Stifling a curse, Simon let his head fall into his hands and tried to gather his thoughts, but when he spoke his voice was strong and determined. “Did he say where the attack was?”
“Yes, I understand it was close to Ashbury, to the west of Oakhampton.”
“And the attack was similar?” Simon looked up and stared at the monk intently. “Does that mean hostages were taken, or that there have been more killings? More burnings?”
The monk gazed back for a moment, then, as if his eyes had been held by a cord that suddenly snapped, he looked away, and his voice was low and troubled. “The messenger said that the men had been killed – some of them burned in their wagons. Some women have been taken, too.”
“Did he say how many people were responsible?”
“No, I am sorry, bailiff. That is all I know, except that the constable asked that you raise a posse as quickly as possible.”
Simon led Margaret and Hugh through to collect their horses while Baldwin bellowed orders behind them and fetched two of his own men to send with them, then followed them into the sunlight with the monk at his side.
“Will two be enough?” the knight asked, “I can see if I can get more for you if you need, Simon.”
“No, two will be fine. Could you send a man to Black’s farm for me? It would save me sending one of my own.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Tell Black about the trail bastons and ask him to raise a new posse and meet me at Copplestone in four hours. We will ride for Oakhampton as soon as possible.”
Mounting his horse, Simon was struck by a sudden thought, and coaxed his horse to walk over to where Matthew stood by the door. The monk seemed to wear an expression of sadness, a look of weary misery, as if he had seen this kind of event too often in his long life and wondered how many more times he would have to witness the departure of the hue and cry in pursuit of outlaws. Speaking low and quietly, so that Margaret would not hear, Simon said, “Matthew, do you know why Tanner, the constable, wanted me to come so quickly? If the attack was over west of Oakhampton, surely the people of the town can cope?”
“Yes, bailiff,” said the monk, and his face when he looked up at Simon was troubled, “but he fears that the outlaws are moving towards Crediton. He thinks whoever is responsible may be coming this way.”
It was incredible what a difference a horse and money could make, Rodney thought as he left the inn. Over the space of only a few days he had gone from being without money and on a dying horse, to having to make his way on foot with no horse, to now being in a position where he could afford a bed, food, and stabling. His new mare seemed happy and fully recovered from whatever had so terrified her, he had eaten well and slept better, and he only had a few days’ travel ahead of him before he could stay with his brother. Life really did seem a great deal better.
Once more on his horse, he slowly rode out of the little village of Inwardleigh and turned his horse’s head to the west. The day was bright and clear, the wind had died to a gentle breeze, and even the mare seemed to feel the excitement and joy of their renewed life. It was almost as if there was an empathy between them, as if she could feel his happiness, or perhaps it was because she had suffered too, and she could now feel the same release that safety and comfort had given him.
The road led them up a steep incline at first, taking them up to a plateau which was almost devoid of trees. The sun behind cast their shadow, a joint black streamer before them.
Gradually, he felt his eyes beginning to get heavy as he rode. The lurching of his mount began to cast its narcotic effect, and he felt his eyelids became heavy as he looked ahead at the road dwindling into the distance. It was no good trying to concentrate, his only thoughts were of the comfort of a full belly, his only feelings of the pleasant warmth of the sun at his back and how the lumbering of his beast seemed so soporific.
Every now and again the mare would jolt and cause his eyes to snap open and his head to rise erect with the sudden shock, but then the casual rolling movement would take over again and he would feel his head nodding and falling until his chin was on his chest and his eyes closed, the calming rhythm soothing him with its hypnotic balm.
It had been like this, he recalled, on the ride up to Bannockburn. They had all been tired after their long journeys, all riding half asleep for days, with little to think of or worry about, just the continual rolling movement of the horse underneath as they all planned what to do after the battle that they were about to win. After all, what could the Scots do? They were hardly in any position to harm the massed forces of England, the soldiers that had won over Wales, that had warred against the French, that had beaten the Scots before so conclusively. What could they do? But win they had.
The army of King Edward was exhausted when it arrived on the road from Falkirk to Stirling. Almost twenty thousand strong, it outnumbered the Scots by two to one, and when their enemy began advance towards them, Rodney could remember his lord’s master, the Earl of Gloucester, arriving and calling them forward: “On, men! On!”
A smile rose to his lips at the memory. Ah, but how they had ridden! It was like the sea rushing on, like a landslide, a glorious, inexorable torrent of humanity and horseflesh, pounding the ground to a mire in the magnificent rush to meet the enemy.
But the smile faded and died, even as his friends and the earl had died on the field.
The Scots were ready for them. The charge with the huge war horses foundered on their spears. They hid behind a vast number of holes dug to trip the horses, safe inside the oblong enclosures they had made by surrounding themselves with their shields. There was nothing they could do to get to the jeering northerners, and at last they had to fall back before a charge by the Scottish cavalry.
Even then they might have been able to survive if the cry had not gone up. Someone saw men running towards the Scottish lines and thought they must be reinforcements. The retreat became a rout, the knights and squires trying to escape as quickly as they could, before the Scots could get to them, and that was why they had been caught in the marsh by the Bannock. As they struggled in the thick mud and waters of the river, the Scottish archers had soon realised their opportunity.
Trapped by the ground, there was little the cavalry could do. They tried to escape, watching with horror as their friends fell, trying to see a way clear to avoid the certain death that followed behind, desperately attempting to make their horses clear the misery of the death that threatened, but few succeeded.
Rodney was one of the few. Together with his lord, he had managed to make his way to the other bank of the river, where they had turned to stare at the other side. It was a scene from Hell, with the Scottish foot soldiers darting in and out among the cavalry, stabbing at the horses’ bellies to make them rear and lose their riders, hacking and thrusting at the bodies on the ground, grouping around any knight who tried to make a stand and pushing him over with their long weapons, then running up to give the coup de grace when he was on the ground and defenceless.
Rodney had returned to the camp quiet and shocked. So few had survived, so few had managed to get away from that mob.
It was still all so clear, even the red of the blood in the stream as the Scots threw in the decapitated body of Alfred, his young squire, and the way that it slowly wandered down between the banks letting the carmine stain spread. The cries and the laughter, the way that the bloody knives rose and fell, dripping with the blood, the lives, of the men killed.
“Good morning, sir. And where are you going?”
His head snapped up and to his horror he realised that he had ridden straight into the middle of these people without even seeing them. Had he been sleeping? At the least, his eyes must have been shut.