Ken Follett - World Without End

The man tried to shrug off his basket but, before it fell from his shoulders, Ralph ran him through, his sword piercing the man’s abdomen under the ribs and then rising up. The man’s scream of agony was cut off abruptly as the point of the sword penetrated his heart.

Alan swung at the woman and cut through most of her neck, so that blood spurted from her severed throat in a sudden red jet.

Exhilarated, Ralph turned to the son. The lad was quick to react: he had already dropped his ham and drawn a knife. While Ralph’s weapon was still on the upswing, the boy darted close and stabbed him. It was an unprofessional blow, too wild to do much damage. The knife completely missed Ralph’s chest, but the point caught in the flesh of his upper right arm, and the sudden agonizing pain made him drop his sword. The boy turned and ran away, going in the direction of Kingsbridge.

Ralph looked at Alan. Before turning to the girl, Alan finished off the mother, and the delay almost cost him his life. Ralph saw the girl throw her crock of butter at Alan. Either accurate or lucky, she hit him square on the back of the head, and Alan fell to the ground as if poleaxed.

Then she ran after her brother.

Ralph stooped, picked up his sword in his left hand and gave chase.

They were young and fleet, but he had long legs and he soon gained on them. The boy looked over his shoulder and saw Ralph coming close. To Ralph’s astonishment the lad stopped, turned and came running back at him, screaming, knife raised in his fist.

Ralph stopped running and lifted his sword. The boy ran at him – then stopped outside his reach. Ralph stepped forward and lunged, but it was a feint. The boy dodged the blow, then, thinking to catch Ralph off balance, tried to step inside his guard and stab him at close quarters. But that was exactly what Ralph was expecting. He stepped nimbly back, stood on the balls of his feet and thrust his sword precisely into the boy’s throat, pushing it through until the point came out of the back ot his neck.

The boy fell dead, and Ralph withdrew his sword, pleased with the accuracy and efficiency of the death blow.

He looked up to see the girl disappearing into the distance. He saw immediately that he could not catch her on foot; and by the time he fetched his horse she would be in Kingsbridge.

He turned and looked back. To his surprise, Alan was struggling to his feet. “I thought she’d killed you,” Ralph said. He wiped his sword on the dead boy’s tunic, sheathed his blade and clamped his left hand over the wound in his right arm, trying to stop the bleeding.

“My head hurts like Satan,” Alan replied. “Did you kill them all?”

“The girl got away.”

“Do you think she knew us?”

“She might know me. I’ve seen this family before.”

“In that case, we’re now branded as murderers.”

Ralph shrugged. “Better to hang than starve.” He looked at the three bodies. “All the same, let’s get these peasants off the road before someone comes along.”

With his left hand he dragged the man to the edge of the road. Alan picked up the body and threw it into the bushes. They did the same with the woman and the boy. Ralph made sure the corpses were not visible to passers-by. The blood on the road was already darkening to the colour of the mud into which it was soaking.

Ralph cut a strip off the woman’s dress and tied it around the cut in his arm. It still hurt, but the flow of blood was less. He felt the slight depression that always followed a fight, like the sadness after sex.

Alan began to collect up the loot. “A nice haul,” he said. “Ham, chickens, butter -” he looked into the basket the man had been carrying – “and onions! Last year’s, of course, but still good.”

“Old onions taste better than no onions. My mother says that.”

As Ralph bent to pick up the butter crock that had felled Alan, he felt a sharp iron point stick into his arse. Alan was in front of him, dealing with the trussed chickens. Ralph said: “Who…?”

A harsh voice said: “Don’t move.”

Ralph never obeyed such instructions. He sprang forward, away from the voice, and spun round. Six or seven men had materialized from nowhere. He was bewildered, but he managed, left-handed, to draw his sword. The man nearest him – who presumably had prodded him – raised his sword to fight, but the others were grabbing the loot, snatching chickens and fighting over the ham. Alan’s sword flashed in defence of his chickens as Ralph engaged with his antagonist. He realized that another group of outlaws was trying to rob him. He was filled with indignation: he had killed people for this stuff, and now they wanted to take it from him! He felt no fear, only anger. He attacked his opponent with the energy of outrage, despite being forced to fight left-handed. Then an authoritative voice said loudly: “Put away your blades, you fools.”

All the newcomers stood still. Ralph held his sword at the ready, suspicious of a trick, and looked towards the voice. He saw a handsome man in his twenties with something of the nobility about him. He wore clothes that looked expensive but were filthy dirty: a cloak of Italian scarlet covered with leaves and twigs, a rich brocade coat marked with what appeared to be food stains, and hose of a rich chestnut leather, scratched and muddy.

“It amuses me to steal from thieves,” the newcomer said. “It’s not a crime, you see.”

Ralph knew he was in a tight spot but, all the same, he was intrigued. “Are you the one they call Tam Hiding?” he said.

“There were stories of Tam Hiding when I was a child,” the man replied. “But every now and again someone comes along to act the part, like a monk impersonating Lucifer in a mystery play.”

“You’re not a common type of outlaw.”

“Nor are you. I’m guessing that you’re Ralph Fitzgerald.”

Ralph nodded.

“I heard about your escape, and I’ve been wondering when I’d run into you.” Tam looked up and down the road. “We happened upon you by accident. What made you choose this spot?”

“I picked the day and time, first. It’s Sunday, and at this hour the peasants are taking their produce to market in Kingsbridge, which is on this road.”

“Well, well. Ten years I’ve been living outside the law, and I never thought of doing that. Perhaps we should team up. Are you going to put your weapon away?”

Ralph hesitated, but Tam was unarmed, so he could not see the disadvantage. Anyway, he and Alan were so heavily outnumbered that it would be best to avoid a fight. Slowly, he sheathed his sword.

“That’s better.” Tam put an arm around Ralph’s shoulders, and Ralph realized they were the same height. Not many people were as tall as Ralph. Tam walked him into the woods, saying: “The others will bring the loot. Come this way. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and I.”

Edmund rapped on the table. “I’ve called this emergency meeting of the parish guild to discuss the outlaw problem,” he said. “But, as I’m getting old and lazy, I’ve asked my daughter to summarize the situation.”

Caris was a member of the parish guild now, by virtue of her success as a manufacturer of scarlet cloth. The new business had rescued her father’s fortunes. Numerous other Kingsbridge people were prospering because of it, notably the Webber family. Her father had been able to fulfil his pledge to lend money for the building of the bridge, and in the general upturn several other merchants had done the same. Bridge building continued apace – supervised now by Elfric, not Merthin, unfortunately.

Her father took little initiative, these days. The moments when he was his sharp-witted former self were becoming rarer. She was worried about him, but there was nothing she could do. She felt the rage that had possessed her during her mother’s illness. Why was there no help for him? Nobody understood what was wrong; no one could even put a name to his malady. They said it was old age, but he was not yet fifty!