Michael JECKS: Crediton Killings

“He is your flesh and blood.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps if I was to buy a manor here and settle with a wife, I might think of giving him a home, but as things are I cannot take him with me.”

“But he would be happier with you. You are his father.”

“His father?” Sir Hector had rasped, his eyes snapping to the Bishop’s face. “You think that blood will make the boy happy? Do you truly believe that being with me will make his life more pleasant? All I will see in him is a reminder of his mother, when all I want is a memory of my Mary. I cannot show him any affection, for I feel none toward him. To me he would only be a thorn in my brain, constantly making me think of this town and the woman I have lost. No, Bishop. You keep him.”

The knight shook his head. Stapledon had no idea what a mercenary’s life was like. He was used to living in his palace and could have no idea of the struggle involved in keeping a company together and trying to earn enough to live.

As the road dropped down, following the line of a hill, he smiled again. It was good to be on horseback. He patted the light sword at his hip. While he wore steel and owned a warhorse, he was a man. Only old women sat indoors and planned meals. His life was that of a warrior, and it was all he needed. A quick regret touched him as a memory of Mary’s face flitted across his mind, but then it was gone and he gave himself up to enjoying the ride.

The further from the town he travelled, the lighter his heart, and as if to emphasize his rising spirits, the sun burst through the gray skies, a finger of light burning through the clouds ahead and shining on the damp roadway.

When he felt the thump on his back, his first reaction was to wheel and glower behind him. It felt as if someone had thrown a rock at him. “Who..?” he began, but then, seeing the man before him, he was silent.

Will had returned. He had hurried after the mercenaries, catching up with them a mile outside the town, and grabbed at the weapons in the wagon. Now he stood in a huddle of men, a crossbow in his hands. Seeing Sir Hector turn, he let the crossbow fall, awestruck. At his side, the other men gawped at their leader.

“Well, little man? Are you brave enough to shoot me, then?” Sir Hector bawled, and made to turn his horse and ride down the man – but found his arm was unaccountably weak.

“Load another, Will. Shoot him again. Quickly!”

The captain noted the speaker down for punishment. Egging on a mutineer would cost him his tongue. But Sir Hector felt feeble; his usual strength had failed him. Beneath him, his horse moved nervously, making small, dancing steps. It was all the knight could do to stay mounted. As he watched, Will picked up the bow, tugged on the string, and dragged it back to cock it. Dully, as if through the fog of sleep, Sir Hector saw a man pass Will another bolt. Though Will, his face red and sweat pouring from him, was clearly in pain, it did not look as though this was owing to the hole in his side. His hasty fumbling was more from fear of his master.

Sir Hector spurred his horse, but found he could not keep his seat. The great black beast moved again, jerking his head up and down quickly, and Sir Hector almost toppled over. A quick stab of pain between his shoulders made his eyes widen. He had been shot!

Will raised the weapon a second time and fired, and Sir Hector saw rather than felt the bolt strike his chest. His head was an insupportable weight, and his chin fell to his breast. Slowly, as the animal under him walked on, he slid from the saddle. As his back struck the ground, he gasped with the agony.

The men continued on their way. For the most part none glanced in the direction of their leader, but one kicked him, pushing with his foot until the knight rolled into the ditch. There he lay, staring after his company while they carried on. Sir Hector swallowed, but the liquid in his throat would not clear, and he recognized the clattering sound of his breathing: he had heard it before. He tried to sit up, but the pain stopped him. It would be better to rest, he thought, and let his head drop to the grassy bank beside him. He had an urge to retch, but knew he couldn’t.

When the men reached the next bend in the road, one of them turned to stare. He could see a splash of color by the roadside where the captain had fallen, and hesitated a moment, then ran back.

He could hear the breath rattling in Sir Hector’s lungs as he drew near. The knight was lying as if asleep. The approaching figure was a blur to him, and he tried to smile – at least one of his men was loyal – but his mouth would not respond. “Help… me…”

Will crouched and drew his dagger. “We need a new leader,” he said simply.