Wildewood Revenge (38 page)

He cracked the lash in the air causing the guards to jump, but Miles
barely flinched. He flicked it again toward the men and they glowered at him. Guy turned back to Miles and delivered another lash which caught him across the chest, the tip whipping a line of blood across his chin. Miles teetered precariously on his toes and willed his self-control to hold fast.

The sound of the child’s screams reverberated suddenly in the small space, drowning out Guy’s laughter. Guy paused and lowered the lash.

“Spawn of a whore, who in God’s name allowed a child in here?” He threw the lash to the floor, “Go and see what’s happening,” he said to the guards. The men took their opportunity and fled.

Miles held his breath and listened carefully. A child in the dungeons was unlikely and as such offered up a unique opportunity while Guy was distracted. He stretched with his fingers and succeeded in wrapping his hands firmly around the ropes which held the manacles in place. As his hands and the muscles in his forearms took the strain from his shoulders he thanked the Lord for screaming children.

Guy turned back to him and smiled. “Now where were we?” He bent to pick up the lash, balancing with one hand on the crutch and as he righted himself, Miles pulled himself clear of the ground swung his booted feet with all of his weight behind him and caught Guy full in the face. He dropped as if pole axed and lay unmoving on the floor.

Chapter Thirty Nine

The sun had almost set when Linus’ shrill cry was heard, carried on the wind to those who awaited its signal behind the safety of the
Danestone
. As the last rays of the sun disappeared they lit their torches, mounted their horses and with a signal from their diminutive leader the riders began their descent.

Twenty riders came down the hill at a charge, with torches blazing and hooves pounding. Behind them the sound of banging drums, clanging metal and banshee screams filled the air. All the folk of
Wildewood
had gathered at the stone to lend what support they could to their lord. The children banged and rattled whatever they held in their hands and the women keened into the darkness. The torches lit the sky, eerily dancing back and forth and up and down as the riders who carried them, clung valiantly to the galloping beasts. The horses screamed in fear and anticipation, plunging into the darkness anxious to escape the terrible noise from the rear.

The guards at the castle swung their gaze from the screaming child and his bloody finger, to the advancing spectacle and crossed themselves in fear. The vision that stampeded toward them out of the night was
the
devils army. Horrifically, lit by orange flames, the horses screamed and pawed the air with their giant hooves. Their flowing manes were stained blood red and their heaving flanks similarly streaked with white, transformed them into horrific skeletons in the dancing light.

The riders of these deathly creatures were armed to the teeth, with weapons which they brandished aloft. Armoured in a mongrel assortment of styles each more exotic and horrifying than the next. The
bloody skins of animals flapped against the metal and the stench of death clung to them. Each rider was unique in their fiendish garb, yet each wore the same blood red plume which marked them as one entity, one horde. The noise of their approach was both deafening and terrifying.

“Close the draw bridge!” A desperate shout came from within and men ran to carry out the order. But no matter how many tried they were unable to raise it. The mechanism was jammed tight and in the dim light no man could see the cause of its failure. Another turned with an axe and with one swift blow cut through the rope that raised and lowered the port
cullis
. It dropped like a stone under its own weight until it met with Edmund’s staff and its downward plummet was suddenly stopped by the iron like strength of the yew wood, to leave it hanging impotently seven feet from the ground.

The riders and their fearsome mounts thundered as one mass over the drawbridge. They ducked their way under the port-
cullis
and then they were in the outer bailey and Gerard’s men swarmed among them.

The sound of clashing metal reverberated around the castle. A shout went up to close the gate to the inner bailey. The man who tried to do just that, pushed at the pony stood in his way and inadvertently pressed the barbs of the teasel into its flank. The pony reacted as Edmund had expected by rearing and kicking out with its hind legs wheeling this way and that to rid itself of the stinging barb. The man was kicked to the ground and the gate stayed open to allow the riders through.

Grace pulled the lead horse to a sudden halt at the entrance to the dungeon complex and the horse pranced with fright and frustration. The little, grey filly tossed its blood red mane and froth sprayed from its mouth as it wrestled the bit. Grace fought to control the beast while all
around men on foot and on horseback fought with swords, axes, knives and horrific spiked iron balls wielded on lengths of chain. Weapons clashed against shields and the metallic clang jarred her ears. Where they clashed against flesh and bone there was merely a sickening thud.

She slid with difficulty from the horse. Despite choosing the smallest and lightest of the available armour from the crypt at Kirk
Knowe
, it was over large for her and heavy. She lifted the visor on her helmet so she could see more clearly.

Glancing around, through the melee, she was relieved to see Belle and Linus crouched safely out of harm’s way. She gestured for them to retrieve the pony and leave. Their job was done and they needed to escape while they could. The advantage which they’d initially had was wearing off. Up close it was easy to see they were not the army of the damned, but merely a
ragtaggle
band on painted horses that lacked any real fighting skills and were no match for trained men at arms. She had to find Miles and get everyone out before the plan went horribly wrong.

Grace made for the door as it burst open from within and Angus and the Scots came barrelling out with Edmund. Angus raised the sword which he’d taken from the fallen guard and was only stopped from cleaving Grace in two by Edmund who leapt between them.

“No, she is ours, Angus. This is the Lady Grace.”

Angus pulled back stunned.

“Good God,
yer
right. What are ye
doin
’ lassie,
yer’ll
be killed, come away.” He took her arm and tried to pull her away from the door.

“I’m here for Miles, where is he?” she breathed heavily, stifling beneath the weight of the armour, she had difficulty keeping the visor raised.

“He’s
lang
gone, lassie, taken tae thon torture chamber, ah
dinnae
ken where.”

Grace pushed at him. “I know where that is. I’ll not leave him.” She forced her way past leaving the bewildered Scotsmen to defend the entrance from Gerard’s men at arms who had regrouped and were now mounting a concerted effort to vanquish the invaders.

“Wait for me. I must escort
ye
,” cried Edmund, but Grace stopped him with her hand.

“You must see to Belle and Linus - they’re by the pony. Make sure they get out. Edmund I’m relying on you.”

Edmund was torn, he glanced across the courtyard where the pony was tethered and where Belle was desperately trying to untie the terrified creature. Linus clung to her skirts wide eyed. “But what about
ye
?”

“I’ll be fine Edmund,” Grace assured him. Then she turned and entered the dungeons.

The passageway was dimly lit by torches. She trod slowly and carefully, her breathing so heavy she feared she would be heard before she was seen. She gingerly stepped over the bloody bodies of the gaolers who lay slain in her path, and hurried past the rancid empty cells.

Pausing by the door at the end of the passage, she steadied herself. The killing of these men had been part of her plan; integral to it. She may not have wielded the knife but she was responsible nevertheless and she felt her stomach knot with shame and remorse. She no longer recognised herself.

She returned her attention to the door. According to the plan provided by Mayflower, through this door lay the stairs which led to the torture room. She took a breath, tried to ignore the muffled sounds of
the battle raging outside, and opened the door. The stone steps were dark and she felt for the edge of each riser with the heel of her boot. She held the sword out in front of her, dropped her visor and used her left hand to feel her way against the damp stone wall. Her breath misted against the metal face guard, and she dearly needed to rub her eyes but kept going until she saw light leaching from beneath a door at the bottom of the steps.

Halting outside the door she waited, listening for any sound from within. She heard nothing. Reaching out she touched the door then drew back uncertain. She had no idea what was on the other side, what might be lying in wait for her. But if she were to find Miles she had to open the door.

She tightened her grip on the sword and flung open the door. Miles hung suspended from the ceiling by ropes which held his wrists. His head drooped limply. He had been whipped and bled from the lash. She stepped towards him and raised her sword. She must cut him down. She took a long calming breath and stepped back. She prepared to swing the heavy sword and at that precise moment Miles raised his head.

*  *  *

He thought he must be in some terrible nightmare. That he was back on crusade in some Moorish prison. Why else would a Saracen stand before him, sword held high making ready to take his head from his shoulders?

He sent up a silent prayer, if this was to be the end then let it be swift. He looked his executioner in the eye. The soldier was small and held the sword two handed, Miles grimaced, perhaps he was the soldier’s
first kill; so be it. He too had killed many.

He dropped his eyes, resigned to his fate. He was tired, weary of fighting. The Saracen swung the sword upward, slowly. There was not enough power in the movement to do the job cleanly and Miles winced in anticipation of a slow end. He looked one final time at his killer and noticed a tall knight appear in the doorway behind, sword held aloft in a perfect killing position. Miles heart surged as he recognised the Templar, perhaps today was not the day he would die.

The knight’s sword descended and the Saracen’s rose, as if in slow motion. In the same long moment, Miles registered the outrageous pairing of English and Eastern armour, the stinking animal pelts, and finally the boots on the Saracen’s feet; good boots with unusual fastenings - Grace’s boots. His brain clicked into gear and he roared his warning.

Grace faltered. Half turning, her sword collided with the downward thrust of her attacker’s weapon. The force behind the blow flung her sword from her hand and knocked her across the room where she collided with Miles’ legs. The knight crossed the room with two strides, kicked her prone armoured body out of the way and taking Miles’ weight he unhooked his shackles. Miles crumpled to the floor in a heap. He dragged himself to Grace’s still body and pulled the helmet from her head.

“My God,” exclaimed the knight. “It’s a girl.”

“Yes, Hugh, this is Grace. Pray to God you have not killed her.” Miles brushed her hair from her face and as he did her eyes flickered open and she smiled weakly at him.

“You’re alive,” she said breathlessly.

“And so it seems are you, though no thanks to our friend here who
took you for one of the Saracen horde.” He pulled her up then and held her, breathing her scent in grateful gulps. She leaned against him and he shifted his gaze to the knight who stood before them.

His white tabard bore the scarlet Templar’s cross. Pulling off his helmet he knelt before Grace taking her hand and pressing his lips to the pale skin.

“I am Hugh de Reynard, my lady, and I am at your service.”

The handsome man with
graying
hair and striking blue eyes winked at her mischievously before rising and turning to Miles. “We must leave now, before the army of
Wildewood
are over run. I have a dozen men with me, but I fear the Horde are tiring and need to retreat.”

“What army?” asked
Miles.
He gathered up Grace’s sword and helmet and his own weapons from the floor and followed Hugh to the door, “
Wildewood
has no army?”

“It has now. Wait till you see it, Miles. It will be the talk of Christendom, but come we have no time for banter we must leave now, if we are to see you all safely home.”

The Templar knights, mounted on their huge
destriers
held Gerard’s soldiers at bay while the
Wildewood
Horde regrouped and made their retreat. John, mounted on a prancing fearsome skeletal beast handed Miles the reins to his mount and Grace was fairly thrown on to the saddle of the filly. Miles looked about in awe at the men of
Wildewood
, these simple peasants, woodsmen and farmers as they milled about the bailey, struggling to contain the excitable mounts amid the awful noise. He marvelled at the macabre and terrifying dress, the painted devil horses they rode; and the look of pride on their faces when they caught sight of him and realised they had succeeded. He glanced at Grace. She had done all of this.