Thaddeus’s camp on the River Pedle
IAN STARTOUT SAT HUNCHED IN misery, wondering if dawn would ever break. By building a shelter amongst the trees, and positioning their stolen wagon against the side that faced the river, he and his four companions were protected against the worst of the weather, but their inability to light a fire had rendered them blind. Pressed hard against each other in the small space left to them by the twelve large barrels of pilfered grain, they stared sightlessly at nothing, preferring to withdraw into their thoughts than shout above the pounding rain.
Ian’s mood was turbulent, swinging between love for Thaddeus and a deep hurt that the man he’d thought of as a friend had left without explanation. Had he not done everything Thaddeus had asked without complaint in their search for supplies? Had he not been the most dutiful and received the fewest rewards? And what should he do if Thaddeus didn’t come back? Force these churls to drive sheep through the rain? He hadn’t the strength to keep punching their stupid faces when they challenged his orders. The only leader they respected was Thaddeus.
Not one of the boys would have blamed Thaddeus for turning his back on Develish if Edmund’s tale about Lady Anne not being mother to Eleanor was true. Any man, bastard-born, would cavil at being forced to live the life of a slave while Sir Richard’s daughter, carrying the same stain of illegitimacy, was paraded as a lady. Ian understood well that Thaddeus must have been pained to hear the story from Edmund rather than Lady Anne, but were hurt feelings enough of a reason to cause him to abandon his companions without a word?
Ian’s first awareness that night was coming to an end was when he saw the ghostly glimmer of faces in front of the curtain of rain that was running off the shelter’s interwoven roof of osiers and fern. As the light strengthened, he saw his own emotions reflected back at him in the eyes of his friends. Wretchedness. Uncertainty. Anxiety. But with the dawn came reason. It made no sense that Thaddeus hadn’t returned. He’d worked too hard to locate supplies for Develish to give up on the venture now, and he wouldn’t have burdened his conscience with burning Athelhelm if he hadn’t intended to herd sheep along the highway that ran through it.
With sudden decision, Ian pushed himself to his feet and began searching through the weapons, clothes and saddles that were piled on top of the grain barrels. They’d tossed everything in when the rain began to fall in earnest, and with the light still too dim to see, he used touch to select what he wanted.
His twin, Olyver, raised his voice to carry above the drumming on the roof. ‘Are you planning to look for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Me too,’ called the other three boys in unison.
Ian shook his head. ‘Just Olyver. If we don’t return by nightfall, one of you must ride to Develish tomorrow to tell Lady Anne there’s grain here and sheep at Afpedle. The other two must keep the rain off these kegs until help comes.’
‘It’s not possible,’ protested Edmund Trueblood. ‘We can keep plugging the roof, but when the ground becomes saturated the water will rise from below.’
‘Then think of a way to lift the kegs,’ Ian growled. ‘Build something … sit with the damned things on your laps, if necessary. Behave like men as Thaddeus expects, and find a solution to the problem instead of saying it can’t be done. Develish won’t thank us for bringing home mouldy grain.’
Joshua Buckler laid a calming hand on Edmund’s arm. ‘There are beds at the inn in Holcombe,’ he said. ‘They’re low enough and sturdy enough to make a decent platform if we carry them back.’ Peter Catchpole watched Ian don a second tunic for warmth and then hand another to his brother to do the same. ‘You’d better be sure you’re doing the right thing,’ he warned. ‘What if Thaddeus comes back frozen to the bone and finds you gone?’
‘Lay him down and warm him up,’ retorted Olyver.
‘He’ll go after you.’
‘It’s not his job. Get off your own arses to do it.’
‘There’s no sense in us all dying of cold.’
‘Then put your minds to keeping a fire alight and finding food,’ Ian told him. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll need to eat—unless you want to kill Joshua’s dogs and swallow them raw.’ He selected a leather jerkin and buttoned it across his chest, handing a second to Olyver. ‘We’ll divide the arrows we made yesterday between us and tie them in bundles across our saddles,’ he said, passing his brother a sword and a bow. ‘They may not fly straight but they’ll look threatening.’
‘Where do you think Thaddeus went?’ Joshua asked.
‘We’ll start in Athelhelm and then ride to Afpedle and on to Woodoak. If he comes back without us, follow that path. We’ll be somewhere along it.’ Ian dragged down a couple of saddles. ‘All I know for certain is that he would come looking for us if he thought we were in trouble, so it’s only right we do the same for him.’
He glanced at Joshua’s hunting hounds, wondering if they’d be able to follow Thaddeus’s scent, but he felt Olyver’s immediate resistance. Better the twins travel alone than have Joshua’s nervousness holding them back was the thought that came to him. He gave a small nod before stringing a sword and bow across his back and reaching for the bundle of arrows.
‘Do your best and we’ll do the same,’ he told the others as he followed his twin into the rain.
They found the horses huddled within the tree line, their flanks running with water. Both boys felt momentary qualms about saddling the two they selected, knowing the animals would develop sores as the hard leather slithered to and fro across sodden fur and rain-softened skin. ‘We have to do it,’ Olyver shouted. ‘We’ll get nowhere on foot.’
Ian nodded. ‘We should lead them first. There’s no point mounting until we reach the highway at Athelhelm. They’ll break their legs if they slip on wet grass.’
They didn’t speak after that, but as Ian followed behind his brother with the river in spate on one side and dark woodland the other, he wondered if they’d ever been so in tune with each other. He felt the same fears Olyver felt. The light was too dim. The rain too strong. The level of the river too high. They wouldn’t be able to cross the ford at Athelhelm … It was strange. They had fought all their lives—refusing to sound alike, behave alike or look alike—yet today he knew every thought that was running through Olyver’s head. Please, God, make me brave.
Neither was prepared for what they found in Athelhelm. The storm had come too soon after Thaddeus had fired the village to reduce everything to ash, and charred bodies lay amongst the ruins. One had struggled to his doorway, lying half in and half out of the entrance, and the boys retched at the hideous, swollen face that lay in the dirt. It was impossible to say if it was black from smoke or the putrid blood of the pestilence, but the sight of the bulging, terrified eyes was the stuff of nightmares.
The relentless rain had caused Devil’s Brook to break its banks and a stream of loosened mud and stone was washing towards the ford. Even as Ian and Olyver watched, the arm of a corpse lifted as debris passed beneath it, giving the appearance of life. Each wondered how long it would be before the stream became a flood and washed the bodies away or buried them beneath drifts of earth. Perhaps God had brought this downpour for a reason.
As they’d drawn closer to the village and seen how turbulent the water in the river was becoming where Devil’s Brook was feeding into it, they’d left the path and moved through the trees in order to come out on the highway above the village. From that vantage point, they could see that the ford to Afpedle was impassable. If they’d known where safe passage was from crossing it before, it might have been different, but the river had backed up the highway, forming a lake which disguised the curve of the road.
‘It would explain why Thaddeus hasn’t come back,’ called Olyver. ‘Maybe he’s decided to camp in Afpedle.’
Ian turned to look along the highway to Develish. The visibility was so poor he could barely see to the first bend but he was drawn by the idea that Thaddeus might have returned to their home demesne. Yet why? What was so urgent that he was persuaded to ride in darkness instead of waiting for daylight? And who would know he was there except the men who stood on the guard steps? ‘I think he went this way,’ he answered, gesturing to his right.
‘Father and John Trueblood take turns to watch the approach from the village at night. I’m guessing Thaddeus wanted to speak with one of them privately while the rest of the demesne slept. He’ll not take us back if Eleanor’s made accusations of rape and murder against us.’
Olyver followed his gaze, questioning whether Thaddeus cared enough for any of his companions to continue protecting them. He’d been in a black mood the previous evening, cursing them roundly for their laziness and tomfoolery. ‘What if it’s Thaddeus she’s accused?’ he asked, leading his mount alongside Ian’s. ‘She hates him enough. Could Father have taken him in charge?’
Ian shook his head. ‘He has too much fondness for Thaddeus. He’d have sent him away again. John Trueblood likewise.’
‘Then where is he?’ Olyver asked reasonably. ‘It’s not that far to Develish … and he’d have to have left before dawn if he didn’t want his presence known to everyone.’
Ian put his foot in the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle. ‘Let’s find out. He’ll cuss the Devil out of us if he’s round the next bend, and we’ll feel mighty foolish for worrying, but we can’t get any wetter than we are already.’
He came to regret that statement when his teeth were chattering with cold. The sun had been up for two hours by then but its light, blocked by dark, heavy clouds was the murky grey of dusk. There was no warmth in it, and the wind sliced easily through his jerkin and double tunic. He kept narrowing his eyes against the stinging rain, searching for movement ahead, but there was nothing to see. He was close to giving up, certain he’d guessed wrongly about Thaddeus’s intentions, when Olyver put a restraining hand on his bridle and brought both horses to a halt. He jerked his chin towards the woodland on their right.
‘There’s something in those trees. Look at the horses’ ears. They can hear it.’
Ian canted his head, listening. The sound of a whinny, barely discernible over the wind, was unmistakeable. ‘Do you think it’s Killer?’
‘Bound to be,’ said Olyver with decision. ‘How many other horses will be out in weather like this?’ He slid from his mount. ‘We should go on foot.’ He adjusted his bow and sword across his shoulder and lifted the bundle of arrows Ian had given him from his saddle. ‘Let’s pray we don’t have to use these.’
They tied their mounts to trees at the edge of the road and crept forward slowly, alert for any noise that would tell them which direction to go, but if a second whinny came, they both missed it. They felt a pounding on the ground more often than they heard anything above the wind and rain. If either had been alone, he would have turned back out of superstitious fear—such strange tremors in the earth weren’t normal—but, together, they went on. They could barely see ten yards ahead, so dark was the shade inside the wood, and both gave shouts of alarm as something huge and black rose out of the ground in front of them.
They would have lost all courage if they hadn’t heard the rattle of harness and laboured breathing as the creature crashed to earth again. ‘Praise be to Mother Mary and all the Blessed Saints!’ Ian gasped, before stepping forward and holding out a hand. ‘Whoa, boy! Whoa! What’s troubling you?’
‘Take care he doesn’t rear again,’ warned Olyver. ‘He’s scared out of his wits.’ He made a gesture to show he was going to approach the animal from the other side. ‘He seems to have lost his reins so be ready to catch his head collar. It’ll need both our strength to stop him from bolting.’
Perhaps Thaddeus’s charger recognised their voices, because his only resistance to being caught was a half-hearted buck as their hands closed on the straps beneath his rolling eyes. Ian ran a soothing palm down his neck, feeling the heat and the trembling under the skin, but it wasn’t until he looked at the back legs that he saw why the wretched creature was so frightened. For a brief moment he wondered if the rope bound tightly around the fetlocks was a badly applied hobble, but the tangle of hemp on the forest floor, caught in brambles and fallen branches, told a different story. The horse’s rear hooves had become caught in the coils and his attempts to free himself had tightened the noose around his legs.
‘What should we do?’ Olyver called. ‘He’s too worked up. The rope’s the only thing that’s holding him. If we cut him free, he’ll run.’ ‘Not if you go back for our two. He’ll calm quicker with his own kind around him.’
‘He’ll smash your skull if he rears again. Thaddeus didn’t call him Killer for nothing.’
‘Do you have a better idea?’
‘No.’
‘Then go.’
All Ian could do was talk to the animal and keep running his hand down the wet neck, ever ready to jump back if Killer made another futile attempt to break free. His eyes were drawn to a breast collar, lying on the forest floor some ten paces behind Killer. The leather bore the Develish crest, much faded from being bleached by the sun, but Ian recognised it as one the serfs used to harness ponies to the plough. He knew then why Thaddeus had returned to the demesne. He’d gone for tack and rope to yoke a number of horses together in order to move the wagon and grain from their camp. He would have called Thaddeus’s name if he hadn’t been afraid of spooking the horse. And what would shouts achieve anyway? Thaddeus was no coward or weakling. Whatever accident had befallen him, he would have tried to follow Killer’s tracks once daylight came.
It was clear to Ian that the horse had been dragging the rope for a distance because the churned-up trail in the leaf mould stretched farther than his eyes could see. Surely Thaddeus could have found it? Surely he would have heard the whinny and the intermittent pounding of the creature’s front hooves as Ian and Olyver had done?
If he were able …
It seemed Olyver had been thinking along similar lines. ‘Something bad must have happened,’ he told his twin as he came to a halt with the other two horses.
Ian nodded. ‘How should we do this? Killer seems calmer but he’s not going to like us touching his back legs. He’ll lash out as soon as we cut him free.’
‘Do we have a choice?’
‘No.’
Olyver’s teeth flashed in a grin. ‘Your turn then. At least his eyes have stopped rolling.’ He tied their two mounts to a tree and stepped forward to take Ian’s place at Killer’s head. ‘We’ll need an anchor to stop him running. If you cut a length of rope from the coils on the ground, I’ll make a halter to run around the trunk behind me.’
It took longer than Ian hoped. A sword was a poor substitute for a knife when cutting through fibres that were wound so tightly about flesh and bone that there was no give in them. He was mindful of time passing and even more mindful of Killer’s hooves. All the while he hoped the clouds would thin, the rain would ease, and the sun would send more light into the forest. But it didn’t happen. If anything, the visibility worsened, and with it their chances of finding Thaddeus. As the final strand of hemp tore apart, he rolled aside, shielding his head from lashing kicks as Killer danced away from him.
Olyver placed a foot on the trunk of the tree to brace himself as the horse fought to tear himself free of the halter. ‘I’m losing him,’ he shouted. ‘He’s too strong.’
With a groan, Ian scrambled to his feet and caught the end of the rope behind Olyver, wrapping it around his fist and digging his heels into the ground. ‘If we find Thaddeus dead, I’ll slit the brute’s throat myself,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.
‘Don’t tempt fate,’ his twin warned as together they reeled the charger in. Once there was enough slack, he secured the rope about the tree and dropped to a squat to draw breath. ‘He near scared me to death. I thought he was the Devil rising up.’
Ian walked to where he’d dropped his sword. ‘Me too,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe this darkness is Hell … and we just don’t know it.’ ‘I’m hurting too much to be dead.’
Ian followed the trail of rope that Killer had left behind him on the forest floor for twenty yards. ‘There’s more harness here,’ he called back. ‘Another breast collar and traces.’
Olyver rose to his feet, stooping to collect the bundle of arrows he’d dropped when they first saw Killer. He split the bundle in two and passed half to Ian as he drew level with him.
After two hundred yards they came across a second set of traces, and it wasn’t hard to work out that Thaddeus must have been carrying them, coiled inside the rope, on the pommel of his saddle. Once he fell, the rope had unravelled and become entangled about Killer’s legs, sending the creature into a frenzied charge through the trees, dragging the traces and reins behind him.
After another two hundred yards the trail began to dwindle and the twins knew that if Thaddeus wasn’t at the end of it their chances of finding him were small. Killer could have travelled a mile with the coil still in place, in any direction, and neither boy was clever enough to follow a track without clear markers.
‘Where next?’ Ian asked as he cast around for signs of disturbed leaves. ‘Do you think we mistook the trail farther back?’
Olyver shook his head. ‘We should return to the highway and look for where Killer first bolted into this woodland. Thaddeus is more likely to be there than here.’
Ian couldn’t fault his logic but something—instinct?—wouldn’t let him give up. He drew his sword and slashed a slice of bark from the far side of the nearest trunk. ‘We’ll mark every fifth tree,’ he said. ‘Keep a count. I’ll call it a day when you reach a hundred.’
Olyver hadn’t reached fifty when the trees began to thin and the light, such as it was, intensified. Either they were heading back to the highway or there was a clearing ahead. He watched Ian draw to a halt and make a damping motion with his hand to urge silence. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked, putting his lips to his brother’s ear. ‘It sounded like a laugh.’
Olyver nodded, tucking his sword into his belt and readying his bow. They didn’t need to give each other instructions. They knew it wasn’t Thaddeus they’d heard and neither believed that chance could have put strangers so close to where they’d found Killer.
For once the rain was their friend, hiding the sound of snapping twigs under their feet as they crept forward. As the trees grew wider apart, showing an expanse of grass beyond, Olyver spread his hands to suggest they should separate and approach the clearing from different angles. Ian gave a jerk of his chin to signal agreement. Independently, they could move more easily and find better cover behind the thinning trunks, but he swivelled his first and middle fingers between Olyver’s eyes and his own to stress the need to keep in visual contact. They must act together or not all.
Ian recognised the wagon in the middle of the clearing as soon as he was close enough to see My Lord of Bourne’s crest emblazoned on the side. There was no sign of My Lord or his fighting men, but it was easy to see Thaddeus. He’d been stripped of his clothes and was lying spread-eagled on the grass in front of the wagon, his wrists and ankles bound to stakes which had been driven into the earth. His nakedness, closed eyes and utter immobility told Ian he was dead. No living person could remain so still with freezing rain beating like needles on his exposed skin.
Twenty yards away Olyver was thinking the same. He looked for any flicker of life in Thaddeus and his heart burnt with anger as he made a solemn pledge to kill My Lord of Bourne. From where he was standing, he could see horses hobbled together on the far side of the clearing, but when he followed the tree line to the left and the right, looking for sight of a soldier, he realised it wasn’t a clearing at all but some kind of road. The tracks of My Lord of Bourne’s wagon, leading from the east, showed clearly in the grass where the wheels had cut into the turf.
He searched the trees around the horses, convinced Bourne’s men must be hiding in the woodland, but if they were there he couldn’t see them, and the idea entered his mind to run towards Thaddeus and cut him free. Perhaps Ian sensed the thought because he shook his head and held up his hand to signal his twin to be patient. The scene had all the appearance of trap. Yet he wondered who My Lord was expecting. Soldiers from Develish?
He was racking his brain for a plan when a second laugh came from the direction of the wagon. It was followed by the grunt of a voice and he watched the leather canopy open to allow a man to climb out. Ian recognised him as the captain of arms who had ordered his men to burn Develish village a month earlier. He was clad in the fur-trimmed coat that Thaddeus had stolen from the tannery in Holcombe, and he walked to the spread-eagled serf and kicked him in the ribs.
‘My Lord grows impatient,’ he said. ‘Explain the letter you carry from Lady Anne. What is this freedom she speaks of? Do you carry a message of insurrection to the other peasants of Dorset? Is your treachery against God and the King to blame for the pestilence?’ He jerked his head towards a couple of horse collars on the ground near the wagon. ‘Why were you carrying those? Whose wagon do you plan to steal? Answer me.’
To Ian’s eyes the man looked drunk as he launched another kick at Thaddeus’s side, staggering slightly when he missed. There was no response at all from their friend, not even the smallest flinch to show he was aware of the other’s kicks or even his presence.
‘Your refusal to speak makes My Lord the more suspicious. He sees witchcraft behind it. What manner of creature are you with your height and dark skin? Did you think you wouldn’t be recognised as the serf who stood with Lady Anne and lied about Develish dying of the pestilence?’ He parted his coat and pulled his cock from his britches. ‘You seem to find the rain easy enough to bear. Let’s see how you like being used as a piss-pot again.’
The bows of the two boys came up in unison but neither had time to unleash his arrow before Thaddeus ripped his hands from the earth and lunged at his tormentor’s legs, catching him behind the calves and flipping him backwards. With a tremendous heave, he pulled himself into a sitting position and reached for the stake that bound his right ankle, grasping it with both hands and wrenching it to and fro to loosen it.
On the other side of the clearing, Ian saw a shape emerge from behind an oak. Without hesitation he levelled his arrow at the man’s heart and let it fly. He felt a surge of triumph as it flew straight, and he paused only to watch the man drop before feeding a second arrow onto the string and seeing with detachment that Olyver’s arrow had also found a mark. He glanced briefly at the squirming body of a soldier on the grass to his right then raised his eyes to scour the woodland for further movement. There had been ten fighting men when Bourne came to Develish to burn it, and a rider on one of the horses that pulled the wagon.
But where were they?
He heard the twang of a string as his twin released a second arrow but Olyver must have missed because Ian caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a cloaked figure running at Thaddeus with a drawn sword. He took a breath to calm himself then loosed his own, and watched with satisfaction as the man tumbled to the ground with a hazel whip buried in his thigh.
He had time to see Thaddeus free his left ankle, but it was hard to keep up with events after that. An arrow, shot from a longbow, thudded into the ground at their friend’s side and the boys, seeing how defenceless he was, shouted warnings. In doing so, they gave their own positions away and, within seconds, came under attack themselves. Since their only recourse was to crouch in the lee of their trees while arrows ripped through the leaves above them, they had to interpret what happened from what they heard.
Both believed the hideous and prolonged screams that filled the air came from Thaddeus. They told themselves they should do something—move into the clearing, surrender, beg, plead—but their terror was too great. They pictured their own agony when they suffered the same fate, and looked to escape rather than intervene. But how? In the moment Ian realised the rain of arrows had ceased, he looked up to see a man approach through the woodland, bow raised and string drawn taut, frightened eyes darting to left and right.
He was of a similar age to Ian’s father and was almost on top of the boy before he saw him. He stared in disbelief at the skinny youth sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chin as if to make himself as small a target as possible. ‘You’re just a child,’ he said in French, lowering his weapon. ‘By what madness do you dare attack My Lord of Bourne’s army?’
Ian gave a small shrug before stretching his legs to put tension on his bow and rocking backwards to lift it from the ground. The soldier watched in fascinated horror as the tightly bent arc rose horizontally from amongst the leaves, and he had time to curse himself for lowering his guard as a shaft whipped towards his chest from between the boy’s feet. He felt the thud as it pierced his ribs and penetrated his lung, and with sudden weariness tried to bring up his own bow to fire back. He’d been wrong to call this youth a child, he thought, as a second shaft caught him in the heart.
Ian had no idea how long he sat looking at the fallen man. A minute? An hour? They were too close to each other. Ian could smell the sweat on his clothes and see the grizzle of grey hair about his jaw. It might have been any of Develish’s elders lying there. The noise of screaming from the clearing beat upon his ears, overwhelming him with grief and guilt, and with a sigh he leant to one side and retched on the forest floor. He’d failed in everything, he thought as he rose unsteadily to his feet and forced himself to confront what was happening to Thaddeus.
He couldn’t see him. Only two men writhed on the ground, screaming and clutching their bellies, but Thaddeus wasn’t one of them. Ian watched their blood, diluted by rain, spread in pink pools across the grass. One wore Thaddeus’s fur-lined coat, the other was the soldier with the arrow in his thigh. To their right lay the body of the man Olyver had killed. A flame of hope lit in Ian’s breast. Had Thaddeus escaped? He searched to his left for his twin, and the flame became a blaze of joy when he saw Olyver running through the trees towards him.
‘Why the hell didn’t you show yourself when the longbows stopped?’ his brother demanded angrily, jabbing two fingers at Ian’s eyes. ‘What was all this about if you couldn’t be bothered to look at me? I thought you were dead.’ He followed Ian’s gaze to the crumpled body of the grizzled fighting man. ‘Sweet Mary!’
‘He could have killed me if he’d wanted to. He lowered his weapon because he thought me a child.’
‘Don’t feel bad about it,’ answered Olyver sternly. ‘There’s not an ounce of compassion in any of them. You saw what they did to Thaddeus. I thought it was him who was screaming.’
‘Me too.’ Ian stared around the clearing. ‘Where is he?’
‘If he has any sense, he’s taken to his heels.’
‘Maybe we should do the same.’
But neither moved except to make their bows ready to fire again. They shared a conviction that Thaddeus wouldn’t run. Ian watched the blood continue to flow from the wounded men, wondering how Thaddeus had injured them so badly until he remembered the stakes that had pinned him to the ground. They’d still been attached to his wrists when he ripped them out, and the points had been sharp. It would be a good and easy revenge to plunge them into an enemy’s belly. The pain would be great and the death slow.
‘The soldier you hit in the thigh was carrying a sword,’ Olyver muttered, ‘but it’s not there now. Thaddeus must have taken it. Do you think he’s gone after the rest? Five are down so there must be six still standing.’
Ian saw that his brother was right. ‘Perhaps that’s why the archers stopped firing at us,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps they retreated into the wood so he wouldn’t be able to see them. This one looked frightened as he came through the trees but it wasn’t me he was afraid of.’ He paused. ‘Maybe we should draw them out again—give Thaddeus a fighting chance.’
‘How?’
‘By attacking the wagon. Soldiers won’t stay hidden if their lord’s in danger.’ A glint of anticipated triumph lit in Ian’s eyes. ‘None of his men will fire on us for fear of hitting their master. We can force the surrender of all of them.’
Olyver smiled wryly. ‘You’ve a grand imagination, Twin. You’ve made him your prisoner before you’ve even worked out how to do it.’
Ian assessed the distance between them and the wagon. ‘It can’t be more than thirty paces,’ he said. ‘I’ll lay money I can make that run and put my sword to the old devil’s throat before an archer even has time to pick me out.’ He laid his bow on the ground, stripping off his jerkin and second tunic to give himself more freedom of movement. He shook his head as Olyver prepared to do the same. ‘We can’t both go. You’re quicker on the draw than I am. Someone needs to bring the fighting men down as they cross the clearing. Shout numbers as they fall.’
‘Just don’t run in a straight line,’ Olyver cautioned. ‘You’ll take an arrow in the heart if there’s an archer behind the flap in the canopy.’ He waited while Ian picked up his sword. ‘I’ll not let you die,’ he said with sudden emotion, gripping the other boy’s shoulder. ‘I’m in no mood to lose a brother today.’
Ian pulled him into a rough embrace. ‘And I’m in no mood to lose you or Thaddeus,’ he said. ‘By God’s grace, we’ll all three come out of this alive.’