Michael Jecks - No Law in the Land

‘Oh,’ Sir Richard said to himself, and then yelled, ‘Ya hoi!’ and clapped spurs to his weary beast’s flanks.

The gates were still shut and barred as they rode, but then Simon saw a chink between them. He scarcely dared hope that they were actually opening, and for a moment tried to convince himself that all he had seen was the gleam of light through a natural gap in the wood, but then the little flash of light broadened, and he saw the gates open wide. A trio of horses appeared, led by a stable boy, then four more, two rearing wildly, while an older lad tried to calm them. After them came more, all driven mad by the nearness of the fire, all desperate to get as far from there as possible.

Baldwin looked about him, over either shoulder, and then smiled with a gleam of his teeth as he whipped his mount on at the gallop, in through the smoke and sparks, under the gates and into the yard.

Sir Robert coughed, a hand held up to protect his eyes as smoke gushed through the doors of the stables and blew at him, a foul, reeking gust of the devil’s own wind. It felt as though his face’s flesh was being seared away, and he could hear his own hair brittlely smouldering. He must close his eyes against the bright glare. All about him the men were carrying buckets filled with water, hurling their contents at the fires and retreating.

At least it would be safer with the horses out of here. Already three men had been injured trying to release the terrified beasts. Old Hamo wouldn’t get up again. A flailing hoof from a terrified palfrey had sheared away the whole of the side of his head, exposing the brain. Two others nursed dangerous injuries, one a badly broken arm, the other a crushed hand. All in all, this was a hideously expensive disaster. ‘What the shite is happening here?’ he muttered, staring about him. There was a clattering of hooves, and he saw that the last of the horses was being taken out at the run by a little tow-haired youth. The lad was one of the guards’ sons, he remembered. That was good — at least all the mounts would be safe then. The boys were taking them away from the castle to calm them down.

He had turned back to the fire, but as he did so he heard a rough bellow from the house. Shooting a look at the hall, he saw Osbert in the doorway, grinning with pleasure. In his fist he held Wattere by his jacket, which was thickly clotted with blood.

‘Thought you’d like this piece of turd, Sir Robert. He was up there trying to get his fists on the wench.’

Wattere could not answer. He was close to collapse, and the agony that was his shoulder was enough to make him want to vomit. He could only stagger as Osbert hauled him out, and then he was suddenly thrust forward, and his legs could not carry him. His right folded under him, and he fell stiffly, his torso twisting to keep his ruined shoulder from the ground, but the jolt of falling was enough to make him scream shrilly with anguish. It was like a dozen swords slashing at him simultaneously. The sort of hideous torment that a soul in hell would expect. He could feel the hot, bubbling vomit hit the back of his throat, and then he puked a fine, thin acid.

‘Trying it on, were you, Wattere? Despenser will be disappointed,’ Sir Robert said. He rested his booted foot on Wattere’s shoulder. ‘Let me see. We have a fire, and in the middle of it,’ he pressed down hard, ‘you rush to the maid.’ He listened as the scream faded, bubbling. ‘If I was less than intelligent, I might think that there was no coincidence. Do you think I should?’

‘It was not to rape her …’

‘Hmm? You wanted to say something?’

‘I didn’t bring her here to see her raped by your son. That little prickle was going to force himself on her and-’

‘And it’s none of your business. But what is my business is that you committed arson on my stables. And even now, all I can hear in the yard is the block burning.’

‘Don’t let your son-’

‘You still talking, then?’ Sir Robert said. He kicked once, hard, and then again. ‘I don’t like arsonists, Wattere. You know what? I think they ought to be shown why what they do is so dangerous. So I’m going to let you find out. Osbert, show him to the fire.’

Osbert looked at Wattere, then over at the fire. He snapped an order at one of the other men, and picked up Wattere by his bad shoulder. The two men hefted him between them as Wattere shrieked with the pain, and then began to walk him to the burning building.

Nymet Traci

His feet dragged, and the pain in his shoulder was a continuing stream of fire that scorched his soul as Osbert pulled him on. Wattere had to open his mouth to scream in a constant, hoarse howl of anger, horror and mind-destroying terror. He set his feet to stop the onward progress, but that meant that the hand at his bad shoulder started to tear his muscles, and he could feel the grating of the sheared bones scraping against each other. This time the pain was so exquisite and intense, he could not make a sound. His mouth drooped wide, but nothing came. He was aware only of the sensation of floating a little over the ground. A loud drumming came to him, a drumming as of the blood pounding in his head, and he felt sure with relief that soon he would feel no more. He would have the sensation of fainting, but then his suffering would be ended. ‘Swyve your mother,’ he gasped.

Osbert turned to look at him, and his free fist clenched as though to swing at Wattere’s face. It was enough to make Wattere want to flinch, but the effort was too great. Then, to his astonishment, he was dropped on the ground. All the feeling returned. He was no longer floating; now he was forced back to reality. He felt soil in his mouth, and rolled over, whimpering with the pain, as he prepared himself for the boot that would slam into his body.

He heard a bellow of rage, and as he tried to look towards Osbert, he saw the other guard’s head lift from the man’s torso on a fountain of blood. Osbert had his sword clenched in his hand, and a look of maniacal joy on his face as he withdrew, carefully stepping back out of the light and into the smoke and fury of the fire.

It was enough for Wattere. He allowed his head to fall back and slipped away from consciousness.

Simon urged his horse on with spurs and reins, aiming straight for the smoke-filled gap that was the gateway, aware of Baldwin at his side, knowing that Edgar was a short way behind. As he slammed into the roiling smoke, he tried to catch a breath to scream a war cry, but the thick fumes burned down his throat and into his lungs, and he was forced to hack and cough until he reached a patch of daylight. He saw Sir Robert, and put his hand to his sword hilt even as he set his beast for the man.

Sir Robert was no coward, but nor was he a fool. A man on horseback had an advantage over a man on foot. He shoved past the other men to reach the front door of his hall, and would have slammed it closed, but Simon threw himself from his mount and hit the door as it was closing. It lurched open, and Simon was inside with Sir Robert. The knight pulled out his own sword, a longer one than Simon’s, and instantly tried a stab, the steel coming wickedly close to Simon’s flank. He slashed at the blade with his own, knocking it away, and it seemed to waver as though the man’s arm was numbed. Simon saw Sir Robert’s eyes register pain and disbelief, but he didn’t trust him not to be acting to try to tempt Simon in more closely.

He decided to test Sir Robert, and made a feint, stabbing in and withdrawing. The reaction was so swift, it would have sliced through Simon’s throat, a sweep around that then continued perhaps a little too far. It was beginning to move back already as Simon made his choice, and committed himself, hurling himself forward bodily, his right fist clenched about the hilt, clubbing at Sir Robert’s wrist. His left hand shot out and gripped the knight’s tunic at the neck, while he hammered again at the man’s hand with the steel pommel of his sword. Once, twice, and on the third vicious blow, Simon allowed his sword to continue a little further in its motion, so that the point was now under Sir Robert’s chin. He lifted it higher, so that it was close to penetrating his flesh, and at last Sir Robert swore and Simon heard the clatter of steel as the other man’s sword fell to the ground.