Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

He staggered, half stunned by the whiplashing chain, then recovered to pick up his sword that he had dropped to pull the lever, and started down the stairs.

The gate was open.

‘Sir?’ Sam touched Thomas’s shoulder.

‘Jesus.’ Thomas breathed the name. He had been half asleep, or rather his mind was drifting vaguely like the tenuous mist that was sifting off the moon-touched moat of Labrouillade’s castle. He had been thinking of the Grail, of the common clay bowl he had hurled into the sea, and been wondering, as he often did, whether it truly was the Holy Grail. Sometimes he doubted it, and sometimes he shivered for the audacity of concealing it beneath the eternal roll and thunder of the waves. And before that, he thought, he had sought the lance of Saint George, and that too was gone, and he had been thinking that if he did find la Malice then perhaps that also should be hidden for ever, and while his mind was wandering he had seen the sudden dull glimmer of firelight appear in the castle’s arch and then came the great crash confirming that the drawbridge had fallen.

‘Are they coming out?’ Sam wondered aloud.

‘Bows!’ Thomas called. He stood and bent his great black yew stave, looping the cord over the horn nock. He touched the inside of his left wrist, confirming that the leather bracer was there to protect him from the string’s lash. He pulled an arrow from his bag.

‘No horsemen,’ a man said. The archers had moved out of the trees to where they could shoot unimpeded.

‘Someone’s coming out,’ Sam said.

Why would they lower the drawbridge, Thomas thought, unless it was to make a sortie? But if they planned a surprise night attack on his encampment then why were the horses not already galloping across the open meadow that stretched down to the moon-whitened castle? He could see a few people crossing the bridge, but no horsemen. Then he saw more men following, and there was the glint of moonlight on blades. ‘Forward!’ he called. ‘Get in range!’

Thomas cursed his limp. It was not crippling, but he could not run as fast as he had once run, and his men easily outstripped him. Then Karyl and two other men cantered past on horseback, their swords drawn. ‘That’s Hugh!’ someone shouted.

‘And Genny!’ Another English voice. Thomas had a glimpse of shapes against the lit gateway, thought he saw Genevieve and Hugh, but then saw another shape, a man with a crossbow. He halted, raised the great war bow and drew the cord.

The muscles of his back took the enormous tension. Two fingers drew the cord, two more steadied the arrow on the stave as he tilted the bow towards the stars. This was as long a range as any longbow could shoot, maybe too long. He gazed at the gateway, saw the crossbowman kneel and raise the weapon to his shoulder, and Thomas drew the cord back past his right ear.

And loosed.

Roland expected to die. He was frightened. It seemed that the screeching, hammering, clangorous noise of the unreeling windlass drum was still ringing in his ears like the scream of some unearthly devil who was filling him with terror. He just wanted to hide, to curl into a ball in some dark corner and hope the world passed him by, yet he moved instead. He leaped down the stairs, still without his boots, and he expected that Labrouillade’s men would have retaken the guardhouse and that he would

be cut down by vengeful blades, yet to his astonishment there was only the one man still in the guardhouse chamber, and he was even more frightened than Roland. Robbie was shouting at Roland to hurry.

‘Jesus,’ Roland said, and it was a prayer.

Sculley was bellowing at the men in the courtyard to come and be killed. Three men lay at his feet and the firelight reflected from the glossy black of their blood that filled the spaces between the cobbles. ‘Genevieve’s gone,’ Robbie shouted at Roland, ‘now come on! Sculley!’

‘I’m no finished,’ Sculley snarled.

‘You are finished,’ Robbie said, and tugged at Sculley’s shoulder. ‘Run!’

‘I hate running away.’

‘Run! Now! For Douglas!’

They ran. They had survived thus far because the men in the courtyard were half asleep and confused, but they were awake now. Men pursued the fugitives, then Roland heard a sound he feared, the ratchet of a crossbow being tensioned. He pounded in his bare feet across the drawbridge, heard the snap of the crossbow being released, but the bolt went wide. He did not see the bolt, but he knew there must be others. He snatched at Hugh’s hand and dragged him onwards and just then something white flashed by the corner of his sight. Another white flash! In his panic and fear he thought they must be doves. At night? A third slashed past and a shout sounded behind and he realised they were arrows in the night. Goose-feathered arrows, arrows of England, arrows whipping through the darkness to strike the men coming from the castle. One skidded on the path, skittering past Roland, and then the arrows paused as four horsemen thundered across the grassland, swords drawn, and the horses went past the fugitives, turned and the long blades slashed down at the pursuers. The horsemen did not stop, but kept going, curling around behind Roland, and the arrows flew again, pouring relentlessly into the gateway’s open arch where the crossbowmen were crammed.

Then suddenly the fugitives were surrounded by men with longbow staves, and the horsemen were a shield behind and they kept going out of range of the castle till they reached the trees, and there Roland fell to his knees. ‘Dear God,’ he said aloud, ‘thank you.’ He was panting, shaking, and still held Hugh’s hand.

‘Sir?’ Hugh asked nervously.

‘You’re safe,’ Roland told him, and then someone came and scooped the boy up, carrying him away to leave Roland alone.

‘Sam!’ a harsh voice shouted. ‘Keep a dozen men on the tree line. Bows strung! The rest of you! Back to the farm. Brother Michael! Where are you? Come here!’

Roland saw men crowding around Genevieve. He was still on his knees. The night was filled with excited English voices, and Roland had rarely felt so solitary. He glanced around to see that the long moonlit meadow between the wood and the castle was empty. If the Count of Labrouillade or Father Marchant were planning a pursuit it had not yet started. Roland thought how he had only been trying to be honourable, and yet it had turned his life upside down. Then Michel tapped his shoulder. ‘I lost your boots, sire.’ Roland did not answer, and Michel crouched. ‘Sire?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Roland said.

‘I lost the boots and the horses, sire.’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ Roland said more sharply than he had intended. What was he to do now? He had thought he was employed on two quests, one of them of high sanctity, yet they had led to this lonely despair. He closed his eyes in prayer, begging for guidance, then became aware that someone was breathing in his face. He shuddered, then felt a wet lick and opened his startled eyes to see a pair of wolfhounds standing over him.

‘They like you!’ a cheerful voice said, but as the man spoke in English Roland had no idea what was said. ‘Now come away, you two,’ the man went on, ‘not everyone wants to be christened by a pair of bloody hounds.’

The dogs romped away and Thomas of Hookton took their place. ‘My lord?’ he said, though there was no respect in the voice. ‘Should I kill you or thank you?’

Roland stared up at le Bâtard . The virgin knight was still shaking and did not know what to say, so he turned and stared at the castle again. ‘Will they attack?’ he asked.

‘Of course not,’ Thomas said.

‘Of course not?’

‘They were half asleep or half drunk. Maybe they’ll be ready for a sortie by dawn? Though I doubt it. That’s why my men have two rules, my lord.’