Warlord(53)

The knight had released the shaft of his spear, now wedged deep in my poor mount’s entrails, the shaft drooping and tangling with Ghost’s hind legs, and the next thing I knew I was sailing high in the air, over Ghost’s neck and head, and landing with a crash on my back in the ashy dust of the road.

Stunned, winded, but with, as far as I could tell, nothing broken, I lifted my head and saw that Hanno had halted his headlong flight and turned to protect me, God love him. He was engaging the leading blue cross knight with axe and sword. There was a flurry of blows, a hack, a crunch, and the knight slumped, boneless, lolling in his saddle. Hanno turned again and was shouting something at me, but in my fuddled state I could not comprehend him. He leaned down in the saddle and reached out a hand to me, urging me to rise and mount up behind him. His mouth was moving; I could see his awful teeth and the lips curling to form sounds, and yet I could make nothing of his speech. I got to my knees and reached out an arm towards him and suddenly his horse lurched a step forward, struck by a massive blow, and I saw Hanno look behind him. There were knights all around, tall shadows in the sunlight, and horses too; kicked dust swirled in the air and the shouts of angry men flew above me – and Hanno was slipping off his horse as it collapsed under him, lanced in the belly like my poor Ghost; then he was beside me, lifting me, helping me to my feet, his face concerned. A knight on horseback loomed over us, I saw the glitter of his sword raised to strike, and Hanno was pushing me on my stumbling feet under the horse’s neck. The sword whistled down inches from my shoulder – and with a sudden rush my senses came back to me fully.

‘Into the trees, into the trees,’ I found myself shouting. I had lost my shield, as had Hanno, and we sprinted unencumbered the few yards into the thick woodland on the eastern side of the road – closely followed by a dozen or so eager horsemen. By God’s good grace, the woodland was ancient, thickly tangled with underbrush and low branches that much impeded the horsemen. We drew our swords and, by a combination of scurrying, ducking and slashing at the legs of the knights, Hanno and I somehow managed to dodge the questing lances of our enemies and squirm into the gloom of the forest. We survived to find ourselves fifty yards from the road, back to back, blades in our hands, panting and partially sheltered in a sort of dell formed by two huge fallen oak trees that formed the sign of the cross on the forest floor. The fallen trees guarded our rear, but the horsemen surrounded us. They could not easily approach through the thick trees, scrubby thorns and bushes; but neither could we escape. There were perhaps a dozen of them by now on all sides around our pathetic wooden half-fortification, and they walked their horses closer all the time; and then things took a turn for the worse – they began to dismount. Hanno and I were dead men. On foot, these knights could close with us and then their numbers would tell and we would be finished in a few moments. The knights approached silently, their faces under their conical helmets grim and bearded – eyes showing no sign of mercy.

I stepped forward, away from the rudimentary cover of the oak-tree cross, and said in French in a loud carrying voice: ‘My name is Sir Alan Dale, a knight of Westbury in the English county of Nottinghamshire. You have killed our horses and we are at your mercy: under the laws of chivalry, I offer my surrender to you for ransom, on condition that you spare my life and also the life of my man-at-arms, here.’

The leading knight, a handsome man with a bushy blond beard, who was by now no more than half a dozen paces from me, paused and looked directly at me. I saw a brief glimmer of compassion in his eyes. Then he spoke: ‘Alas, Sir Alan, there can be no surrender for you today.’

I was puzzled: ‘Why not, sir?’ I asked. ‘I have told you who I am and I have offered to yield to you – will you not accept my surrender?’

The knight merely shook his head and repeated a little sadly: ‘There can be no surrender for you.’ Then he rushed forward, in three long-legged strides, lifting his sword two-handed and swinging it in a great downward blow at my head. I swept my own sword up and around in a circle to the right, my blade deflecting his blow; at the same time I stepped in close and punched my misericorde hard into his side, through his white surcoat and mail, and deep into his liver. He fell at my feet, shocked, dying, white surcoat reddening quickly, bearded mouth working silently.



Then the remaining knights of the blue cross all charged forward together, and Hanno and I found ourselves battling half a dozen knights apiece in a murderous blizzard of blades and blows, shouts and curses. A sword hacked at my face and I ducked just in time. A lance speared at my chest and I somehow managed to deflect it with my misericorde. One of the knights clambered up on to the dead trunk of the oak tree behind my shoulder. We were dead men. And then I heard a sound that made my heart bound with joy.