When they had gone just beyond the curve of a hill, Black turned his horse, leaving Fasten standing still out in front, and cantered back to the main body.
“We’re only half a mile from the camp now, it’s at the top of that hill. Leave your horses here, we’ll go ahead on foot.”
Slowly the men dismounted and handed their reins to the men who would hold the horses, then Tanner drew his sword and showed his teeth in a snarl of animal delight. “Come on, then.”
Chapter Eighteen
Black led them all up the hill, moving slowly and carefully in the faint luminosity of the brightening dawn, his sword a faint grey glimmer against the darker colours around.
Simon felt lightheaded and his chest seemed tight as he toiled slowly behind the hunter. He had a kind of nervous, almost fearful, trepidation at the thought of the fight to come, but step by step he found that it was becoming smothered by his anger and disgust at what these men had done, killing and raping in his shire. He gritted his teeth and carried on. His stomach felt empty, his muscles frozen, and his nerves were all on edge at the thought of fighting, but he slowly became aware of a gleeful expectancy. After all, these men would hardly surrender without a fight, they were trail bastons; they would know that after a trial all they could expect would be the noose. They must fight to the death, expecting no quarter, if they were given the chance. The posse must make sure they had no chance.
They slowly walked on, and then, when they were halfway up the hill, Black held out his hand stiffly in warning and the men all froze into immobility. Simon felt his bowels turn to water as he looked up the hill and saw a figure standing up, high above them, near a tree. If he saw the posse, he could give the alarm – they would lose the chance of surprising the outlaws. The figure seemed to be stationary for a while, then turned and disappeared, and Simon realised with a quick breath of relief that he must have been urinating. The hand slowly drifted away and they moved off again, their tension and excitement growing with every step.
There was a gully here, a steep-sided cleft in the hillside, with a small trickle of water at the bottom, and Black led them up it. The sides appeared almost to be cliffs, tall and grey, looming up on either side, with a slight, lighter greyness above them where the sky hurried towards dawn. They moved slowly and cautiously, trying to avoid the rocks that lay strewn all around as if intentionally placed to catch an unwary blade and give warning, pausing every now arid then to listen before continuing.
It was a miserable journey, one that Simon would never forget. They clambered over rocks and mud, trying to keep out of the water, trying to keep their weapons from knocking against the stone of the walls, walking hunched to prevent their being seen, but trying to move quickly so that they could get to the camp before dawn broke and maintain the surprise of their attack. Simon found his mind wandering as though it wanted to avoid thinking about the skirmish ahead, as though it wanted to ignore the danger they were walking into, and by ignoring it make it disappear. He found himself thinking about Lydford and his new role, thinking about his wife and daughter and how they would enjoy the life at the castle deep in the moors.
But then, with a feeling of near relief, he saw the hand come up again and realised that they were almost at the top of the gully. Up ahead he could see the lighter grey of the sky, outlining the top of the hill itself. Simon frowned as he peered ahead. He could see no sign of the trail bastons, no smoke from a fire, no movement. There seemed to be no one near, only the posse itself, and the only sounds he could hear were the heavy breathing of the men behind him and the blood hammering in his ears.
Black moved off softly and disappeared, a darker smudge against the horizon for an instant, then gone. Simon and the men stayed where they were and waited. It seemed like an hour before the hunter came back, but it could only have been a few minutes, and as he stood at the top of the gully he seemed to pause before waving them on.
Simon quickly moved up to the top of the gully and stood beside Black as the others came out. When they were all out and waiting, the hunter led them swiftly up, along a track in the grass, to a mound at the top of the hill which stood slightly proud of the ground all round like a wall. He flattened himself against it and listened, then sidled along, motioning the others to do the same. At last, Simon heard a sound. It was a horse whinnying from the other side of the earthwork, and as he heard it he gripped his sword more tightly as he followed the hunter.
Dawn was a glow in the east now, showing the clouds distinctly and lighting their way as they followed the side of the wall. Apart from the horse there was no sound, nothing apart from their soft footsteps on the grass. There was not even a breeze. His tension mounting, Simon saw the hand signal once more. This time, he was sure, would be the last. They were almost at the entrance now, a darker mark against the grey of the earthen wall. He saw Black turn quickly and glance at the men behind, then he seemed to lean forward and peer through to the camp before motioning urgently. Then he was gone.
Simon took a deep breath, muttered a quick prayer, and darted after him.
When he thought back on the mad scramble of the fight later, it seemed that the next few minutes were a discordant melee of disjointed and seemingly disconnected events as the men ran silently into the camp and tried to capture the trail bastons. It was as if the men were all somehow tied individually to their own brief tableaux with their enemies, each small battle with its own participants, each separate and unique, but each linked one to another to create the whole. It seemed to Simon, when he thought about it, that it was like a tapestry. A tapestry composed of a number of individual threads that combined to build the picture, and, like a tapestry, the picture could only be discerned when the whole was viewed together.
But for Simon, as he ran full pelt into the camp, the battle was pure confusion. There seemed to be no sense or coherence in the small struggling groups of men and the only thought in his mind was that they must stop the outlaws and prevent any further attacks.
Just as they came in through the gap in the rampart, he caught a glimpse of Black. He had almost run into a man who was about to wander outside, a young man who was yawning and stretching as he walked, only to stop, dumbfounded, at the sight of the posse rushing in. He seemed too surprised to make a sound. Without pausing in his stride, the hunter thumped him in the belly with a balled fist and he fell with a gasp of pain, his hands clutched to his stomach. Another man was crouching over the embers of the fire, his hands outstretched over the ashes to warm, and Black made for him as he stared at his attacker in stupefaction. But then he seemed to realise his danger and shouted, and all at once the camp seemed to stir. Simon was behind Black, and ran towards the farthest sleeping figure, but as he came close, the man stirred and rose, snatched up a club, and danced lightly away from Simon’s first hasty thrust.
Now the camp was full of struggling men. Simon caught a glimpse of a man from the posse going down, but then he felt the club scrape along his jaw in a fast, glancing blow, and he had to dodge back. Crouching, sword making swift movements from side to side pointing at the man’s belly, he watched his opponent.
The man’s eyes were shifting nervously from Simon’s face to the battle behind him. Blinking quickly, his thin, drawn features seemed to radiate confused tenor as he licked his lips, but then he pounced, the club swinging up from low to reach towards Simon’s face. Moving aside and catching the cudgel on his blade to move it away, the bailiff snarled, “Give up!” as he circled like a wrestler, the heavy sword twitching left to right. “Surrender! You can’t win.”
From the fleeting glimpses he had of the rest of the battle, it was clear that the posse would have no need of the men on the horses. Already only four outlaws were still fighting, and even as he watched another fell with a scream, clutching at his side where a huge gash had opened his body to show the bones of his ribs. Now there were only three, but as he looked, he realised that one of the three was the man they wanted.
He was a great, square bear of a man, a vast, solid mass of bone and muscle, with a shock of dark hair that fell over his little eyes, black with anger, as he whirled and spun, his sword in one hand, a misericord in the other. He had already wounded Fasten, who lay unmoving on the ground beside him. Black and two other men were surrounding him now, darting in to stab and slash, but even as they moved, he appeared to have slipped away, as if he could perfectly anticipate their every movement, as if he was always slightly quicker than they. If it was not so terrible a sight, it would have been almost humorous, the way that this huge man seemed to be able to dance in and among the other three, but then any amusement disappeared as another of his attackers fell, to crouch on
