A Place Beyond Courage (30 page)
William D’Ypres struggled to think as he turned a blow on his shield and manoeuvred his stallion. He was sweltering inside his armour and his breath was rattling badly in his chest, courtesy of the cold that had been doing the rounds of his men and had now visited itself upon him. He needed to breathe; he had to have a respite from this punishment in order to collect his thoughts. He was losing too much time and too many men. The Empress’s troop was much smaller than his own, but the enemy were fighting out of their skins - like madmen. He struck again, and his vision darkened at the edges. He couldn’t draw breath fast enough, was suffocating inside his mail shirt and gambeson. Someone else came at him. He saw the raised arm, the sword preparing to strike, and then he noticed the blood. The man was wounded. Gritting his teeth, D’Ypres put his last effort into striking back and, with a gasp of relief, felt his opponent shudder and saw him fall. D’Ypres pulled his horse back, withdrawing up the hill a little, to the shade offered by a lime tree, and sucked air into his mucus-raw lungs. As he struggled for breath, he cursed. John FitzGilbert’s aggression and skill were daunting. His fire was cold and he always knew precisely what he was doing and where his men were. This was proving no easy battle, especially not after the push through Andover, and he couldn’t afford a delay.
He needed to splinter the opposition - drive a wedge through their middle. If he could do that . . . He summoned up an adjutant and, between gasps for breath, relayed instructions. The man galloped off. Moments later a group of Flemings sheered off the left flank where the fighting was less severe and arrowed into the centre of the mêlée like a spear driving through soft wood. The fighting group split apart and the Empress’s soldiers on the left were gradually encircled and killed or captured, while those on the right were held at bay by the troops already in situ. As his breathing eased and his heart ceased pounding as if it would leave his chest, D’Ypres watched the battle begin to turn his way. The banner of Geoffrey Boterel went down. He reached for the water costrel slung around his saddle bow and started to raise it to his lips. Then lowered it again and used obscene words as John Marshal broke away from the centre of the mêlée and in his turn threatened to loop round and join up the fighting again. God on the Cross, didn’t the bastard know when he was beaten? In a moment, the captured men, including Boterel, were going to rally and it would be mayhem again. A small troop of his foragers had arrived from the Andover road and he committed them to the fray too.
God, if I ever did anything to please you, let the tide turn. Let them break
, he prayed.
God, if I ever did anything to please you, let the tide turn. Let them break
, he prayed.
At first, he thought God had heard, for he saw FitzGilbert’s green and gold banner waver and turn. Saw FitzGilbert himself hack twice at an opponent, forcing him to back off before turning tail and spurring his horse towards the abbey gates, signalling his men to follow. Even as D’Ypres coughed to clear his lungs and thank God, he realised it wasn’t over. FitzGilbert wasn’t retreating in order to save his skin. The abbey was a sanctuary from which he would be able to sally out and attack from the rear . . . and D’Ypres had no doubt that attack he would if left to recuperate and regroup.
Grim-mouthed, he summoned his senior adjutants. ‘Bring torches,’ he said. Some of them looked at him askance, but knew him too well to question his orders.
D’Ypres bared his teeth at them. ‘How else do you purge a devil from the house of God?’ he asked before coughing into his sleeve.
After the heat of the morning and the desperate fray, the church was a cool sanctuary, silent but for the harsh breathing of the men and the snort and clatter of the horses they had brought inside with them. Robert of Okehampton directed two of his knights to bar the door with vestment coffers. John swiftly assessed their numbers and situation. No one was badly wounded but there were a lot of superficial cuts and bruises. They had a moment’s sanctuary and respite, but he did not delude himself that their hides were safe. William D’Ypres was no fool. He would balance his need to be on his way with his need not to have John on his heels, and act accordingly.
‘At least we’re in the right place to pray,’ someone said nervously.
No one answered. They were fighting men who had put out the nuns and violated the house of God - and for that, a price would be exacted on their souls.
John cleaned his sword on his surcoat. The edge was pitted and nicked from numerous contacts with mail, wood and flesh. His shield was battered and scratched. But he remained alive and still had the ability and will to fight on. His standard-bearer Jaston was crouched, one hand covering his eyes, the other gripping John’s banner with white knuckles, but whether he was protecting it or using it as a crutch was uncertain. John went to him and laid his hand to his shoulder in a firm, steadying grip.
The young knight swept fingertips and palms across his lids to meet and pinch at the bridge of his nose. ‘I am all right, my lord,’ he said and, with a loud sniff, rose to his feet. Sweat and the momentary release of tears had created grimy streaks down his face.
There was a sudden heavy bang on the church door as if a large man had set his shoulder to it; then the sound of axes chopping at the wood.
‘It’ll hold,’ John said. ‘And even if they break it down, they can’t come through more than two at a time. We’ll take them.’
The banging ceased and silence fell again. John felt the hair rise and prickle at his nape. The windows were too high to see out of, but there was a squint in the stairwell of the bell tower. He strode down the nave to the internal door, shouldered it open and climbed the twisting staircase. The rectangle of light set into the thickness of the wall gave him an imperfect view over woods and fields but there was no sign of D’Ypres’s troops.
He ran back down and, as he strode into the church, heard a swishing sound, accompanied by loud shouts and jeering, and then, after a pause, the ominous crackle of flame. Suddenly there was smoke above them, wispy like the layers that formed in the hall on a draughty night, but strengthening, materialising, growing acrid shape and form.
‘Christ,’ said Okehampton. ‘The bastards have fired the church. What are we going to do?’
The horses began to stamp and snort with fear as they drank in the scent of the smoke. The sound of incendiary bombardment from outside continued and smuts of burning debris began to fall from the roof and sting the men like wasps. John ran to the holy water stoup, hacked the lid off it with his sword, soaked a torn strip of altar cloth in it and bound it around his mouth and nose. Men began to cough and choke as the smoke intensified. The occasional spark stings became a burning rain. One of the horses was singed on the rump and went wild, kicking its owner in the belly. He went down with a surprised look on his face and didn’t get up again.
Okehampton sprinted to the back of the church, to the door where the nuns’ priest entered to conduct services. ‘Here!’ he shouted. ‘We have to get out!’
John opened his mouth to bellow no, that D’Ypres would have men waiting too, but it was too late. Okehampton was already ramming back the draw bar and others were racing to help him.
The world dissolved and hell came in its stead. Those who ran from the church had to fight D’Ypres’s men in the midst of a firestorm. All the outbuildings were ablaze too. There was no escape. Men either died from fire or sword, or threw themselves upon their enemy’s mercy and hoped to be ransomed. John knew it was over, that D’Ypres had outmanoeuvred him, but still he would not give in. If he was captured, they would hang him and he’d be damned if he’d swing for their pleasure. He retreated further into the church, backing to the bell tower as shards of burning roof crashed into the nave, sending up clouds of smoke and starbursts of sparks. Jaston remained with him, still clinging grimly to the banner, choking into his sleeve. John seized his arm and dragged him into the tower and slammed the door.
Jaston stared at him, his eyes showing white around the iris. ‘Holy Christ, we will roast in here!’
John snarled a grin. ‘How far do you think we’ll get if we take the door? They’re waiting outside with their swords and they’ll stick them in anything that comes out. John FitzGilbert and his standard-bearer . . . what chance do you think we have? I’d rather take the fire!’ He gestured around. ‘Stone stairs and stone walls. We can hold out.’
‘It’ll be like sitting in a chimney!’
John snorted at the analogy. ‘I’ve been more comfortable. Take off your surcoat.’
‘What?’
‘And give me the banner.’
When Jaston continued to look dazed, John snatched the banner out of his hands, yanked it off the spear pole and, wrapping it into a cylinder, stuffed it against the foot of the door. Then he used his own surcoat in a similar manner. Belatedly understanding, Jaston did the same.
Some of the arrows and torches had reached the wooden shingles on the belfry roof and that too was now ablaze. John sat down on the stairs. Muffled through the stone and roar of the flames, they could hear the shouts of D’Ypres’s men as gleeful as children round a bonfire, taunting those still inside the church to come out.
Jaston gave a convulsive swallow. ‘Perhaps we should take our chance, my lord. I am no coward but surely it is better to surrender than die in here. At least we stand a chance of living . . .’
John looked at him through the barely lit darkness of the stairwell. ‘You make a move towards that door and I will kill you myself,’ he said softly.
‘Holy God,’ Jaston whispered. ‘Is she really worth it? Is your honour worth this death?’
Sardonic mirth squeezed John’s chest. ‘She is not worth a bean,’ he replied, ‘and I’m not doing this for my honour. Those men outside need to be gone. D’Ypres won’t stand much longer. He’ll assume we’re all dead and ride on.’ He heard rather than saw Jaston slump on the stairs and knew the young man had put his head in his hands. ‘We’ll survive this,’ he said. ‘Just a while longer, just a few moments and they’ll be gone.’
‘But that’ll mean they’ll be on the Empress’s tail.’
‘I’ve given her a chance. If she can reach the Downs, then she’ll disappear and they won’t know which road she took. Nor will they want to string themselves out too far after the mauling they’ve taken. The garrison at Ludgershall will greet them fittingly if they do.’
Outside there was more noise. Shouts, the thud of hooves, the neigh of a horse. John listened as intently as a cat and breathed shallowly. The taste of smoke filled his throat. Jaston was coughing. Burning debris and cinders were flickering down from the belfry roof like hellish snow. They couldn’t stay much longer. If the beams collapsed or there was a heavy fall of shingle and roofing, they would certainly die. Just a few more heartbeats, John thought. Just long enough to let D’Ypres see nothing but a burning church should he look over his shoulder on the way out.
He grasped his sword hilt and, easing himself off the step, touched Jaston’s shoulder. Something dripped on his sleeve, gleaming in the darkness like heavy water. He glanced at it, looked up in an instinctive reaction and was struck on the left side of his face by another molten drip. The world dissolved in a white burn of agony and he staggered. ‘Ah God, ah Christ!’ He blundered against the door; reeled; went down.
Jaston leaped to his feet. ‘My lord, my lord, what is it?’
John swallowed bile. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think for the blinding pain. All logic and reason were gone, eaten up in searing agony. Yet some final thread of instinct remained and forced him back to his feet. ‘The door,’ he gasped. ‘Open the door!’
Jaston scrabbled at the latch. ‘It’s jammed!’ he panicked, then realised the wedged surcoats were causing the problem. Frantically he tugged them out of the way and yanked the door open. The interior of the church was a mass of flaming debris from the roof. The priest’s doorway was an arch of fire and the heat flared at him like the blast from a bread oven. Facing into the tower, Jaston drew a deep breath, then seized John’s arm and dragged him through the fiery aperture and into the abbey compound, not caring whether they ran on to enemy swords or not.
There was nothing but a waste of burning buildings, dead men, slaughtered horses. God’s house had become an antechamber of hell. Jaston kept hold of John and half dragged, half carried him away from the burning buildings and down to the bank of the tree-shaded river.
‘Here my lord, here, we’re safe. They’ve gone.’ Jaston dropped to his knees, retching and coughing.
John curled up in a foetal ball. The pain was excruciating. He whined through gritted teeth.
‘My lord, what is it, are you burned?’
John tried to push his will through the pain. He was nauseous, sweating. He felt Jaston’s hand on his sleeve, turning him. And then heard the young man’s breath suck sharply over his larynx. ‘Water,’ John gasped. ‘Put water on the wound.’
Jaston scrabbled the banner from beneath his belt and soaked it in the river. Then he wrung it out over John’s face. The cold trickle gave momentary relief but John couldn’t see out of his left eye. His ear was stinging too.
‘Lead, my lord . . . from the roof. It’s melted lead,’ Jaston said. ‘Your face . . .’ He compressed his lips.
John didn’t want to know. He gave the banner back to the young knight. ‘Soak it again.’
With the cold wet silk pressed to the burn, John staggered to his feet. The vision in his good eye blurred and then steadied. He wove erratically back to the abbey grounds, making himself put one foot in front of the other. The pain was still verging on the unbearable, but had receded enough to allow him a modicum of thought. A white numbness was taking over. He didn’t know if it would last. He had been told that badly and mortally injured men didn’t feel the same pain as those with superficial wounds - that it was a blessing in disguise - but he knew he was cursed.
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