LVII

 

 

ALDRIC HAD BEEN one of those ordered to stay with the horses. Fulke didn’t like him, he knew. He never had. Well, that was fine. Aldric didn’t think much of Fulke, either.

He and his fellow serjeant – the one named Arnaut – had remained mounted at Aldric’s insistence, keeping the horses ready and together, waiting, listening. Until the screaming started.

In many respects, Aldric had been glad to stay put, even with the crumpled corpse of Theobald – which had been propped against a tree – staring at them. He didn’t trust Fulke’s instincts as a commander, and the circumstances screamed “trap” to all but the most dimwitted. They had been stopped, forced to dismount, and led down what Aldric had no doubt, based on what he had seen so far, would be a well-prepared path. Prepared for them. How much damage a single man could ultimately inflict on so large a party was open to question, but the simple fact was they were doing everything their enemy wanted them to do. Aldric was instinctively opposed to doing anything his enemy wanted. His enemy wanted him dead. He might not be able to stop him in that endeavour, but he was buggered if he was going to help it along.

That Fulke was aware of this fundamental tactical wisdom was beyond doubt. Fulke was not stupid, not really. But he had the heart of a coward, and like all cowards feared most of all that this fact might somehow be revealed. He would never act cautiously – even when caution was wise – if it risked making him appear hesitatant or afraid. And so he and his band had voluntarily given up their greatest advantage – their horses – and plunged into the close quarters of a fighting ground chosen by their adversary, where the effectiveness of their numbers was reduced and their enemy invisible.

Fulke wouldn’t care too much about that; he tended to be impatient with tactical thinking. Anyway, having led the charge into the undergrowth, he would surely then send others ahead to take whatever manner of death was coming their way. To Fulke, that’s what soldiers were for – to place between him and imminent destruction. Decoys. Mobile shields.

The man Aldric had been saddled with was not so happy to be left behind. Arnaut was a hothead. One who charged wildly into danger, mistakenly believing he was showing courage, when in fact his actions merely marked him out as impulsive and reckless. At least, they did to Aldric. There were others who were taken in by it, who admired Arnaut’s spontaneity, his boldness. Aldric, however, recognised both as products not of courage, but of fear. He flung himself at things because he did not have the nerve to approach them cautiously – because if he did stop to think, he would falter and crumble. Aldric supposed that when you had examples such as Fulke to follow, there would always be such men. Arnaut had not yet fought in a battle – not a real one – but Aldric had a bet with himself that when battle came, Arnaut would be the first to charge, and the first to bite the sod. And, of course, Fulke would let him.

Having to stay out of the fray had frustrated Arnaut almost to the point of frenzy. He had cursed and complained while Aldric bit his lip. Then came the cries of the men – the sounds of agony, of terror, of defeat. To Arnaut, this confirmed the folly of them sitting here on their arses, doing nothing. To Aldric, it confirmed the exact opposite.

At first, Aldric was successful in restraining Arnaut – even getting him to curb his restless pacing on his mount, which was making the others edgy.

In the event, it was a horse that finally tipped the balance.

These horses – all trained for battle – were not easily spooked. But upon hearing the muffled shouts from the trees, one – the handsome black courser that Fulke had laid claim to in some recent confrontation – had suddenly got some strange idea into its head. It had bucked and reared so violently that it had lost its bridle and broken away from the rest before bolting – not along the path and away from the cries of the men, as one might expect, but crashing straight into the tangled, twiggy shrubbery between the closely packed trees.

Somehow, its break for freedom had triggered the same impulse in Arnaut – or rather had broken the last bit of restraint that was holding him back. Perhaps the notion of a riderless horse heading into battle when he was not was just too much for him to bear. All Aldric knew was that suddenly Arnaut had drawn his sword and had leapt down from his saddle.

“You can sit here and do fuck all, if you like,” he bellowed with a manic look in his eye – something between fevered excitement and abject terror. “I’m going to do something!”

Yes, thought Aldric. You’re going to die.

Aldric knew – because he was not an idiot – that dismounting was a terrible idea. But Arnaut either did not know it, or, like Fulke, did not care, and perhaps could not help himself even if he did. And he was not going to stop. Stuck for an alternative, knowing they must stand fast, and stand together – more so now than ever – Aldric threw himself off his horse in an attempt to restrain him. Before he could even get close, Arnaut had charged off, disappearing into the spiky thicket with a frenzied crashing and crackling of twigs.

The sounds stopped as suddenly as they had started. There was a brief silence, before Arnaut emerged from the bushes again. Aldric was struck by three different notions at this unexpected return. He was amused that the spirited hero had been defeated by a thicket; he was relieved that, at last, he seemed to have seen sense; and he was momentarily bemused that Arnaut was walking backwards. As he was still thinking these thoughts, Arnaut keeled over, and crashed like a felled tree, and Aldric saw the crossbow bolt, half its length embedded in Arnaut’s left eye.

Then, storming out of the woods, came the black shape of the man Aldric had killed.

Terrifying in appearance – his face blackened with soot, and now streaked with rain – he strode forward, wild eyes fixed on Aldric, inexorable in his steady advance. He stepped over Arnaut’s body, flung away the discharged crossbow, and raised a second, ready drawn. Aldric – staggering backwards, realising he had only seconds before the bolt was placed and loosed – scrabbled for something, anything, to hurl at his assailant. He hauled at a warhammer strapped against a chestnut palfrey’s saddle, but the spike snagged in the bindings. The horse turned, was gashed by the weapon’s point as Aldric fought to tug it free, then kicked and leapt sideways. The binding snapped. Aldric sprawled, righted himself – his attacker now only yards away – and got ready to fling the weapon. But as he swung it up, the man loosed his bolt. It smacked into Aldric’s shoulder, jarring bone and sending him spinning. He crashed flat on his back, winded, his left arm numb.

He remembered having no pain in his shoulder, just a distant awareness of the hooves of the chestnut slamming down near his head, and the bolt’s steel point, now protruding from his back, scraping against a stone in the mud.

The man drew his mace and stood over him. Aldric made no further attempt to move. He knew he was dead, that there was nothing to be done. He braced himself, and – mustering what little defiance he had left – looked his killer square in the eye.

“Do it, then,” he said through clenched teeth.

The man stood poised for a moment, weapon raised, then peered closely at him.

“You are one of the men who shot me,” he said. “From the battlements.”

Aldric frowned. The very last thing he’d expected was a conversation. “Yes.”

“Tell me quickly – the man and the woman you have prisoner. Do they live?”

“Yes.

“Will they live?”

“Probably. Unless...”

“Unless?”

“You know the kind of man Tancred is.”

“What kind of man is he?”

“All is black and white to him. Once they have no useful purpose, he will kill them. Although perhaps they now have one...”

The dark face frowned.

“You. He can use them to draw you. Throw one from the battlements as an example. Cause the other pain, to exploit your weakness.”

“My weakness?”

“Compassion,” said Aldric. “You have friends.”

“Do you think that a weakness?”

“Tancred does,” said Aldric. Then he thought for a moment, sighed deeply, and shuddered at the pain it brought. “But compassion is never a weakness.” He was suddenly struck by the absurdity of his situation, of taking part in a philosophical debate whilst he lay bleeding in the mud, about to have his head – the head in which such fine thoughts were formed – smashed in by a mace. “You probably should’ve killed him while you had the chance, all the same,” he added, pragmatic to the last.

To his amazement, the man laughed. “As he should have killed me,” he said. “We’ll both have that chance again before today is out.”

Aldric’s head swam, the pain in his shoulder suddenly asserting itself. He groaned.

The towering figure leaned in. “What’s your name?”

“Aldric. Aldric Fitz Rolf.”

“I am Gisburne,” said the man. “Guy of Gisburne.”

Aldric wondered if this was some strange affectation of his attacker – making a proper introduction to those he was about to kill. His head fell back on the mud in defeat. “Just get it over with.”

Gisburne stared down at him. “We’re settled,” he said. Then he threw the mace into the bushes and turned to walk away.

Aldric heaved himself up onto his one good elbow, and stared after the retreating figure in disbelief.

“Get a new master, Aldric Fitz Rolf,” the man called over his shoulder, and disappeared back into the forest.