“You’re sure?”
“Naught’s sure but death, but it should be so. They can’t go the other way, without getting into the rapids where the streams come together. Handy of the Brightwater folk to build their town on this side of the river. If things go well for us, I’ll want our reserves right down there by the bridge when they retreat that way.”
In the event, it happened as Gird had planned. His two cohorts made it to the edge of the fields just south of the town unobserved; the traders who might have seen him were in the market square, complaining bitterly about the tax being exacted. The soldiers stood around the market square, menacing the traders. The few traders’ servants took one look at Gird’s ragged but determined army and dove under the wagons, too scared to give an alarm. By the time they reached the town’s inadequate wall, with its gates standing wide for the fair, a few soldiers did see the peasants coming, and tried to sound an alarm, but in the confusion of a fair that alarm went unanswered until Gird and his men were well inside the town.
It was less a battle than a bloody slaughter, as his first cohort took a section of guardsmen in the rear. They had been stationed around the market, to keep merchants in until the tax had been collected; they could not turn and combine fast enough to defend themselves. Many of the people in the market had their own grievances, and joined in the fight with savage glee. Gird saw one woman lobbing cheeses at a line of soldiers just before they fell; a shepherd yanked back one man’s head in time for a yeoman’s knife to slice his throat. Gird’s battle plan dissolved as everyone entered into the fray on one side or the other. When the tax officer fell, a swarm of peasants and merchants tore at the sacks holding the fees, and dove after the shower of coins that spilled out.
On the other side of the market, the soldiers had chance to regroup and settle themselves to fight. Their trumpets blared signals; they locked shields and started forward. Gird managed to get his cohorts back together, not without difficulty, and forced a way through the surging crowd, even as the crowd fell away from the soldiers’ swords.
The two groups met in the market square; Gird’s had the advantage of numbers, and forced the soldiers back into one of the narrow lanes opening onto the square. At this point, the citizenry re-entered the fray by throwing things out of windows—mostly at the soldiers, but some of the missiles landed on Gird’s group. When a ripe plum splattered on his head and dripped sweet sticky juice down his face, Gird was instantly reminded of that first row in his own village. He kept his cohorts moving, and the soldiers, increasingly unsure, retreated faster.
The town gates on the east opened onto a narrow strip of land between the walls and the river; as with most towns, the bridge was not in the town proper. Here the soldiers tried to rally, but they had no real hope against Gird’s larger number and longer weapons. They backed raggedly south, along the town walls, toward the fields where the traders had camped, and the bridge that would let them across the river to a road leading safely north. But Gird’s reserves were just where he had expected, and the soldiers were caught between.
Gird was just ordering the bodies stripped of weapons, when a stream of bellowing men ran out of Brightwater’s east gates. His cohorts reformed instantly. The men slowed, and a small group approached cautiously.
“Who’s in command?” asked a tall, heavyset man in a trader’s gown. He was used to command himself, by his voice. Gird stepped forward.
“I am Gird.”
The man’s worried expression eased. “Gird—I’ve heard of you. You have to do something! They’re rioting in there; they’ve killed the council, and they’re looting in the market—”
Gird shrugged. “What did you expect? I daresay they’re hungry.”
“But you—but I heard you were different—that you had studied law or something of that sort, that you had some notion of order.”
Gird gave him a long, level look. “Are you asking me to bring order to the city?” He heard a stirring in the ranks behind him, but ignored it.
The man’s eyes shifted, and he turned to glance at the other equally worried men behind him. Gird noted that they all looked prosperous; their clothes had no patches and their faces had good flesh.
“Well, I—I can’t. I don’t know anyone else—they said you could control the peasants.”
“Is that what you want?” asked Gird of the others. A few nodded; the rest looked confused. Gird felt a sudden surge of excitement. Was this the start of the new society he had dreamed of? A chance to set one town on the right path? It was a chance, whether or not it was the right one. He nodded, abruptly, and saw on their faces that they were more glad than frightened. He hoped his cohorts would agree. He turned to them, scanning their faces quickly. Some looked as confused as the traders; some looked eager, and a few angry or unwilling. Those he called out, and sent as scouts to patrol the roads.
“We’ve been asked to help Brightwater regain its order,” he said. One of the merchants mumbled something; Gird ignored it. “I want no looting, no idle mischief: you know what I mean. These are our people, same as farmers; we need them and they need us. We’ll let them see if they like our rule, if they think it’s fair.”
He took in only one cohort, replacing wounded with sound yeomen from the others, and marched them in as if for drill practice. The crowd in the market dispersed, to stand flattened against the walls. He could hear some dispute at a distance, angry voices and clangs and clatters; that would have to be dealt with, whatever it was, but for the moment he had to control the center of town.
It looked far worse than the count’s courtyard: dead bodies, some that stirred, broken pottery and foodstuffs scattered and trampled, market stalls torn down, broken, their awnings ripped and flapping in the breeze. Once he had his troops in the market square, it occurred to him that he had never explained how to organize a city. He wasn’t sure himself.
The traders and merchants who had come after him now sidled up, looking even more alarmed. “You have to say something!” hissed the leader. Gird nodded, but let his silent gaze pass across the square, catching the eyes of those who watched, noting their expressions. Then he nodded, sharply, and raised his hand for silence.
They stared back at him, much like the first men he had met in the wood. Perhaps the same common-sense would work with them.
“You’ve heard of me,” he began, not sure they had. “I’m Gird; we’re peasants seeking a better way to live. We fight the lords who tax and tax—” A ragged, halfhearted cheer interrupted him; he held up his hand again and it ended. “You’ve seen peasants fight before, out of desperation, but we are not desperate. We know a better way, a fairer way, and we want to see that for everyone. These men—” he pointed at the traders, “—came out and asked me to bring order to Brightwater. I would rather bring justice—is that what you want?”
A sulky-looking man slouched against a wall yelled out, “What matters what we want? You got the weapons; you’ll do what you want.”
Gird shook his head. “No: if Brightwater prefers chaos to order, you may have it. Do you?”
“Me? I want my rights, that’s what I want.”
“That’s what we want for all.” Other heads nodded. Gird noticed unfriendly looks aimed at the sulky man. He raised his voice to carry beyond the square and said, “Where is Jens, the harnessmaker’s assistant?”
“Here!” Gird had never met Jens, yeoman-marshal of the Brightwater barton, but he liked the compact young man with bright blue eyes under a mop of chestnut hair. Jens had his entire barton together, and they were standing in what could pass for a double row.
Gird turned back to the others. “This is the yeoman-marshal of Brightwater barton. He will help me restore order, and bring justice to your town. He knows you, and you know him; what he says is said in my name.” He looked at Jens. “Do you know what fighting is still going on? Are there more lords’ men here?”