The Protector's War (6 page)

“'Bye, Little John!” she said. “I've got to go and do my jobs now. Carding and spinning.” She made a face, and then a little curtsy. “
Bo
ring! 'Bye, sirs.”

“What a charming young miss,” Nigel said.
We always wished we'd had a daughter as well,
he thought, and sighed slightly.

“Reminds me of my sister's kids,” Hordle agreed, yawning.

“I'll take first watch, then,” Nigel said, and grinned at his son. “
You've
made a conquest, it seems. Dreamy, indeed!”

Alleyne snorted and they settled down again, but it was he who first lifted his head a few minutes later. “Hooves,” he said.

Young ears,
his father thought, and said aloud: “How many?”

“Half a dozen, at a guess, one more or less. Hordle?”

“Horses it is, sir. Not likely to be the neighbors dropping in for a cuppa, either, is it?”

Tension crackled through the loft. They looked at each other and began preparing with silent speed, the two Lorings helping each other into their complex harness as Hordle pulled on his padded tunic and the chain shirt over it. The great muscles in his arms coiled and bunched as he strung his longbow, and then he slipped the leather-and-steel guards on his forearms and counted the arrows in his quiver. They left the helmets for last; it would take only a few seconds, and they needed every fraction of sight and hearing to avoid having to use the gear at all.

“Thirty-nine,” the bowman said quietly, his sausage-thick fingers deft on the feathered shafts.

“I don't want any of Bramble's people hurt,” Nigel said in the same tone, but with a snap of command in it. “For any reason whatsoever. That's clear?”

The other men both nodded. By then the hooves were clear to the older man as well, a dull hollow clopping on the dirt and broken pavement of the A5130. Alleyne wormed through the hay to put his eye to a knothole, moving cautiously to spare the laths under them—there were sixty pounds of steel on him now, in addition to his own whipcord hundred seventy-five.

“Half a dozen and a packhorse,” he whispered. “Just turning onto the lane to the farm. They're hobelars.”

That meant mounted infantry archers, like the bulk of the regular army, equipped as Hordle was. Six made a section, the smallest unit; adding two mounted men-at-arms made it a lance. Nigel caught sight of them an instant later, jogging their mounts up the laneway, turning east at the dogleg that led past the pond and barns. A woman was there, the farmer's wife, a solid figure with a long rake in her hands and her brown hair done up in a bun under a wide-brimmed straw hat—real wheat straw, with a frayed edge.

She turned for an instant and shouted in purest West Riding, confirming Nigel's guess: “Di! Roon and fetch yer dad!” Then she went on to the soldiers: “Don't water yer 'orses there, lads. There's flax in t'pond, we just put it in ter ret and it's reet mucky, ba 'eck. Cum on oop t' t'ouse and use trough in t'yard instead, t'gate's open. There's soom apple tarts left over from dinner, if ye'd laak, and a jug of cold cider too, 'appen.”

That brought delighted smiles to the fresh-faced young men; one thing that hadn't changed was that army field rations were fit to gag a stoat. Nigel Loring realized with a start that only the section leader had been old enough to shave when the Change came—in fact, it looked as if most of them hadn't had their voices break by that day eight and a half years ago. They seemed younger than their years to him as well, despite the weather-beaten skins of outdoorsmen.

“It's a kindly thought, Mrs. Bramble,” the section leader said. “'Tis a hard late camp we'll hae tha night.”

His patrol were all dust caked, with sweat runnels through the brown dirt on their faces, and their horses looked worn as well; the mounts wore leather barding on their chests and leather socks strapped to their fetlocks, but they'd still suffered the odd scratch.

Nigel was close enough to hear him well. The accent was Scots, but not the gentle lilt of a Highlander; he'd pronounced the
ght
in “thought” with an almost guttural sound, not a simple hard T, and “night” as
ni'cht.
An Orkneyman, at a guess, and from somewhere remote like Westray at that, with bright blue eyes and a close-cropped black beard that had the white line of a scar through it. There was a corporal's chevron riveted to the sleeve of his mail shirt. The men took off their helmets at his waving gesture and swung down, leading the beasts over to the metal trough, joking with three girls only a bit younger than themselves who came out of the farmhouse kitchen bearing the promised food and drink. One Junoesque blonde had a tray of mugs and a stoppered jug, and two freckled redheads carried heaped plates of tarts.

Gunnar's sister and Archie's daughters, I'd say,
Nigel thought.

“Drink water first, y' daft boogers,” the section leader snapped. The men obeyed, most dumping a helmetful over their heads as well. “And one mug each, nae more. We've work tae do and it's eight hours before sunset.” He held up a gauntleted fist. “Any man drunk on duty weil ansur tae my little friend here.”

Then to the girls, in a quite different tone, reaching for the pastries: “Thank
you,
young misses. Ah'll cheust tak a nave-fil.”

Nigel found himself nodding in approval as the patrol watered their horses and applied salve to their hides; the men hadn't even had to be told to see to their mounts before themselves, and their equipment was as neat as you could expect when working this overgrown country—the green-enameled metal of the mail shirts gleamed with a thin film of oil, and the fletchings on the arrows that jutted over each man's right shoulder were tight and even. There was a charge he recognized on the bucklers slung from their belts, too: the royal arms quartered with a chevron argent, three roses gules.

Tony Knolles's men,
Nigel Loring thought. The family was distantly related to his.
Oh, bugger, as Hordle would put it.

He'd worked with Knolles before the Change, mostly counterterrorist work in south Ulster in the 1980s, and since the Change as well; the last he'd heard of him was that he commanded a company of the Guard working out of the forward base at Stowe. If he'd heard news of the escape he would have moved quickly and decisively—efficiently to boot.

He's entirely too competent. So is this corporal, on a smaller scale. And Knolles isn't nearly so disenchanted with the king as I, either.

The rest of the farm's folk came up as the soldiers rested and ate and sipped appreciatively at their cider. That was natural enough as well, a visit being a change in the routine, but it put his teeth on edge—the more who spoke, the more chance of someone letting an unguarded word slip.

“Good day to you, Artie, mon,” Bob said when he emerged from the long cottage, wiping a napkin across his mouth, evidently just finishing dinner. He slapped the corporal on the shoulder. “Tanks again for de harvest work.”

The corporal shrugged. “We're under orders tae he'lp whaur we can, Bob,” he said.

“Yuh still pick me Jamaica Farm to help. Gudrun!” he called, and the blond young woman looked up from chatting with one of the hobelars. “Ninyam an' bockle for dese good men, good and plenty.”

“Yuh here lookin' for Brushwood Men?” the farmer went on as she hurried away to pack food and drink. “Or de dam' leopard? Duppy ting take me
sheep
, mon.”

“Nae.” The corporal's mouth shut like a steel trap. “Fugitives, under warrant o' proscription frae the Crown. Two—Sair Nigel Loring, and his son, Alleyne. There's serious charges, ye ken, agin them and any who harbor 'em.”

He went on to give a description. Bob Bramble mimed surprise; it would have been excessive in someone less given to the flamboyant.

“Me hear 'bout him prisoned at Woburn,” Bramble said, rubbing at his chin and letting the creole accent grow stronger. “No hear 'bout him es-caaap-ing. Bad business. Me noh quite undastan. Sir Nigel, he good mon, I always hear.”

The corporal's face was expressionless—perhaps a little too stiff—but Nigel thought he caught uneasy looks on some of the archers behind him, and outright scowls from the farm folk. Then his heart skipped a beat as little Diana Bramble stamped out to confront the section leader.

“Sir Nigel
is
a good man!” she said shrilly, shaking a finger up at the Orkneyman's face, ignoring his bulk and armor. “You've got no bloody business going around hunting heroes like they was foxes! I wish Sir Nigel and Alleyne were here so they could take their swords and
cut you up
! You…you
loathly bugger
!”

“Diana!” her mother said, reprovingly. “Watch your tongue, my girl!”

The noncom snorted and scowled, turning away and making a brushing gesture with one hand, as at an annoying fly. Diana's diatribe escalated into a wordless howl and she kicked the soldier—neatly, in the sensitive part of the shin just above his riding boot. She was wearing heavy brogue-style shoes, and there was real conviction behind the hack she gave him.

“So there!” she shouted, then turned and ran.

“Ye cheeky peedie whalp!”
the noncom shouted, and nearly fell over as he made a grab for her.

The Orkney accent was suddenly thicker than oatmeal as he hopped in the dust and horse apples of the farmyard, holding his knee. Then he controlled his temper with a visible effort, and stamped the boot down again at the sound of a subdued snicker from behind him. When he whirled to look at his men they braced to attention, motionless except for one still chewing on an apple tart.

“Are you a cow, then, that ye're chewing a cud, Jones, you daft taffie!” he snapped. “Search the farm! High and low! We've orders,” he went on half apologetically, turning back to Bramble. “We'll just tak a keek aboot…”

One of the farm folk was an older man, the oldest Nigel had seen on Bob's holding; lean, gray and messy-untidy in a way the others weren't despite plain clothes and hard outdoor work. Now he ambled forward and grabbed the corporal by the shoulders.

“You're sairching?” he said. “For Doris? Have you seen Doris, then? Have you word of her?
Have
you?”

“Oh—”

The corporal bit back something pungent, and didn't quite stiff-arm the older man away; far too many folk who'd lived through the terrible years were a bit wandered in their wits, and it was convention to treat them gently. The graybeard still burst into tears as he staggered back, and Archie MacDonald jumped forward to lead him away as he called more and more loudly for Doris, whoever she was. People milled about talking and gesturing, and the corporal of the detachment looked for a moment as if he'd like to cry himself.

“Get searchin', I said!” he half screamed, and stamped away towards the house. “They twa're armed and dangerous, remember! Stay in touch and sing out if you see them.”

One of his men stayed to hold the horses. The others split up hurriedly, clapping their helmets on, drawing their swords and taking their bucklers in their left hands. Nigel moved back from the wall with slow, gentle care and caught the eyes of the others, looking over towards the ladder. He and Alleyne moved towards it, their shields ready on their left arms. Hordle came behind them, an arrow on his string, waiting on one knee with his torso bent, ready to rise and shoot; his face had the hard blankness of an oak board. The big man's friendly smile could make you forget what he was like in action…

There's no problem unless someone comes up here,
Nigel thought.
If they do…

Hordle would take out the one who discovered them, then jump down and put a shaft through the corporal and get the horses running. He and Alleyne would have to hunt down the rest—though a longbow
would
penetrate even good plate if it hit precisely right, chances were they could overwhelm the patrol if needs must. And they
must
not let any escape to carry word…

The thought of cutting down honest English soldiers made his stomach twist, but bringing him in now would give Queen Hallgerda's party at court too much extra leverage. Losing him for good would cost that crew dearly in prestige—and make people less afraid, which they couldn't afford, not being much loved even by their own folk.

The silence stretched as a soldier walked in through the big double doors. The dimness within was near darkness to eyes fresh from open sunlight, and he tripped and cursed and staggered as he ran into the disassembled threshing machine, windmilling his sword out—you could give yourself a nasty cut if you fell with one in your hand.

“Sod me if I like this above 'alf,” he muttered as he recovered his balance. “If Nigel Loring's a traitor, I'm fucking Queen Hallgerda.” He stabbed the sword into a small pile of burlap sacks, then flicked open a big plywood bin of raw wool still in the fleece. “Not in there, are you then? Christ, what an effing waste of time!”