instead he had been struck down by a murderer. Perhaps a killing committed after too many drinks,
or a falling out with a stranger, or a local peasant with a grudge against the man who ordered who should work when, and for
how much. There were so many men who could have a reason to kill a sergeant.
There was an icy chill in the wind that came from the north and east. It was always easy to tell when snow was threatening,
because the wind seemed to come straight at the house, along the line of the Torridge River, and today was no exception. Sir
Odo wasn’t fooled by the clear sky and bright sunshine. If he was any judge of the weather here, there would be snow before
long.
He crossed the yard to his mount and used a block of stone to help himself up. Ever since he’d been stuck in his thigh by
a man-at-arms with a polearm, he’d had this weakness. It was all right when he was up in the saddle, because then he seemed
able to grip well enough, but the ability to straighten his leg to spring up was almost entirely lost.
It had been a little skirmish, really. Not a real battle at all. A lowly squire, he’d been fighting for Hugh de Courtenay
in the last king’s wars against the Scottish. They’d reached the Solway Firth, and had laid siege to Caerlaverock Castle at
the turn of the century. Now it seemed such a stupid thing, but at the time … he had been near the oddly shaped triangular
castle when there was a shout that the Scotch murderers were about to make a sally, and he saw the great drawbridge lowered.
Immediately, he ran forward with a few others, and reached it as the defenders were starting to make their way from the gatehouse.
Odo felt that old thrill, the excitement of battle, as he sank his blade into a man’s throat and saw him thrash for a moment
before tumbling down, choking. Four more fell to him during that short action, though there were no more deaths. A small fight,
almost negligible. Probably most of the other men there that day had forgotten it, but not Odo.
The men with him kept up a great roaring shout, and with sheer effort they managed to force the enemy back towards the sandstone
gatehouse. Odo’s opponent stumbled and fell, and suddenly Odo realised that they could push into the castle itself. He slashed
at the man’s face twice, then turned and roared to the men at the siege camp to join them, and at the same instant felt something
slam into his leg. It was a shocking sensation, and the effect was to knock his knee away, so that he collapsed.
After that his battle grew confusing. He had flashes of memory: not because of pain – there was none – but because he was
desperate to climb to his feet, to escape before he could be hacked to pieces. A man on the ground would be as likely to be
attacked by the men of his own side as his enemy; a fellow on the ground could be preparing to thrust up with a weapon at
the unprotected underside of the men battling above him, and there was little opportunity to distinguish friend from foe.
Yet he
couldn’t
stand. He panicked, overwhelmed with terror as he recognised his danger: he was defenceless here in the mêlée. Trying to
crawl away, he was stunned as a crashing blow caught his head, and he felt his skull shake as he fell forward, blood washing
over his eyes. He was convinced that he was about to die, and began a prayer begging forgiveness for his sins (which he freely
confessed were legion), which was cut short by his passing out.
Later, he awoke to find himself being cleaned by a squire. He was lying on a rich bed, a
real
bed, with soft woollen blankets and marvellous silken hangings.
He coughed, then rasped, ‘Have I died?’
‘I hope not. He’ll have my guts for his laces if you have,’ the squire said drily. ‘How’s your head?’
The squire looked ancient to Odo. He must have been in his forties – couldn’t remember his name now – and must have realised
how confused Odo was,
or a falling out with a stranger, or a local peasant with a grudge against the man who ordered who should work when, and for
how much. There were so many men who could have a reason to kill a sergeant.
There was an icy chill in the wind that came from the north and east. It was always easy to tell when snow was threatening,
because the wind seemed to come straight at the house, along the line of the Torridge River, and today was no exception. Sir
Odo wasn’t fooled by the clear sky and bright sunshine. If he was any judge of the weather here, there would be snow before
long.
He crossed the yard to his mount and used a block of stone to help himself up. Ever since he’d been stuck in his thigh by
a man-at-arms with a polearm, he’d had this weakness. It was all right when he was up in the saddle, because then he seemed
able to grip well enough, but the ability to straighten his leg to spring up was almost entirely lost.
It had been a little skirmish, really. Not a real battle at all. A lowly squire, he’d been fighting for Hugh de Courtenay
in the last king’s wars against the Scottish. They’d reached the Solway Firth, and had laid siege to Caerlaverock Castle at
the turn of the century. Now it seemed such a stupid thing, but at the time … he had been near the oddly shaped triangular
castle when there was a shout that the Scotch murderers were about to make a sally, and he saw the great drawbridge lowered.
Immediately, he ran forward with a few others, and reached it as the defenders were starting to make their way from the gatehouse.
Odo felt that old thrill, the excitement of battle, as he sank his blade into a man’s throat and saw him thrash for a moment
before tumbling down, choking. Four more fell to him during that short action, though there were no more deaths. A small fight,
almost negligible. Probably most of the other men there that day had forgotten it, but not Odo.
The men with him kept up a great roaring shout, and with sheer effort they managed to force the enemy back towards the sandstone
gatehouse. Odo’s opponent stumbled and fell, and suddenly Odo realised that they could push into the castle itself. He slashed
at the man’s face twice, then turned and roared to the men at the siege camp to join them, and at the same instant felt something
slam into his leg. It was a shocking sensation, and the effect was to knock his knee away, so that he collapsed.
After that his battle grew confusing. He had flashes of memory: not because of pain – there was none – but because he was
desperate to climb to his feet, to escape before he could be hacked to pieces. A man on the ground would be as likely to be
attacked by the men of his own side as his enemy; a fellow on the ground could be preparing to thrust up with a weapon at
the unprotected underside of the men battling above him, and there was little opportunity to distinguish friend from foe.
Yet he
couldn’t
stand. He panicked, overwhelmed with terror as he recognised his danger: he was defenceless here in the mêlée. Trying to
crawl away, he was stunned as a crashing blow caught his head, and he felt his skull shake as he fell forward, blood washing
over his eyes. He was convinced that he was about to die, and began a prayer begging forgiveness for his sins (which he freely
confessed were legion), which was cut short by his passing out.
Later, he awoke to find himself being cleaned by a squire. He was lying on a rich bed, a
real
bed, with soft woollen blankets and marvellous silken hangings.
He coughed, then rasped, ‘Have I died?’
‘I hope not. He’ll have my guts for his laces if you have,’ the squire said drily. ‘How’s your head?’
The squire looked ancient to Odo. He must have been in his forties – couldn’t remember his name now – and must have realised
how confused Odo was,
Similar Books
