Castillon: Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part One

cavalcade drew abreast of the oak woods on the bluff above the road.

‘We must kill them all,’ Alessandro said. His voice was as hard as steel. The Greek and Italian men-at-arms all nodded.

Marcus and Stefanos, the best-armoured men after Alessandro himself, rode away, moving slowly so as not to raise dust.

The rest of them dismounted in the trees, where they were bedevilled by insects for an uncomfortable hour. Peter took the two bows from the capitano, and strung them with Swan’s help. He drew first one, and then the other, and winced on both draws. He made a face.

‘Good bows. I’ll take this one.’ He put the bow by him and unstrung the other, and Swan handed it to the capitano. Alessandro looked at him.

‘Do you shoot?’ he asked.

Peter rested his back against the bole of a giant oak and prepared to go to sleep. But he raised his face to Swan.

‘Toe nou! I’d be surprised if he didn’t shoot,’ Peter said.

Swan shrugged. ‘I can use a bow,’ he admitted.

Peter nodded, as if a mystery were solved, or perhaps as if Swan could now be taken seriously. ‘I’ve never met an Englishman who could not shoot,’ he said, and went to sleep.

Giannis spanned his crossbow, put an arrow into the trough, and lay down.

Giorgos and Ramone stayed with the horses. They had no armour, and no bows.

‘Always be sure of your retreat,’ Alessandro said. ‘Even when the odds are heavily in your favour.’

The insects droned. Peter snored.

There were hoof-beats near the ford, and the sound of harness and armour, and suddenly Peter was awake, bow in hand, standing behind the bole of his tree.

Swan’s heart beat too hard. He was tired – he wanted to sleep, but he was too afraid, too full of something that made his nerves tingle, his stomach flip over, his bowels twitch.

Alessandro just chewed on a grass stem and watched the road.

The count’s men – led by the unmistakable figure of the count – came on at a fast trot. The count passed the silver in the road, but the next man reined in, and suddenly they were all stopped, and men were dismounting.

Alessandro smiled, much as the fox might smile when the hen comes to find its missing egg. He snapped his fingers. Peter tensed, and Swan took a war arrow from the bundle at his feet, placed it to the string, and drew to his ear, cocking his head slightly to engage the muscles in his back.

Giannis loosed. His crossbow made a flat snap. One of the men in the scrum over the coins flipped off his horse.

Before his demise was noticed, Peter drew his great bow to his ear and loosed. His arrow hit the count’s charger and sank all the way to the fletchings in the horse’s side, and the great horse screamed and fell.

Swan’s arrow wobbled in the air as it arched. Swan didn’t watch the fall – he knew he’d missed his loose as soon as his fingers released the string.

Every head among the count’s men turned to the woods on the bluff.

Peter’s second arrow took a black-bearded man in full plate armour under his arm while he waved at the woods. He fell backward in a rattle of plate. His horse stood stock still in the road.

Peter’s third arrow plunged into the withers of a franc-archer’s horse. The horse bolted, ran a few steps, and fell in a spectacular crash, flinging his unlucky rider the length of a horse down the road.

Swan’s second arrow struck one of the count’s routiers in the helmet. The arrow sprang away, but the man slumped.

The count was demanding that another man-at-arms give him his horse. Three men turned and bolted, and the rest turned towards the wood and started to ride up the steep slope.

Giannis finished spanning and took careful aim. He muttered a prayer to the Virgin in Greek.

He loosed. His bolt took an armoured man full in the breastplate and flipped him out of his saddle.

Peter’s fourth arrow killed an archer’s horse. The count gave up demanding a horse and started to run for the trees, a hundred yards away.

Peter missed with his fifth arrow. Swan had just raised his eyes from fumbling for his third arrow, and he was having trouble nocking it. All of the non-archers were watching. Peter’s accuracy was remarkable. So when he missed, they all groaned.

The riders were close now.

Peter plucked his sixth arrow from the ground, whipped the nock on to the string, drew and loosed in a single long motion, and his bodkin point drove into a man’s unarmoured face.

Swan put his third arrow into a horse. The horse reared, its feet flailed at the air, and together horse and man fell to earth.

Peter plucked his seventh arrow and the remaining three riders were close enough to discover that there were too many men in the woods for them to defeat. Swan reached for his fourth arrow but Alessandro shook his head.

‘To horse. With me.’ He gestured.

Swan dropped his bow atop the arrows and got a foot in the nearside stirrup.

Peter and Giannis loosed together. By bad luck they both picked the same target, and a young squire died with two heavy arrows in his body.

‘Get them,’ Alessandro said. He and Swan were now mounted, and the two of them charged the survivors, Swan’s heart hammering away. The two men were turning to run. Their horses had galloped up the steep hill, and now they were blown.

Alessandro was like an arrow. His horse passed across the two fleeing opponents’ front, and he cut back into them. In his first pass, he killed the horse of the lead man with a flick of his sword and a dainty montante into the animal’s unprotected neck. He and the second man swaggered swords – heavy, downward cuts ringing together.

Swan rode up on the man’s left side and thrust under the arm while his full intention was on the Italian. He turned, mouth open to scream, and Alessandro ran him through the mouth. The blow cut away his jaw as he fell off the sword.

Alessandro gave Swan a short salute, hilt to his lips. Then he rode across the face of the hill and waved up at Giannis. ‘Make sure they are all dead,’ he called.

Giannis waved and aimed. And loosed. His quarrel hit the count, still running towards them. It knocked him down, but in a second he was up. His armour was good enough to turn a light crossbow.

Peter’s arrow struck him a few paces farther on. It bounced off his breastplate, leaving a dent visible to Swan on his horse, twenty paces away.

Swan, unarmoured, had no intention of engaging the count. His sword high, he swept wide of the armoured man, riding carefully to stay clear of the archer’s line of fire.

‘Face me!’ roared the count. ‘You sons of bitches!’ He had his visor open.

Another arrow hit him – missed his face by a handspan and struck full on his lifted visor, ripping it away from the helmet.

Swan angled towards him, trying to draw his attention away from Alessandro, who was coming up from behind the armoured man. But Alessandro caused him to turn – and then swept by to the right, his horse labouring on the hillside.

Giannis shot a bolt into the back of the man’s unprotected thigh at twenty yards.

The count screamed and went down.

Alessandro rode up and dismounted even as Swan dismounted himself. Alessandro handed the Englishman his reins. ‘I’ll do this,’ he said. He shrugged.

‘Arrhhh. Arrhhh!’ the count grunted. He was rolling back and forth, his left hand scrabbling at the quarrel that had penetrated his thigh, broken the bone and probably lodged against his thigh armour – in front. He was clearly in incredible pain. His head thrashed back and forth.

Alessandro walked over to him – and suddenly the man dropped the pretence and got to one knee, his sword sweeping low in an attempt to cut one of Alessandro’s legs.