By Right of Arms (42 page)

Hyatt.

“Maximilian, my lord is come. Cover his passage.”

Hyatt rode out of the wood and paused at the head of his troop. He pulled out and braced his lance and behind him the others did the like. She caught sight of Girvin, for he was the largest and always wore black armor, making him look more the heathen than ever. But before Girvin, draped over his saddle, was a large, hulking body. She knew that they had found Guillaume, and he was dead.

Hyatt’s troop began a slow advance toward the castle, but Girvin held back. He dismounted with care, pulled Guillaume from the horse and held him up. Guillaume was not dead, but injured. Girvin placed his friend on the ground at the forest’s edge, leaning him against a tree and propping his own shield before him to ward off any wayward arrows. Then he mounted again and from his lips issued forth a cry of rage that rose above the cacophony of battle. At the cry Hyatt’s troop bent over saddles, lances braced, and charged the destriers of Hollis as they came up behind the archers.

Girvin, void of shield, swung a battle-ax, slaying an archer even as his steed rode over two more. The knights who had ridden over the bridge earlier, only ten, saw Hyatt’s move and charged the arrow-slinging band, running warhorses over those in the way, and pressed on toward Hollis’s approaching troop. It was a melee of twenty of Hyatt’s men against sixty of Hollis’s, and Aurélie shuddered in absolute terror at the odds.

“My lady, look west.”

She strained at Maximilian’s instruction and saw a cloud of dust rising from down the road. Fear choked her heart. “Holy Mother of God,” she prayed. She armed her bow again, desperate to lend aid to Hyatt. Archers who had not been shot or crushed by the destriers rose and ran in a line toward the wall. Aurélie fixed her aim toward the horsed troop, however. She spied the red plume of Hyatt’s helm and, with a prayer, fired toward his opponent. The arrow hit the man’s back between his shoulders and he slumped and fell from his horse.

The thing she had failed to worry over happened. Hyatt looked toward the wall and spied her. He was frozen as he saw whence the arrow had come, and as he stared toward her two knights charged him from other directions.

An earsplitting cry came from the field as Girvin, ever suited to guard Hyatt’s back, rode in a fury toward his lord. One of Hollis’s men fell to Girvin’s ax, while Hyatt’s broadsword finished the other. Aurélie sighed and armed her bow, the thundering cloud of another advance of horsed men coming closer. The air was filled with the clanging of swords against swords, shields raised to axes, the shouts of combatants, the shower of arrows flowing from De la Noye and toward her, and smoke, rising from within the wall where peasant huts burned out of control.

And the horn sounded again as a galloping herd came into sight. “Most merciful God,” she breathed, for they wore Hyatt’s red and black. It was the escort that had taken out goods on Delmar’s wagons. Along the wall there was the sound of cheers.

But the horn sounded yet again, and this time there was a battle cry from the forest’s edge as a tattered group, only four of whom were astride, charged onto the field. Aurélie knew the man on the dark stallion must be Verel, charging without benefit of helm, armor, shield, or lance, but swinging a sword with deadly intent. He rode low in his saddle, head down to escape arrows, straight for Hyatt. Aurélie held her breath and aimed her crossbow. She had held it up for so long that her hands trembled, but she was ready.

With a sigh of relief and a choked sob, she lowered the bow. Verel took down the knight approaching Hyatt’s back, sending him to the dust. The empty destrier reared up and fled the field. Verel raised a bloody sword high in the air and brought it down on another of Hollis’s men.

Aurélie saw a knight in blue livery edge to the outside of the melee and take flight. Another followed. The contest was equal in numbers, with Hyatt’s men doing abler fighting. She turned to look into the outer bailey, where fire blazed. “Archers lower bows and check the fire,” she shouted.

There was swift action all around the wall. Bows were lowered and men jumped into the bailey. Outside the knights were one for one and Hollis’s archers were fleeing in numbers around the horsed melee, to the outskirts of the wood to get away. The gate at the portcullis was raised and women, old men, and boys came flowing through to the outer bailey, tearing down buildings not yet burned, with pitchforks, axes, shovels, and hoes. The well squeaked and buckets were passed. Aurélie looked again to the field and saw more of Hollis’s men take flight down the road. The red plume of Hyatt’s helm still wobbled like a rooster tail as he used his broadsword fiercely. Verel was unhorsed nearby and engaged in a weighty test with an armored knight boasting a broadsword. Verel’s sword flew from his hand and he took a dive, rolling once, twice, thrice, coming up alongside the body of a felled knight. He searched frantically for a weapon on the person of the dead warrior while his opponent loomed nearer, sword raised. Girvin’s ax came down hard between the knight’s shoulders and he fell atop his fellow on the field. And Girvin pulled a short-handled broadsword from his saddle strap, tossing it to Verel, and turning his horse back to the fray.

A cry went up from the blue-liveried knights and a dozen turned to flee. A score more ran, and Hyatt’s troop gave chase down the road, due west. Aurélie threw back her head and looked up at the sky, her eyes alive with fire and ice, and a cry of proud victory left her. She watched her husband as he led the chase over the knoll and further, the only sign that they were still in pursuit being the brown dust cloud in the distance.

One of Hyatt’s did not follow his lord. Girvin galloped toward the forest and dismounted there. He stooped and lifted Guillaume into his arms and carried him back toward the castle. A few archers from Hollis’s troop could be seen fleeing into the wood in all directions, but not one stopped to arm a bow. Girvin did not pay them any regard. Some of Verel’s ragtag group chased archers, but did them little harm except to drive them into the trees.

“Lower the bridge and open the gate. We’ll pass buckets from the moat,” she told Maximilian.

“What if there are Hollis’s soldiers hiding in the wood?” the knight asked.

She nodded toward Girvin. “He would have smelled them,” she said. She turned to climb down from the wall, passing Percival as she went. “Keep watch, Sir Percival,” she said, giving him the knighted role with much resolution. She glanced toward the field. Bodies littered the earth. She would have to go forth and discover which were theirs, but not until Hyatt had returned and the fire was out.

Aurélie watched as monks, serfs, knights, archers, and even children passed and ran buckets into the bailey. She knew that theirs had been good fortune with only a battered wall and a dozen homes burned, for the stable was saved and almost all their produce was in the inner bailey and hall. Had Hollis thought of a way to disguise war machines as nuns, the castle would have been completely destroyed. But the offending knight could not carry battering rams or pull trebuchets and still make his trickery work. There was a smoldering ache in her chest as she realized what would have happened to them had the bridge been lowered for one hundred armored archers with a troop of sixty knights close behind them. Hyatt would have returned to De la Noye to find blood, bones, and ashes.

Girvin passed through the confusion of pail-bearing, bucket-passing people. Guillaume slumped in his arms and Aurélie ran forward to meet them. “A broken leg, fever, no food or water for days,” Girvin said. “He does not know who I am.”

“Take him to Nima,” she instructed. “I shall come.”

Guillaume lifted his head and opened his eyes. He looked at Aurélie briefly, blankly, and then collapsed against Girvin’s chest again. She watched Girvin’s departing form as he strode purposefully toward the hall, his burden carried with such ease that Guillaume might have been a child in Girvin’s arms. But the mist of fear and pain in Girvin’s eyes had not escaped Aurélie’s notice.

The smoke in the bailey blackened and turned sour as the water from the moat drenched the flames. A few small structures were dismantled and pulled away to starve the fire. A woman of her village lay in the dust weeping as knights searched the destroyed hovel for her child. In another corner of the courtyard a group of women hovered over injured archers. Aurélie turned toward the injured.

“Madame. My lady.”

The sound of Algernon’s voice sent a shivery spasm up her spine and she whirled to face him. His cheeks were streaked with tears, his eyes paled by the destruction all around, and his hands were tied behind his back. Two brothers who had traveled with Abbot Charlisle held his arms.

“Sir Ryland swore that the Innesse priest was revered by the conquering English and applied his power with that of the knight, Sir Hollis, to bring the people to peaceful acceptance. Sir Hollis was to have added silver and labor to their church, making it better than it was. My lady, he said no damage would be done, but only to Hyatt’s fighting men!” He dropped his gaze to the ground.

Aurélie looked at him with disgust. She wished to slap his face, to see his head ride a pike on her wall. There had been many failings within this castle over the years, but never had one of their number betrayed the secrets of their wall to an enemy. She could have even understood a traitor amongst the beaten French knights, a betrayal from a widow of a soldier of Giles, or any deposed or abused villein. But her priest had suffered only one loss; he had lost the lord he carried in his pocket.

She spat in the dust at his feet and turned away from him. She heard Algernon’s whining as he was dragged away. He begged for pardon, mercy, forgiveness … but she closed her ears to him and bent over a young lad, formerly of Giles’s troop, who had taken an arrow in the arm because he fought without armor, shield, or even a thick leather gambeson. But the lad was brave as the wound was tender, as were the next ten.

Two hours slipped by like minutes. Wounded were brought from the field; Hollis’s dead were left where they had fallen. Piles of ash were soaked with water while cloths and tents were raised to house the homeless. Aurélie had not yet ventured so far as the hall, where she assumed she would find a scene of confusion and upset equal to that in the courtyard.

The horn sounded to alert them that troops approached, and she knew from the long blasts that it was Hyatt who returned to them. She was kneeling to the task of wrapping the gashed head of a knight who lay on the ground, and she tied the final knot and sat back on her heels. The bridge and gate were left open, receiving, and so she assumed her husband’s good health and watched for his horse with a rapid beating of her heart.

Hyatt entered ahead of his troop. He stopped the huge warhorse just inside the gate and removed his helm. As he looked around the courtyard at the fire damage, the injured, and mass confusion, his brown eyes took on a feral light. All voices were hushed to a deadly silence as Hyatt surveyed them all. He stabbed his broadsword into the earth, rested his helm atop it, and stared across the rubble toward Aurélie.

She rose slowly, meeting his eyes across the distance of thirty paces. A smile grew on her lips.

“My lord Hyatt,” she called. “Your castle yet stands. Your people are bruised but mostly alive.”

He shook his head as if to clear her image. “It almost appeared as though these knights took instruction from you, my lady,” he shouted back.

A muffled cough and a choked wheeze escaped someone in the crowd. Aurélie let her head drop back as she laughed. She took a step forward, then another. Hyatt advanced toward her. They came together slowly, a prideful gleam in his eyes to blend with the regal light of victory in hers. They stood but a pace apart, looking at each other more like lovers standing in a garden than the battered survivors of a siege.

“Aurélie,” he said in a breath, “I don’t know whether to thank you, or throw up your skirts and beat you for what you dared.”

“Before these people, messire?” she asked, lifting a brow and smiling in delight. “If you cannot decide, my lord husband, why not just kiss me?”

Hyatt opened his arms to her and she filled them instantly, clinging to him with all the ardor in her heart. Their lips came together in a fierce and passionate kiss, and without releasing her mouth, Hyatt lifted her into his arms. A cheer came from a horsed knight, and another joined him. Within moments there were dozens to shout and cheer, in both Gascon and English, praising the lady, the lord, and De la Noye.

Hyatt paid no mind to the deafening shouts of victory. Aurélie’s arms were looped around his neck and he carried her in the direction of the hall. “You are a foolish, brave, and beautiful wench,” he muttered.

“Oh, Hyatt,” she laughed. “I would fight a thousand battles for you. Would you not for me?”

“Nay, woman. A million.”

At the gate, not yet inside the wall, Verel stood. He watched Hyatt carry Aurélie away. He saw the strength in the knight’s stride, the way his gaze lingered only on her face. Her arms were locked about his neck, her lips against his beard-roughened cheek. The cheers of French and English rose above the rubble in a unified sound of joy and pride. There was a tear that wet Verel’s cheek and his lips trembled. His closed fist rose into the air and he joined the chanting.

“Victory to Hyatt! Victory to Aurélie! Victory to De la Noye!”

* * *

Guillaume was slow to rise, but his story came out in a week. He was abed in the seneschal’s house, his leg stretched out on a board, and his delirium cured. He was weak, as he would be for some time to come, but not too feeble to tell the tale. He had been hunting for his daily fare at dawn when he heard the approach of horses on the road nearby. Reasoning that they could be soldiers, he climbed a nearby tree until they passed. The trip down was not so good, for he fell and broke his leg. It was impossible for him to drag himself up the hill to his camp, so he pulled himself into a sheltered copse in hopes of rescue. A murky bog greeted him there, for it was not a good, secret thicket that he hid in, but a covered marshy hole. For a week he held himself out of the murk by grasping a tree root, no food to sustain him and only dew off the nearby brush to quench his thirst.