there was no high rampart or wall like that at Beauscyr, but all over the camp large rocks had been scattered, making it harder for horses to travel fast, and these, along with the holes dug out on the plain, should stop any charge. The miners stood in small groups, with outlying men at each side who carried bows, while in the middle was the greater force of men with arms, holding swords, picks and iron bars in fists gone suddenly clammy.
Thomas Smyth strode around, offering brief words of support and encouragement, laughing at the words of one, slapping another on the back, and experimentally touching a rusty weapon here and there with a show of amused disgust. To Baldwin he was like any number of men who led others, smiling, instilling confidence by his own display, and always remembering the names of his men. Like all good commanders, he knew, the knight could see that if a man would fight and die for his master, that master must show respect for his man. And like all good commanders, he knew how to position his troops for best advantage.
Chewing at his moustache, Baldwin tried twice to go to the miner, but now George Harang had his sword out and was guarding the two men and their servants with five others. His eyes never left the bailiff and his friend, not even when the shout went up from the Beauscyr force, not when the stumbling feet began to stamp and pound as they ran toward the camp, their steps sounding like a rushing river of noise. For all that, it was strangely peaceful. A lark sang above the camp, the murmur of the leat called softly behind the blowing-house, and Baldwin had a sense of unreality. It felt impossible that he was truly here, and would shortly witness the climax of years of arguing between the tinners and the landlord, that he would again be involved in a battle in which he had no part. He had no interest in either side’s claims or demands, he was only here to help his friend try to find justice for a man who had been captured.
The running men had lost any semblance of formation now, and he could not help his lip curling in disgust, quickly replaced by sympathy. These men were just like the troops he had seen at Acre. Poor, untrained levies hurled at the enemy to try to batter a way through while the cavalry searched for the best point to smash a breach in the lines. Like at Acre, they would be destroyed. Here, there was no line to be broken, no defense where cavalry could focus. When he heard the whistle and snap of the bows, he winced, and had to turn away, but not before he had seen men stumble and fall, two with the feathered darts jutting obscenely from their chests, one with a shaft embedded in his throat. Another wave of arrows rose into the air, sounding like a flock of geese in their hollow swishing, and the solid thump as they hit flesh was a terrible sound.
But he had not realized how well Sir William had been trained. As the torrent of men reached the camp, almost simultaneously, or so it seemed, there was a great shout behind. A strong party of horsemen had ridden round and were now attacking from across the river, behind the defenders. The call acted like spurs to the Beauscyr men in front, and their weapons rose and fell, swords meeting axes, pikes meeting hammers, daggers meeting daggers, in a cacophony of discordant clanging like an army of ironsmiths beating their anvils together.
And now there was a fresh rumbling and pounding as the knight led his men at the gallop. Baldwin could see the two men leading, Sir William Beauscyr and Sir Ralph, their swords high, the sun sparkling on their mail and plate, glinting from their swords as they whirled overhead, flashing from the sharp edges of the lances, while the land shimmered under the thunder of the hooves. When they came upon the pot-holed ground, many fell, but most reached the edge of the little town.
Simon was fretting. He did not know what to do for the best. It was impossible to stop the brawl, but he could not stand by and see so many men killed or wounded for no reason without lifting a finger. George Harang and his men anxiously fingered their weapons and cast wary glances over the two men. Thomas Smyth had not asked Simon or Baldwin for their swords or daggers, but neither felt it would be safe to draw them. The miners had no reason to feel that they were enemies as yet, and both men would prefer matters to stay that way.
Between the cottages Simon caught occasional glimpses of the struggling men. He winced as he saw an axe fall and take a man’s arm off at the shoulder. There was a short wail, swiftly cut off, and he spun round to see a man sinking to his knees with a bloody mess where his throat should have been. Suddenly he felt waves of nausea breaking over him, and he gasped, his eyes still on the man who slowly toppled to one side, eyes wide and staring as if in surprise.
That was when his anger flashed into full flame. Shoving one guard away, he snarled at George Harang: “Take me to Smyth!”
The miner gazed at him uncertainly. “I was told to keep you here.”
“I don’t care! How many more must die while those two fools fight with other men’s lives? Take me to him now! This isn’t just madness, it’s futile!”
George hovered, undecided. Thomas had told him to stay here with the two men, but he, too, was shocked by the brutality of the battle. This was not what he had expected. It was no way to avenge Peter – it was merely a slogging match in which men with the least reason to fight were pitted against each other. Yet slowly, unwillingly, he shook his head. He had never yet failed his master.
Baldwin walked forward casually. Simon was standing a short distance from George, his face reddening in fury, and the knight moved alongside, aware of the heightened tension in their other guards. “George,” he said. “Simon is right. We have to stop this. Look at it.”
The miner risked a glance and saw men grappling with each other, men holding each other by the throat, one who sat numbly, his head bleeding profusely from a wound in his scalp, and bodies… everywhere he looked there were figures lying on the ground. Then he saw a young man fall, after a blow from a club. Gritting his teeth, he addressed Simon. “Come with me,” he said quietly.
He led the way past the guards, who stared dumbly as if unsure whether to join the fight or stay where they were, between the cottages on the left, and to a place where the ground rose. From here they could see Thomas. He was wielding his heavy sword as if it was as tight as an arrow, and against him stood John. Glancing round the field, Simon made out Sir William on his feet a little behind, and Sir Ralph was with him, also off his horse. A man stumbled by carrying a lance, a bloody gash in his arm, and Simon swore viciously. The man could only have been twenty, no more, and he was crying, unseeing, just walking to avoid any further fighting, and the sight inflamed the bailiff. Before Baldwin could stop him, he had shoved past two struggling groups and drawn his sword, knocking John and Thomas apart and standing between them.
Baldwin stared in astonishment, but then, seeing that two miners were rushing to Simon thinking he was going to attack their master, he leapt forward with a muttered prayer, and stood facing them, his back to the bailiff and his sword outstretched while his brown eyes held theirs unblinkingly. They hesitated, exchanging a glance, before slowly circling round him to get closer to Thomas Smyth, but he moved to bar their way. At the sound of the bailiff’s voice they halted.
“Stop this madness!”
Risking a quick glance behind him, the knight saw that his friend was bellowing right into the miner’s face. Thomas stood white with rage, his sword gripped in both hands, and Baldwin thought for one terrible moment that he was going to attack Simon. But then the fire died from his eyes and he seemed to shrivel. While the deafening clamor of the battle ranged all round them, the miner was locked in his own private world of pain and grief.
This was not what he had wanted. He had tried to get hold of John, the man he believed had killed his son, but when George Harang had come back with Robert, he had intended somehow to use him as a bargaining chip to capture the real culprit. He had not wanted this. All he had wanted to do was avenge his son, not cause more hurt. The bailiff was staring at him with open disgust, and it shook Smyth, making him look all round.
Theirs was a distinct island of calm in the middle of the battle, fringed by men hacking and stabbing at each other. Their allegiance was a mystery, for in the height of battle all were reduced to a bland uniformity, faces set, wielding their weapons with the fixed and fearful determination to kill before they could be harmed. Thomas found it difficult to distinguish between his own men and those of the Beauscyrs. The men were all involved in their own private battles, small groups of three or four with various weapons, some clinched together in a mortal fight for control of a single dagger, some slipping and sliding at the bank of the stream, faces and clothes streaked with mud and soil, others standing and making slashing arcs in the air with steel and iron. Here and there men stood warily glaring at each other, panting as they rested, too exhausted already to continue, snatching rest in the midst of the killing. And all over the ground were the bodies. Some writhing, some rolling, some screaming, and more just still, features fixed, with stabs or great marks in their skulls where a mace or pick had dashed out their brains.
Simon saw the miner’s face change. A look of understanding came into his eyes, and with it an infinity of sadness. He nodded, his sword dropping, and stood up from his crouch, and Simon knew that the fight must soon end.
“STOP THIS NOW!” he roared, and Simon was surprised at the power in his voice. “ALL OF YOU, STOP!”
