Eighteen
The night was only a few hours old when the tide started to turn in earnest.
Alymere had not left his waterside vigil, despite his uncle's insistence that they rest before the coming fight. The strength of vengeance sustained him, though he would never admit it. He knew that should it come to it, his arm would not fail him. The spirits of every single one of the fallen would support his sword arm, lending him the last of their strength. Of that he was utterly sure.
The older man was certain there would be a battle, but as the hours passed Alymere became less sure. It was not that he feared the fight, no matter how many warriors waited across the water. No, the longer he watched the monastery burn the more certain he became that the reivers had not only trapped themselves on the island, but had almost certainly penned themselves inside the burning monastery, turning the high walls into their own prison. The causeway was the only way off Medcaut, and with Alymere and Sir Lowick waiting for them at the end of the road there was no way they could have escaped. There was a justice of sorts in that, Alymere thought, watching Medcaut burn.
And if the fire didn't claim them, then they would.
The knight said very little to him during those two hours. He did not seek to comfort him, but neither did he try to stoke the fires of his anger. He simply allowed Alymere to be. This too was part of his training, allowing him the space to master himself. The young man knew that how he handled himself over the next few hours would define the rest of his life — either in terms of demons he carried with him or in demons he laid to rest. What Lowick did not — could not — know was that there was only ever going to be one outcome from the night's trials. Alymere already knew the kind of man he was going to be.
So as the fire spread, he imagined it burning the raiders as well as the monks. Separated from its heat, Alymere could only watch with grim fascination and marvel at its appetite as the flames scorched the sky red.
Eventually the two men saddled up and rode out, the water still around the horses' fetlocks as they negotiated the slippery stones of the Pilgrim's Way.
It was the longest two miles of his life.
He recalled another exhausted ride he had made, this time to Camelot, looking for an entirely different kind of justice for his father. He had been wrong then, believing that the man at his side was responsible for all of the ills of the world. The king had known that, and hence his 'punishment.' He had ridden to Camelot sure he was right, sure the king would see the justice in his suit and confer his father's nobility onto him. Arthur had done nothing of the sort, of course. He had seen into the heart of the hot-blooded youth and sought to find a way to quench that fire and turn him into a man worthy of his father's nobility. He knew all of this now, but as he rode up to the monastery gates, what he
The horses would go no closer to the flames.
Beside him, Sir Lowick dismounted, strode up to the wooden gates and pounded upon them with his mailed fist. It was a curiously pointless gesture given the flames behind the gates, but that did not deter the knight. He called out, 'Holy men of Medcaut! If you are able, open the door in the name of the king!' but the cry brought no response.
The knight drew his sword and nodded solemnly to his charge.
'Now we bring justice, boy. May your sword be true, your aim honourable. And may you live to see tomorrow.'
With that, the knight charged down the door. Medcaut was not a fortress; it took Sir Lowick four blows with his shoulder to splinter the wood, and two more for him to tear the timber loose of the frame supporting it.
Alymere saw the flames through the splintered wood, dismounted and followed his uncle inside.
Left unchecked for hours, it had torn through all of the easily burnable parts of the monastery, the straw on the stable rooftops, and much of the stables themselves, twisting and charring the wooden stalls until only blackened spars remained, and even those were crumbling and breaking down. More of the monastery was ablaze: the apple blossoms looked like dying men; the stained-glass windows of the lower chambers had shattered under the heat; the stone of the great building itself was seared black, tongues of flame licking out of the broken windows. At the farthest edge of the compound, up against the wall, the Abbot's house was ablaze.
It was like something out of Hell.
Lowick crashed through what remained of the door and burst into the courtyard. He looked right then left, taking stock of the situation quickly. Alymere stepped in behind him, his own sword tip wavering as he saw the silhouette of a hooded monk in one of the upper windows of the main building.
The fire lit the air behind him, making him look, momentarily, like some shadowy angel with flames for wings.
Alymere stared up at the monk in horror, but the man seemed… at peace.
That was it, he realised. The monk was content. He could feel it from where he stood. No, not merely content, the monk welcomed the fire as it would bring him one step closer to his Lord. Alymere didn't know how he knew, but he knew. The monk simply stood at the window, drinking in the last sights of his life.
And what sights they were.
In the centre of the courtyard another of the brothers was locked in a fight to the death with two grim-faced reivers, somehow holding them at bay with nothing more than a wooden staff.
The Scots were weary; their claymore blades dragged on the dirt as they circled their quarry. Both were big men. Both were breathing hard. Despite the cold, sweat dripped down their faces.
Alymere couldn't begin to imagine how long the three men had been locked in their fight. Surely, though, it had to be for as long as the fires had raged?
The dirt at their feet was worn smooth, no trace of any snow left, unlike much of the rest of the courtyard, which was still white where the heat hadn't melted the snow to slush.
The smaller of the two northerners, a red-head with a ruddy complexion and braided beard, licked his lips before dropping to one knee as though in exhaustion, but brought his huge blade scything round in a vicious arc, looking to cut the monk off at the knees.
The monk planted the quarterstaff in the dirt, jumped over the wild swing, landed and turned the sword aside with the staff. The impact echoed throughout the cloister gardens. He parried three more blows in quick succession as the reivers found fresh reserves of strength, and then broke away from the fight, retreating three steps and planting the staff once more in the ground between his feet.
Grateful for the brief respite, the warriors did not close the gap between them immediately. The taller of the two turned, seeing the armoured knight racing towards him, and for a moment was torn between fight and flight.
The fire effectively damned him, but that didn't stop him calling out, 'This isn't your fight, laddy. Don't make me kill you.'
The knight let out a short bark of a laugh. 'I'm not the one who's going to die here, northerner. Throw down your sword and I might be merciful.'
'Hadaway with yerself before I lose my patience and decide to feed yer your own bollocks for supper.'
'You talk too much,' Lowick said. 'If you thought you could win this fight you'd shut up and fight me. You're trying to buy yourself a few seconds. Well, I will give them to you, as I am a just man. Mark my words for they are the last you shall hear. There are no second chances in my world. You killed people under my protection, good people. Innocent people. Women and children. That crime is upon your head, and for that crime I shall make your death every bit as ugly as your crime. You shall crawl to your heaven a ruined spirit. I shall cut your hands off, and your feet, and your manhood. But I am merciful; I shall take your head first to save myself from your screams. That is my judgement. Are you ready to die?'
Alymere saw something in his uncle's expression that he had never seen before, and in it, recognized all of the things Baptiste had claimed.
'Come and die then, you bastard,' the reiver spat. He brought his claymore up to defend himself, but, exhausted as he was, he was no match for the skill of the knight.
He blocked Sir Lowick's first few blows, the sound of steel ringing out. The Scot rolled with the knight's ferocious swings, but each successive blow weakened his arms, and needing both hands to wield the cumbersome sword, it became harder and harder to defend himself.
