Alys Clare - Whiter than the Lily

He knew where the guard had taken Horace and, skirting the boundary of the settlement, steadily he edged his way around to the rail where the horse was tethered. He did not believe that his run of luck would extend to permitting him to get the girl on to Horace’s back, mount up and ride away, which was just as well as it didn’t. He had got as far as freeing Horace’s reins from the hitching rail and flinging the girl across the horse’s back when the guard leapt out at him.

There was not much time for consideration. Josse believed that both his own and the girl’s life were in danger — there had been an ominous ring to until we reach agreement on her fate — and Josse drew back his right arm and punched the guard in the face without pausing to think about the predictable results of a large, strong man hitting someone much younger and slighter as hard as he could. There was a sharp click of breaking bone, a brief gasp from the guard as he fell, and then nothing.

Josse leapt up behind the girl, put spurs to Horace and they flew out of the settlement and away across the marsh.

He had not taken the poor visibility into consideration. At a walk, it would have been possible to look ahead and make out enough detail of the ground to move on safely. But Horace was cantering, breaking into a gallop, and very quickly both the horse and his rider realised that this was sheer folly; they could have hit disaster before they had the time to register that it was there.

Reluctantly they slowed to a walk.

Josse thought he heard something. Another horse. No, horses — more than one animal, and voices calling out.

Was it Brice and Isabella? Or was it Aelle’s hunting party making their way home?

Out of nowhere came a brief flurry of wind. The mist tore apart briefly and Josse saw that it was both. Brice was riding towards him from the escarpment, which was over on his right and behind him; Isabella sat on her horse a short distance up the track leading to the cliff top.

Ahead of Josse, riding in hard from the left, came Aelle. He had drawn his sword and he was whooping like an animal. Behind him rode five other men, their fair hair streaming as they galloped over the marshy ground.

Josse did not hesitate. Rough ground was the lesser threat now and, in any case, the rent in the mist was still there and, for the time being anyway, he could see. Heels digging into Horace’s sides, he urged the horse round to the right and, trying to steady the girl’s motionless body with his left hand, rode as fast as he could for the track up the cliff.

Brice galloped to meet him, wheeling around in a circle and coming in to ride close to Josse’s left side. Josse spared a moment to be thankful that Brice knew better than to take up his position on Josse’s right flank, since this was his armed side. Neck and neck, they flew towards the inland cliff.

Josse spared a glance behind them. Aelle had outrun his men and was gaining on Josse and Brice. Dear God, but he moved fast! His teeth were bared and he looked as if he were half out of his mind.

Josse reached the track a bare nose ahead and Brice reined in to let him set off up it first. He urged Horace into the shade of the trees and up the dark tunnel that their branches formed over the path, hearing the sounds of Brice starting out on the ascent behind him. Horace plunged valiantly up the track, moving quickly until he reached the very steep section right at the top, where he checked, then went on at a slower and more careful pace. Now Josse could see Isabella, who had gone on ahead up the path and was waiting for them on the road above. Her hawk was on her wrist.

Turning hastily, Josse had time to register that Brice was just riding out from the concealing trees when a stumble from Horace drew his attention back to more crucial matters. Steadying the horse, he leaned his weight forward across the inert girl, encouraged Horace on and very soon they were safe on the road.

He was saying something to Isabella — he could not later recall what it was — when he saw her face change. A look of horrified recognition twisted her features and with a quick, decisive gesture she flung her fist in the air and her hawk took off in swift, graceful flight. The bird gained height and then, falling like a dead weight from the summer sky, dived down on Brice.

Watching helplessly, Josse called out a warning …

But it was not Brice who rode after them up the track. It was Aelle.

He was on the steepest part of the slope now. The hawk shot down straight at his face, her talons outstretched for the kill, and there was a sudden flash of scarlet as she opened up deep cuts through his eyes and down his cheeks. Then she flew up again and fell on the horse, and a sudden shrill whinny of pain and terror made a discord with Aelle’s screaming.

Aelle’s horse reared and then shied so that its forefeet came down slewed over at an angle and missed the track. In alarm it tried to find firm ground but, panicking now, it failed. Overbalancing, it fell off the path and dropped down over the almost sheer cliff. Aelle, blood pouring down his face and frantically trying to get his feet out of the stirrups, did not release himself in time. The horse fell on its side straight on to the rock-strewn ground at the foot of the cliff with its master beneath it.

Aelle was dead. He had to be; no man could survive when his head had been burst open and the white and red matter of his brains was already mingling on the short grass.

Now Brice came thundering up the track, eyes only for Isabella. She sat on her horse, the hawk once more on the heavy gauntlet. Meeting Brice’s anxious look, she nodded and said, ‘I am unhurt. So, I believe, is Josse, and he has the girl with him. But what of you?’

‘Aelle outmanoeuvred me at the foot of the track,’ Brice said grimly. There was a vivid mark on the side of his head that would soon turn into a spectacular bruise. ‘I could not stop him — he was possessed.’

Brice nudged his horse with his knees and the animal stepped off the track and on to the level ground of the road. Josse, still feeling the shock, said, ‘What of his men?’

‘The mist has closed in again,’ Brice said shortly. His eyes had followed the direction in which Isabella was staring and he, too, took in the sight of the chieftain’s dead body. Then he looked from that grisly spectacle to Isabella, and Josse did too.

To his amazement, she was smiling. ‘It was necessary,’ she said. ‘I will explain, but not now.’ Then, her smile widening as if at some secret joy that was spreading like sun’s warmth through her whole body, she cried, ‘Oh, Brice, my dearest love, at long last all shall now be well!’

Then, without another word, she put her heels to her mare and led the way off along the road into the west. She did not stop — and neither did Josse, burdened with the unconscious girl, nor Brice — until they reached Rotherbridge.

At Rotherbridge, Josse, Brice and Isabella hardly spoke as they saw to the horses and then went inside. The girl seemed to be recovering a little. She had been muttering during the ride from Saltwych and Josse had moved her so that, for the latter stages of the journey, she had sat astride in front of him, leaning back against him. He hoped that perhaps the fresh air, and being outside in the beautiful day after her long confinement in the hut, had helped her. She had suffered bouts of shivering, and Josse had contrived to fasten the old blanket more securely around her.

Inside Brice’s hall, it was cool and shady. Brice headed straight for the door to the kitchens and hollered for wine and, as soon as it was brought, poured out deep mugs of it for himself and for Josse. Isabella had declined; she insisted on first attending to the girl and so, helped by Josse, the two of them took her through into a smaller room that led off the hall. Brice was sent to fetch warm water, washing cloths and towels; Josse was commanded to collect Isabella’s saddlebag, in which she said she had spare clothes. The sacking garment and the blanket, Isabella said firmly, she would throw out to be burned.