The church bells were echoing through the streets of Leicester as Sir Ralph’s surviving sergeants, three frantic and bloodied men, galloped to Elizabeth’s lodging in Red Cross Street. They were impeded by the flood of people rushing for the safety of their homes, or else seeking greater security inside the thick walls of the castle and the abbey.
Panic ruled inside the town, induced by the appearance of the enormous army beyond the North Gate. Yeomen, wives, merchants, beggars, little children, and hobbled old women, all were fleeing to save their lives and goods, driven by fear and the clanging, clashing din of the bells.
The sergeants were just as desperate, and lashed the fugitives aside with the flats of their swords, or even rode them down if they were too slow in shifting. They forced a path through the jostling crowds, and at last came within sight of the modest house that Elizabeth had rented during her stay in Leicester. She was at the window on the upper storey, leaning out to witness the chaos, and spotted the four armed men as they dismounted outside her door.
Elizabeth immediately recognised them as being men of the town garrison whose services the Sheriff had lent her and Sir Ralph. Alarmed by their battered appearance and swift return, she abandoned her vantage point and clattered down the stairs. One of the men was already hammering on the door when she entered the parlour, where her manservant had his broad back pressed against the frame.
“House-breakers, lady!” he said. “I will hold them off for as long as I can, while you get away through the back door.”
“Get out of the way, you bloody fool,” she snapped, shouldering him aside. Before his horrified gaze, she heaved up the bar and wrenched the door open.
“What happened?” she demanded before the bruised, beefy face that greeted her had a chance to speak. “Where is Sir Ralph? What of your mission?”
The man caught his breath before replying. “We were attacked on the road, lady,” he said, “just a mile or so beyond the North Gate. The men who attacked us wore the green livery of Folville’s Brotherhood. They slew our comrades, but took Sir Ralph alive.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then broke into a torrent of most unladylike cursing, banging the timber frame of the door with her fist.
There was more in this vein, but the sergeant cut her short. “There is no time, lady,” he urged. “Leicester’s host is marching on the city, and Folville will have been given your letter. You must get out before they arrive.”
A thrill of terror coursed through Elizabeth, but she forced herself to master it. If she panicked now, she was lost.
“I will need a horse,” she said.
“Take mine, lady,” said another of the sergeants, offering her the bridle of his mount, a dappled grey mare.
Elizabeth thanked him and took the bridle. “None of you men have any obligation to me,” she said, “and I have little money on me, but I can promise you five silver marks apiece if you accompany me.”
“You have my horse, lady,” said one, and his companion shook his head, wanting no part of her offer. The man she had first spoken to stepped forward.
“I will come with you,” he said, scowling at his reluctant comrades. Elizabeth looked for her servant in the doorway, but he had disappeared.
“Bloody coward,” she muttered, and forced a smile at the man who had offered to accompany her. “Your name?” she asked.
“Adam,” he replied, bowing his head.
They led their horses west down Red Cross Street, fighting through the rushing, stinking crowds, until they reached the High Street. There they turned and headed for the South Gate, and Elizabeth’s heart leaped as she saw the portcullis had not been lowered. Fugitives were streaming through in their desperation to flee the city, and the guards on the wall looked scared and uncertain of what to do.
“That fool De Waleys must be sitting up in the castle like a fart in a trance,” remarked Elizabeth, “though I thank God for his cowardice.”
They joined the desperate crowds streaming through the gates and hurried on, jostled and battered, into the suburbs beyond. As soon as there was room, Elizabeth and Adam mounted and rode south. Aware that their horses had been asked to gallop once already that day, and might have to again later, they kept the animals at a brisk but easy pace.
“Where do we go?” asked Adam.
“Home,” she answered, “to my house at Clinton.”
Once there, Elizabeth might have added, she had no idea what to do next. She knew what manner of man Eustace Folville was, how vengeful and remorseless he could be, and that Clinton House was an unlikely fortress. She could flee to her father in Warwickshire, but would probably be intercepted on the way if Eustace sent riders after her. Besides, her father was a timid and sickly man, and lived in mortal terror of the Folvilles and their allies. He might do his poor best to protect her, but it would not be enough.
Her mind turned to John Swale. He was the one man she could think of, besides her late husband, who had stood up to the Folvilles and defied them, sword in hand. She knew nothing of what had become of him, whether he had escaped from Rockingham or still sat in his lonely tower, but if he was free maybe he could protect her. After all, he was a King’s man, high in the service of the Despensers. She knew how hated they were, and that their regime was threatened by the invasion, but she could think of nowhere else to go.
Elizabeth was reluctant to take such a desperate measure, and throw herself on the mercy of a man she barely knew, but did not doubt her life was in danger. If she was caught, Eustace Folville would kill her.
They were beyond the suburbs now, cantering along the wide, rutted highway flanked by open country and ploughed arable land dotted with farmsteads. The bells inside Leicester could still be heard, gradually fading to a dim cacophony, and for maybe half an hour Elizabeth felt safe and able to gather her thoughts.
The illusion was shattered when Adam reined in and looked back, squinting into the distance. “We are being followed,” he said, pointing directly to the north. Elizabeth saw a cloud of dust on the horizon.
“They are flogging their horses,” the sergeant remarked. “Foolish, if they wish the beasts to last. Perhaps they have remounts.”
“Which we do not,” said Elizabeth, quelling the rising throb of panic in her breast. “It is Folville’s men, I am certain. They are coming for me.”
He did not disagree, and the pair of them drove their horses into a gallop. Elizabeth prayed that hers did not stumble or turn a shoe on the rough, uneven road, and for a time their luck seemed to hold. The horses kept to a steady, surging pace, and the dust behind them faded until barely visible.
Then God or the Devil decided to mock Elizabeth Clinton. It was not her horse that turned a shoe, but Adam’s, stumbling to halt with a high-pitched shriek and almost flinging him headlong.
He righted himself and jumped quickly from the saddle. Elizabeth dragged her own horse to a halt and watched anxiously, heart pounding, as Adam knelt in the dirt and gently lifted his limping mount’s foreleg.
“She is done,” he said sadly, releasing the leg, “and I am, too. Ride on, Lady Clinton. I will stay here and hold your pursuers up awhile.”
“You will not sacrifice yourself on my behalf!” she cried, appalled. “My conscience has enough to bear already. I will stay here and die with you.”
Adam stood up, slowly drawing his sword and making a few passes. “It is bad enough that I have to die,” he said, “for there is a girl I wish to marry, and a couple of bastard children in my village that will have to do without a father. Please, lady, do not make it any harder.”
Elizabeth was torn. Her heart was bleeding for Adam’s plight but her shameful instinct for self-preservation screamed at her to get away.
He made the decision for her. “Go,” he said, his face suddenly hard, “or I will kill you myself. I swear to the living God, Lady Clinton, I will cut you down. Go now.”
“I will light candles for your soul, Adam,” she said gently, even though she knew it was a stupid, worthless thing to say, and sorrowfully turned her horse about.
Elizabeth galloped on, trying not to think about Adam’s body lying on the road, hacked and slashed to pieces like a side of beef. She considered the possibility that the riders on the road were not Folville’s men at all, merely horsemen desperate to get away from Leicester, but it was no good. Deep down, she knew who they were, and that she was in mortal danger.
The mare was tiring already, and her pursuers were mounted on faster horses. Casting aside her natural kindness, Elizabeth flogged the mare's flanks with her heels, begging the animal to keep going.
Keep going to where? Clinton House was still a good twenty miles away, and she could not hope that the mare could last a full-blooded gallop for so long without foundering. Her pursuers would surely catch up with her long before then.
Elizabeth's only hope was to hide, and the only obvious place was in the forest. The land immediately beyond the road was still mostly arable, but there were clumps of woodland within riding distance. If she could reach the trees and lie low until nightfall, she might stand a chance.
It was a desperate hope, for the leading riders behind her were close enough to see where she went. Dragging on the reins to yank the mare's head about, she urged the beast off the road and onto a dark, barren pasture, recently stripped of its crop of potatoes. The nearest woods lay about a quarter of a mile south-west, and the mare surged towards them over the uneven soil.
A horn blew behind her, and Elizabeth knew her ruse had been spotted. She risked a glance back and cursed as she saw the distant figure of the leading horseman waving at his fellows to change course. The trees suddenly loomed up ahead, and the mare crashed through low branches and dense, tangled undergrowth. Elizabeth ducked low, avoiding the branches that whipped overhead, and was almost unseated as the mare slid down a sudden, unseen bank that allowed her scrambling hoofs no purchase.
The mare's foreleg struck a rock lurking in the soft earth, and she fell screaming onto her side. Elizabeth was briefly trapped under her, and for a few frenzied seconds horse and rider thrashed madly at each other. The mare was stranded, her leg snapped like a twig, but Elizabeth managed to scramble free.
She looked around her, breathing fast. They had fallen into a steep-sided hollow just inside the edge of the woods. The only way out was to climb, though there were few handholds and the soil was soft and deep. Elizabeth flung herself at the southern bank, almost sobbing in panic as her hands and feet sank into the ground. Through sheer effort of will she managed to clamber halfway up, and her outstretched hand clutched an overhanging branch. She tried to haul herself up the remaining few feet, but the branch twisted and cracked under her weight and sent her tumbling back to the bottom.
A horse neighed somewhere above her. Trembling, wiping soil and bits of twig from her eyes, she looked up and saw ten riders looking down at her – Folville's men, ten brutish, feral faces, a few of which she recognised. Laurence Coterel was one, and her former hireling Matthew another.
“Well, my lady,” Matthew said, wiping the glistening sweat from his brow with his thumb, “that was a decent chase you led us.”
He had two swords tucked into his belt, one of them without a scabbard. Tugging out the naked blade, he threw it down the bank so it landed close to Elizabeth. “That belonged to the man who died for you, back on the road. The little shit cut up one of my boys before we killed him. You will pay for that now.”
He dismounted, followed by his men. Ordering two of them to stay and keep watch, he led the rest down into the hollow. Elizabeth recoiled as they clambered and slid down the slope, and made another dive for the opposing bank. She had not got far before strong hands encircled her waist, lifted her into the air and dumped her onto her back.
“Yes,” said Matthew as he stood over her, slowly untying the laces of his hose, “you will pay your debt to us now, and your debt to my master later. You might be in a sorry state by then, but he is not likely to care overmuch.”
Behind him one of his men knelt beside the crippled mare and cut her throat. She went into one last spasm, hot blood gushing from the mortal wound, and then was still.
Elizabeth twisted to her right, but two of the outlaws grabbed her wrists and pinned her down. Two more took hold of her ankles and forced her legs apart.
“Hold her fucking head steady,” snarled Matthew, lowering himself until he straddled her waist. He had removed his hose and shoes and tossed them to one side. A fifth man knelt behind Elizabeth and grasped a handful of her thick chestnut hair, tugging cruelly so she was forced to hold her head straight and look up. She opened her mouth to scream, and a grubby rolled-up cloth was stuffed into her mouth.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, her mind spinning with the horror of what was about to happen to her. Her late husband had used her roughly on their wedding night, but he was clumsy and inexperienced and had not meant to hurt her.
Matthew did mean to hurt her, and was good at it. She screamed soundlessly as he forced his way inside.
At least he was quick. When it was done, ending with a final spasm and a satisfied grunt, he withdrew and stood up. “You next, Ivo “ he said, nodding at one of his men. They had watched the rape in silence, like dumb uncomprehending beasts, with not a trace of emotion or obvious enjoyment. “Each of us will get a chance to use her, as I promised.”
The one named Ivo chewed his lip nervously as he approached to take his turn, fumbling to remove his breeches. He did not like having to perform in front of his fellows, and caused Elizabeth more pain in his nervousness. She forced herself to lie still and go limp, praying that the ordeal would pass quicker if she did not resist.
Ivo was still struggling when he was interrupted by shouts. All eyes turned upward to see the two men Matthew had left on watch. They looked frightened.
“Rider approaching,” one of them cried. “He is in full harness, and you should see his bloody horse!”
“Well, tell him to fuck off,” shouted Matthew. “If he keeps coming, shoot his horse from under him.”
One of the sentries glanced nervously over his shoulder. “He is not going to stop,” he replied, “and it would be a pity to kill the beast.”
“Spanish thoroughbred, if I am any judge of horseflesh,” said the other man, “fetch three hundred pounds at market, easy. Three hundred pounds! Enough to keep us all in comfort for a year…”
He was interrupted as the ground shook to the sound of heavy hoof beats, and he and his partner leaped down the slope. Seconds later a monstrous coal-black stallion, some eighteen hands high, steam rising from his hide, pounded over the ridge. On his back was a knight in full armour. He carried a sword and a covered shield. His visor was closed and he wore no livery or insignia.
Horse and rider came plunging recklessly down the slope, the stallion's great hoofs scoring deep furrows in the earth. The outlaws scrambled in all directions while Matthew screamed useless orders. Most panicked, and now it was their turn to flee in terror for their lives, to try and claw their way up the unforgiving slope.
Ivo froze, gaping in shock at the steel angel on the terrible horse, and failed to react when Elizabeth reached for the dagger at his belt. He was still on top of her, his manhood shrivelled to a damp, useless slug, and she was able to slide the blade free and ram it with all her strength into his bare thigh. He squealed like a wounded pig and bucked violently, hurling himself off her with blood pumping from the hole in his leg. Elizabeth managed to keep hold of the knife and lunged at him, stabbing wildly. The blade found Ivo’'s scrotum and this time his scream was like the shrill whistle of a kettle coming to the boil as he writhed and curled about his private agony.
Elsewhere the hollow of the wood was a charnel house. Matthew and three of his men had made a stand against the knight, but their courage availed them little as the furious black horse stamped and wheeled, a right war-charger, trained to bite and kick. Its rider swung his sword in effortless, dextrous arcs, with the skill of an artist and the efficiency of a Cheapside butcher.
One of the outlaws lost a hand and another went down with a smashed skull before the others gave back. There was little space to retreat, and the knight went after them remorselessly. Matthew tripped over the dead pony and fell onto his hands and knees. Pain ripped through his lower back as one of the stallion’s plate-sized hoofs trampled his spine, and he shrieked and flopped about like a worm spiked on a hook.
Elizabeth’s fingers were bloody as she butchered Ivo with deranged, clumsy fervour, stabbing and sawing at the defenceless man’s neck. Her knife severed his jugular vein, and he choked and drowned in his own blood as she straddled him, screaming, her robe spattered in blood and dirt and her hair hanging in loose, lank tresses, sticky with gore. When some sliver of reason had returned to her, she looked up and saw that the knight had herded the remaining four outlaws into a corner. His horse reared and bucked, flailing at the cowering men with his forelegs and showering them with mud and stones.
“Yield!” the knight shouted, his voice muffled behind the bars of his visor. “Yield, and you shall have mercy.”
“Kill them all, you fucking idiot!” Elizabeth screamed, and the knight turned his helm to glance at her in surprise. Seeing their opportunity, the outlaws gathered up the threads of their courage to rush him. One tried to crawl under the horse to thrust his knife into the animal’s belly, while his companions hacked wildly at the knight with spears and axes.
He was alive to the danger, and swung his horse to the left as they charged. His sword was already slimy with blood, and now it gathered some more as it swung in a lethal arc, removing the top of one man’s head and slashing the eyes from another. One outlaw ducked under his guard and brought his hand-axe down on the cuisse protecting the knight’s leg, denting the steel and causing him to cry out. The sword’s edge cleaved the axe-wielder’s skull in half before he could raise the weapon again, and he dropped, stone dead before he hit the ground.
The sole surviving outlaw abandoned his notion of crawling under the stallion, dropped his knife and fell to his knees, hands clasped and eyes shut as he begged for his life. The knight hesitated, sword raised, reluctant to kill a man who had surrendered.
Elizabeth had no such scruples, and she limped grimly towards the outlaw, wincing at the bodily pain of her recent ordeal. All her humanity and Christian mercy had fled from her.
“Stop!” the knight shouted, seeing what she intended, and the outlaw was too late to react. He barely had time to stand before Elizabeth sprang and rammed her bloody knife up to the hilt in his gut, staring deep into his horrified, pain-filled eyes as he screamed.
She released the knife and left it to twist inside the convulsing man’s belly. Pausing only to spit on him, she walked over to where Matthew lay with a broken back, feebly trying to drag himself along the ground.
Elizabeth knelt beside the crippled man, pushing back her hair, and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Your friends will come looking for you,” she hissed, “and when they find you, assuming you live that long, I want you to give a message to your master. Tell Eustace Folville that if he ever comes after me again, I will cut out his tongue and shove it up his anus. He always did speak out of his backside, and that will prove it.”
Matthew rolled his eyes and tried to speak, but the pain from his shattered vertebrae was too much.
“One more thing,” said Elizabeth, digging in the pouch at his belt. “I will have some of the money back that I paid you. Now lie here and suffer, outlaw.”
He only had a few pennies on him, but she took them and stood up, spurning the fallen man in the ribs with her foot.
Elizabeth looked around at the stinking gore-soaked hollow, the dead and maimed and whimpering men. She counted seven of them. Three had escaped, including Laurence Coterel.
The knight had climbed off his horse and was clanking towards her, faceless and terrible, his once-gleaming armour now slathered in blood.
“Stay back,” she warned, though she had lost her knife, “stay back or I will kill you.”
The threat was hollow, pathetic, and unnecessary. The knight halted, stuck his bloody sword point first into the ground, and raised his visor.
His face underneath was partially hidden by the chin-guard, but Elizabeth could see large blue eyes with long lashes, almost as pretty as a girl’s, a long, aquiline nose and a wispy blonde fuzz on his upper lip.
“My God,” she exclaimed, “you’re just a boy.”
He did not reply for a moment, and seemed to be struggling for words. His eyes were fastened on her lower body, and she glanced down to see blood trickling out from under her torn skirts. For someone who had just chopped up seven men with brutal efficiency and was covered from head to foot in gore, he seemed horrified by the sight of her bleeding.
“I was violated, sir,” she said quietly. “You came in time to save me from worse, for which I am in your debt, but you were late. Do not dwell on it. There are not many men who would risk their lives to save a woman’s honour. You put them all to shame, for I suspect you have not yet reached man’s estate.”
His voice, when he finally spoke, was that of a boy in the humiliating grip of adolescence, high-pitched and warbling. “I...I am the one shamed,” he stammered. “I did my utmost to follow these villains when they rode from Leicester, but they rode fast. I cannot apologise enough. I beg you most humbly to forgive me.”
The High Language of chivalry, usually confined to formal jousts and ballads, sounded ludicrous, especially in the midst of so much death and horror. Elizabeth could hardly contain her disbelief as he started to go down on one knee.
“There is no need for that,” she snapped, “and we have no time to waste exchanging formal courtesies. Three of the bastards escaped, and will even now be scurrying back to tell all to their master. You have made a terrible enemy today, and I do not know your name.”
He hesitated. “Alas, dishonourable as it is, I must remain nameless, but you may know me as the Knight of the Rose.”
In spite of everything, Elizabeth almost laughed. “It seems I have woken from a nightmare into a dream. Well, Sir Rose, I must ask you to help me. My horse is dead, I have no companions left, and no friends in the world brave enough to resist my enemies, save you and one other.”
“Ask, lady,” he said eagerly, “and if it is in my power, it shall be done.”
She nodded at his horse, which was pawing the earth a little way off, snorting and rolling his eyes. “That thing is a fearsome brute,” she said, “but his back is broad enough for two. Will you take me home? My house is some twenty miles south of here. I will not be staying there long – I dare not – but you can claim a reward from whatever is in my possession.”
“I claim nothing,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “I merely did my duty, according to my knightly vows.”
Elizabeth looked around at the carnage. Eustace Folville was a knight, she remembered. Though he and this Knight of the Rose were opposites in character and motive, the result was the same.
Death and slaughter.