Sacrifice (16 page)

   “Diana,” Martin echoed, rolling the name around his mouth, “pretty name for a serf. What do you make of your new quarters?”

   She turned and looked over the room, the furniture, the man on the bed. Blue eyes, Martin noticed, with long lashes.

   “I have been here before,” she said indifferently, “the old Baron brought me here once. He was not so patient as you. The next morning he gave me a silver pfennig for my trouble, and a new gown to replace the one he had torn. I never saw him again.”

   Martin sat up. “His bones lie scattered in the forest, gnawed by wild beasts, and his soul will burn forever.”

   “Promise you will use me kindly,” she said after a long moment.

   “I promise,” he replied. To his surprise, he meant it.

Diana gazed at him for a few seconds, and then started to peel off her tunic.

***

Winter came slowly to the forest, a creeping, remorseless chill that crept through timber and stone, bringing death to the old and hardship to the young.    

   Save when out hunting or on sentry duty, the men of Stink Hold stayed in the castle, huddled together for warmth in the hall. The hooded fireplace was vast, big enough to contain half a tree, and a fire burned permanently in the hearth.

Winter brought renewed tension. One man tried to steal another’s wife, and was found in a darkened corridor with his throat slit. The murderer was known, but at his trial none stepped forward to offer evidence against him.

   Martin was forced to acquit, though Meurig begged him to set aside Company law for once.

   “It’s bad for discipline,” said the old Welshman, “a crime like that cannot go unpunished. A good hanging will dissuade the others from turning on each other.”

   Martin disagreed. “Our laws are all that bind us together. If I, as captain-general, am seen to break them, chaos will be the result. The dead man was a fool. If he had lived, I would have branded him.”

   His words had an empty ring. He knew that discipline was steadily falling away among the men, and no amount of brandings or hangings would stop the rot. A long winter stretched ahead, and Martin had to find ways of occupying his men before more blood was spilled.

  He returned to his original idea, and sent out the wilder spirits to gather news of the outside world. A few never returned, but those that did brought tidings of the war between King Matthias and Emperor Frederick, and events in France and England.

   The news of the failed rebellion in England, and Henry of Richmond’s narrow escape, prompted much debate. Most of it stemmed from Meurig, who regarded Richmond as a fellow Welshman. Most of his comrades, Poles and Germans and Hungarians and the like, cared little for affairs in England, so he vented his passion on Martin.

   “Henry Tudor is the Son of Prophecy!” Meurig shouted, banging his fist on the table, “with the blood of Ednyfed Fychan, seneschal to the Kingdom of Gwynedd, in his veins! He can count great Arthur himself among his ancestry.”

   The old Welshman was deep in his cups, and wagged an uncertain finger under Martin’s nose. “He shall lead my people out of bondage,” he said thickly, “even as Moses led the Israelites.”

   “He’s a bastard Beaufort,” Martin sneered, “with an only slightly better claim to the throne than me. I’m sorry, old man, but the Welsh are going to have to wait a little longer for their deliverance.”

   His cynicism was deliberate. Martin refused to place his faith in some obscure exile, or indeed any potential heirs to the ruined House of Lancaster.

   “My family spilled a river of blood in defence of Lancaster,” he said morosely, “I was at Barnet and Tewkesbury. I saw our banners fall. I saw Edward of Lancaster die, and heard him cry for his mother even as the Yorkists hacked him to pieces. Never again. Do you hear me? Never!”

   Meurig leaned drunkenly on the table. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, but sparkled with fire. “You disappoint me, sir. You are an Englishman, of course, and have no poetry in your soul. The prophecy shall be fulfilled. It is written.”

   “Where is it written? Who wrote it? Can this prophecy summon up an army? Richmond doesn’t have one. He doesn’t even have anyone to lead it.”

   “Not so. He has his uncle, the valiant Earl of Pembroke.”

   “Oh, yes. Staunch uncle Jasper. A good man, I grant you, loyal and honest and brave, but he’s a loser. The Yorkists kicked his arse in battle so often it must have permanent bruises.”

   Meurig was unmoved. “A cheap gibe, but I detect the pain behind it. You cannot let your kin go unavenged. We shall be in at the death, you and I, fighting under the banner of Henry the Seventh, King of England, Lord of Ireland and Prince of a free Wales.”

   “Will we hell,” Martin snorted, and went off to find solace in Diana’s arms.

   Of far more interest to the rest of the Company was news of the war in Austria.

   “Matthias is going to break the Austrians, once and for all,” said one of the scouts, “the Black Army is up in force around Korneuburg. If the city falls, Frederick loses the entire northern part of the country. He will have to offer battle.”

   “Which he will lose,” said Henrik, “no army in Christendom knows how to defeat the Black Army. No army in Islam either.”

   Martin was not so convinced of Hungarian invincibility, and cared even less. “Let them fight it out,” he said, “it’s none of our concern. Not any more.”

   Casimir chose this moment to step forward. Since his branding, he had remained in the background, saying little in Martin’s presence and never meeting his gaze.

   The poker had burned a livid scar into Casimir’s cheek, running from just under his eye to the corner of his mouth. His girlish looks were spoiled, and the scar gave him a sinister, dangerous look. Martin had never feared the man before, but now found him distinctly uncomfortable.

   “I say we go,” said Casimir, with something of his old confidence, “leave this wretched castle, and ride to offer our swords to Matthias before battle is joined. Once the Austrians are smashed, we will be rich men. Think of the plunder!”  

He raised his voice as growls of approval sounded around him. “Korneuburg lies just two days’ ride to the north!” he cried, “why do we languish here, bickering and chewing on salted meat, when we could be wading in Austrian gold? Drowning in the flesh of Austrian women?”

   Roars of approval. Martin silently cursed. Casimir was intelligent enough to appeal to the greed of the men, and their lust.

   “Step down, Casimir” he said when the noise had died down, “I will only tell you once.”

   The other man grinned at him. “I know, sir,” he replied, “you seldom ask twice. Did you ask your whore to lie with you, I wonder, or did you act like a soldier for once, and take what you wanted?”

   Martin tore out his sabre and lunged at Casimir, who was already skipping away.

   “Now!” he roared, reaching for his own blade, “shoot!”

   There was a small minstrel’s gallery overlooking the hall. It was seldom used, since the musical tastes of the Company ran more to bawdy marching songs.

Two men stuck their heads over the rail. In place of lutes and mandolins, they carried crossbows, and aimed them at Martin’s heart.

   Meurig bellowed a warning, but Martin’s instincts were sharp as ever. He twisted to his left and fell heavily against the sharp edge of a table as the bolts whistled past and stuck into his chair.

   Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he launched himself again at Casimir, who stood ready to meet him, sabre to sabre.

   All hell broke loose in the hall as their blades slammed together. Casimir had evidently planned the ambush, and a good half of the Company were on his side. Screams echoed inside the long chamber as men stabbed and clawed at each other, snatching up any weapon that came to hand. A few tried to flee, overturning tables and benches in their haste, but six of Casimir’s followers blocked the doorway.

   Martin slashed at his opponent with more strength than skill, wielding his sabre two-handed in a bid to beat the smaller man to his knees. Casimir danced aside from his furious cuts, steel flickering in his hand and sweat cascading down his brow as he fought for his life.

   Out of the corner of his eye Martin saw a man come at him, shrieking like an angel in torment. He leaped backwards, and a morning star crashed down onto the floor between him and Casimir. The spiked iron ball smashed the flagstones where Martin had been standing, before the wielder whipped back the chain for another strike.

   Martin recognised him as a Breton, a huge fellow named Alan with the shoulders of an ox and the temperament of a mad wolf. He ducked as the ball whirled again and lashed out with his foot, kicking the Breton under the knee.

   Alan’s leg buckled under him. He almost dropped the morning star, and then a javelin sprouted from his chest. Martin breathed a silent prayer of thanks and looked around for Casimir.

   The Pole had jumped onto a table. “Kill them all!” he screeched, the scar on his cheek flaming pink, “no mercy! Have at them!”

   Martin threw his considerable weight against the table, overturned it and sent Casimir, along with the cups and bowls and platters of unfinished food, tumbling to the floor.

   Casimir was wedged between the table and the wall. He had dropped his sabre, and flailed his arms helplessly, bawling for aid.

   Martin raised his sabre and unleashed a savage downward cut. The steel chopped clean through Casimir’s wrist and severed his right hand.

   “That’s you done, traitor,” growled Martin, “now crawl away and bleed.”

   The defeat of their master took the heart out of his followers. Martin led the counter-attack, drove the survivors out of the hall and into the inner ward, where the battle broke up into dozens of individual combats.

   He fought like a wild beast, driven by pure rage and instinct. When he had killed three men, he stalked over to the kennels and cut the chain. Nine hairy shapes sprang out of the darkness within, the mastiff and the wolfhounds and their half-grown progeny, baying for blood.

   “Kill!” he ordered, pointing his blade at men he wanted dead, “tear their throats out!”

   The dogs knew their master’s voice, and obeyed his command with terrifying savagery. Their muffled barks and snarls mingled with the sounds of battle, weapons clashing and men fighting and dying.

   At last all was done, and the noonday sun cast a golden glow over a scene of utter carnage. Stink Hold was aptly named, and the ghastly stench of blood and piss and spilled entrails was enough to make Martin’s head swim.

   He staggered through the crimson-tinged murk, looking for his friends. One of the wolfhounds whined at him as he passed, but he refrained from patting the beast’s muzzle. It was soaked in blood, and shreds of human skin dangled from her jaws.

   Meurig lay slumped against a wall. Blood oozed from a hole in his guts. He had managed to pull out the spear that had impaled him, but nothing would stop the life flowing out of his body.

   “What’s this?” said Martin, kneeling beside him, “the old warhorse, come to his last pasture?”

   Meurig slowly raised his hand, drenched in his own gore, and laid his palm against Martin’s cheek.

   “Blood of my blood,” he whispered, “you are sworn now. Find Henry Tudor. Fight for him, or carry a dead man’s curse.”

   Martin jerked his head away. “You damned old fox!” he shouted, but it was too late. The death-rattle already sounded in Meurig’s throat. Martin thought his eyes gleamed in triumph before the light went out of them forever.

Chapter 16

Calais, France, November 1484

Maud had vowed she would never sell her body again, and the Boltons kept their vows. Rather than submit herself to the whoremongers of Calais, she scraped a living by other means, however dirty or dangerous.

   Thus the daughter of Edward Bolton, gentleman of Staffordshire and lord of three manors, was reduced to gutting fish on the harbour of Calais. It was hard work, and poorly paid, as well as disgusting, but Maud was happy to take what she could get.

   Jack Cloudsley’s money had paid for her passage from England, aboard a fishing boat bound for Calais. She begged the captain to divert from his usual course and sail south-east, to the coast of Brittany, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

   “I stick to the main routes, girl,” he said firmly, “the Channel ain’t safe for English shipping at present, and I’m not about to lose my boat and cargo to Lord Cordes and his French pirates.”

   Maud had never heard of Lord Cordes, and said so. “He’s a French lord,” the captain explained, “the Marshal of France, no less. Got some long name no decent Englishman can pronounce, so we calls him Lord Cordes. His ships prowl the Channel like sea-wolves, looking for English vessels to plunder.”

   Lord Cordes failed to make an appearance, and they reached Calais in safety. Maud had never been to sea before, or even out of England, but she had heard tales of Calais, the last major English possession in France.

   The reality was even greater than she imagined. A double line of white sea-walls protected the city, mounted with rows of gleaming cannon, capable of blowing any ship out of the water. Dozens of ships crowded into the harbour, cogs and galleys and smaller vessels, loaded with wine and wool and other goods from England.