A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) (39 page)

Sir Geoffrey was in his hall when the shout came: ‘Torches in the road! A lot of them!’

He ran to the door and pushed a man out of the way, peering in the darkness. The guard stationed there pointed, and Sir Geoffrey
swore quietly under his breath, then: ‘Get your weapons!’

The men in the lane looked as though they were moving only very slowly. Either they were walking their horses to keep the
noise of the attack down, or they were moving at the speed of men-at-arms without horses. Either way, they would soon be here,
as far as he could see. They were only a matter of half a mile away.

Thank God his guards had seen them.

Men had begun to tumble from the doorway into the yard, some buckling on their belts or pulling leather baldrics over their
heads, others grabbing at polearms. Soon there was a sizeable gathering outside the door. More men were fetching bows and
arrows, but in this light they’d be little use until the enemy was much nearer.

If only he hadn’t left so many men down at the sergeant’s house. It would have been much easier to protect the hall. Still,
if he hadn’t taken the place back, there probably
wouldn’t have been an attack here either. And whining about ‘if only’ wouldn’t serve to help just now. He could worry about
that later.

He barged his way past more men as he went back into the hall. ‘You still there?’

Coroner Edward smiled and lifted a mazer of wine in salute. ‘This is none of my affair.’

‘You think so? Then you’d better start planning how to explain to my Lord Despenser why it was that you rested while his estates
were under attack. I shall tell him exactly how you sought to defend his manor, with the greatest of pleasure.’

He hurried to his table, grabbed the jug of wine, and poured a good measure into his mouth. This was the way to fight a battle.
At night, with a full belly and plenty of wine. Ideal!

Already he was feeling a distinct optimism. He’d fought and won worse fights than this. Sir Odo didn’t have that many men,
and there’d been no time for reinforcements from Sir John Sully to turn up, even if he’d sent for support. No, Sir Geoffrey
could beat him off. He nodded to himself, spat in the direction of the languid coroner, and rushed out again.

His men had already started to deploy themselves. They knew their business, and while some shouted for horses, more were stringing
ropes between trees on the approach to the hall, at a little above a man’s head height, in the hope that they might unhorse
a number of their attackers. Others had set the archers at either side of the main body of men, so that as the horses pounded
up the hill they would be at the mercy of the bowmen on either side before running into the shields of the men in front of
the house.

Hearing another shout for a horse, Sir Geoffrey went to the stables and yelled at the top of his voice that no one was riding
off in cowardice tonight. All horses were to be put back in the stables and no one was to mount.

‘Damn fools imagine I don’t know how they think,’ he grunted to himself as he returned to the front of the house.

The torches were hardly any closer, and he suddenly came to a halt, staring. They must have seen his men, heard the shouting,
and yet they hadn’t come on to attack. And now he looked down at the road, he noticed that the immense number of torches seemed
to be closely bunched together, as though for mutual support – or because
a small party of men was carrying a large number of torches!

And then he heard the rumble of hooves and the screams, and he felt his scalp crawl to think how he had been duped.

Sir Odo drew his sword and waved it above his head. Without a word, he clapped spurs to his mount, and the beast fairly flew
down the hill into the rear yard of the house.

A man was standing by a water butt, a yoke over his shoulders and two full buckets of water dangling, and Sir Odo gave a shrill
shriek as his sword ran him through, and then there was another man, screaming in terror and running, and Sir Odo pushed the
point of his sword through the man’s back, the force of his charge ripping the blade up through two ribs and then out as the
man fell.

His men were with him, about him, as he charged onwards.

At last there was some resistance as he curved round the wall and saw the line of men waiting. Archers at the end swung round,
their faces pasty as they realised their danger,
men-at-arms struggling to turn and bring their shields to bear on this unexpected attack from behind them. And then Sir Odo
and his men crashed into, over, and through the line, leaving a tangled mass of injured and wounded men.

‘Back!’ he bellowed, and turned his beast back to the line. His destrier was a good brute, expensive as hell, but superb.
He would kick, stamp and bite at anyone in his way, and he started now, an enraged animal dealing death with his hooves. Sir
Odo saw a man in front of him, and before he could think of raising his sword the horse had flailed with a hoof and the man’s
face had disappeared, simply disappeared, pummelled into nothing by the force of a hoof with all the power of that immense
foreleg behind it.

Seeing a figure running, Sir Odo thought it looked familiar. He slapped the horse with the flat of his blade, and set it off
in pursuit.

There was no means of pulling back the initiative tonight. The battle was lost already. Perhaps it had been as soon as Sir
Geoffrey set off to attack Robert Crokers’s house earlier. Whatever the truth, Sir Geoffrey intended escaping, and now he
hurried to reach the farther side of his manor and escape behind it.

But even as he conceived the idea, he heard the ferocious roar of his enemy, and he knew he’d been seen. Instead, he changed
his direction, and pelted down the track towards the road. He had only one possible defence against a knight on horseback,
and he took it, running for his life, down the way where he and his men had expected to trap Sir Odo’s men only a few minutes
before.

Faster, faster, until his heart felt as though it must burst in his breast, until his lungs were on fire, until his legs were
all
but ruined, and then, blessed relief, he saw the rope and ran at full tilt underneath it.

The ground was trembling with the destrier’s hoofbeats, and he thought he could feel its breath on his neck, and then there
was a loud cough, and the horse lost his concentration as Sir Odo was caught by the rope and flung backwards like a straw
doll to land on his back, while his horse continued a short distance, then seemed to notice that all was not well.

Sir Geoffrey did not hesitate. He left the horse – trained destriers were all too often trained to serve only one man – and
went back the way he had come, past the house and up the hill, his sword still in his hand, racing for his life up the hill
and away from the slaughter.

Sir Odo was badly winded, and he lay for some little while, his vision black and his senses dulled. It was only when he began
to hear the shouting and clamour of battle that he realised where he was, and he rolled over to climb to all fours, wondering
what could have hit him. Then, kneeling, he saw the rope between two trees and swore. The simplest trick in the world, and
he’d fallen for it.

Sir Geoffrey made it to the top of the hill with his sword still in his hands. Once there, he turned, panting, to gaze behind
him.

The house was lighted by a yellow, unnatural glow. As he looked, he thought he could see a shower of sparks rising, and he
frowned with incomprehension until he saw the first flames licking at the thatch. Then he understood: someone had thrown torches
up into the roof. When he glanced back at the road, he saw that the men gathered there were all gone. Clearly they had taken
the opportunity of the attack to
charge the place and hurl their flaming torches into the building or up at the straw. Now the flames were taking hold.

He could have wept. Sitting, he put his face in his hands and covered the scene from himself. Shaking his head, he was drained
of all emotion. He was desolate. This would be an incalculable loss to him. His master would be sure to remove him and replace
him with some arrogant prickle like Nicholas, while Odo would grow in smugness at having beaten him.

Soon men could be coming up here to find him. He had to get as far away as possible. He thrust his sword home in its scabbard,
and started.

This path was so well known to him that he could almost find his way in the dark. There on his right was the drained mire,
where the fool of a sergeant had found that woman’s body. He set off up the hill and, panting, reached a tree. From here he
could see the house and several miles about. The moon was shining down silver on the whole countryside, and now he could make
out the fires at his hall more clearly. There was more, too. He saw the moon glinting off steel. Men were running away along
the road to Monk Oakhampton; two were over the hedge and hastening down towards the chapel. And there were no men in the road
any more. They’d brought their torches to his hall, and that was that.

It was enough to make a man weep.

Pagan and the others stood at the top of the hill, gazing down in the direction the horses had taken when they galloped past
them. The battle was invisible to them, at the other side of the house, but they could hear the screams and
roars of the men battling for their lives down there, and then they saw the flames begin to rise in the dark night’s sky.

‘Is this the end of the manor?’ Adcock wondered.

‘There’s never an end,’ Perkin said. ‘Nope. Tomorrow we’ll all be called back to start to rebuild it, just as Sir Odo told
his men to go and rebuild the sergeant’s house. They destroy, we build up again. It’s always our efforts that keep the demesne
working. Come on, tonight we can still enjoy ale. The work won’t start until morning.’

He turned his face to the north and set off again. Pagan saw that Adcock was in pain still and offered his hand, but the fellow
refused it, saying that he had no need of help. It somewhat added to Pagan’s sense that the lad was not cast from the same
mould as the rest of the men at Monkleigh Hall.

He could feel the guilt falling on his shoulders that his actions could have led to this man’s being brought here and made
to suffer so much. But if not him, then it would only have been another. It was hardly Pagan’s fault that a man must follow
his destiny. That was just God’s way. A mere human had no control over events – all he could do was react to them. That was
what Isaac had once said to him when he asked how God could let so much harm and ill-fortune affect his master. It was so
cruel of God to allow his Squire William to be so cruelly torn from his family in a foreign land, and then to kill his son
too. Poor Ailward perhaps had not had a chance. Born dispossessed and poor, he had done the best he could with the means at
his disposal.

But this Adcock, he had done nothing. He had been a pleasant man, a young fellow with ambition and hope in his breast when
he came here. Pagan had a weight of guilt to
support, and that weight seemed to grow each time he looked on the fellow.

He had done what he thought was best. That was his only excuse. He only hoped it would be enough.

‘There’s someone coming behind us!’ Adcock hissed.

Pagan hesitated, torn by the desire to flee and leave Adcock as a tempting target for whoever might be chasing after them,
but then his better nature took over. He grabbed Adcock and bodily hauled him off the path. The other two had already melted
into the bushes and trees at the side of the road, and now Pagan pulled Adcock down into the security of the grasses and bushes.
Both were soon hidden, and as Pagan listened, he heard the rough, strained breathing of a man pushed beyond his endurance.

He looked up and down the path, but there was no sign of further pursuit. This man appeared to be all on his own, and as he
passed by them, Pagan suddenly recognised Sir Geoffrey, and felt a wild joy kiss at his heart.

Here was the man who was responsible for the woes of his lady’s family, the man who was the architect of his own shame, delivered
up to him. It was the work of a moment to mutter ‘He’s mine!’, to draw his dagger, and to leap up after him.

Sir Geoffrey for his part had no idea that he was now being pursued. He hurried on his way, stumbling occasionally, tripping
over a large tree limb that had broken off and lay on the ground in his path. All that was in his mind was the desire to reach
a place of safety, ideally some distance from Monkleigh. The nearest and safest he could think of was Dolton, and that was
several miles north. It would take him ages to get there if he walked through the night. Better to find somewhere to rest
for the night – perhaps a barn or
outbuilding away from other people. There were some sheds up near Pagan’s father’s smithy. That would do.

And then he would be able to start to plan his revenge on Sir Odo. The mad bastard must have thought he could get away with
this – well, he’d soon learn how mistaken he had been! Sir Geoffrey would not rest until he’d taken revenge. He’d come back
here with the Despenser host, and he’d take apart Sir Odo’s property stone by stone. Sir Odo himself would be declared a felon
and outlawed throughout the land. If he could, let him make his way to the continent and seek a new life there, because Sir
Geoffrey would be damned before he saw him return to Fishleigh. That manor would become forfeit, and damn Sir John Sully if
he wanted to argue. No one could argue with the Despensers, not now. He would …

His foot caught on something and he tumbled headlong. Eyes closed, he lay on his belly cursing his fortune before even thinking
about rising. It was typical of his luck that he should fall. What next, a twisted or broken ankle? Perhaps he would manage
to break his neck and end his misfortunes in style.

He tried to get up, and realised that the hand gripping his sword was stuck. It was the sword. It wouldn’t move. Opening his
eyes, he peered at it, and saw that there was a man’s boot resting on it. Following the leg upwards, he found himself staring
at Pagan’s grim features. ‘Get off my sword, you motherless son of a cretin!’ he snarled.