‘You cannot kill him,’ Nathaniel warned, keeping his sword charged. His son had chosen to oppose them, he was the enemy and Nathaniel moved around to place himself between Robert and Clarsdale.
‘He’s a traitor,’ Robert said, staring at the darkened features of the man standing before him. ‘So are you, Father, and in running off to seek exile in the midst of this country’s enemies you have revealed yourself to be worse – a coward.’
Nathaniel’s temper slipped beyond the bounds of his control and he lunged forward at the insult. Robert leapt back but he swiftly counter attacked, sweeping his blade in low, trying to draw around to his father’s flank. Nathaniel countered but he gave ground, his balance faltering as Robert extended his assault, thrusting deeply into Nathaniel’s defence, forcing him to react with greater speed.
Robert feigned left and then switched his attack in the last instant. Nathaniel parried and Robert repeated the sequence, feigning left once more. This time Nathaniel was quicker to react, anticipating the ruse and he struck back with a sharp riposte, slicing through the material of Robert’s jerkin. Robert stayed on the offensive, shifting his weight to attack to the left. Nathaniel expected another feint but this time Robert followed through, catching him off guard, his reactions too slow, and Nathaniel instinctively twisted his upper body to avoid the strike, splitting his defence wide open in an instant. Robert immediately reversed his blade and the tip of his sword swept up to his father’s throat.
‘Robert, no!’ a voice cried out.
Robert stayed the blow, holding the tip an inch from Nathaniel’s throat. Father Blackthorne stepped out of the darkness.
‘He’s your father, Robert. You cannot kill him. It is a mortal sin.’
‘He is not my father,’ Robert breathed. ‘He’s a traitor.’
‘And you are not my son,’ Nathaniel spat, his eyes blazing with hatred.
Robert nodded. ‘Then I am absolved.’
‘You men on the summit!’ a voice roared from out of the darkness. ‘You are surrounded. In the name of the Queen, I command you to drop your weapons and step forward.’
Robert leapt back from his father and swung around, charging his sword in the direction of the challenge.
‘You,’ Clarsdale cursed at Robert. ‘You have betrayed us all.’
‘Have a care, Clarsdale,’ Robert warned over his shoulder, ‘less I spill your blood and save the executioner his coin. I have betrayed no one.’
‘Then who has led them here?’ Clarsdale asked, his eyes darting in every direction.
Robert couldn’t answer. He peered into the darkness, trying to discern if they were indeed surrounded. From all sides he heard signs of approach. For a moment he was tempted to surrender. He was innocent, he had done nothing wrong, but no one would believe such a claim, especially once they found out one of the real traitors was his father. He had no choice. He had to escape.
‘There is no place to hide,’ the voice called out. ‘You are surrounded. I order you to step forward!’
Robert glanced at the others. Clarsdale was on the verge of panic. His father had taken up an attacking stance once more and his blade was charged before him. He too was searching the darkness. He noticed Robert was looking at him and their eyes locked for a moment in unspoken hatred. Robert looked away to Father Blackthorne. The priest’s face was a mask of terror.
‘Douse the fire,’ Robert said to his father. ‘Our only chance is to split up and try and slip through the cordon in separate places.’
‘It’s no use, we’re trapped,’ Father Blackthorne whimpered, overwhelmed by the fears that had lived with him for so long.
Robert ignored him and stared at his father, waiting for a response. Nathaniel nodded and stepped forward. He kicked dirt over the fire and the feeble light rapidly gave way to near total darkness. In the corner of his eye Robert saw Clarsdale go to ground. He looked back to his father but he too was gone. Near at hand Robert could see the vague outline of Father Blackthorne. He grabbed him by the arm.
‘Stay close.’ He pulled the priest down into a low crouch as he slipped behind the nearest wall.
‘This is your last warning!’ the voice called out again. ‘Come forward or we will advance!’
Robert crept forward, moving at right angles to the voice. He dragged Father Blackthorne over a wall and raised his head to look about him. A faint light caught his eye and he stared at it for a moment. It was the glow of a slow-burning match, the tiny smouldering flame that was poised to ignite the charge of an arquebus. He looked left and right of it and saw others close by. The cordon was compact and ordered. There was no chance they could simply slip through. Their only chance was to create confusion and hope that a breach would emerge.
‘On my order, prepare to advance,’ the voice called out. ‘Advance!’
Robert drew out his wheellock pistol and took careful aim at the smouldering match. He fired. A man cried out and Robert heard his arquebus fall to the ground.
‘I’m hit,’ the man screamed. From all sides others began to shout in the darkness.
‘The papist bastards have pistols!’
‘Let ’em have it!’
The air was rent with the sound of gunshots. Bullets whizzed over Robert’s head and ricocheted off the walls around him. Another man screamed out in pain, then another, while others shouted in anger as they charged forward.
‘Cease fire!’ a voice roared. ‘God curse you, cease fire!’
The order was ignored and the firing continued sporadically as men reloaded. Robert saw a figure lumbering towards him and stood up to meet the charge. Another bullet flew past him. The soldier saw him and screamed a curse, bringing his sword up. Robert saw the silhouette of his arm against the sky. He reacted on instinct and sidestepped. Their blades clashed and Robert backed off, quickly absorbing the momentum of the soldier’s attack. The ground underfoot was strewn with rubble and the soldier stumbled. Robert whipped his sword around for the killing strike but in the final instant he reversed his thrust and struck his attacker in the face with the pommel of his sword, breaking his nose. The solider cried out and slumped to the ground.
Robert reached out and grabbed Father Blackthorne. The priest staggered to his feet. He called out incoherently, consumed with fear. Robert dragged him forward.
‘Move damn you. We need to go, now.’
He pulled the priest over another low wall. A bullet ricocheted overhead, sending splinters of stone flying through the air. The summit was blanketed in gun smoke and for a moment Robert lost his bearings. He heard the clash of steel nearby and the angry shouts of attackers.
Reaching out with his hand he felt his way forward and began to increase his pace, but ran headlong into a solid wall. The blow stunned him and he tasted blood. He angrily felt along the line of the ruins, dragging Father Blackthorne behind. Suddenly he sensed the fall of the ground beneath his feet. They had reached the edge of the summit. A bullet whistled past, then another, but Robert was already descending. Father Blackthorne grunted behind him and fell forward, crashing into Robert. The two men tumbled down the hill of loose stone and gorse.
Robert swore as he regained his feet. He glanced up at the smoke strewn summit. It was impossible to tell what was happening. One voice was shouting above the others, the voice that had first challenged them. It was calling for an end to the fighting, for order, but chaos had been unleashed and would only end when the last man regained his wits. Robert looked for Father Blackthorne. He was slumped nearby and Robert grabbed him under the shoulder to haul him to his feet. The priest cried out in pain and Robert cursed his screams, fearing they might draw attention. He lost his grip and Father Blackthorne fell backwards onto the grass. Robert made to seize him again but stopped. His hand felt slick and wet. It was covered in blood.
Cross bellowed in rage as the shooting finally ceased. He stepped out from behind the shelter of a wall and called for torches to be lit. A flame appeared in the gun smoke, followed by a dozen more and he stalked over to the nearest one, grabbing it off a soldier before catching him by the collar of his doublet.
‘Find Francis Tanner,’ he snarled. ‘And spread the word. I want a full sweep of the summit. I want those men found.’
The soldier nodded fearfully and moved quickly away. Cross held the torch out and turned slowly. The body of a solider was nearby and he walked over to see he had been shot in the chest.
The skirmish had lasted for five minutes, five long minutes. Cross’s every order to cease fire had been ignored
