to drive all the air out of his lungs, yanked desperately to free his spur, and rolled away from the horse’s flailing hooves. Before he could regain his feet, a soldier was standing over him, wielding a bloodied mace. His helmet took the brunt of the blow, undoubtedly saved his life. But the impact was still strong enough to stun. His vision blurred, and he saw the mace start to descend again through a wavering red haze, powerless to deflect it. The blow never landed. Someone grabbed his assailant’s arm, spoiling his aim. “Do not kill this one, you fool! Look at his horse! He’ll be able to pay a goodly ransom!”
Ranulf’s arms were pinned behind his back, bound with leather thongs. He and the other prisoners, those judged worthy of ransoming, had been dragged over to the almonry, shoved against the wall, and held under guard. Ranulf’s head was throbbing so wildly that his slightest move set the world to whirling around him. He closed his eyes tightly until the dizziness subsided. When he opened them again, he could think only of those ancient Roman circuses, for the comic and the tragic had merged into a scene as bizarre and compelling as any he’d ever witnessed.
Bodies lay sprawled at odd angles. Horses milled about in panic. Convent dogs barked hysterically. Plundering had already begun. Soldiers had broken into the abbess’s dwelling and the guesthouse in search of valuables. Others were ransacking the buttery for wine. Not far from Ranulf, two youths were squabbling good-naturedly over a lute, while a third staggered under the weight of a massive coffer. When he broke the lock, revealing neatly folded veils, wimples, and habits, his friends roared with laughter at his chagrin. There was an almost festive air about the looting, but sporadic fighting still continued. John Marshal and the men with him had managed to barricade the church, and some of the Flemings were attempting to force their way inside. And through it all, there echoed the screams of the nuns and children.
Ranulf tugged at his bonds, to no avail. He’d have to concoct a false identity, for if they learned he was Maude’s brother, he’d not have a prayer in Hell of being ransomed. Mayhap he could claim to be a knight of her household; that would explain why she’d be willing to buy his freedom. It was hard to think clearly, though, when his head was pounding like a drum. As he tried to contrive an alias, one that would alert Maude as to his true identity, more riders rode through the gateway. As they passed Ranulf and the other prisoners, his heart skipped a beat, for he recognized William de Ypres, and he did not doubt that the Fleming could also recognize him.
Ypres beckoned to several of his captains. After conferring briefly with them, he started toward the church. He’d not ridden far before a nun ran out to intercept him. She was an elderly woman, barely five feet tall, plump and pink-cheeked, as unlikely a foe as he could imagine. But she displayed no fear whatsoever, boldly blocking his horse’s path, and when Ypres reigned in, she cried fiercely, “God will curse you forever if you do not stop this from occurring!”
Ypres assumed that she was blaming him for shedding blood in God’s Acre. But when she warned that “There is no greater sin than to defile one of His daughters!” he understood. “Where?” he said, and she pointed toward the stables.
The horses had already been led from the barn, for they were among the most prized of all plunder. It was not empty, though. In a shadowy back stall, two men crouched over a struggling, thrashing figure. One was kneeling on the girl’s outstretched arms, a hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her screams, while his partner was tearing away her habit. They were so intent upon their prey that they did not at once realize they had an audience. Their recoil was almost comical, therefore, when Ypres queried, “I trust I am not interrupting anything of importance?”
They whirled, groping for their weapons, weapons that went untouched as soon as they recognized the identity of this intruder. They knew Ypres on sight-and by reputation-every man in his army did. The young nun gasped for breath, then pleaded with Ypres to help her, but he kept his eyes upon the men.
Ypres seemed in no hurry, gazing down at them impassively. “She is a pretty bit, what I can see of her. So…if she’s what you want, go to it. In all fairness, though, you ought to know this. The last time one of my men raped a nun, I cut off his cock and fed it to him.”
The nun understood none of this, for Ypres spoke in Flemish. “Please,” she sobbed, but without hope, for this cold-eyed man on a grey stallion did not have the look of a saviour. It seemed miraculous to her, therefore, when her assailants suddenly let her go, scrambled to their feet, and fled the stables. Her relief gave way almost at once to a new jolt of fear; what if this foreign knight meant to finish what his men had begun? She clutched at her ripped garments, and when she dared to look up again, she started to weep in earnest, no longer doubting her deliverance, for Ypres was gone.
As he rode out of the stables, Ypres was met by one of his captains and the elderly nun, now gripping a pitchfork, much to his amusement. “Your lamb is within, Sister,” he said, “scared but unsullied.” She gave him a hard, hostile look, then brushed past him into the stables. Ypres laughed. “That old lady,” he said, “loves us not.”
His captain grinned. “I truly thought she was going to run those fools through!”
“No loss if she had. When you can buy a woman for a fistful of coins, why do these dolts have to muck about with nuns? Now…what is happening in the church?”
“Some of them have holed up inside, refusing to surrender. Marshal is amongst them, and that one will hold out till we’re all too old and feeble to fight.”
“Patience,” Ypres said, “is a nun’s virtue, not mine. Let’s make it easy on us all, Martin. Find some kindling.”
Ranulf had tensed as Ypres emerged from the stables, fearing that at any moment, the Fleming would glance his way. He was not close enough to hear the orders being given, but he soon saw what they meant to do, and began to struggle frantically against his bonds, until one of his guards came over and threatened to slice off an ear if he did not keep still. Ranulf slumped back, for by now it was too late. Ypres’s soldiers had flung blazing torches onto the porch, were shooting fire arrows into the shutters, up onto the roof shingles. Ranulf watched in horror as the church began to burn, for he was sure that Gilbert was one of the men trapped inside.
When he’d raced into the church, Gilbert had thought Ranulf was right behind him. By the time he discovered his mistake, the other men were hastily barring the doors and latching the shutters, dragging altars over to blockade the entrances. With daylight cast out so suddenly, the church was plunged into darkness. It was hot and uncomfortable inside, crowded with anxious men and two terrified nuns, who’d had the bad luck to be in the chancel when John Marshal seized control. The atmosphere was grim, for they knew they could not hold out for long. Their only hope was to offer so much resistance that their attackers would decide it was not worth the effort to overcome them. Under John Marshal’s command, they managed to beat back two assaults. But one of the doors was beginning to split under repeated blows, and when they opened a shutter for their crossbowmen to fire out, a torch was tossed through into the nave. They were able to quench it, but they could still smell smoke, and they soon discovered why-the church was afire.
When John Marshal ripped up an altar cloth and soaked it in the holy water font as protection against the smoke, Gilbert did the same. And when the smoke and flames became too intense, he followed Marshal’s lead again, and they retreated up the stairs to the dubious shelter of the bell tower. He was not long in regretting it, not long in realizing he’d made the greatest mistake of his life. The heat was getting unbearable. Smoke was seeping up into their sanctuary, and they could hear the crackle of the flames below; it sounded to Gilbert as if half the church were ablaze. “My lord,” he said, “if we stay up here, we’ll die for certes. We’d best surrender whilst we still can.”
John Marshal blotted sweat from his forehead with a corner of the altar cloth. Raising his head, he stared at Gilbert. “You take a step toward that door, and I’ll kill you myself. We are not going to surrender.”
Gilbert’s mouth dropped open. Was the man serious? Marshal was regarding him with unblinking, inscrutable eyes. “What are you saying, that it is better to be roasted alive than surrender?”
“I have no intention of being roasted,” Marshal said calmly. “That door ought to keep out the worst of the smoke for now. This church is stone, will take a while to burn. We can wait them out-as long as we do not panic. I cannot speak for you, Fitz John, but I’m not one for panicking.”
Gilbert had never doubted his own courage, but he was not willing to dice with Death, not like this. He’d watched from one of the tower windows as men reeled out of the flames, coughing and choking. Some were spared, some were not. But a quick sword thrust was not the worst of ways to die. Being trapped in a burning building with a lunatic suddenly seemed a far worse fate. “We’ll be doomed if we stay up here!”
“No,” Marshal said, “we will not,” and to Gilbert’s dismay, he sounded faintly amused. “God favors risk-takers. He’ll not let us burn.”
