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More men rushed back and forth now, outside Lawrence’s tent. His squire looked nervously at the flap, as if worried that Gramirens might burst in at any moment.
“Keep your mind on your work,” Lawrence said gently. “I need my other gauntlet, now.” The deliberate pace was a lesson for the boy, and a reminder to everyone of who was in charge here. Let Andras and Hugh and all the others run off to see what was going on down on the riverbanks. A thousand years hence, when people spoke of this battle, they would remember the Earl of Hyrne’s coolness and calm.
Vittoria’s head appeared at the tent flap. “Still getting ready, are we?” She smiled and went over to where the squires were fumbling with Lawrence’s helmet. “Let me do this, my dears.” She gave Lawrence a wink and a very dirty grin that made his cock twitch.
“Go on, now,” he said to the squires. “Go see to my horse.”
They were hardly out of the tent before she was on her knees, and she was so skilled that he finished in almost no time at all.
“Quite eager on the morning of battle, aren’t we?” she chuckled, wiping her lips with a lace handkerchief.
“I wish I could take my time,” he said. As she stood again, he ran his hands over her. “But I probably ought to go see the scouts now.”
“I’ll save you a few minutes,” she said, straightening his gauntlet. “I’ve been down to the river myself, and you’ve got a marvelous opportunity. The Gramirens keep throwing men at your skirmishers piecemeal. Hold them there, and then take the rest of your troops around their flank.”
He gave her a dubious look. “That’s a rather...risky strategy, my dear girl.” This wasn’t the first time that she’d presumed to give him tactical advice. He really wished she wouldn’t do it, because it served to remind him that she was here as an agent for the Immani. She was a puppet; a very pretty one to be sure, but she had no real notions of her own. She was repeating other people’s ideas.
“It’s not risky,” she said. “It’s your best chance to win. Send all your men around the southern end of their line. And send Caedmon Aldred. You have a hillichmagnar. Use him. Send Lady Rada, too. She has that magysk ring from the Vizierate of Magy. She’s worth a whole company of cavalry.”
That was sound advice, at least in theory. But Lawrence didn’t think their situation was quite so dire that he needed to send Caedmon into battle. Besides, if Caedmon or Rada blew up the enemy, everyone would say it was their victory, not Lawrence’s.
“I believe I’ll ask Lord Aldred to stand with Edwin and the reserves.” He took his helmet, popped it on his head, and led her out of the tent. “And Lady Rada can guard the ladies at the convent. As for you, my dear, I think it would be best if you stayed there with them until this is over. Much safer for you there.”
Those lovely green eyes of hers narrowed, and she bit her lip. Finally, she said, “Goodbye, Lawrence. And good luck.” Then she dropped his arm and walked away.
“Silly girl,” he muttered, as his squires brought his horse. He had no doubt she’d be back, sooner or later. Hopefully sooner. Once he’d won this battle, he wanted to fuck her senseless and make her admit he knew what he was doing without her helpful little hints—both on the battlefield and in the bedroom.
He put her out of his mind, though, and rode down toward the river, as the sun finally peeked over the abbey walls behind him. Andras had taken charge of the skirmish, directing the archers and a few squads of mounted men-at-arms. He reported that the Gramirens had more men than he did, but they weren’t coordinating their attacks, so it was easy to repel them.
“Sir, we’ve got a perfect opportunity to lure them in and flank them,” he said. “We need to hold them here, and then send the rest of our men around to the south.”
Lawrence scowled at the boy. “Have you been talking to Vittoria?”
“No, sir. Well, I mean, yes, I said ‘hello’ while she was scouting around down here and observing the fighting. But I was too busy to chat long. Why? Did she have a better idea?”
“Better idea, my ass,” grumbled Lawrence. He wasn’t going to let them usurp his authority like this. He needed a different plan, if only so they would remember he was the commander. Turning in his saddle from one side to the other, he scanned the valley. In front of him, steel flashed in the riverside thickets, and he could see Andras’s cavalry rushing over to meet some of the enemy who had waded across near the bridge. The archers stood calmly, shooting at will whenever they spotted a Gramiren on the near bank of the river.
Raising his eyes, Lawrence saw the woods on the far ridge. Almoner’s Woods, they were called, apparently. Men and horses were lined up in there. From time to time, another small squad would be sent down the gentle slope, trampling through the fields, to join the fighting at the river.
“That’s the main body of the Gramiren troops,” he said, pointing.
Andras didn’t seem to understand the import of those words. “Er...yes, sir. I believe you’re right.” He didn’t add, “so what?” at the end, but it was clearly implied.
“There is the enemy. And that’s where I intend to strike him.”
The younger Byrne boy’s face went even paler than usual. “Sir, do you mean...attack straight uphill?”
“Exactly! They’ll never expect it.” He turned again in his saddle and shouted for his squires to bring message riders. Ignoring Andras’s stammered objections, he quickly wrote out orders for all his subordinates. “All together!” he said happily. “All at once and unstoppable!”
It was a truly magnificent sight—all the Sigor men lining up in the fields on a glorious June morning. It could have been a parade or a tourney. One of the old royal tournaments of his youth, back in the days before the war, when people did those things properly. All the pennants were flying, and the knights glittered in their mail and armor. Their bright, spotless surcoats and freshly-painted shields bore the arms of all the great families of Trahernshire, Pinshire, and Keneshire: the Sigors, the Dryhtens, the Barrases, the Byrnes. And yes, the Swithins, as well. None of them would ever forget this, as long as they lived. Long after he was dead and gone, they’d be toasting his memory. Everyone would remember it. His mother, living in retirement outside Formacaster, would hear the news. Somewhere in Rawdon, in a few days, his little daughter, Helena, would hear about it from his sister, Rohesia. Helena would be proud of him, and she would understand why he hadn’t been able to be with her all these years.
Not everyone was quite so impressed by the glory of it all. As the Byrne troops lined up, Flora galloped over to Lawrence and begged him to reconsider the attack. “For Finster’s sake, if it’ll get you to stop this, I’ll start sleeping with you again!”
“I think not,” he said, turning away from her. She didn’t deserve him anymore, and besides, he had Vittoria now. He nodded to his trumpeters, and they sounded the charge.
The Gramirens at the river were broken and scattered in seconds. Lawrence had a few moments’ anxiety at the actual crossing. When the men waded awkwardly through thigh-high water, that would have been the perfect time for the Gramirens to come roaring out of Almoner’s Woods and destroy them all. But the enemy held back. Frightened, no doubt.
“They probably didn’t believe we still had it in us,” he said to himself.
Once they were all across, however, several regiments of pikemen made a rather pathetic attempt to block their path. “Too late,” Lawrence said, grinning, as he killed his first man of the day—an officer in the livery of the Duke of Keelshire. These men had been his allies until recently. It was their own damn fault for switching sides. They deserved everything they had coming to them.
The Keelshire troops did not break and run as the men at the river had. They died in droves, but they made a tenacious, fighting retreat up the hill. Every time they managed to get away, they would turn again and counterattack. Brave fellows, even if they were traitors.
Andras appeared at Lawrence’s side again. “Sir, we should break off the engagement.”
“Break it off? Perhaps you haven’t noticed, my dear fellow, but we’re winning.”
“I think they’re drawing us into a trap, sir.” He swept an arm around, taking in the ridgeline and the woods. “Where are their cavalry, sir?”
Now that the boy mentioned it, that was a damned good question. For a few seconds, Lawrence struggled with doubt. Perhaps he should have Andras and Pedr take some men to guard the flanks. Cavalry, perhaps. But then, if he sent the cavalry off to the flanks, he wouldn’t have it for his big attack when he got to the woods.
“Keep going,” he told Andras. “Faster now. If we move fast enough, we don’t have to worry about our flanks.”
Another echoing trumpet call, and the drums and Kenedalic pipes quickened their tempo. The first line was halfway across the fields now. Halfway to the woods. At this pace, they would be there in only a minute.
“Wait for my signal,” Lawrence said to Andras. “We’ll hit them with cavalry first, then I want the pikemen right behind.”
But someone wasn’t listening, or had botched his orders somehow. Lawrence heard the rumble of cavalry somewhere close, and he looked around, wondering whose back he was going to have to flay when this was all over.
Then the enemy burst out of the trees. But not straight in front of him—to his left, where he hadn’t thought they had any men at all. Hundreds and hundreds of horsemen, surging into the fields and making a long, sweeping turn like a door opening. At their head was a big knight in a blue surcoat, bearing the emblem of a white bridge. Duke Lukas of Severn. Damn and blast that man! Behind the Severnshire cavalry, jogging at the double quick, came the pikemen and archers. Thousands of them.
“Archers to the left flank!” Lawrence shouted.
The order echoed up and down the line, but precious seconds were wasted as the archers had to push their way through the lines of pikemen and cavalry. But they would get there in time; he could see it. This wasn’t the battle he had planned, but he could seize the initiative back. He needed to blunt this charge with a few quick longbow volleys. Then it would be a hand-to-hand slog between the infantry. He might have to bring the reserves across the river. Yes. He could do that and catch Lukas in his right flank. It would be perfect!
Andras and Pedr Byrne rode up to report their archers were ready, and Lawrence hurriedly explained his plan. As Andras turned to relay Lawrence’s orders to his captains, he looked back north, over the ranks of men, and his eyes went wide.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasped.
Lawrence turned to see that another vast army was coming up the valley toward them. These men had the black banners of the Gramirens, and there were so many of them that the fields almost couldn’t contain them all. They rose and covered the land like black floodwaters.
There was no hope. There was only defeat and death and permanent disgrace. Lawrence ground his teeth and spat. His eyes burned with tears as he made out the figure at the head of the enemy knights—black surcoat and black enameled armor with silver trim. And a silver crown on the helmet. It was the blasted usurper himself, Broderick the Black.
“That fucking bastard,” said Lawrence in a hoarse voice. “That fucking, fucking bastard.”
“Cavalry to me!” Andras shouted. To Lawrence, he said, “Sir, I’ll engage the enemy so you can retreat.”
“Fuck that!” snapped Lawrence. He grabbed his lance from the waiting hands of his squire and lowered it to point straight at Broderick Gramiren’s evil, black heart. There was no way to win, but Lawrence would be damned if he was going to retreat. All he could do now was make sure that he took Broderick to the Void with him.