The Lost Duchess (45 page)

‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘God be with you. Fire at my command then get behind the palisade. Use that to climb over.’ He pointed to a ladder lying nearby.

The lad started to speak, but Kit left before he could hear him. Something was happening. A noise rose from the forest that was more than just the dawn chorus. There were other sounds mixed in, bird calls he could not place and a persistent soft rustling.

He rushed past a base gun at a crouch and reached Jack Tydway
in the bastion furthest west just as the sun flared orange over the tops of the trees. Kit took one look at the falconet by which Tydway stood ready then tipped back his head. A sound passed over him like the whoosh of the wind gusting through leaves.

‘Take cover!’

He knew what it was before he saw the arrows raining down.

‘Fire!’ he yelled, roaring out the command as he ducked back to the nearest gun, snatching up a linstock left smouldering a few paces away. He held the match to the touch hole while bobbing down near the wall. There was a fizz as the primer caught, and louder noises as the reed arrows struck, clanging against metal, thudding into earth and wood, all mixed in with other sounds: the ululation of countless voices and a deep rumbling vibration. He saw the blast before he heard it, the gun kicked back in billowing smoke, the tree trunks shivered releasing clouds of dust, and the ground shook as if in a thunderstorm, sending shock waves through his feet. Another blast followed, and another in quick succession; then his ears succumbed to the pain of the noise, and all he heard was ringing, and all he saw beyond the gun was smoke filling the clearing, and traces of flame in the wood, and the shadow forms of savages running. Scores of them streamed towards him through the haze before the glare of the sun, their bodies almost naked or made strange by wicker armour. His nose filled with the stench of sulphur and his eyes watered, stinging, and he knew that most of the guns had fired but that the charge of the savages had barely been checked.

‘Back!’ He ran round behind the bastions, past Tom and Rob, calling out to them. ‘Get back now!’

He snatched up one of the crossbows and a quiver, lighting a fire bolt by the nearest brazier, putting it in place on the stock,
tight against the nut, and taking aim near the gate through the port for the unfired fowler. The bastion was still clear of the worst of the smoke. Only drifting wisps interfered with his vision, and the savages running forwards to hurl themselves at the wall, springing one upon another, scrabbling to get over. Shots rang out and a man screamed nearby, but he must not look, only concentrate on the forest beyond the belt of cleared ground, and the foremost trees at the outer edge. Some were already ablaze; others were smouldering, blown to stumps by explosions. He took aim at a pine that remained intact and sighted on the black ring of pitch around its trunk, and the pitch-covered powder keg that he’d tied near its base. He let out his breath and pulled the crossbow trigger. The string twanged in release and the bolt sped away, trailing a straight line of fire for about fifty paces. Seconds later, the trunk burst into a crown of yellow flame.

He moved to the gun, set a match to the cannon’s touch hole, waited for ignition, and ran to the next position. The blast came as he reached the bastion where Rob had been only minutes earlier. The boy was gone but something moved: a savage by the gun, bent over a pool of blood. Kit sprang forwards as the man wheeled round. The warrior had picked up an English axe that he swung to strike in a flash of steel. All Kit could do was charge, using his helmet like a ram to knock the man off his feet. The warrior crumpled sideways and Kit drew his sword. The reverberation of gunfire shuddered through them, earth and wall. One thrust and the man was dispatched; a twist, and his blade was free. Another blast rocked the defences, and the smell of burning sap hung bittersweet in the air. The light through the gun port was tinged the orange of flickering flames. He could hear the forest roaring.

‘Get to the fort! Get away!’

He hoped no one would be left to listen who could understand; the others should be making for the pinnace by now. Most of the incendiaries he’d set at the edge of the trees were well ablaze in a ring of flame. He reached the bastion facing south and saw raging fire beyond the clearing, but men were still scaling the wall.

He grabbed another bolt and set it alight, took aim over the last unfired gun at one of the few pines intact at the edge of the wood. He put his finger near the trigger, released the lock, prepared to fire, then turned as a shadow fell over him, the shadow of a man like a carrion bird settling. The warrior leapt from the rampart, armoured front and back, the wicker of his breastplate forming wings over his shoulders. Kit shot him on impulse, impaling him through the chest, turning his armour into a torch. He gritted his teeth against the man’s screaming and used a linstock to fire the gun. The shot brought down the tree.

A shout made him turn again.

‘Kit!’

Someone was calling him.

‘Here!’

He looked along the walkway curving round behind the wall and saw Jack Tydway staggering towards him, stumbling around the body of a savage through clouds of gun-smoke. Across his shoulders was one of their own, head hanging down, the shaft of an arrow sticking out from his neck.

Not Rob, let it not be Rob.

‘It’s Tom,’ Jack gasped.

Savages were rushing up behind him, whooping and swinging cudgels heavy enough to brain a man at a stroke. Kit darted past to
bring them down, using his pistol then his sword. They were dealt with quickly, but others followed in their wake, creeping round from the west by the tree trunks.

‘Hurry,’ Kit urged, though he could tell Jack was moving as fast as he could. His clothes were soaked with Tom’s blood.

‘Is anyone left that way?’

‘No,’ Jack grunted.

‘Rob?’

‘Haven’t seen him.’

Kit felt a surge of relief, but only for an instant. More savages were closing, warriors from the first wave before the fire took hold, men who’d got over the wall.

He grabbed at weapons as he passed, used them and threw them down. There was no chance to reload. He shot a warrior climbing over the wall, sending his blood spraying in an arc. Two more were felled with bow and arrow. He hurled an axe, shot more fire bolts, threw a brazier and struck with a caliver that he wielded like a club. In the narrow passageway through the barricades he covered Jack’s back with his sword. But the savages were too many, and they followed him inside the labyrinth, despite the barrels, crates and anything else he could drag across his tracks. His friends would be done for if they got any closer. Kit slowed and stood his ground.

‘Carry on, Jack. Get Tom to the pinnace.’

‘And you?’

‘No matter. Go!’ He shouted again at the top of his voice as he crouched behind an overturned table and loaded one last shot. ‘Go!’

This was where he would die. He’d done what he could and his strength was waning. He’d give Jack a few more minutes. When
the next savage ran into view, he fired his pistol and saw the man’s legs crumple. Another warrior appeared, and he drew his sword, preparing to lunge. But there were others behind, too many for one swordsman. He said a quiet goodbye to Emme; then he stood, arms wide.

‘Come on!’

A shot rang out, and two of the savages fell heavily, mid charge. At the point of leaping towards him, the first man was knocked back as if by an invisible fist, with a force that struck him in the middle of the chest. In falling he took down the man behind, a man who lay writhing, splattered with the blood of his comrade and with his own blood pouring from a hole under his collar bone. The shot had been fired from the side. Kit looked across and saw the helmet of a caliverman crouched behind a pile of furniture heaped between two houses. The chase slowed to a crawl. The nearest savage turned and fled.

‘Who’s there?’ Kit called out as he began to edge back. There might be a chance to reach the fort after all. Had Lacy come down to help him? But surely Lacy wouldn’t have left Emme. He looked from the savages at a standstill back to the caliverman who was loping towards him, bent low, carrying a firearm, lithe as a panther. It was Rob, ashen-faced where he was not black with gunpowder. He held his caliver out to Kit with a hand that slightly shook.

‘It’s loaded,’ Rob said. ‘I took two from the wall.’

Kit flashed the boy a smile and grasped the weapon firmly. He cocked the piece with his match and levelled it at the place where the savages had sought cover.

‘When I fire we run.’

The boy nodded mutely.

Kit fired and took the recoil then threw the weapon down. They ran, hurtling over the ground, racing around obstacles, taking the side paths and turning the corners that would take them to the fort, leaping over the trestles and other objects positioned to hinder pursuit. Looking over his shoulder, he saw no one behind.

‘I think we’ve lost them,’ he gasped, and when Rob slowed in confusion he pushed the boy on, though the boy’s young legs soon took him ahead at a pace.

The palisade loomed above them, shrouded in drifting smoke, and above the stakes there were helmets and a ladder sliding over. Shouts rippled down through the noise of the fire, crackling and popping and continued blasts in the distance. No one had left for the pinnace; he saw three people up there, and one of them must have been Jack. He heard Emme calling.

‘Take the ladder. We’re dropping it for you.’

The ladder fell and bounced then Rob picked it up, leaning it against the wall. Kit took hold at the foot.

‘You first.’

Rob hesitated.

Kit glanced round, sensing they’d been followed. Something rippled along the passage by which they’d come.

‘Up, for God’s sake!’

He shoved Rob against the ladder and drew his sword.

The boy started to climb and Kit followed fast.

He held on with one hand, looking back as a savage rushed towards them and a band of warriors emerged from the shadows, whooping and brandishing great sharp-bladed cudgels. They charged in a mass. The leader aimed a blow at Kit’s legs. Kit blocked it with his sword, but the blade shattered on impact and the man
swung again. Kit scrambled higher, bumping against Rob.

The boy reached the top and was hauled over by his belt. Lacy grabbed the ladder just as it was struck from below. The blow almost dislodged Kit. It smashed through one of the rails and swung the ladder violently to one side, but Kit clung on, and Lacy had hold of an upper rung.

The savage leapt for what was left of the ladder and swiped upwards, shaving the cudgel past Kit’s ankle. Kit drew up his legs, lunging for the top, hearing a thud: the cudgel dropping down. Then he felt a stab of pain as a hand caught his heel. The grip was like a grapnel, holding him back. He couldn’t get any higher. Hands from above reached for his arms. Someone from the fort was pulling at his back, but he couldn’t shake off the weight dragging him down from below.

The man’s grip dug deeper. Kit kicked with his free leg and another hand grabbed his ankle, then the calf of the other leg. The man was crawling up his body, calling out.

‘Come back to me, Englishman. I wish to say goodbye.’

Wanchese. It must be Wanchese; no other warrior spoke English who was not a Croatan. He did not need to look down. He could not. His head and shoulders were over the palisade, his chest between the spikes. His legs were in Wanchese’s grasp, and the Indian’s whole weight was bearing down on him, twisting and turning, racking his body. Then the pain became searing in the back of his calf. Wanchese was biting him, sinking in his teeth.

Emme yelled, leaning over them.

‘Take that for goodbye.’

He couldn’t see what she did, but a terrible scream came with the sudden release of his legs, one that ended with the thud of
something heavy hitting the ground. She pulled back quickly as he was dragged over the parapet, and he was aware that she was drawing in a pike, sliding the long shaft, foot by foot, through her hands. When she set it on the walkway, there was blood on its point.

They embraced for no more than seconds. He held his wife and his son, Jim Lacy and Jack Tydway: friends as good as brothers; they all clung to one another.

‘Where’s Tom?’

‘In the strong-house,’ Jack answered. ‘I don’t think he’ll live.’

Lacy ushered everyone on.

‘None of us will live unless we move now.’

Kit got to his feet painfully and peered over the wall. The body of Wanchese was gone, but he could see warriors trying to scale the palisade using the remains of the ladder and balanced upon one another. Lacy ran along the walkway at a crouch and returned with two longbows and a sheaf of arrows. Kit took a bow and they worked together, loosing enough arrows at the savages to keep them at bay for a little longer. But there would be more, and he knew their lust for vengeance would be stronger than ever.

Half running, half limping, he got to the strong-house with the others, and as one they lifted Tom and carried him to the gun port at the back of the fort. Lacy unbarred the place and opened the gate and they scrambled down the cliff, feet sliding in trickling sand, trying to soften the jolts for Tom.

The tender boat was just big enough to carry them all over, and the pinnace lay reefed as if for a jaunt on the lagoon, except for the swivel guns on her stern rails and the base gun at her bow. Thank God he’d got her ready.

They piled in and weighed anchor, using oars to get underway,
with four men rowing and Emme at the tiller until they were clear to set sail. Then she tried to nurse Tom in the well of the boat, though his chances looked bleak. The lad had lost too much blood; his skin was white and his eyes were glassy. Emme spoke to him gently, but she doubted Tom could hear.

‘We’re safe now, Tom. Rest and be untroubled. Think of England; you could be home before winter. Tom …?’

As she looked up, Kit could see she was crying. He met her eye and shook his head.

‘Let him sleep.’

‘He is dead.’

She was right; he knew it before he checked for breath and pulse. He closed the lad’s eyes.