The men call out their understanding.
Harry whistles to some of the men-at-arms he’s worked with before: Walter and Ranulf and Welsh John and old Conrad. He has just enough time to point out the horses of the Earl and his household knights, before the raiders – who hadn’t been avoiding them, they’d been organising – are on them. It’s a dozen enemy against the six of them, but Harry is on horseback and Welsh John has his bow. John can shoot six arrows for every one from the more cumbersome Genoese crossbows, and they soon even the odds. Ranulf’s hit, they can’t tell how badly, but Walter and Conrad get him over a horse and they’ll worry about it later, when they have the luxury of time.
They push through the camp towards Montagu’s tent. Part of Harry wants to abandon Montagu to a fate he more than deserves. But it wouldn’t be just the Earl who would suffer. There’s a score of loyal men-at-arms and knights of quality bunched around Montagu, pressed hard by enemy raiders. They don’t deserve to die for their master’s sins.
Montagu is furious, screaming at the raiders from behind the cordon of knights defending him. ‘French scum! Brigands! Your leader calls himself a knight, then why won’t he come out and fight like one?’
There’s a soft, harsh sound then, somehow audible under the clash of steel and the thud of arrows into shields. It’s a crackling, gasping wheeze, and Harry realises after a moment that it’s laughter.
A chill runs down his spine as he looks to its source. There, deep in the shadows of the trees, is a pool of even greater darkness: a knight, huge and broad in black plate, his shield plain but for a bend sinister, on a large black war-horse. And he’s laughing at them.
Harry hears the muted chink of the horse’s tack as the knight shakes his head in amusement and turns his steed, disappearing into the forest. And that’s somehow the most terrifying thing of all: that the Black Knight didn’t feel he had to engage them. That they weren’t worth his time.
The little, delicate sprout of hope in the arid desert of Harry’s heart withers and dies. That monster, that cold beast on horseback casually observing a slaughter … that could never be Iain.
Harry hears a scream and a thud, and watches as a knight falls, his skull and helmet cleaved with a raider’s axe. The Black Knight’s men may not fight like gentlemen, but they’re winning.
‘My lord!’ Harry calls. ‘Your horse!’
Montagu sees Harry and his lips shape the words Thank God. The knights widen their cordon and one by one they mount up and peel off towards the Antwerp road. Out of the thirty knights that rode out, maybe half are left. Five went with the horses, and Harry can see himself, Montagu, Sir Thomas, Sir Sebastian Sharp (another of the Galloway Dozen) and maybe six more, some badly wounded and doing little more than holding their shields up. The full moon both hides and reveals, turning skin white and blood black, and Harry feels as if he is fighting in the midst of a nightmare. That perhaps he will wake up and find himself at Dartington, Iain’s arms around him, the smell of fresh honey cakes wafting up from the kitchens.
But there will be no waking up. There will only be enduring, barefoot and badly armed, against the men whose villages and families they’d been burning for months.
A crossbow bolt buzzes past Harry’s ear like an angry wasp. He belatedly raises his shield. It’s swiftly followed by another bolt, and he realises that none of them might make it out of this forest alive. Then movement in front of him catches his eye: Sir Sebastian Sharp’s horse is going down, shot high in the neck. There’s an arrow sticking out of Sharp’s leg, too, just below his hauberk, where it ends at bare flesh. It’s pinning him to the saddle. He can’t get free as the horse falls, he’s screaming as the destrier lands on him, snapping his good leg, and they’re right in front of Harry, and Nomad can’t stop, not that fast. Sharp’s horse jerks and kicks its death throes on the ground. Harry digs his heels into Nomad’s sides and raises his weight up as he hurtles towards them. Nomad gathers himself and leaps the fallen horse and rider.
Harry reins Nomad around, so he can try to pull Sharp out, because the man’s still alive, but then his courage wavers as a fresh barrage of crossbow bolts whizz past them.
‘Leave him!’ Montagu yells. ‘Lyon, leave him! Cover our retreat!’
‘No, God, help me, I can’t move my leg!’ Sharp gasps, hoarse with pain. ‘Lyon!’
Harry dithers for a moment longer, but there are a dozen raiders massing to charge them on foot and the Devil knows how many French knights on horseback still waiting in the shadows. He shakes his head and spurs Nomad on towards the river.
As they ride out of the woods, keeping their heads down to avoid low branches, Harry can hear Sharp calling for Montagu, swearing at him. Sharp’s voice climbs higher, and he’s begging for his life, saying he has money, he can be ransomed, and then there’s nothing at all.
When they reach the second crossing over the Scheldt, the grey haze of pre-dawn is just starting to light the eastern horizon. The river itself is covered in a low fog; its tendrils even reach up to the little stone bridge. And Harry hopes, prays the night is done, and that over the bridge lies safety.
But nobody is listening to English prayers this night.
When he hears the clop-clop of shod horses walking across the bridge towards them, he allows himself to hope for the briefest of moments it’s the knights of their company that had gone on before. But there is no friendly greeting, no comrade’s halloo. Harry pushes himself to the front past Montagu
