Over the crest of the hill we charged, and down the slope into a wide grove of olive trees filled with the sleeping enemy. The field was a mass of dark tents and dotted campfires, horses that were tethered to the gnarled stunted trees, and dark, blanket-wrapped forms, which leapt to their feet as the first wave of cavalry swept into the camp. The first line thundered into the tents, trumpets squealing, men roaring their challenges, trampling the sleeping forms within and snapping guy ropes with their horses’ legs. Any man who was upright was quickly speared by a passing knight, the lance abandoned in the body as the horseman rode by, pulling out his long sword to strike at the next man-shaped shadow in the gloom. Our second line came after them, screaming our war cries and bringing our swords to bear on the bewildered enemy.
The whole camp was convulsed in panic as fifty steel-wrapped killers were set loose, to rip and slice into the half-awake, half-dressed Cypriots; their cries of terror drowning out our shouts of victory as we slashed and hacked at running shapes in the darkness. We hunted them through the sagging, drunken tents, riding level to a running shape and cutting back and down with the sword before spurring on to seek fresh victims. I was glad that I could not see clearly the results of our handiwork as we cantered between the trees, slicing into white faces with no discrimination at all. I am certain, and I pray that God will forgive me for this grave sin, that at least one or two of my victims were women, but I did not stop to count the cost to the enemy, for in the centre of the camp was a ring of torches and in the flickering firelight I could make out a large, stripped tent in gaudy green and yellow, and next to that, flaccid in the still air, guarded by two mounted knights, splashed by torchlight, was the golden standard of the Emperor himself.
I put my heels into Ghost and headed for the light. And I was not the only one; there were riders to my left and right, some very familiar, others less so, but we all had the same aim, to converge on the Emperor, and seize him before the whole camp was roused, and mounted, and fully armed — at which point thousands of swords would come to seek our lives.
A dark shape came blundering out of the darkness to my left and I smashed into its head with my mace. Another came straight at me, and I changed Ghost’s line slightly with my knees and speared him through the body with my sword. The blade stuck in his ribs and I almost lost my blade; it was only with a wrench that hurt my wrist that I got the blade free of his body before Ghost was past him.
As I approached the Imperial tent, I saw that a fierce fight had broken out around the torch-lit circle; I saw the King cut down one Greek knight with his sword, while fending off another at the same time; Robin was beside him, and Sir James de Brus, each duelling with mounted men; one of the standard bearers was punched from his saddle by a well aimed lance, driven deep by a knight I did not know and the other man, who was carrying that golden flag, reined in, turned his horse and made a break for the darkness.
I screamed ‘Westbury!’ and levelled my bloody sword, drumming my heels in to Ghost’s flanks, and the man half-turned saw me and kicked his own horse onwards. But another of Richard’s knights was there in the darkness before him; I saw no more than a flash of scarlet and blue from the surcoat of the other knight, but the standard bearer turned again, away from this new enemy, and galloped back straight at me. He lifted his sword when our horses were nose to nose, and made a great cut at my left shoulder; but I blocked with the steel shaft of the mace and at almost the same time my spearing sword took him straight in the eye.
There was a crack like a snapping twig, and a lightning strike of pain, and my sword was gone, and my right hand was canted at an awful angle. But when I turned to look at my flag-bearing opponent, I saw that he was flopping, stone dead, but still in his saddle, the sword embedded in his skull, as the animal slowed to a trot and then a walk. Wheeling round, tucking my mace into my belt and hugging my broken wrist to my chest, I came up to the dead knight’s horse and leaning over plucked the golden standard from its holder on his saddle with my left hand. I threw back my head and screamed, half in triumph and half from the pain that was shooting up my right hand with sickening intensity.
I raised the golden standard high in the sky with my left hand, and screamed again. I was alone on the battlefield, victorious, with the enemy standard, the repository of his honour in my hand; all the Griffons seemed to have fled or found hiding places in the darkness. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly saw movement. A horse was walking towards me, picking its way through the bodies, and on its back, in a blood-smeared scarlet and sky blue surcoat, was Sir Richard Malbete.
He stopped a dozen paces from me, and cocked his head on one side. We were completely alone in the dark camp, and all that could be heard were a few muffled shouts and screams away in the darkness. ‘Lost your sword, I see, singing boy,’ said Sir Richard. And he laughed, a low bubbling sound of sheer malice. ‘I think you’d better hand over that pretty little flag to me then.’
For some strange reason, I thought of Reuben, and the foreign words he had spoken in the battle at York.
‘Come and get it, you bastard,’ I said, gritting my teeth against the pain in my wrist. But Sir Richard, it appeared, was not even listening to me — he was leaning over and fiddling with something on the far side of his horse, seemingly hauling on something, a rope or leather strap, I supposed. Then he straightened up and smirked at me, ‘I shall,’ he said. And with a great lurch of my stomach, I saw that he was holding a cocked and loaded crossbow in his two hands, and pointing the weapon straight at my body.
He shot, the bolt blurred, and a blow like the kick from a horse smacked into my right side. I was knocked sideways out of the saddle by the force of the quarrel and I was only dimly aware of my shoulders hitting the hard ground before I slipped into a deep darkness.
Part Three: Outremer
Chapter Fourteen
Dickon’s wife Sarah came to see me last night. Her swineherd husband faces the manor court of Westbury tomorrow, if I choose to bring charges against him. If I wished I could even send him to a King’s court for the felony of theft. He would receive a grim penalty if found guilty by the King’s travelling judges; and his guilt would be easily demonstrated. Half a dozen witnesses have heard him boasting that he stole my piglets, witnesses who are my tenants, men whose families I could throw out into the street if I were displeased with them.
Sarah was shown into my hall by Marie, while I was sitting alone by the fire, long past dusk, with a mug of warmed ale in my hand. It was very nearly my bedtime but I threw off my tiredness when I saw her. The tears were streaming down her old face, and she threw herself on the rush-strewn floor in front of me, startling one of my deerhounds from its slumber. The dog gave her a mournful look and then trotted away to find a more peaceful place to sleep.
Her boots were crusted with snow, and her shawl was white-dusted too, and I wondered whether we were in for a very hard winter as I waited for her to speak. I called for the hall servants to throw another log on the fire, to bring a stool for Sarah to sit upon, and to bring another mug of ale.
Marie showed that she was angry at these small courtesies by banging dishes down hard on the long table as she cleared away the remains of supper. But I ignored her and said: ‘Get up from the floor, Sarah, and sit. Tell me what it is you want — why do you disturb my peace on this cold night?’
‘Oh sir, it’s my old fool Dickon. He is drunk again on Widow Wilkins’ strong mead, and cursing you something horrible, and he is