Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

‘All right, but when we get back I’ll rattle that miserable old besom’s doors too,’ Baldwin muttered vindictively as they walked up the road to where a bush bound to a pole over a doorway showed that drinks could be bought.

It was a poor woman’s hovel: there was hardly space inside for the seven men who sat at a table staring at the dice with bleared eyes and supping ale, while the alewife squatted on the floor. She looked up when Baldwin entered, ducking under the low lintel.

The hackneyman was at the table. He recognised their faces and instantly a smile transfigured his features. ‘Sirs! You require more mounts? I have the very ones for you. Good, comfortable and biddable beasts. Perfect for a short run into the country or a longer ride if you need. Excellent turn of speed, too.’

He stood with little apparent regret. Simon was convinced he had lost heavily. The bailiff pulled a coin from his purse and passed it to the man, who glanced at it, smiled more widely, finished off his ale and led the way up the street to his stable.

The light was fading swiftly now. Twilight was darkening the streets, and in the shadow of the tall buildings Baldwin thought he caught a glimpse of movement. At first he thought that a rat had scuttled away – a common enough sight at the best of times – but then he heard a scrape and recognised the sound of metal being pulled from a scabbard.

All at once he realised that his message of giving up the hoard, mentioned so confidently in the hall, might not have filtered down to the felons who had tried to attack him and Simon earlier. He cleared his throat to warn Simon, but before he could say anything the attack was underway.

Perkin sprang into the street, a heavy staff held cross-wise over his chest. He grinned, saying, ‘Remember me, you bastard? You kicked my arse…’ His tone dropped to a malevolent rasp. ‘ Now I’ll eat your liver! ’

Baldwin felt someone at his back and just had time to leap a side and whip out his sword as Toker’s first slash scythed through the air. Baldwin caught the blade on his own as he lifted the flashing blue steel to guard his right flank. Toker’s eyes narrowed, and he stamped forward, his blade whirling left in a feint, but Baldwin had seen his swift change of foot and was ready when Toker darted right, knocking the blade away with almost contemptuous ease. He would have continued with a lunge to Toker’s throat had he not, from the corner of his eye, seen Simon crumple as Perkin’s heavy staff caught him at the base of his skull. ‘Simon!’

Then there were four at him, Toker and another with swords, a short villein with one eye but two long-bladed daggers, and Perkin with his long, iron-tipped staff. That was the weapon Baldwin feared most. A good staffman was a dangerous adversary with a greater reach than a swordsman, and this man knew how to hold his. He kept himself away from Baldwin, fighting like a man-at-arms, gripping it like a quarter-staff, one hand near the middle, the other at the farther end, thrusting at Baldwin, shoving him whenever he got his blade within a few inches of Toker or the others. The two swordsmen were biding their time, waiting until Baldwin was tired, and when he was they would come at him from either side. If they failed, the man with the daggers would finish him off.

Baldwin gave more ground, feeling the inevitability of his doom. Simon groaned, Baldwin saw him roll, trying to get on all fours, shaking his head, but although Baldwin hoped none of the men would hear, hoped that Simon might be able to come to his aid, he saw the man with the daggers glance over his shoulder.

‘No!’ Baldwin bellowed, but he saw the man flick a dagger up, catching it by the tip of the blade ready to throw. There was a flash as a blade caught the light, a scream, and Baldwin felt his heart lurch.

But Simon hadn’t screamed. The bailiff was shaking his head like a groggy fist-fighter, falling back to rest on his haunches, while the felon with the daggers was staring at his handless stump, at the blood flying upwards in a fountain and at the hand holding a knife which had fallen to the ground before him.

Toker saw Baldwin’s attention waver and moved to take advantage, but a fine spray of blood misted into his face and he shouted a curse, wiping it away with disgust. Vaguely through it he saw a figure loom, a figure who shrieked ‘ Beauséant! ’ before flying at him; dimly he recognised Baldwin’s servant Edgar.

He fell back, almost tripping, his sword up to defend his chest, but the flying sword aimed first at his breast, then his legs, swiping quickly at an arm, then at his throat, almost so fast that Toker couldn’t see it move.

The battle cry brought a stinging lump to Baldwin’s throat. Beauséant , the battle cry of the Knights Templar, the call of the men to rally, the name of their flag, the call that meant ‘be good, be noble.’

‘ Beauséant! ’ Baldwin roared in his turn. He could have wept for joy.

He heard a fresh shout: ‘Take that, you thieving bastard!’ There was a crack and Baldwin saw Perkin collapse like a steer with a spike hammered in his skull, eyes wide with astonishment. Behind him Baldwin caught a fleeting glimpse of the stableman gripping a pair of cudgels and aiming a vicious kick at the fallen outlaw’s groin.

Now Baldwin had only the one man attacking him, and this was a man he knew he could beat. His concern for Simon, his shock at the sudden violence, and the sheer rage at being waylaid, lent his arm more vigour than he would have thought possible, and his regular practice showed in the way that he plied his weapon.

‘Yield!’ he demanded, but the felon, though frightened by the sudden turn of events, merely slashed and cut at him. Baldwin roared again, this time a wordless bellow of pure animal ferocity. He drove forward, his sword up and then swept it low, taking his enemy’s blade on the cross-guard and knocking it out of the way, before reversing the manoeuvre and thrusting forwards and up. Baldwin shoved his body forward, his whole weight behind his blade, saw the point sink in below his opponent’s chest, rammed the metal into the man’s body, feeling his hand become slick with blood, ripping upwards through his torso while the man gave a high, keening scream.

The man’s sword was still in his hands, but Baldwin was close enough to grab at it and tug it from the now-feeble hand. He jerked his own blade higher, sawing through bone and slicing deeper, higher with his sharp, peacock-blue blade, wrenching it further into his enemy’s body. The fellow shivered twice, then slumped, and Baldwin kicked him to release his blade. It came free, smeared as if with a thin oil and, panting, he looked about him for Toker and Edgar.

They were a short way farther up the lane, and Baldwin ran to them, shouting again, ‘Yield! Yield!’

Toker daren’t take his eyes from the whirling man before him. Edgar moved like a fluid dancer, constantly changing his position, but always with his feet coordinated, flat and stable on the ground before striking forwards or taking a defensive position. Toker couldn’t shake him or get him off-balance, couldn’t make him slip. He was too good. Toker was giving way almost steadily now. At first he’d managed to make Edgar retreat a little, but now he doubted whether it was genuine. It felt more like Edgar had been gauging Toker’s ability, allowing himself to be pushed so that he could see how powerful Toker’s blows really were, see how quickly Toker could respond to a counter-attack after launching a stabbing thrust. Now Toker was beaten – it was only a matter of time before he felt the blade slicing through his jack. He felt the presence of the knight nearby, and risked a short glance. Baldwin was too close, less than a yard away, and Toker couldn’t defend himself from a man that near. He shifted his weight and made to leap away, but a sharp pain stopped him.