Elisabeth Hobbes - Redeeming The Rogue Knight

A man such as himself.

Roger drew his cloak tighter around him.

‘We’re going to stay here until the sun has passed overhead. Then we’ll head back the way we came.’

‘Past Lord Harpur’s house instead of the higher road to Mattonfield?’

The roads that bordered Lord Harpur’s estate gave it the shape of a triangle with sides of uneven length. To take the route Thomas suggested would mean they travelled on the longest side and over the steepest edge of the hill.

‘Yes. It would add more than a day to the journey if we took the other side of the hill.’

‘We’d be close to my home!’ Thomas said wistfully. ‘It’s a fine inn, the grandest on the road to Mattonfield, and my father would welcome us gladly.’

Roger considered the possible routes. There was hope in the lad’s voice, but Roger was damned if he was going to detour to allow Thomas to pay a call, however tempting a night at an inn sounded.

‘No. I want to be done here as quickly as possible.’ He stared moodily at the ground, Thomas’s mention of home raising an unwelcome thought. ‘I should visit my father before I return to France.’

Thomas looked startled by the dark tone his voice had taken on.

‘Don’t you want to see your family?’

Roger took another drink to delay answering the question that had troubled him since he stepped back on to English soil. Finally he spoke.

‘It’s been a long time. I parted angrily with my brother and I vowed not to return until I was rich and had proved myself. At least that is within my reach now. Let’s get some rest.’

He closed his eyes and settled back. The day had started far too rudely.

* * *

The weather had worsened into driving rain by afternoon. Iron clouds rolled across a steel sky as they climbed the hills into Cheshire. Early spring in England was truly appalling and Thomas looked more miserable with every twist of the road, glancing behind him and pulling his cloak forward to envelop him.

‘Of all the reasons that compel me to return to France, this weather might be the greatest,’ Roger called.

Thomas merely shivered and glanced around moodily. They passed the turning for Lord Harpur’s manor without encountering any hindrance and as they skirted round the far side of the densely forested hills Roger began to believe his plan had worked. Tension he had not known he was carrying began to melt from his shoulders and he slowed his horse to a walk, rolling his head around to ease the knots.

It was probably this slowing that saved their lives, because as they reached the brow of the hill Thomas gave a cry of alarm. The road ahead curved downward, then sharply snaked left around a pool. Just beyond the bend three riders were waiting. If Roger and Thomas had ridden a few paces further the men would have been hidden from view until they rode straight into them.

The men could have been ordinary travellers, but they lingered at the edge of the road in a manner suggesting they were planning trouble.

‘I think we’ve been found,’ Roger muttered.

Thomas let out a moan. ‘Lord Harpur’s men?’

‘Probably,’ Roger muttered. That was the simplest answer and the most welcome. The suspicion they might have been followed from France by men intent on preventing him completing his commission for the King had crossed his mind once or twice since setting foot back in England. Roger felt for his sword, wishing he had a lance to hand. He’d ended more lives with his preferred weapon than he cared to count.

‘We can’t fight them,’ Thomas whimpered.

He was right. Three men against two was not good odds. Roger stared around him. The road was crossing the highest point as it circumnavigated the forest and night would soon be upon them. Taking the easier road had been a mistake after all. In the distance beyond the forest, Roger could see lights coming from different villages and a large cluster that must be the town where both roads joined.

‘We’ll cut through the forest and try to reach the other road,’ Roger decided, wishing he had taken that route in the first place. Cross-country in the near darkness was risky, but better than riding straight into trouble. ‘If we can reach one of those settlements, we may be able to hide.’

A shout echoed in the silence of the hills. One of the prospective ambushers pointed towards them. Roger cursed his stupidity. He’d been so intent on watching the men ahead he had given no thought to their own visibility; on the hilltop they would have been in clear view. Already the horsemen were riding towards them.

Roger plunged through the trees away from the path. Thomas followed. They rode fast into the darkness, pushing their horses as hard as the forest would allow. For the first time since returning to England, Roger was thankful it was early spring. A few months more and the undergrowth would have grown up, making it impossible to ride quickly.

A quick glance behind reassured Roger they had not been followed, but he had not accounted for being intercepted ahead. One horseman appeared seemingly from nowhere to their right. His head was down and he rode directly at them, his cloak obscuring his face.

Roger swung around in the saddle, reaching for his sword, but before he could draw it something punched him in the back of his right shoulder, sharp and cold and forcing the breath from him. He had been stabbed in the leg once during a brawl over a whore in a French inn and the sensation was familiar. There was no real pain yet, but he knew from experience that would follow shortly. He looked down to discover the barb of an arrow protruding from below his collarbone close to his armpit.

Arrows! Roger hadn’t anticipated that! He gave a laugh that ended as a grunt as pain began to spread through him like ripples across a pond when a rock was hurled into the depths.

They were in real danger now. The bowman was fumbling behind in his quiver, but on horseback and amongst trees he was struggling.

‘Give me your sword,’ Roger barked at Thomas.

The boy passed his weapon, but the strength was already going from Roger’s arm. He took the sword in his left hand and wheeled around, slashing behind him blindly. He felt the sword make contact. The bowman gave an unearthly, wordless gurgle. Roger looked and saw to his disgust that he had caught the rider full in the throat. The man fell forward over the horse’s neck. Roger retched and leaned across to slap the horse with the flat of the blade. It whinnied in fear and pain and galloped away with its rider still in the saddle. He dug his heels into his own mount’s flanks.

‘Come on,’ he grunted at Thomas, riding in the opposite direction the horse had taken. There was no time to think where they were heading now, but he rode towards what he hoped was the smaller of the villages. The other two men would not be far behind, but he hoped they would follow their comrade in confusion.

Roger’s head was spinning and his arm felt like ice by the time they reached the depths of the woods. His fingers refused to grip the reins and he knew he was becoming drowsy. He bit his lip, the small pain sharpening his senses as the greater one dulled it. Instinctively Roger reached for the arrow, but stopped. Without examining the shape of the tip he did not know whether to pull back or forward. At the moment there was little blood, but he had seen what happened when such wounds were treated. Now was not the time to deal with his injury. He did not think they had been followed so finding refuge was the priority.

He heard splashing and realised they had reached a shallow river and were halfway into the water. On the furthest bank, the trees began to thin. A single light flickered in the darkness, so briefly that he thought he had imagined it.