A Tapestry of Dreams (49 page)

He shouted his concern to Sir Lucius, who had moved into the front rank farther to the left as losses brought his men forward, but the young knight responded with a yell of excitement and pointed urgently to the right. Hugh looked toward the hill and saw the mounted reserve coming full tilt down and around it, waving their swords and shouting for the men on foot to make way. As his eyes took that in, Hugh’s head was already turning to seek the cause, which was coming across the plain—more than twenty, perhaps fifty, mounted men flanked and followed by several hundred footmen.

Lucius began to roar, “Horses! Horses!” and the yeomen who were acting as grooms ran forward. Even as he seized Rufus’s rein Hugh had a terrible freezing moment of doubt that Lucius had forgotten the need to hold their line. That doubt was briefly overlaid when he tried to jump for his stirrup and failed and had to haul himself into the saddle. He was shocked by the refusal of his muscles to obey; he had not realized until then how tired he was.

But concern for breaking the defensive line swiftly overcame Hugh’s sense of weariness. Atop Rufus, he could see that Sir Lucius had not succumbed to battle fever. A second troop of horsemen had emerged from the bulge of wooded land and was charging across the ground directly toward them. Hugh shouted for the captains not to let so many mount that their troops were thinned too much, and then gestured for Lucius and perhaps ten more, who were already ahorse, to move out ahead of the shield wall. By then, the enemy were close enough for him to see they had lances, and he snarled a curse. If they waited close to their line to receive the charge, they would be spitted like pigs.

“Charge!” Hugh bellowed, waving his sword. “Spread out and charge.”

He did so himself, turning Rufus toward what seemed to be the center of the group. He could hear someone calling orders among the oncoming men and had just enough time to think that the riders were being warned to open their formation to attack Hugh’s widely spaced men lest they be taken from the flanks and the rear. He was among them before he saw the result of the order, striking aside one lance and slatting another off his shield. Both were ill aimed, not through any fault in the riders’ abilities but because if both angled their lances sharply enough at Hugh, they were likely to spit each other or their companions’ horses.

Hugh was past those riders, striking fiercely at a third, who had not been able to lower his lance, being too close behind the man ahead. A shriek told Hugh that his sword had struck true, but he had no idea where it had hit. He could only pray he had disabled that man, needing to look the other way to catch a lance on his shield, but the angle was all wrong, and Hugh flung himself forward in the saddle, shrinking in expectation of being pierced sideways through the ribs. Instead a blow across the back pushed him painfully into his pommel, and two loud screams rang out on either side. Hugh did not try to look; he laughed grimly, almost certain the lance aimed at him had caught the rider he had already struck with his sword—the second cry being one of horror as the lance struck friend rather than foe.

There was nothing to laugh about a moment later as a lance from the right caught the inside of his shield, which he had extended to slat off a blow from the left. For one instant Hugh had the choice of having his arm torn off or letting go of his shield, which meant that his left side would be defenseless and likely hacked to bits in minutes.

In that instant a violent jolt on Rufus’s hindquarters propelled both man and horse ahead. Rufus shrieked with rage and tilted forward to kick out powerfully with his rear legs, and the lance point came free of Hugh’s shield. Simultaneously, Hugh was aware of a burning pain across his left shoulder just as a horse and man behind him screamed with pain. Had he not been gasping with pain himself, Hugh would have thanked Rufus aloud. That kick had probably broken the rider’s leg if it had not succeeded in staving in the ribs of his mount.

Then for a minute Hugh found himself outside the knot of fighting men. As he turned Rufus back into the fray, he saw that most of the attackers had broken or cast away their lances. He saw, too, that more horsemen were pushing past the lines to assist him and his men, although the fighting seemed to have intensified all over. Then Rufus was up, striking with his forefeet, snapping and screaming at an oncoming stallion, which shied away, giving Hugh a clear stroke at the rider.

Pain lanced across his back as he swung his sword, and the blow went slightly awry; more pain tore him as he raised his shield to ward off the counterblow, but he was already backing Rufus, turning him away before he would need to strike again. He had recognized the shield, and he had no intention of letting his hand be the one that injured—or, heaven forfend, killed—Henry of Huntington, prince of Scotland. And despite his pain, he could not help laughing again as the prince shrieked imprecations at him, calling him coward and worse. Poor Henry must know that any man from the northern shires who recognized him would draw off; he must have the devil’s own time getting anyone to fight against him.

A feeling of sympathy for the frustrated prince swept over Hugh as he saw a mounted troop coming from the English lines near the hill, shouting and waving their weapons. Rather reluctantly, he looked around and called out for Lucius and his other men, knowing he should try to block Henry’s escape. To kill or wound the prince might be a disaster, a cause of permanent enmity with King David, but to take Henry prisoner would be a great coup.

Nonetheless, he was relieved rather than disappointed when there was no reply to his call before Henry was surrounded by his own men, urging him away. The prince shook his sword and shouted at them, but the men closed in around him, and he acknowledged defeat, set his spurs to his horse, and galloped away after his retreating army. Prince Henry and his men were the last to leave the field, except for those wounded who were creeping or staggering toward whatever shelter they could find.

By then it was certain there would be no rally by the Scots, and Hugh returned to his tent, astonished to discover that it was still quite early. The battle had begun before Prime, and from the position of the sun, it could not be later than Tierce. Two hours or three… could it be possible that so little time had passed? If his physical weariness were a measure, it would be the next day’s Tierce that was sounding. Yet he could feel a desperate energy building inside him. One more duty, just one more, and he would be free to go to Audris. Sir Walter had said to take his men and go, but Hugh could not, not until he knew his master’s fate.

A voice had been nagging at him while he marveled at how short a time had passed, and now he looked down and saw Morel, who was begging him to dismount. “You be all over blood, my lord,” Morel was saying. “The leech be here. Let us tend to you.”

“Later,” Hugh replied. “The hurts are nothing. Go bid the captain of Sir Walter’s troop see that the men eat and rest. He is not to let them scatter seeking loot.”

He almost smiled when he saw the expression of disgust on Morel’s face. Doubtless some of the men had already been out and had discovered there was nothing, not even good weapons, to be stolen from the dead. Usually Hugh was glad the men-at-arms could glean some profit after a battle; this once he was better pleased by the poverty of the dead. There would be less angry muttering when he ordered the men to march. He had already explained to the captain what must be done, warning him to reserve supplies for the march north, but he had not expected they would be able to leave that day—he had not been sure any of them would be alive to go at all.

A stirring of breeze wafted the distinctive odor of blood to him; Hugh’s smile twisted. He had forgotten the August heat. Likely the only men who would mutter would be those left behind. By the end of the day a slaughterhouse would be a lily compared with this field.

“But my lord—” Morel began desperately.

“I must see how Sir Walter fared this day,” Hugh went on, ignoring the interruption. “When I return, the leech can see to me, and then we go to relieve Jernaeve.”

“Jernaeve!”

Morel’s eyes lit. He had been sick with worry ever since he had first caught sight of Hugh’s bloodstained armor. The Lady had said to set his master in a safe place if he were sick or hurt—that would be no trouble with Sir Walter close by—and then to fetch her to him, but the latter was not possible. To bring Sir Hugh to her would be next best. He had already found a leech and bribed him with one of the coins Lady Audris had supplied to leave his other patients. If his master could be patched well enough to get to Jernaeve, he would have fulfilled his trust. If… But Sir Hugh looked more likely to die of bloodletting than to be healed, since he would not let himself be leeched.

“My lord,” Morel pleaded, “let me go to Sir Walter for you. I can carry a message, or—”

Hugh was about to say he wished to see his lord with his own eyes, when he recognized Sir Walter’s younger squire working his way through the troops, his head turning right and left, clearly seeking someone. “Ho! Philip!” he called, “how is it with Sir Walter? Is he hurt?”

“Hugh?” Philip’s voice climbed and cracked. “Is that you? You are all bloody.”

Hugh laughed aloud, for he knew from the surprise and concern in Philip’s voice that Sir Walter must be safe. Had he been wounded, Philip would not have been so surprised at Hugh’s condition.

“That is a not uncommon result of a battle,” Hugh responded, and then, seeing Philip’s slight shudder and realizing the boy’s face was very pale and that he was, as much as possible, avoiding looking at the battlefield, Hugh added consolingly, “but I am not much hurt, and I think most of the blood is other men’s. You will become accustomed, Philip—I once felt the same as you. But let me hear you say it.
Is
Sir Walter unhurt?”

“Yes, he is well, and in high good humor. He says he is disgusted by his lack of faith, for he admits now that he believed they would be too many for us. But he sent me to ask after you, Hugh. What shall I tell him?”

“That I will start for Jernaeve near Sext—”

“Start for Jernaeve?” Philip echoed. “Hugh! You belong abed.”

“No!” Hugh exclaimed forcefully, fearing that Sir Walter would descend on him and—for his own good—withdraw his permission for the use of his troop. “I tell you the blood is mostly of others, and I will murder you if you give Sir Walter a false tale that I am bleeding to death. You can hear my voice. Do I sound weak?”

“No,” Philip admitted, but he sounded troubled, and after a moment he said, “And
he
will murder me if I say all is well with you and you die on the road.”

That made Hugh laugh again. “I will not die on the road. You tell the truth—that I have a slash on my back and another on my shoulder, neither deep nor dangerous.”

It took a little longer to convince Philip, and Hugh was not at all sure he would stay convinced; moreover, he was certain that if Sir Walter asked
any
questions, Philip would burst into tears and babble about Hugh’s being drenched in blood. Therefore, as he dismounted from Rufus, he sent Morel to tell the captain to make ready to leave, and he bade the leech pull off his armor and tend to his hurts right there.

“But I have no cautery—”

“The hurts are from clean steel and not deep enough to need a cautery,” Hugh said, shuddering inside at the idea of having a hot iron dragged over the long slice on his back. “Sew them up and slap a poultice on them. If they do not heal, my wife will see to them—”

He stopped abruptly, aware that a tremble had come into his voice. The leech shrugged, wondering not for the first time how it came about that the same men who rushed into battle laughing and did not seem to regard the wounds they received were utterly terrified of the curing of those wounds, flatly resisting the leech’s recommendations until the last extremity, when usually it was too late, and often striking those who attempted to treat them. Nonetheless, he made no comment, merely gestured to his two assistants to unarm Hugh and remove his arming tunic while he himself made preparations to sew up the wounds—and to avoid being kicked, bitten, or otherwise injured while he did so.

Actually, he had misunderstood the unevenness in Hugh’s voice, which was owing to fear for Audris rather than unusual fear of the leech’s ministrations. Hugh did hate to be treated worse than he hated the original hurt—largely because being treated was more painful; in the heat of fighting one often did not notice being wounded—but just now, without distractions to control it any longer, his anxiety about Audris was reaching the panic state. In a way that fear was helpful, so occupying Hugh’s mind that he was somewhat less aware of the pain being inflicted on him. In addition, Morel had chosen well; the leech was skilled and quick, pouring wine on the wound to wash it, and knotting and cutting his silk between stitches so that the flesh would heal smooth.

When he was done with both wounds, Hugh thanked him brusquely and beckoned to Morel, who had returned with word that the troops would be ready whenever he was. The captain had been more eager to leave the battlefield than to eat or rest. The bodies were beginning to stink already, and the groans of the wounded were no sweet music; it would be better, he had said, to eat and sleep on clean ground after a few hours’ march. That welcome news had also distracted Hugh from the leech’s ministrations so that his work seemed even more efficient. Thus, he bade Morel give the man a silver shilling.

“I am not done, my lord,” the leech protested.

Hugh looked at him in surprise and then down at his bare body, wondering where he had been wounded without even noticing—and gasped. Now he knew why everyone had been so horrified and cried that he was covered with blood. In fact, he must have been. His chest, arms, and thighs had scores of small cuts, none large or deep, but all showing they had bled. Because he had been sweating heavily with heat and exertion, the mixture of blood and sweat must have soaked his tunic and oozed through his armor.

“But how—” he muttered, and then shook his head disgustedly. He had been too sure he was invulnerable to the long spears of the barbarians; it was true only in the sense that they could not kill him. Apparently the tips had been sharp enough to force their way through the links of his mail and his tunic far enough to prick him. He looked at Morel and uttered a short laugh. Apparently the leather and scale of the men-at-arms had been a better protection.