Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

“Aye.”

Alan nodded. “I am glad he’s sending you off with supplies. That bodes well for us all.”

Walter could imagine life in camp with a commander such as Wyndesore.

After Matthew had cleaned Ned’s wound and bandaged it as best he could, Ned had dosed himself with some wine and lain down to nap. “Keep your eyes on the edge of the wood, Matthew. They will come from there if they come.”

But they did not. Bardolph and Crofter had ridden in straight from the road, bold as could be. By the time Matthew had spotted them setting up camp, he and Ned could no longer slip out of the house without being seen.

Ned cursed Matthew as he struggled to the mossy hole that had once been a window. But seeing the activity, he shrugged. “They may not know how close we are, just thought to stop early tonight. This could be where we carry out the plan, Matthew, if Owen and the others are riding right behind them. We must be prepared for battle.”

They retreated into the shadows and ate some dried meat, drank enough wine to quench their thirst, no more, and then settled in to wait. The daylight faded. Ned crept back to the lookout. A small campfire lit the twilight. There was but one figure sitting beside it.

“I am much afraid we have eased ourselves into a trap, Matthew.” Ned drew his daggers. “Come. Let us use the shadows to our advantage.”

As Owen and his companions drew near the derelict farmhouse, Alfred rode on ahead to scout. The three had caught sight of what appeared to be a substantial campfire, guessed that perhaps the King’s men were upon them.

As he rode closer, Alfred’s uneasiness mounted. He had to fight not to cough in the smoky air; it was no mere campfire up ahead. Dismounting and tethering his horse at the edge of the wood, he put a cloth to his face and crept among the tumbledown farm buildings to the farmhouse. As the lopsided ruin came into view he halted, crossed himself. The bonfire was heaped before the door; a fire built with a base layer of dry wood and plenty of it, creating enough heat now to burn damp wood, making a smoky, slow-burning fire. The sort used to smoke someone out of an enclosed space. As Alfred watched, the rotting wood round the door caught fire.

Feeding the flames was the black-robed Don Paulus.

Alfred ducked behind an outbuilding. Somewhere before him, most likely in the house, he could hear the terrified horses.

With a pounding heart, Alfred crept back to his horse and led it into the wood where he mounted and galloped back to Owen and Michaelo.

With cautious, exploring steps Owen and Michaelo crept through the dark wood. Alfred had gone round the front, his mission to incapacitate Don Paulus, then soak a blanket in the pond by the outbuildings and throw it upon the fire. For Owen the way was doubly difficult; a man with both eyes has poor sight at night, but a man with a single eye is almost as good as blind. And with the increasing smoke, the one eye must blink far too often. Michaelo was soon way ahead of Owen. How odd to depend on Thoresby’s secretary to assist him in saving Ned. Owen pressed a damp cloth to his nose and mouth as the smoke thickened. Sweet Heaven. Let them find the bloody bastards before Ned died of a lung full of hellfire.

Michaelo had paused, his hands out, palms up. Owen hurried towards him. They were now at the edge of the clearing directly behind the house. It was a nightmare scene, the ruin haloed in firelight which weirdly illuminated the billowing smoke. The crisp crackle of the blaze was shattered now and again by the cries of the terrified horses within.

“Step out farther,” Michaelo said.

As Owen did, he understood Michaelo’s stance. It had begun to rain. A good, steady rain. “Let us pray it is enough to slow the fire.”

“Two men,” Michaelo said, pointing to a darkness Owen could not yet make out, his eye still affected by glancing at the fire.

They edged forward cautiously, staying within the thickest smoke. Blinking rapidly, Owen now made out the two figures, one on either side of a yawning opening through which the flames were visible.

“The bastards await Ned and Matthew.”

Michaelo crossed himself. “And their horses.”

Suddenly a horse rushed from the opening, knocking over one of the men in its desperate escape. “Now!” Owen shouted, pushing forward. “Get the one on the ground.”

Owen leapt aside as the second horse came crashing through a burning wall. Mud splashed up at him as he landed in a puddle. He looked up, kicked out in time to trip a man lunging for him. Grabbing the muddy figure, Owen rolled him over, wincing as he discovered the man’s dagger. He knelt on the man’s gut and snapped the wrist to the ground, grabbed the knife, held it at the man’s throat.

A groan. “You’ve broken my arm.”

Only then did Owen know his opponent. “Only your wrist, Crofter.” The man’s throat was tempting; but Crofter had much talking to do. “Is Townley still in the house?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Crofter spat in Owen’s eye.

Owen slid the knife across the throat more gently than he would have liked, then shifted his weight to the knee on Crofter’s groin, dug in, grinning at the curses Crofter spewed forth.

Nearby someone was winding a rope round an inert body. Owen prayed it was Bardolph on the ground.

Once Brother Michaelo had landed on the fallen man, he hesitated. It had been so long since he had indulged in a brawl he was uncertain what should be his next move. The man moaned, clutched his head. Michaelo reached down, found the rock the man’s head had struck when he fell. Lifting it high, he brought it down at the nape of the man’s neck with a prayer of thanks that God had shown him the way.

After Michaelo had bound the unconscious man, he limped over to assist Owen – Bardolph’s struggle had bruised the monk in muscles he’d forgotten he had.

The King’s men complained when they paused only briefly at twilight to refresh themselves.

“We must move ahead,” Rufus said. “There’s a storm coming, and a scent upon the air I do not like.”

He sent the scouts forward with less rest than the others. They returned shortly with news of a friar lying in front of a burning house and two horses crashing through the wood.

When they reached Don Paulus, he did not at first respond to their presence. At last he lifted his head, trembling. There was dried blood on his forehead. Geoff helped the friar rise, but the poor man fell on one leg and cried out, “God bless you, men, but they’ve done for me. Leave me. Find the two who did this to me. God would wish you to stop them before they injure another innocent soul.”

“Where are they?” Rufus asked.

Don Paulus closed his eyes, pressed his forehead gingerly. “Behind the house.”

Leaving a skin of wine for the wounded friar, Rufus led his men round the burning house.

The rain came down hard now, finally waking Alfred. He groaned, rolled over, coughed until his lungs burned.

“You’ll feel better now.” Someone knelt beside him in the damp straw, handing him a bucket. “It’s rain water. Drink all you can.”

Captain Townley. Alfred tried to say the name, managed a croak.

“No talking. Just drink. You swallowed too much smoke wrestling with the friar.”

Alfred grabbed the bucket and drank. “Must help them,” he managed to whisper after enough water.

“All is well, Alfred. The King’s men have come. Matthew’s helping Owen and Michaelo. So just drink deep and save yourself. You did a good night’s work.”

Upwind from the fire Owen stood guard over the trussed-up men. Nearby, Rufus’s men were setting up camp for the night. Suddenly two pairs of boots approached.

Owen peered from beneath the rain-heavy cloak he held over his head to shield his eye from the smoke and the steady downpour. He groaned to see Ralph and Curan. “How do you come to be here?”