the new man, Bill something, recruited that morning in the barnyard—to watch the road.

“Call out if you see any men—mounted or on foot—in the lane. Do you understand me, Bill?”

Bill looked terrified, but whether that was at the coming battle or the mere fact of conversing with a lord, Gabriel didn’t know.

“You have a weapon?” he asked.

“No, lord,” Bill said stolidly. “I had a spear, but it’s back wi’ the wagons, wherever they is.” He paused. “Awhich I’m Bob, not Bill. Bob Twill, that’s me.”

Gabriel breathed out, a long and steadying exhalation. He unbuckled his arming sword and tossed it to Bob. “Don’t lose it, Bob,” he said.

The former ploughman clutched it.

Gabriel turned and ran for the other side of the hedgerow.

He arrived at one of the many gaps to find that Du Corse had arrayed his men well—a solid line of horsemen, well spaced out to make worse targets, and behind them he’d dismounted two hundred men-at-arms in a body.

Gabriel couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. His brother came and they knocked their armoured fists together.

“Why are you so happy?” Gavin asked.

Gabriel wanted to hug him. “Unless Towbray attacks this minute or Du Corse decides to be rash instead of professional,” he said, “we’re about to hand him his head.”

“Suddenly you’re cocky,” Gavin said.

“It’s the Queen,” Gabriel said. “Never mind. It’s everyone. But we’re going to pull this off.
Listen up!”
he roared, raising his voice. “Du Corse is going to roll up the hill and we’re going to beat him. The moment his men break—and trust me, lads and lasses, they’re going to break—we mount and follow them. See the road down there to the north where it enters the woods?
Go to there. Rally there.
Do not mess about. Ten minutes’ hard fighting, and we ride free. I promise. You all hear me?”

They shouted.

“You see the King?” he asked them.

He pointed down the hedge to where the Queen sat on her palfrey and the Royal Standard floated.

They roared.

Gavin laughed. “You are shameless, brother.”

Gabriel smiled. “You know what?” he said. “We are going to rock de Vrailly back. And then we’re going to ride north and collect the rest of our forces.” He paused, watching Du Corse, who was giving a speech. “And then, by my powers, I’m going to show Master Thorn something.”

The Galles gave a throaty roar.

The horsemen put their beasts to the trot and then the canter. They had charged once, and they weren’t fresh, and they, too, were on their second or third fight in a few days. Many of their horses hadn’t recovered from a sea voyage. Those didn’t get past a trot.

And when they passed Cully’s almost-invisible line of withies stuck into the ground, the arrows fell on them.

Gabriel took a riding horse from Nell and rode back along the hedge to the Queen.

Towbray’s men had come a third of the way up the hill. The militia hadn’t even come as far.

“About time to go, your grace,” he said. He smiled at Amicia.

She frowned. “You love war,” she said. She shook her head. “It’s an odd thing to love.”

The Queen made a face. “I’m ready to go wherever you lead,” she said to her captain.

He nodded at Ser Francis. “When we charge, follow us down,” he said. “We’ll cut our way out and ride for Lorica.”

Ser Francis nodded. “What are the odds on my fief in Thrake?” he asked.

“Not bad at all,” Gabriel answered. He trotted back to the hedge. All the archers were working as hard as men can work, their bodies straining into the big bows, their back muscles and arms doing a day’s work in a few minutes.

Cully pulled a shaft to his ear and let it go.

Flarch and Ricard Lantorn called out, almost together, “Twenty.” Most of the archers only had a hand of shafts in the ground at their feet along the gaps in the hedge, and maybe three more in their belts.

It was not yet even noon.

He rode to Gavin, dismounted, and tossed his reins to Nell, who gave him back his spear.

Out in the fields below, everything had changed.

Du Corse’s cavalry were dead or dismounted. Many of them were still coming, because they were insanely brave. Near at hand, a man in a fine segmented breastplate had six or seven arrows in him and still came forward. He was only a few yards away.

Cuddy put a four-ounce arrow into his groin from almost close enough to touch, and the man went down to die in agony. But there were others.

A short bowshot behind them, Du Corse’s dismounted men came on unscathed. Du Corse led them in person, and they cheered as they came, trudging over the damp ploughed fields in their heavy armour.

The first of the original mounted men burst into the hedge—a knight on a dying horse came first, and Gavin put him down with a single blow of his axe. Then a trio of men whose horses were dead—they
ran
into one of the gaps.

It was Gabriel’s gap, and then the battle was no longer an intellectual exercise or a sport. Terror and pain filled the three with rage.

The Red Knight cut with his heavy spear and the first knight’s head leapt from his body. This time, Gabriel knew what to expect and his weapon passed through the low guard on the left side, point down, and rose again as fast as his arms could uncurl—it cut through the second man’s sword and his breastplate, too—up through his aventail, cutting through hundreds of links of riveted chain and then up through the man’s jaw and out the top of his helmet in an impossible cut, as if the man and his armour were made of butter.

And around in a reverso, crossing Gabriel’s hands briefly, right over left and then the right shot out along the haft. His adversary’s parry was useless, and he died, and fell in two pieces.

The men around Gabriel began to cheer.

It gave him no pleasure. It was like cheating on a test.

At his feet, the Gallish line had quickened its pace despite the steep hill and the near mud.

Just to the right of the enemy line—at the edge of the woods—a banner broke out of the trees, and horsemen began to enter the field.

Gabriel’s heart stopped. It was not Bad Tom, or Michael.

It was three antlered heads in black on a golden chevron and a white field, and a voice like thunder roared, “A Corcy!”

Gabriel leaned on his heavy spear. He sighed.

“Lord Corcy will not betray us,” said Desiderata. “You have too little faith in men, Ser Gabriel.”

She pointed. “Look!” she called.

And then Ser Michael and Bad Tom came out of the wood line, a little north and east of Corcy. They had all the Thrakian knights and men-at-arms, and Tom Lachlan led them in his favourite wedge, his heavy lance held well over his head.

“Mount!” Gabriel called. “Sound ‘mount’ Ganfroy!”

He was ready to weep again, from sheer relief. Just for a moment.

Corcy and his retainers struck the end of Du Corse’s line. The men on foot were caught in the flank at open shields, and many were simply knocked down as the local knights rode them over.

Bad Tom’s wedge crashed obliquely into the line of dismounted men-at-arms. They hit it like a plane cutting wood, and the ranks seemed to peel asunder.

Already, at the south end of the Gallish line, men were forming orbs. Pages were bringing war horses forward. It was not a rout—

Not quite a rout. But in the centre of the line Du Corse’s standard wavered.

The captain pointed with his war hammer at Du Corse’s standard. “Follow me!” he roared, and charged.

Down through the hedge poured his household knights—the tournament champions who’d been with him all day. Behind them came all the pages and archers—and the Queen and Blanche, and anyone else with a horse. Even Bob Twill the ploughman, on Blanche’s spare rouncy.

Du Corse’s banner went down. Tom Lachlan’s great axe went up and down, and then he swept out his dread sword, and men cheered. Ser Michael’s lance was as steady as a fence pole, and every man he touched, he threw to the ground, broken.

The whole mass bunched in one melee, the line crumbling and bunching, like a thin snake trying to eat a very big meal. But the company men stayed together, and followed their orders. They knocked a hole the width
of twenty lances in Du Corse’s line and took his banner, and then swept through.

Tom Lachlan, having knocked his own hole in the line, dismounted by Du Corse.

Lord Corcy rode right past him and slammed a slim steel axe into the wounded Galle’s helmet. He reined in and raised his visor. “I need him to trade for my sons,” he said.

Du Corse’s men did not break. Some died, but more were simply knocked into the ground. The rest clumped into the corner of the field by the lane and prepared to sell their lives dearly. Only as they rallied did they see how few their assailants were, but by then the Thrake stradiotes had swept into their pages, and were herding a fortune in Gallish war horses—even ill-fed and spoiled by sea voyage as they were—up the road to Lorica.

A half dozen archers—trapped in the woods west of the road since the original charge of the Galles—slipped out of the trees and joined the company and were double mounted. Will Starling grinned and Daud the Red and Wha’hae slapped their bared arses at the distant Galles.

And then, the Queen well-protected in their midst, with a handful of high-ranking prisoners and some rich ransoms, they mounted fresh horses where they could and rode north, towards Lorica.

De Vrailly rode up to the Earl of Towbray. The hilltop town lowered above them.

Towbray shrugged. “The militia won’t advance, and Du Corse ordered me to cover the hill,” he said. “What can I do?”

De Vrailly glared at him with unconcealed contempt.

He rallied Du Corse’s veterans and made camp in the field below the town, which he had the survivors of the routiers clear, loot, and burn to the ground. But burning Picton couldn’t get him back his army’s morale, or the three hundred horses he’d lost.

The archbishop ordered Corcy’s sons hanged. De Vrailly remanded the order. The archbishop sat and dictated a dispatch, claiming victory as that they held the battlefield, and denouncing the Queen as a whore and strumpet who was spreading a false rumour that she’d born an heir.

De Vrailly made himself as distant as he could. The routiers were happy enough to burn Picton, but the Gallish knights were drawing away, in body, from the archbishop.

When the archbishop slept, de Vrailly summoned a herald and sent him to the Red Knight, at Lorica.

Then he went to his pavilion, where his squires had already laid out his plain bed and his prie-dieu with the triptych of the Virgin, Saint Gabriel and Saint Michael. He poured a cup of water from a magnificently ornate gold and crystal bottle on a shelf in the prie-dieu, blessed himself, and placed the cup carefully behind the flange that covered the inside of his right knee.

He knelt for a long time, in his harness, without even a single candle. His knees ached, and he ignored them. He ignored the feeling that his greave tops and his knee articulation were cutting gradually through his padded hose.

Pain is penance
.

Come, beautiful angel. I have things to ask and say.

The pain continued, and so did the darkness. From time to time his meditations were broken—outside, he heard Jehan, his squire, trying to explain to the Corcy boys that he had saved their lives and that they should be grateful for being alive.

The archbishop’s tempers were infantile.

De Vrailly thought of the figure of the Queen, seen in the distance, riding across the hillside, the banner streaming behind her. It had moved him, at some point beyond simple decisions.

So easy to believe that she is a witch.

He thought of the King—his friend. In many ways, his closest friend. No man in Galle had ever been so close to him.

I failed to protect him.

I never even saw the arrow, because I was sulking in my tent—because I was ensorcelled.

His rage grew.

His hands began to shake, and an unaccustomed heaviness grew in his throat and chest.

And then the angel manifested.

He hovered above de Vrailly’s head, his fair form shining almost perfectly gold, his robes a paler white gold and his armour paler yet. In his right hand was a heavy spear, and his left hand held a small round shield with the cross in stark black.

You called for me, my knight.

De Vrailly looked at the angel and struggled for his rage and his belief.