could see horsemen in the distance, thankfully heading away from them.
‘Stay low, Rowan. There’s cover enough, so we’ll wait here awhile.’
His son nodded wearily, his eyes large and bruised-looking. Neither man had slept since the attack the day before. A massive force of pikemen had charged the archers. Dozens of the French had died, but it seemed their lords had put more of a scare into them than even English bowmen could. If there had been a way to get new arrows, Thomas thought they would have stopped them cold, but bows were no more use than sticks when the quivers were empty.
They’d scattered, sprinting away through fields and farms Thomas knew well. At one point, he’d even crossed his own land at the western field, causing him a different kind of pain. The French had fired his home, perhaps for no other reason than delight in destruction. The smell of smoke seemed to stay with him for miles.
He lay back and looked up at grey clouds, gasping. Rowan remained in a crouch, his eyes sweeping back and forth for the enemy. They’d both seen Baron Strange killed, though neither had mentioned it. Thomas had to admit the man had died well, fighting to the end as he was surrounded and hacked off his horse with axes. Thomas had felt his fingers itch then, but his arrows had all gone and he’d forced himself to run again as they removed the baron’s head.
‘Can you stitch a gash?’ Thomas said quietly, without looking at his son. ‘It’s on my right side, towards the back. I don’t think I can reach it. There’s a needle in my collar, if you feel for it.’
His arms and legs were leaden and he only wished he could lie there and sleep. He felt Rowan tugging at his shirt, pulling out the valuable steel and thread.
‘Not yet, lad. Let me rest for a time first.’
Thomas was exhausted, he knew it. Just the thought of examining the wound was too much. His son ignored him and Thomas was too weary to raise the will to sit up.
Rowan hissed to himself as he revealed the deep gash on his father’s hip.
‘How’s it look?’ Thomas said.
‘Not good. There’s a lot of blood. I can close it, I think. I’ve practised on dogs before.’
‘That is … a great comfort. Thank you for telling me,’ Thomas replied, closing his eyes for a moment. His side felt like it was on fire and he thought a couple of his ribs were cracked. He hadn’t even seen the French soldier until the sod had leaped up and almost disembowelled him. If the blade hadn’t turned on his hip bone, he’d be dead already.
He felt a wave of sick dizziness sweep over him as he lay there, panting.
‘Son, I may pass out for a time. If I do …’
His voice trailed away and Rowan sat by his side, waiting to see if his father would speak again. He looked through the bushes and took a sharp breath. Just across the field there were soldiers marching. He could see a host of their pikes above the hedges. With an expression of fierce concentration, Rowan began to stitch his father’s wound.
Highbury knew he was no more than a few miles from the border of English Normandy. The roads were filled with families of refugees and it was an odd contrast to be running for his life while he passed wagons and carts piled high with personal possessions, their owners trudging along the same roads. Some of them called out for his aid, but he was close to collapse and ignored them. Behind him, French horsemen followed, getting closer with every step.
His sixteen men were down to eight after a long day. With so many soldiers following in his steps, he knew he couldn’t turn to fight, but he was equally unwilling to run to complete exhaustion and be taken as easily as a child. His beard was wet with sweat and his horse stumbled and skidded at intervals, a warning that the animal would drop soon.
Highbury reined in at a crossroads, looking back at the shining armour of the men following. They wouldn’t know who he was, he was almost sure, only that he was running from them towards English territory. That was enough for them to give chase.
He could see a stone marker giving the distance to Rouen. It was just six miles or so, but too far. He was finished, his hands frozen and numb, his body reduced to a hacking cough and pain that seemed to have reached even his beard, so that the very roots of it ached.
‘I think they have me, lads,’ he said, gasping for breath. ‘You should go on, if you have the wind. It’s just an hour’s ride, no more and maybe less. I’ll slow them as best I can. You’ve made me proud and I wouldn’t change a day.’
Three of his men hadn’t stopped with him. Weak from their wounds, they rode with their heads lolling, the big warhorses ambling along. The remaining five were only slightly more alert and they looked at each other and then back down the road. The closest removed a mailed gauntlet and wiped his face.
‘My horse is finished, my lord. I’ll stay, if it’s all right.’
‘I can surrender, Rummage,’ Highbury said. ‘You, they’ll just cut down. Go on now! I’ll hold them as long as I can. Give me the satisfaction of knowing I saved a few of my men.’
Rummage dipped his head. He’d done his duty with the offer, but English territory was tantalizingly close. He dug in his spurs once more and his weary horse broke into a trot past a wagon and a miserable family staggering along.
‘Go with God, my lord,’ one of the others called as they moved away, leaving Highbury alone at the crossroads.
He raised a hand to them in farewell, then turned and waited for their pursuers.
It didn’t take long for them to reach the lone English lord. The French knights filled the little lane and spread out around him, cursing another family who pressed back into hedges to let them pass, terror clear on their faces.
‘Pax! I am Lord Highbury. To whom am I surrendering?’
The French knights pulled up their visors to get a good look at the big, bearded lord. The nearest had his sword ready as he brought his horse in close and laid a hand on Highbury’s shoulder, claiming him.
‘Sieur André de Maintagnes. You are my prisoner, milord. Can you pay a ransom?’
Highbury sighed.
‘I can.’
The French knight beamed at such a windfall. He continued in halting English.
‘And your men?’
‘No. They are soldiers only.’
The knight shrugged.
‘Then it falls to me to accept your surrender, milord. If you will hand over your sword and give your parole, you may ride at my side until I find a place to keep you. Can you write, to have the money sent?’
‘Of course I can write,’ Highbury replied. With a muttered epithet, he unstrapped his great sword and handed it over. As the knight’s hand closed on it, Highbury held on.
‘You will let my men go, in exchange for my parole?’
Sieur André de Maintagnes laughed.
‘Milord, there is nowhere for them to run, not any more. Have you not heard? The king is coming and he will not stop until he has pushed you English into the sea.’
With a jerk, he took the scabbard out of Highbury’s hands.
‘Stay close to me, milord,’ he said, turning his horse.
His companions were cheerful enough at the thought of a fine ransom to share among them.
Highbury briefly considered asking for food and water. As his captor, the French knight had a responsibility to provide such things, but for the moment, Highbury’s pride kept him silent.
They rode back down the road Highbury had followed all afternoon, and as they went, he saw more and more knights and marching men, until he was staring around in confusion and dismay. He’d ridden so far and fast that he’d failed to understand that the entire French army was coming north behind him. The fields were filled with them, all heading to the new border of English territory in France.
