The Champion (15 page)

As the sun spread an orange glow across the eastern sky, Lavoux’s force waited for the portcullis to be winched up. Depending on their nature and the state of their nerves, men either fretted their horses or soothed them with pats and murmurs of reassurance.

Hervi sat at Bertran’s left shoulder, acting as his bodyguard, the bearer of his standard. It was not an enviable position, since the capture of the enemy’s banner in battle was viewed as a necessary part of any victory, and its guardian was always a target. But of all the knights of Lavoux’s company, Hervi was the most accomplished in feats of arms, and possessed the most brawn.

Alexander fixed his gaze on Hervi’s familiar figure, and wished that he had the same air of confident arrogance in the saddle. His bowels and belly were threatening mutiny and his limbs were weak with fear. He knew that he would never be able to control his shield and lance, that he was easy prey and he was going to die. Some men were muttering prayers, but they were of small comfort to Alexander, whose past experiences of prayer all had grim associations.

Bracing his spear, he listened to the grinding squeal of the rusty portcullis chains and watched the solid grid begin to rise from the stone floor. Hervi’s round-topped helm with its ventilated face guard turned. The mail mitten lifted in a salute to Alexander. The younger man saluted in return and gave his brother the wan parody of a grin. His own helm was of the old-fashioned variety with a nasal bar but no protection for the mouth and lower jaw. Nor did he possess any mail, but had to rely on a quilted gambeson, heavily padded with fleece. At least he would have the edge of speed over any man wearing mail.

Beside him, Arnaud de Cerizay gave him a nudge. ‘Stay close to me,’ he said, ‘and tackle no one better armed than yourself. If you think you are out of your depth, disengage.’

Alexander nodded sensibly, although for the moment there was no room for anything in his mind but blind terror. ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ he gulped out.

‘Of what?’ Arnaud demanded harshly. ‘It’s facing life that’s the hardship.’

The portcullis was higher now, almost passable. Alexander fumbled to collect the reins and shield in his left hand, and hold the lance in his right. Samson pranced and sidled, sweat creaming his hide. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he said huskily.

‘You won’t.’ Arnaud’s voice was hard, almost contemptuous. ‘It’s not that easy. If it was, do you think I would still be suffering?’ He gave Alexander an accusing glare. ‘Do you know why Hervi set me to protect you, boy?’

Numbly, Alexander shook his head.

‘Because he knows the task will make it impossible for me to go charging into the thick of the fray in search of my maker.’

Alexander was lost for a reply. An apology would seem incongruous. Sympathy and platitudes would only earn him further scorn. ‘I want to crawl under a stone,’ he muttered at last.

‘Too late for that, son. Brace yourself.’

The portcullis jaws widened above horse height and the soldiers surged beneath its fangs and out of the great gates. Samson strained at the bit, eager to gallop but held by Alexander to a rapid trot. The pace jarred his teeth, but he could not increase speed without barging the horse in front, nor slow down because of the ranks behind.

Then they hit the flat ground below the castle slope and Bertran’s voice bellowed out the challenge. ‘
Lavoux! Lavoux!
’

The hard trot rolled into a gallop, the momentum increasing. Stirrup to stirrup, the men of Lavoux rode down upon the camp of the besiegers, and discovered too late that it was twice the size they had believed, and well prepared.

Realising the jeopardy, Bertran gesticulated wildly. A horn sounded three frantic bursts, the signal to turn back, then was silenced as the hornsman was cut down. The Lavoux knights tried to retreat, but discovered themselves surrounded, the jaws of the trap well and truly sprung.

A foot soldier hurtled at Alexander, his spear raised, the wicked point gleaming. For a moment Alexander was frozen with terror, but even as the barbed head flashed towards him, he reined Samson to one side, then reined him back fast. The man bounced off the stallion’s shoulder and fell in the dust. A comrade darted forward to cover him, menacing Alexander with a battle axe.

Declining the challenge, Alexander whipped Samson around and spurred away. It was not a sound move, for he discovered that he had escaped the frying pan only to fall into the fire. Two knights now confronted him, their lances levelled, and there was nowhere to run and no sign of Arnaud. Time slowed down as Alexander faced the inevitable, and suddenly, miraculously, he was no longer afraid. Brought to the brink, he was forced to jump. The sick churning in his belly turned to fire and a sensation of cold rage flickered through his veins. If he was going to die, he would not do so alone. He brought his lance across, clasped his shield to his left side, and ducking his head, slammed his heels into Samson’s flanks.

At the last moment possible, he yanked on the reins and commanded with his thighs. The stallion swerved, and as they passed offside the leading knight, Alexander rose in the stirrups and struck overarm with the lance like a foot soldier.

The head pierced through the mail and gambeson to lodge in flesh. Although there was not enough force behind the blow to kill, it was nevertheless disabling. The knight cried out in pain and surprise, and lost his grip on his own weapon. Alexander twisted his lance, tore it free, and put his opponent’s horse between himself and the second knight.

They cursed him and he cursed back, his voice raw with fighting rage. And yet, through the frantic, furious clamour of his blood, he was perfectly rational. His mind was clear, he was able to think fast and react with whiplash speed. The two warriors backed off warily to consider how they should take him, one of them clutching at the bloody tear in his mail.

The uninjured man reached for the morning star flail looped around the pommel of his saddle. It was a deadly weapon, but it took skill to use. The backswing was capable of breaking the user’s arm, or wrapping around the back of his head if he was not careful, but in the hands of an expert the spiked ball could punch holes in a shield and smash an unarmoured man to pulp.

The knight began to rotate the flail. Alexander braced his spear, knowing that the only defence was to thrust it into the impetus of ball and chain and jam it to a stop, as he had once done to Eudo le Boucher. He kicked Samson and took the attack to his opponent. Caught off guard by Alexander’s assault, the knight launched a premature blow. Alexander changed tactics and rammed the point of his spear at the exposed right side. Samson plunged forward and the lance pierced through mail, through flesh and bone. The knight howled. His wounded companion tried to come to his aid, but was unable to lift his damaged sword arm. Alexander wrenched the lance away just as Arnaud arrived, breathless, cursing, his horse streaked with sweat and blood.

‘You young fool!’ he roared, beside himself. ‘Hervi might as well have saved his breath!’

More Rougon soldiers were coming to aid their wounded companions. Swords and spears menaced the sky. ‘
Le Roi Richard!
’ came the battle cry. ‘
Le Roi Richard!
’ and left of the field, ‘
Marshal! Marshal!
’

Alexander spun Samson around and scanned the mêlée for Hervi’s banner. If the men had been ordinary reinforcements, they would have used ‘
Rougon!
’ as their rallying cry. The ones they were using suggested that Coeur de Lion himself had arrived to direct operations.

Across the trampled encampment, Alexander caught sight of Lavoux’s banner fluttering from its pike, and surrounding it, a crowd of hacking fighting men. Then the lance wavered and the banner dipped from sight.

‘
Montroi!
’ Alexander roared, and clapped his heels to Samson’s flanks. This was personal now. ‘
Montroi!
’

Grimly Arnaud ploughed after him. Although he would welcome death for himself, the lad was acting from the depths of green inexperience and had to be stopped.

Alexander fought like a demon, forcing his way by pure frenzy towards the place where he had seen the banner fall. In its place, new colours had risen – three golden lions blazing upon a crimson silk background. Sweat stung his eyes with salt, his sword arm was as hot as molten lead. The only thought existing in his brain was to find Hervi and rescue him, nor did the futility of such an ambition occur to him. It was what he had to do, and therefore it had to be.

‘
Montroi!
’ he bellowed again, at the full pitch of his lungs. A knight riding a muscular grey destrier blocked his path. Alexander’s blow was parried easily on a parti-coloured green and yellow shield bearing the device of a snarling red lion. The surcoat was similarly emblazoned, and the raised fist was wrapped around the hilt of a magnificent war sword that made Alexander’s look as small as a toy.

‘
Marshal!
’ the knight retorted, his voice ringing almost joyously through his helm, and his returning blow made a huge split in Alexander’s shield and numbed his left arm all the way up to the armpit.

The grey stallion reared, forehooves striking. Samson plunged and kicked. Alexander rose in his stirrups to counterstrike, but the grey thrust against the black and Alexander lost first his balance, then his seat, and was thrown. He hit the ground with a jarring thud and the world turned to darkness.

‘No, my lord!’ he heard Arnaud shriek. ‘For God’s mercy do not strike, he is nought but a boy! I cry quarter. I yield!’

Shod hooves danced close to Alexander’s prone body; too close. His helmet was struck a ringing blow and a kick thudded against his shoulder. His hearing faded in and out. He was aware of curses, of sharp questions and an earnest voice raised in argument. Another kick caught him in the ribs and he curled up, jerking his knees defensively towards his chin. The darkness intensified and engulfed him. His last thought was how easy it was to die. No glory, just the choking dirt beneath his cheek and a plunging warhorse above his body.

C
HAPTER
10

The skeletons surrounded his bed, watching him from blank eye sockets. Brother Alkmund stood among them, his face cadaversharp, his fingers caressing a plaited scourge. Alexander closed his eyes, but he could still see his visitors through his lids, waiting for him to weaken.

‘You’re not real,’ he snarled defiantly. ‘You have no hold over me!’

Brother Alkmund smiled and caressed Alexander’s cheek with the scourge. It was a feather touch, soft and wet with the blood of its last victim. Alexander’s body jerked with revulsion. ‘Begone!’ he sobbed at the top of his lungs. His eyes flew open and were dazzled by the brilliance of sunlight slanting through the bower window on to the straw mattress on which he was lying.

Clutching a linen pad, Monday was recoiling from him. Overturned on the floor was a small brass bowl surrounded by a spreading puddle of water. Panting, he stared at her, then covered his face with his hand. Beneath his fingers his skin was moist, and a scent of lavender hung in the air. Hot pain throbbed through his shoulder and danced across his ribs. Glancing down at his naked chest, he saw the angry red marks of developing bruises on his body.

He was totally disoriented. A moment ago he had been in the crypt at Cranwell, about to join its other occupants in a state of living death. Now he appeared to be in the women’s quarters at Lavoux, lying on a mattress in the space usually occupied by the sewing trestle.

‘What am I doing here?’ he croaked.

‘You were knocked senseless in the battle. They allowed you to be brought here instead of throwing you in the cells with the others.’ She eyed him sidelong.

‘The battle?’ He stared at her numbly while the images began to fill his mind. The clash of weapons, the cries of men, the neighing of horses. A morning star whirling on its chain, a spear reaming flesh. Suddenly he felt sick.

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Christ, nothing that makes sense.’ His belly churned and hot prickles ran up and down his spine. Nothing made any sense. He had been on the ground, about to die beneath the hooves of a warhorse. It was impossible that he should be here now in the bower, with nothing worse than bad bruises. ‘You mean everyone else is in the cells?’

Monday righted the bowl and began to mop up the spilled water with the pad in her hand. ‘Duke Richard has confined all the garrison there until he decides what to do with them.’

Alexander shook his head in bafflement. ‘You go too fast for me. By Duke Richard, I know you mean Coeur de Lion; I saw his banner on the field. But I do not understand why I am still alive, nor why I should be here in the women’s quarters.’

Monday wrung out the cloth in the bowl, and wiping her hands on a dry square of linen, fetched a flagon. ‘I do not know. Papa carried you in here out of your senses. There was a knight from the Rougon force with him, but nothing much was said. I was just told to care for you.’ She poured out two measures of wine, the colour dark as blood, and handed him a cup. ‘And after that, Papa was taken away under guard.’

Alexander took a tentative sip, not knowing if the drink would settle or aggravate his reeling stomach. Other images of the battle were intruding on his consciousness now, crowding together at the side of his mind and jostling for their place in the main arena of his awareness. The roared battle cries came back to him, and suddenly he went rigid.

‘Hervi,’ he said with sudden urgency. ‘I saw the Lavoux banner go down. What has happened to my brother?’

Monday shook her head. ‘I haven’t moved from the bower since Lavoux surrendered to Duke Richard. Papa said nothing about Hervi before they took him away. Surely he would have done so if he had been wounded or … where are you going?’ She started towards Alexander as he put the cup aside and began easing from the bed.

‘I have to know about Hervi. Where’s my shirt?’ He swayed where he stood and had to plant his feet wide to balance himself.