A piece of sacking was put over Matthias’ head. A noose tightened round his neck. He dug his feet more firmly into the stirrups. His horse, nervous, shied and reared. Matthias hung on grimly, digging in his knees even as Emloe’s gang tried to pull the horse clear and leave him to die of excruciating strangulation. Matthias panicked. He struggled with all his might. Men were shouting. He heard the rasp of steel. His horse reared in agony, then collapsed beneath him. Matthias hung suspended, the noose biting deep into his throat. He heard, as if above the roaring of waves, the sound of horses, and the rope was cut. He fell and hit something lying on the road. The sacking was pulled off, the cord round his neck swiftly cut. For a while he just lay gasping and retching. The cords binding his hands were also sliced. He realised he was lying on the corpse of his horse.
‘Bastards!’ he muttered. ‘He was a brave animal!’
‘Aye,’ a voice said. ‘If he hadn’t fought back, we wouldn’t have been in time.’
Matthias rolled over and stared into the smiling face of Sir Edgar Ratcliffe. He struggled to his knees. The corpses of Emloe’s men littered the trackway and, by the sounds from the trees, others were being hunted and killed deep in the woods.
‘Nothing like a bit of exercise for my lads,’ Ratcliffe smiled, helping Matthias to his feet.
For a while Matthias let himself be tended: one of Ratcliffe’s retainers bathed his neck and wrists with coarse wine. Another took him to sit beneath the trees, from where he watched his horse being lifted and the saddle taken off. Eventually Ratcliffe’s men, with bloody swords and daggers, returned on to the trackway. Sir Edgar came and squatted before Matthias.
‘I am sorry we couldn’t save your friends,’ he retorted. ‘But we came as fast as we could. Your messenger said that she knew we were leaving today and that she was frightened you would be attacked.’ Ratcliffe dug into his purse and brought out three pure gold coins. ‘There’s nothing like a pretty face and a bag of gold coins to spur on a knight errant.’ He turned. ‘Did you get the bastards?’ he shouted.
A blond, surly-faced young man dressed in a black leather jerkin and red hose came swaggering across, thumbs pushed into his war belt. He had a cast in one eye which made him look sly.
‘City bullyboys,’ he declared. ‘They really should have kept to the alleyways. Two or three got away but the rest. .’ He pointed back to where Ratcliffe’s men were now stripping the dead. ‘They are as dead as those. Anyway, who’s he?’
‘I’ve told you,’ Ratcliffe replied. ‘A friend of mine. He’s the one the young lady told us about.’
The man hawked and spat, then swaggered back to join the plundering. Ratcliffe narrowed his eyes and watched him go.
‘Gervase Craftleigh,’ he said, ‘my lieutenant. He’d like to command this troop. A good fighting man, but mean-spirited and choleric.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Matthias asked. ‘What young lady?’
‘Oh.’ Ratcliffe pulled back his chain mail coif and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘We heard rumours about your little trouble in Winchelsea. Ah well, I thought, that’s the end of that: we’ve lost a good recruit. Then this morning, just before dawn a beautiful, red-haired woman came to our camp. Matthias,’ Ratcliffe shook his head, ‘she was exquisite: hair like fire, creamy skin, eyes full of life. She was with a man. It was dark, I couldn’t make out his features. Anyway, she said that you were leaving Winchelsea today but that she feared for your safety. Well, to cut a long story short, she offered me a small purse of gold and kissed me on each cheek, so we struck camp and marched as quickly as we could. We could see you were in difficulties.’ He gestured back to the road. ‘Thank God for your horse. He was rearing and kicking until the bastards killed the poor brute. What was it all about?’
Matthias told him about Emloe and his gang, depicting it as a blood feud. Ratcliffe heard him out and got to his feet.
‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I’ve done what I came to do.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘We are going to camp out under the stars tonight: you are welcome to stay.’
‘Can I still join your company?’ Matthias asked.
Ratcliffe pulled a face. ‘Matthias, we’ve signed articles. We are now a full free company, nothing can be decided without a full vote of the council. We’ll do that tonight.’
Matthias was given one of the horses from Emloe’s gang. The soldiers stayed for a while to drag the corpses from the road, Ratcliffe insisting that they gave them some sort of decent burial. By the time they had finished, it had grown dark. They continued their journey through the woods and camped in the lee of a small hill. For a while all was bustle: horse lines were set up, a latrine dug, campfires lit, whilst some of Ratcliffe’s men went hunting, bringing back a pheasant and a couple of rabbits. These were quickly prepared for roasting. Coarse wine was served, everyone sitting round the campfire congratulating themselves on a good day’s work. Matthias gathered they were not only richer by the gold from Morgana, for it must have been she, but Emloe’s men had also provided horseflesh, armour, clothing, not to mention the contents of the purses.
‘Well, gentlemen?’ Ratcliffe got to his feet, clapping his hands. ‘The man we saved wants to join us. I offered him a post before we all sealed articles and left Winchelsea. Now, this time tomorrow, he could well be on board our transport and sailing with us to Spain.’
A chorus of approval greeted his words.
‘We’ve all done good work today. So, perhaps before we continue, it’s only right to give thanks to God and our protector, St Raphael.’
‘St Raphael! St Raphael! St Raphael!’
The cry was taken up. Sir Edgar recited a Paternoster, an Ave, a Gloria and, in a fine tenor voice, launched into a Latin hymn to Raphael, the great archangel who stood before God’s throne. The rest of the company joined in: a fine harmonious sound which filled the silence of the night. Matthias realised that, in the main, he was in the presence of good men who regarded themselves as soldiers of Christ. He closed his eyes and said his own quiet prayer that he would be allowed to join them.
‘Well,’ Sir Edgar declared once the hymn was finished, ‘Matthias Fitzosbert, is he a member of our troop or not? I say he is.’
The matter would have gone smoothly enough, the men already chorusing their ‘Ayes’, when Gervase Craftleigh sprang to his feet.
‘No!’ he cried.
The rest looked at him in silence.
‘I say no!’
‘Why?’ Ratcliffe queried.
‘We are all fighting men,’ Craftleigh declared pugnaciously. ‘We all know each other — well, to a certain extent — but who is this Fitzosbert? He’s a felon. He killed a man in Winchelsea and took sanctuary in a church. We did say,’ he added to a chorus of ‘Ayes’ and nodding heads, ‘that no felon would be allowed into the company of St Raphael.’ He smiled maliciously at Ratcliffe. ‘We have no place for him. Thank God we lost no men in our recent fight. Oh, and by the way, when will the gold the red-haired woman brought be distributed?’
‘When I say,’ Ratcliffe replied calmly.
‘Why not now?’
‘According to the articles,’ Ratcliffe reminded him, ‘all booty is distributed on a monthly basis. Those same articles also placed great trust in me. I am a knight and God’s own warrior, Master Craftleigh, I am no thief.’
Craftleigh, however, remained unabashed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘my vote is against Fitzosbert on two counts: he is a stranger and a murderer.’
‘I killed in self-defence!’ Matthias shouted.
‘In which case,’ Craftleigh sat down, ‘why didn’t you stand trial?’
‘You know the reason.’ Ratcliffe intervened. ‘The dead man was the leader of those assassins we killed on the road.’
‘Why did you kill him?’ Craftleigh glared at Matthias.
‘It’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘And not your business to know.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ratcliffe asked quietly.
Matthias got to his feet. ‘Take your vote!’ he said.
He wandered off down the hill, bathing his hot face and hands in a small brook. He heard the hum of conversation behind him, then silence. He splashed more water over his face. He turned at the sound of footsteps. Sir Edgar Ratcliffe crouched beside him. His lips smiled, but his eyes were sad.
