But the smile faded and died, even as his friends and the earl had died on the field.
The Scots were ready for them. The charge with the huge war horses foundered on their spears. They hid behind a vast number of holes dug to trip the horses, safe inside the oblong enclosures they had made by surrounding themselves with their shields. There was nothing they could do to get to the jeering northerners, and at last they had to fall back before a charge by the Scottish cavalry.
Even then they might have been able to survive if the cry had not gone up. Someone saw men running towards the Scottish lines and thought they must be reinforcements. The retreat became a rout, the knights and squires trying to escape as quickly as they could, before the Scots could get to them, and that was why they had been caught in the marsh by the Bannock. As they struggled in the thick mud and waters of the river, the Scottish archers had soon realised their opportunity.
Trapped by the ground, there was little the cavalry could do. They tried to escape, watching with horror as their friends fell, trying to see a way clear to avoid the certain death that followed behind, desperately attempting to make their horses clear the misery of the death that threatened, but few succeeded.
Rodney was one of the few. Together with his lord, he had managed to make his way to the other bank of the river, where they had turned to stare at the other side. It was a scene from Hell, with the Scottish foot soldiers darting in and out among the cavalry, stabbing at the horses’ bellies to make them rear and lose their riders, hacking and thrusting at the bodies on the ground, grouping around any knight who tried to make a stand and pushing him over with their long weapons, then running up to give the coup de grace when he was on the ground and defenceless.
Rodney had returned to the camp quiet and shocked. So few had survived, so few had managed to get away from that mob.
It was still all so clear, even the red of the blood in the stream as the Scots threw in the decapitated body of Alfred, his young squire, and the way that it slowly wandered down between the banks letting the carmine stain spread. The cries and the laughter, the way that the bloody knives rose and fell, dripping with the blood, the lives, of the men killed.
“Good morning, sir. And where are you going?”
His head snapped up and to his horror he realised that he had ridden straight into the middle of these people without even seeing them. Had he been sleeping? At the least, his eyes must have been shut.
And then he saw the drawn knives and swords, and saw the wide, staring grins as the men measured him, assessing his value as a prize.
Chapter Fifteen
They were back at Sandford before midday, and as soon as they arrived Simon and Hugh ran indoors to fetch provisions. Margaret stood outside and held their horses for a moment, but soon she accepted the offer of one of Baldwin’s men and gratefully threw the reins over to him before following the men inside.
She was weary from the night before and their quick return ride, and her tiredness served to enhance her feelings of concern. It was not only worry for her husband – she knew that he would have the protection of the men in the posse and should be safe. No, it was the fear of what effect the trail bastons would have on the area. She had heard from others how the small bands of outlaws had devastated areas farther north, how they had robbed travellers, how they had killed and raped, attacking anybody who was unwary, whether on the road or at home. Often, when the trail bastons arrived, the rule of the law would fail. The constant attacks and the threat of more to follow forced decent, law-abiding men to stay at home. The murders stopped merchants and farmers from travelling, and others, too poor to be able to pay a ransom, were regularly killed while wealthier merchants were often captured and held hostage.
She walked through the door to the hall and sat at her chair in front of the fire. She could hear the muffled shouts and thumping as her husband and Hugh grabbed food and water, and then, making her turn swiftly to the door, she heard a small sob. There at the door was Edith, her face wrinkled and ancient in her grief and stained with tears. Margaret quickly rose and went to her, gathered her up, and carried her to the chair, gentling her and murmuring softly. Sitting, she rocked her child, her own eyes watering in sympathy at her daughter’s distress.
“Daddy’s going away again, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he’ll not be away for long, Edith. There’s no need to worry,” said Margaret, blinking against her tears.
“But he might be hurt!” cried Edith. “I don’t want him to go!” She subsided into sobs, and Margaret, suddenly overcome with a renewed sharp fear, as if her daughter’s terror reminded her of the dangers, could think of nothing to say, feeling smothered by her own dread. What could she say? That he would be safe, that he would not be gone for long? Margaret was too aware of the risks to be able to lie effectively while trapped in her own fear. They sat together in silence, the girl shaking with her anxious tears while Margaret stared at the fire.
Soon Simon arrived and stood in the doorway to bid his wife farewell. He was holding a bag in each hand and was once more wearing his sword. As he looked in, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he had interrupted his wife and daughter in a secret discussion, for he knew that he was the cause of Edith’s weeping, and there was nothing he could do to cheer her up. He quietly put the bags down and walked over, to stand over them as they sat, and when his daughter looked up, her eyes huge in their despair, he felt the breath catch in his chest, and knelt and encircled them both with his arms.
“What is it?” he asked gently, looking into Margaret’s eyes.
Edith answered, her voice breaking occasionally as she took great gulps of air. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay!”
“I won’t be gone for long, love,” he said. “I should be back in a couple of days, that’s all.”
“But you may get hurt!”
He gave a short laugh and reached one hand up to tousle her hair. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have lots of men with me to look after me.”
She jerked to avoid his hand and hid her head in Margaret’s shoulder, weeping softly. He released them reluctantly, confused at his inability to stem the tide of tears, and rested back on his heels, but Margaret looked at him with a smile of understanding as she began rocking her daughter again.
“I think we had better postpone our move to Lydford,” he said at last. “At least until this affair has been sorted out. Can you tell the men that we’ll have to delay for a week or two?”
She continued stroking and rocking Edith as she looked at him questioningly.
“I don’t know how long it’ll take us to get these men, so maybe we should wait until they’re caught and plan the move then?”
“Alright, Simon.” Her voice was calm and low. “Just be careful and catch them quickly. We’ll be waiting here. Don’t worry about us, just go and catch them and come back as soon as you can.” Nodding, he rose, kissed her quickly, and crossed the room to the door. He picked up his bags and turned to smile at them, then he was gone.
Only when she was sure that her husband had left the house did she begin to weep.
Hugh was already on his horse beside the two Furnshill men, so Simon quickly tied his bags to his saddle and lifted himself up. Mounted, he wheeled his horse and led the way up behind his house to the road to Copplestone.
They rode quickly, the bailiff ignoring Hugh’s curses. His mind was on the organisation of the posse and what they would have to do when they arrived in Oakhampton, and his face held a fixed frown of concentration as they swept along the lanes. They followed the road along the ridge and were soon dropping into Copplestone, where they met the main group of the posse, some twelve strong, in the town centre. Black was not yet there. He had apparently taken it upon himself to ride to all the other men’s houses to call them to the posse, and would be coming along later after fetching the last of them.
The men all stayed on their horses while they waited, and the publican of the inn brought them beer, giving the whole affair a holiday atmosphere, as if they were lords at the beginning of a hunt. Simon was concerned at first that some of the men might get drunk, but then he realised that it was probably unlikely. They all seemed to be
