At least, Richard hoped that his father still doted on him. It was that which held alive his hope for a secure future with a pardon.
‘Come!’ the duke shouted, and spurred his beast. He whirled the horse about, and cantered away before any of the men had the chance to follow. To Richard’s chagrin, he saw that Ivo la Zouche and his brother Ralph were already up and with the duke. And that was when it became confused.
There was a shout, carried on the blustery wind. Richard glanced in that direction, and saw that the priest was bellowing and pointing to the south. When he looked, Sir Richard saw a group of men on horses pounding up towards them. It was a sight to chill the marrow, and Richard quickly counted the men. Only the same number as the duke’s party, with eight all told, but Richard was not fool enough to believe that it was all. He scanned the landscape and saw another party, this time riding hell-for-leather for them. So at least double their number, he thought ruefully.
The priest clapped his heels to his mount and thundered away even as Richard did the same, and Richard’s mount reared, neighing with excitement. It was good to feel the thrill of battle about to commence, and Richard felt the now-familiar tingling in his spine and cods at the thought of an engagement. God alone knew who they were, but he would see to it that he took as many of them as possible before any man managed to kill him.
In front, there was a bellow, and he saw Sir Ivo drag his sword free from the scabbard, whirl it about his head, and charge. His brother was a moment or two behind him, and then he set off at the gallop as well, while the pasty-faced, smiling one, Crok, whipped out his own weapon, and suddenly shrieked like a banshee, clapped spurs to his mount and galloped as though all the demons of hell were after him, straight at the men.
Richard and the priest stayed nearer to the duke, watching. The duke twice tried to ride on too, but Richard had a firm grip on the duke’s reins. He would not allow his ticket to pardon and freedom risk his life.
The first impact was a clatter of metal, with the stern clash of steel blades. Noises assailed Richard’s ears. Horses neighing so highly in their excitement and rage that they sounded like women screaming. Crok’s beast reared and brought a hoof down on the head of another, and his victim was felled like a rabbit shot from a sling. The rider tried to kick himself free from the stirrups, but the beast’s collapse trapped his leg underneath, and the man could only stare in horror as Crok’s sword thrust down, twice, and there was a short spurt of blood from the man’s eye as he died.
Ivo was after the two leaders, and he crouched in his saddle, sword arm high, laughing and roaring like a drunken matelot, as he crashed into the two, his beast holding his head high, thundering into the first horse with the solid mass of horse and rider concentrated in his broad chest, slamming the other two into each other. There was a slashing blow from Ivo’s arm, and a great gout of blood flew into the air, drenching Ivo in an instant. The first rider fell, the second roared defiance, and hacked at Ivo, but his blade rang as it met Ivo’s, and then there was a sparkle as Ivo’s blade caught the sun, whirling in a semi-circle, and the other man’s head dropped forwards, held to his neck by the thinnest of slivers of flesh. Ivo’s sword had ripped through bone and flesh.
The second party was with them now, and Richard looked about for a safer position, but there was no time to escape. Instead, he drew his sword, and prepared himself. He just wished he had taken more interest in the weapons-handling instruction when he had been younger.
His companion was less uncertain. With a shriek, sounding for all the world like a demented woman, the duke lifted his own sword, and pointing it at the men approaching them, he suddenly jerked his reins from Richard’s hand, and was off, pounding towards the men alone.
Richard gritted his teeth and followed. At his side he saw the priest, Paul, his eyes wide in horror, clinging to his horse for dear life. He had no sword, not even a dagger that Richard could see, the fool. But he could no more turn away than fly. His horse was trained to fight, not run away, and it was charging with the others whether his rider wished it or no.
Then Richard’s focus became more concentrated. There was no time for others. They must see to their own safety. A great crash knocked his horse sideways, there was a hideous crack at his thigh, and he thought it might have broken; a horse had ridden into him. No sword near his head yet. He stabbed at the horse itself, and was rewarded with a thick spray of blood. It neighed defiance, and reared, but even as it did so, its eyes rolled, and it tumbled to the ground.
A second man, this time passing beside Richard, as though to attack the duke from behind. Richard clapped spurs, and as he lurched forward, his blade slid in under the man’s shoulder blade. There was a scream of hideous anguish, and the man fell, rolling over and over in his agony.
The third man was aiming at his head even as he glanced about. Instinct made him lift his sword to knock it aside, but lack of practice made his blade miss his mark and take the man’s wrist and hand off. The stump shot a jet of blood, and suddenly Richard was soaked in warm stickiness, and he would have pressed home his attack, but the man leaped from his horse and grabbed for his hand as though to try to replace it.
Richard left him. The duke was his concern, and just now the young man was being pressed by another man-at-arms. Richard rode on, and knocked the man aside, seeing the duke’s sword slice through the fellow’s throat as he fell.
And that was it. The battle was over. All the men who had sought to attack them were dead or fleeing. And none of the duke’s men were harmed, Richard saw. Ivo and his brother Ralph were trotting back, holding each other’s hands, and Richard felt nothing, only a vague disquiet, as he saw Ivo’s head fall to his breast, and then the man’s great body slowly topple from his horse, showing a great gash in his flank that pulsed as the blood oozed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bishop’s Clyst
When the stern-faced Keeper walked from the room, leaving the bishop sitting pale and stunned by Sir Baldwin’s summary, William nodded to John to stay with his uncle, and marched quickly after the knight.
‘Sir Baldwin, please. Sir Knight — a moment?’
‘Yes, squire?’
William jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bishop’s chamber. ‘You meant what you said in there?’
‘I would not have said it else.’
‘I didn’t mean to insult you, Sir Baldwin. Please, do not grow angry with me. I only seek to protect my uncle.’
‘You are fond of him?’
William smiled, and joined Baldwin, the two walking side-by-side out into the sunshine of the bishop’s garden, then beyond to the small orchard. ‘I love him greatly. He has been enormously kind to me. When I was young, it was Bishop Walter who looked after me and saw to my education. Later, when I was confused, and thought that I might seek a career in the Church like him, it was he who sat down with me and questioned my interests, my motives, and persuaded me to look hard, deep into my heart. And I found that there, although it was harder to admit it to myself when I was young, I preferred the companionship of a woman than that of many sex-starved and desperate men! I would never have made a good churchman. He was quite right. But the bishop has given me help all through my life, he has given me money, and his example has shown me the best routes to take always.’
‘You speak as a man who has much to thank his uncle for.’
‘I think you too have had cause to appreciate his kindness and generosity?’
The knight threw him a sharp look, which the squire found hard to fathom. It was as though Sir Baldwin was torn between anxiety and a swift anger. ‘Why? What has he said to you?’